...kind of.
I hadn't been home since September, and I wasn't home for 10 minutes before I walked out to the backyard and burst into tears. It's strange how home — the place I spent my first 18 years, and significant moments of the ensuing 13 — can develop an unpleasant patina. Everything has a different weight.
For instance: The backyard is where I had a little zip line and Annie's Roost, the treehouse Dad built for me. Both are gone now, and the yard isn't as meticulously maintained as it once was. So I go there and remember, but I also see the absence of what used to be. I miss my father terribly. I am embarrassed to admit that a day hasn't gone by without me crying about missing him, because then it seems like I'm a depressive. But if I can't be sad about this, what can I be sad about?
I am just getting home from a night out with Jesse, JC, Miles, and (unexpectedly) Tim and John and Jimk. While I don't miss certain aspects of Chicago (pollution, sprawl, noise) I miss my friends and family terribly. I miss walking into my old haunts to meet them and then running into other friends because this is where we go and have gone for 10 years. There is always a friend there. I don't have that in SF, not even after almost three years.
One thing I've learned lately is that your old friends really are often the best ones, because they know all of your sullied parts and love you anyway. And vice versa. I am lucky to have them, and am equally grateful for newer friends who will be old ones in 10 years' time.
I hadn't been home since September, and I wasn't home for 10 minutes before I walked out to the backyard and burst into tears. It's strange how home — the place I spent my first 18 years, and significant moments of the ensuing 13 — can develop an unpleasant patina. Everything has a different weight.
For instance: The backyard is where I had a little zip line and Annie's Roost, the treehouse Dad built for me. Both are gone now, and the yard isn't as meticulously maintained as it once was. So I go there and remember, but I also see the absence of what used to be. I miss my father terribly. I am embarrassed to admit that a day hasn't gone by without me crying about missing him, because then it seems like I'm a depressive. But if I can't be sad about this, what can I be sad about?
I am just getting home from a night out with Jesse, JC, Miles, and (unexpectedly) Tim and John and Jimk. While I don't miss certain aspects of Chicago (pollution, sprawl, noise) I miss my friends and family terribly. I miss walking into my old haunts to meet them and then running into other friends because this is where we go and have gone for 10 years. There is always a friend there. I don't have that in SF, not even after almost three years.
One thing I've learned lately is that your old friends really are often the best ones, because they know all of your sullied parts and love you anyway. And vice versa. I am lucky to have them, and am equally grateful for newer friends who will be old ones in 10 years' time.
"Coffee."
"Tomlin."
Coffee isn't Mr. Coffee's real last name, of course, but that's how our conversations always start. It is one of those small parts of our friendship that always feel comfortingly familiar. I remember the night we met; it was six years ago, maybe even to the month. I’d been invited to do a reading at a coffee shop on Roscoe, and he liked my story. He asked me what my favorite book was, and Nabokov sent our friendship on its way.
We talk every few months, send each other tiny notes in the mail, that sort of thing. (We've e-mailed each other maybe three or four times, oddly.) What our conversations lack in frequency, they make up for in meaning. We just get each other, and during the gaps in communication, our lives frequently run parallel. When we talk, we laugh at the coincidences. May: I'm going to France, he's going the week afterward. August: He's in love with a girl in Prague, I'm in love with a boy in Portland. Now: He's nursing a bruised heart, I'm doing the same. It is good to be able to ask each other, "Do you know what I mean?" and have "yes" be the truth.
"You should come out to SF," I said last night. "We'll paint the town red and you can get away from the gray weather." (I am tricking him. Fog is gray. Shh.)
It's not the first time we've talked about such a visit, but so far we haven't made it happen. And maybe that's part of how our friendship works, too. We don't need to see or even talk with each other all the time to stay connected. We just are. When it's time to hang up, one of us always tells the other one how much our friendship means. I love that, but I love that it goes without saying even more.
(PS)
Before any aspiring matchmakers get any ideas... Yes, we tried dating when we first met. We tried really hard to convince ourselves that we should be a couple before realizing that a good friendship is better than a lot of people's romantic relationships are.
"Tomlin."
Coffee isn't Mr. Coffee's real last name, of course, but that's how our conversations always start. It is one of those small parts of our friendship that always feel comfortingly familiar. I remember the night we met; it was six years ago, maybe even to the month. I’d been invited to do a reading at a coffee shop on Roscoe, and he liked my story. He asked me what my favorite book was, and Nabokov sent our friendship on its way.
We talk every few months, send each other tiny notes in the mail, that sort of thing. (We've e-mailed each other maybe three or four times, oddly.) What our conversations lack in frequency, they make up for in meaning. We just get each other, and during the gaps in communication, our lives frequently run parallel. When we talk, we laugh at the coincidences. May: I'm going to France, he's going the week afterward. August: He's in love with a girl in Prague, I'm in love with a boy in Portland. Now: He's nursing a bruised heart, I'm doing the same. It is good to be able to ask each other, "Do you know what I mean?" and have "yes" be the truth.
"You should come out to SF," I said last night. "We'll paint the town red and you can get away from the gray weather." (I am tricking him. Fog is gray. Shh.)
It's not the first time we've talked about such a visit, but so far we haven't made it happen. And maybe that's part of how our friendship works, too. We don't need to see or even talk with each other all the time to stay connected. We just are. When it's time to hang up, one of us always tells the other one how much our friendship means. I love that, but I love that it goes without saying even more.
(PS)
Before any aspiring matchmakers get any ideas... Yes, we tried dating when we first met. We tried really hard to convince ourselves that we should be a couple before realizing that a good friendship is better than a lot of people's romantic relationships are.
Labels: chicago, emo spice, men i would have dated
In Chicago, if I didn't know people in bands, I knew who they were by sight. Within pockets of the city, it's nearly impossible to walk a block without seeing So-and-so from Such-and-such band. That's probably the case in San Francisco, too, but I can't rattle off SF bands like I can Chicago bands.
Do you know why? Because I am old and out of the loop. Some evidence:
Do you know why? Because I am old and out of the loop. Some evidence:
- Generally, I like going to shows now only if I know I love the band. No more of this "Sure, let's see what this random band is like" stuff.
- Not-infrequent grumbling about shows starting later than they're supposed to. (In my defense, this is not new.)
- People in buzzed-about bands are usually in their 20s. Guess who, despite her deceptively youthful looks, isn't.
- Have thought, "Fifteen dollars for a show! I remember when shows cost only TEN dollars!" This is only made worse by memories of $5 punk shows.
- Sabrina and I went to a Jens Lekman show last year and, when the band started twirling in circles on stage and the people in the audience were smiling blissfully at the connectedness of it all, we groaned and got the hell out of Dodge.
- Am crabby if the venue has nowhere to sit. Especially now with a foot that is prone to soreness, standing for hours is not my idea of a good time. Danny and I went to a show at Bimbo's a few months ago, and I greatly enjoyed sitting at a little table with him.
Labels: chicago, music, san francisco
If I hadn't had to fly out to Belize so soon, I might have flown to Chicago to hear four measly songs at this show. Sometimes I loathe the internet, but today I love it — more specifically, I love hot mama-to-be Jessica — for letting me see this:
Labels: chicago, music, regression to adolescence
One of the fun things about living in Chicago is dancing on Chic-a-go-go. If San Francisco had an equivalent show, I'd be into it. Karinsa and I used to go down to the public access studio on weekends, and it was one of those great little-kid activities that forces adults to be a lot less serious. The show's archives have slowly been trickling online; Karen spotted this one and sent it to me.
Here's an awkward interview with Jim Jarmusch. (He looks so uncomfortable, although Mia is a good sport.) J.R., James, JimK, Vanessa, and I all look like we're about 15. And of course, there's the randomness of hearing a rat puppet ask, "Were you friends with Klaus Nomi?" If only more children's shows had music-nerd talking rodents, the world might be a more entertaining place.
Here's an awkward interview with Jim Jarmusch. (He looks so uncomfortable, although Mia is a good sport.) J.R., James, JimK, Vanessa, and I all look like we're about 15. And of course, there's the randomness of hearing a rat puppet ask, "Were you friends with Klaus Nomi?" If only more children's shows had music-nerd talking rodents, the world might be a more entertaining place.
Labels: chicago
James was my first friend at Time Out. He was (and still is) a walking encyclopedia of soul, country and blues; he was always introducing me, directly or inadvertently, to something I'd never heard before, some slice of trivia that led me off on a night of music-dork research. At our holiday party, we sang a duet of "Paint it Black." It was great, mostly because James's excellent singing voice balanced out my squawks, but also because it was the only time I'd ever found joy in that song. He came out to say hello the other night — hard to believe it was less than a week ago — and we remembered that unparalleled karaoke adventure. Good times.Labels: chicago
Sabrina and I are like Salt n Pepa because when it came to this weekend, we pushed it real good. And by "it" I mean "our collective ability to pack a week's worth of adventure into a three-day weekend."
One of the few disappointments was the lack of Jesse time. He wasn't feeling well (h1n1?) So Team Awesome did not get to start our new autobiographical hardcore band, FAILstorm. But otherwise, last night was pretty much perfect. JC was brilliant at his salon series, and from there it was off to the old stomping grounds of the Rainbo. Kenny couldn't have played better songs (Wire, Magazine, Joy Division, The Jam, etc.) and while that shouldn't really matter, it felt like a tiny welcome-back thing. Also, and more importantly, my friends spoil me with their goodness. I am fortunate. Sometimes there are things better left preserved among the people who were there, and so I am filing last night away on the shelves of my memory. It was a wonderful night, and we have the photobooth strips to prove it.
One of the few disappointments was the lack of Jesse time. He wasn't feeling well (h1n1?) So Team Awesome did not get to start our new autobiographical hardcore band, FAILstorm. But otherwise, last night was pretty much perfect. JC was brilliant at his salon series, and from there it was off to the old stomping grounds of the Rainbo. Kenny couldn't have played better songs (Wire, Magazine, Joy Division, The Jam, etc.) and while that shouldn't really matter, it felt like a tiny welcome-back thing. Also, and more importantly, my friends spoil me with their goodness. I am fortunate. Sometimes there are things better left preserved among the people who were there, and so I am filing last night away on the shelves of my memory. It was a wonderful night, and we have the photobooth strips to prove it.
It's funny how a place that was once your home can feel so foreign, so unknown. Sabrina and I were in the back of a taxi on Irving Park, and I tried to point out JC's studio but I couldn't find it. It wasn't until we arrived that he reminded me that it wasn't actually on Irving. Forgetful mistakes like this keep throwing me off, but then other things are comfortingly unchanged. Things like seeing your best friend from grade school and jumping back like no time had passed. And I thought of Karinsa last night as we walked down Fullerton and sat down at the Whirlaway, where we had her goodbye party. Inside, it was the same as it ever was -- drinks $5 and delivered with a smile -- and it felt good to have consistency in a time that has felt anything but.
It's funny to be at JC's and have almost everything feel the same. The house has the same warm scent, and the plant that he took for me when I moved out west has grown and thrived. As has he. I couldn't be prouder of him, or more grateful for his friendship.
This city is a patchwork of memories both faded and vivid. And while it's true that you can never relive the past, it's nice to know you can go home again.
It's funny to be at JC's and have almost everything feel the same. The house has the same warm scent, and the plant that he took for me when I moved out west has grown and thrived. As has he. I couldn't be prouder of him, or more grateful for his friendship.
This city is a patchwork of memories both faded and vivid. And while it's true that you can never relive the past, it's nice to know you can go home again.
Today I missed Chicago. Not the city per se, particularly because its temperature has already dipped below 40 degrees, but I miss how it felt to be part of a community. I want to walk to the Rainbo and randomly run into Jonathan Van Hotness. I want to know what Miles thinks of the Smith Westerns' T-Rex-iness, especially considering his unparalleled Marc Bolan Halloween costume from years back. I miss witnessing Atom's nervous energy at Atomix and the way Lake Michigan looks at sunset and bumping into Keara and hanging with Itha and Weeks. Those things and more.
And so, with a suitcase to pack and a couple thousand miles ahead, it is exciting to think of going home — at least for a little while. Lately I've needed comfort and familiarity, and both are within reaching distance. Twenty-four hours from now, when I am falling asleep on a couch while listening to the El's muted rumble, it will feel good to be back. (I hope.)
And so, with a suitcase to pack and a couple thousand miles ahead, it is exciting to think of going home — at least for a little while. Lately I've needed comfort and familiarity, and both are within reaching distance. Twenty-four hours from now, when I am falling asleep on a couch while listening to the El's muted rumble, it will feel good to be back. (I hope.)
I stayed at work late last night, mostly to avoid the crowded rush hour trains, but also because I knew I'd just go home and sit in bed. (Or on the couch. Same thing.) The thought of spending an hour traveling just to do that was exhausting (consider all the crutching it would require, the fear of hobbling home alone down dark streets). Tossing financial prudence to the side, I wedged myself into the back seat of a cab and sighed.
The driver wore a hearing aid and looked like a middle-aged version of Phil. It was like being carted around by the future of my past. He wasn't chatty, and I wasn't feeling talkative, either, so the silence worked. Instead, I rolled down the window and took in the mild evening breeze. The preceding day, Louis and I had been talking about the air quality in our respective countries. He said that he doesn't realize his lungs haven't expanded until he's in the rainforest, and then they're surprisingly fuller. You'd choke on our air, I said.
When the taxi finally pulled up to my house, I had a bit of difficulty removing my crutches from the back seat. The car behind me honked, which mildly irritated me, because I'm moving as fast as I can, buddy. I decided to let the driver pass, but he waved me forward. I gave the thank-you smile and swung myself past the front bumper.
"Hey Annie," the driver said as I passed. I squinted, recognized him and laughed. The honk hadn't been a "hurry it up, gimpy" honk, but a hello honk from Fake Paul Weller. A serendipitous meeting. While he parked the car, I looked up at the stars and hummed the Keyboard Cat song. We then went down the hill for a pre-birthday snack, took a few pictures, talked about lost loves, and successfully kept me away from a place I didn't feel like going home to right away.
The driver wore a hearing aid and looked like a middle-aged version of Phil. It was like being carted around by the future of my past. He wasn't chatty, and I wasn't feeling talkative, either, so the silence worked. Instead, I rolled down the window and took in the mild evening breeze. The preceding day, Louis and I had been talking about the air quality in our respective countries. He said that he doesn't realize his lungs haven't expanded until he's in the rainforest, and then they're surprisingly fuller. You'd choke on our air, I said.
When the taxi finally pulled up to my house, I had a bit of difficulty removing my crutches from the back seat. The car behind me honked, which mildly irritated me, because I'm moving as fast as I can, buddy. I decided to let the driver pass, but he waved me forward. I gave the thank-you smile and swung myself past the front bumper.
"Hey Annie," the driver said as I passed. I squinted, recognized him and laughed. The honk hadn't been a "hurry it up, gimpy" honk, but a hello honk from Fake Paul Weller. A serendipitous meeting. While he parked the car, I looked up at the stars and hummed the Keyboard Cat song. We then went down the hill for a pre-birthday snack, took a few pictures, talked about lost loves, and successfully kept me away from a place I didn't feel like going home to right away.
Labels: belize, chicago, i can't walk, Paul Weller
After remembering Karinsa's old site, I re-watched High Fidelity this weekend. It's sad to think about how the internet has changed the way we consume music. When I moved to Chicago, I hit up Reckless Records so often that I could probably draw both of the North Side stores' layout from memory. (Well, the old Lakeview store; I haven't been to the new location.) I remember rushing in on Tuesdays for the new releases, lazily browsing used records on weekends despite not owning a turntable, feeling proud when the magazine rack held an article I'd written. Things are different now, even when you visit a record store, and I'm glad I got to experience that.
High Fidelity captured the record-nerd archetype perfectly, and it was so Chicago. Charlie's apartment was a few blocks south of my last one, the Music Box was beautiful, and once, Karinsa and I were rewarded at Simon's with unexpected movie fun. Our bartender was the guy who had a couple of lines in High Fidelity. Karinsa and I got such a kick out of Beta Band Bartender, as we called him, largely because we are Nick Hornby fans. At the time, I was still crushed out on John Cusack, too. (Much later, I'd meet him and deem his pompous posturing a huge turnoff.)
When I watched the film this weekend, I viewed it with a different perspective. And I thought about how certain songs are stitched into not just memory, but the way I experience an emotion. Today, without planning to, I jumped back a decade or two by pawing through some classics (End on End) and guilty pleasures (grim chuckle when iTunes queued up "Young Loud and Scotty"). It made me think back on this year, on photo booths in Chicago, and on summer nights driving down dusty roads in Michigan. I know I'm dancing about architecture here, but I'm not sure I would feel as thoroughly in silence.
High Fidelity captured the record-nerd archetype perfectly, and it was so Chicago. Charlie's apartment was a few blocks south of my last one, the Music Box was beautiful, and once, Karinsa and I were rewarded at Simon's with unexpected movie fun. Our bartender was the guy who had a couple of lines in High Fidelity. Karinsa and I got such a kick out of Beta Band Bartender, as we called him, largely because we are Nick Hornby fans. At the time, I was still crushed out on John Cusack, too. (Much later, I'd meet him and deem his pompous posturing a huge turnoff.)
When I watched the film this weekend, I viewed it with a different perspective. And I thought about how certain songs are stitched into not just memory, but the way I experience an emotion. Today, without planning to, I jumped back a decade or two by pawing through some classics (End on End) and guilty pleasures (grim chuckle when iTunes queued up "Young Loud and Scotty"). It made me think back on this year, on photo booths in Chicago, and on summer nights driving down dusty roads in Michigan. I know I'm dancing about architecture here, but I'm not sure I would feel as thoroughly in silence.
I knew Ben was the mod-est boy that side of the Mississippi, and I knew he spun soul like nobody else, but the boy can sing, too.
Labels: chicago
Chicago is not my kind of town, or at least not in the way that New York and Paris are. I mean, we get along all right and have had some great times, but there's a sense of possibility in those other two cities that makes me feel, as corny as this seems, more alive. I had glimpses of that when I lived in Chicago, but never a full vista.
With that said, Chicago sparkles on film. Without fail, whenever a camera swoops in along Lake Shore Drive, or a car chase speeds along Lower Wacker, it looks like magic. It's a different view of the city, one that removes the dull patina of normal life and polishes it up with a few cinematic tricks. The industrial grayness of the city, mixed with the sparkling skyscraper lights and glint off of Lake Michigan, are perfect.
It's for this reason that I can never not watch a movie that's set in Chicago. Even the Julia Stiles flick about the ballet dancer who learned how to bust hip-hop moves — I have to watch it. So this is why, thousands of miles away, I will go to blockbusters like Wanted and the Batman movie this summer. I'll be sitting there like someone who's in love.
With that said, Chicago sparkles on film. Without fail, whenever a camera swoops in along Lake Shore Drive, or a car chase speeds along Lower Wacker, it looks like magic. It's a different view of the city, one that removes the dull patina of normal life and polishes it up with a few cinematic tricks. The industrial grayness of the city, mixed with the sparkling skyscraper lights and glint off of Lake Michigan, are perfect.
It's for this reason that I can never not watch a movie that's set in Chicago. Even the Julia Stiles flick about the ballet dancer who learned how to bust hip-hop moves — I have to watch it. So this is why, thousands of miles away, I will go to blockbusters like Wanted and the Batman movie this summer. I'll be sitting there like someone who's in love.
Labels: chicago
"Your mother seems to visit you a lot," a friend remarked last week. We see each other once a month or so, which doesn't feel excessive to me, but what do I know? It's nearly impossible to compare one family's dynamics to another's. What is possible, however, is counting down the top Betty moments of the weekend.
5. chocolate
I have the hankering for hot chocolate from Hot Chocolate, so I tell Betty that I'll treat her to a cuppa. "Oh no," she says. "I've got to lose weight." I should mention that my mom is a size 8, 10 tops, and that she already looks fine. I get my hot chocolate to go, and at Wabansia I offer her a sip. "Just one sip," she says. Then: "DAMMIT." I wonder what's wrong, and ask if she's all right. "That's some damn good chocolate," she says, and then denies herself another sip.
4. the will
Ever since last year's Terri Schiavo media debacle, my mother has been hot on the topic of living wills. She and my father both created theirs because they "don't want to be vegetables," and this past summer Betty brought me a blank living will to fill out. I have not done so yet, mostly because I am still young enough to believe that I am invincible! (For the record, if I am ever in a lifeless state, pull the plug, okay?)
The older my father becomes, the more my mother begins to worry about things like living wills and Medicare and prescription drug coverage. We were set to meet my eldest brother and his wife for dinner on Saturday, and for an hour beforehand Betty wrung her hands, worrying about the best way to show them the copy of my father's living will. "I don't think you should worry," I told her. "I really don't think Scott will freak out." At dinner, Betty eventually raised the topic without seeming nervous at all. Knowing how scared she was made me love and admire her.
3. at brunch
On Sunday, we went to a restaurant to have brunch with Jen and Dave. A gent I'd dated about a year and a half ago was working. We're on pretty good terms, but still, I feel guilty for having broken things off because he's a good guy and it really wasn't his fault, I just fell crazy-like for someone else, bad timing, so on and so forth. Anyway, I introduced him to Betty. Betty and I sat down. "Now how do you know him?" she asked. I explained while she hmmed. "Well, he's quite handsome," she mused. "But he needs a haircut."
Then she began to concoct excuses to talk with him. "Maybe I should go ask him for some cream." "Why don't you go talk with him?" "He keeps looking over here..." At the end of our meal, when I said my goodbyes to the gent in question, Betty purposely left me behind and gave me nonverbal "FLIRT WITH HIM" commands through the restaurant windows.
2. dj betty
There are two things my mother loves wholly and deeply: Viggo Mortensen (who she calls Viggle and Viggu, alternately) and a good bargain. While I'm my mother's daughter, we have different opinions on what constitutes a bargain. For me, a $400 pair of shoes for $50 is a bargain. For her, $50 is too much to spend on shoes in the first place. German frugality trickles away through generations, I guess.
Anyway, while I was at work on Friday, Betty went to Sam's Wines to browse. This was a fabulous treat for her, as she found a great bargain. Back at the apartment, she showed me her treasure. "Look what I found," unwrapping an object encased in tissue paper. She produced a small glass etched with the Courvoisier logo. "What do you think?" she asked.
"I think it's fine if you're a rapper," I said.
"A rapper?" she replied.
"Yeah, a rapper."
"Like this kind of rapper?" she asked. Then she started shoving the air in front of her, much like a mime would mimic the hottest dance moves of 1992. "One and a two and a duh-nuh-dah-dah," she rapped. "Three and a four and a dah-yo-yo-dah!"
Words escaped me. I covered my eyes. Betty stopped. "Are you laughing at your mother?" she demanded. "It was a good deal! It was only 50 cents!"
50 cents. ZING!
1. the comparison
Betty and my good friend Jen had never met, so we decided to have brunch together. It was a good time. After saying our goodbyes to Jen and her boyfriend, Betty and I walked back to my car. Here is the conversation that ensued during our drive home.
Betty: YOU DIDN'T TELL ME JEN WAS SO GORGEOUS!
Annie: Uh, well, I know I mentioned she was pretty at one time or another...
Betty: But you didn't say gorgeous! I had no idea! She is absolutely beautiful!
Annie: Yes, yes she is, but I guess I didn't really think I needed to warn you or anything.
Betty: I mean, she really is stunning. Breathtaking!
Annie: This is true. When we go out, the men always go to her first.
Betty: Well, yeah.
Annie: What does that mean?
Betty: Who would blame them? She's a very pretty girl.
Annie: Now wait, what what does that mean about me?
Betty: Oh, honey, don't be jealous. You're... you're... funny!
Annie: Um, Mom? Funny is how people describe homely girls to be polite.
Betty: But men like funny!
5. chocolate
I have the hankering for hot chocolate from Hot Chocolate, so I tell Betty that I'll treat her to a cuppa. "Oh no," she says. "I've got to lose weight." I should mention that my mom is a size 8, 10 tops, and that she already looks fine. I get my hot chocolate to go, and at Wabansia I offer her a sip. "Just one sip," she says. Then: "DAMMIT." I wonder what's wrong, and ask if she's all right. "That's some damn good chocolate," she says, and then denies herself another sip.
4. the will
Ever since last year's Terri Schiavo media debacle, my mother has been hot on the topic of living wills. She and my father both created theirs because they "don't want to be vegetables," and this past summer Betty brought me a blank living will to fill out. I have not done so yet, mostly because I am still young enough to believe that I am invincible! (For the record, if I am ever in a lifeless state, pull the plug, okay?)
The older my father becomes, the more my mother begins to worry about things like living wills and Medicare and prescription drug coverage. We were set to meet my eldest brother and his wife for dinner on Saturday, and for an hour beforehand Betty wrung her hands, worrying about the best way to show them the copy of my father's living will. "I don't think you should worry," I told her. "I really don't think Scott will freak out." At dinner, Betty eventually raised the topic without seeming nervous at all. Knowing how scared she was made me love and admire her.
3. at brunch
On Sunday, we went to a restaurant to have brunch with Jen and Dave. A gent I'd dated about a year and a half ago was working. We're on pretty good terms, but still, I feel guilty for having broken things off because he's a good guy and it really wasn't his fault, I just fell crazy-like for someone else, bad timing, so on and so forth. Anyway, I introduced him to Betty. Betty and I sat down. "Now how do you know him?" she asked. I explained while she hmmed. "Well, he's quite handsome," she mused. "But he needs a haircut."
Then she began to concoct excuses to talk with him. "Maybe I should go ask him for some cream." "Why don't you go talk with him?" "He keeps looking over here..." At the end of our meal, when I said my goodbyes to the gent in question, Betty purposely left me behind and gave me nonverbal "FLIRT WITH HIM" commands through the restaurant windows.
2. dj betty
There are two things my mother loves wholly and deeply: Viggo Mortensen (who she calls Viggle and Viggu, alternately) and a good bargain. While I'm my mother's daughter, we have different opinions on what constitutes a bargain. For me, a $400 pair of shoes for $50 is a bargain. For her, $50 is too much to spend on shoes in the first place. German frugality trickles away through generations, I guess.
Anyway, while I was at work on Friday, Betty went to Sam's Wines to browse. This was a fabulous treat for her, as she found a great bargain. Back at the apartment, she showed me her treasure. "Look what I found," unwrapping an object encased in tissue paper. She produced a small glass etched with the Courvoisier logo. "What do you think?" she asked.
"I think it's fine if you're a rapper," I said.
"A rapper?" she replied.
"Yeah, a rapper."
"Like this kind of rapper?" she asked. Then she started shoving the air in front of her, much like a mime would mimic the hottest dance moves of 1992. "One and a two and a duh-nuh-dah-dah," she rapped. "Three and a four and a dah-yo-yo-dah!"
Words escaped me. I covered my eyes. Betty stopped. "Are you laughing at your mother?" she demanded. "It was a good deal! It was only 50 cents!"
50 cents. ZING!
1. the comparison
Betty and my good friend Jen had never met, so we decided to have brunch together. It was a good time. After saying our goodbyes to Jen and her boyfriend, Betty and I walked back to my car. Here is the conversation that ensued during our drive home.
Betty: YOU DIDN'T TELL ME JEN WAS SO GORGEOUS!
Annie: Uh, well, I know I mentioned she was pretty at one time or another...
Betty: But you didn't say gorgeous! I had no idea! She is absolutely beautiful!
Annie: Yes, yes she is, but I guess I didn't really think I needed to warn you or anything.
Betty: I mean, she really is stunning. Breathtaking!
Annie: This is true. When we go out, the men always go to her first.
Betty: Well, yeah.
Annie: What does that mean?
Betty: Who would blame them? She's a very pretty girl.
Annie: Now wait, what what does that mean about me?
Betty: Oh, honey, don't be jealous. You're... you're... funny!
Annie: Um, Mom? Funny is how people describe homely girls to be polite.
Betty: But men like funny!
The police station on Wood Street smells of urine, sweat and fried food. I soon attach the first two odors to a puffy old man who stands motionless near the entrance. He wears his pants belted high, their waistband hugging the underside of his man-bosom.
When I pull myself up to the counter, I spot the remaining smelly culprit: Four officers are unwrapping foil packages to reveal their crispy beige dinners. They joke around with each other before acknowledging my existence. A sergeant—the officers actually call him Sarge, which amazes me—lumbers up to the counter. His right eye has blood in it.
I give him my ID and explain the situation as he takes notes. "Anyone holding a grudge against you?" he asks. "Boyfriend, ex-boyfriend or somethin'?"
"No," I say quietly. The old man still hasn't moved. Sarge takes my ID over to a computer from the triassic period and starts to enter numbers. I pass the time by stretching. A couple of patrol cops walk into the station. One is about my age, and he gives me a funny look. Maybe he's been talking with the Polish guy, I think, and he's going to arrest me for suspected prostitution. Then cop who looks like Hulk Hogan says, "Whoa, look at those guns!" and points at my arms. "That's my dad," he continues, thumbing in the direction of the old man. "He waits here for me sometimes." At first I think he's joking in a junior-high way, but then he says, "How you doin', Pop?" to the old statue of a man and I figure he might be telling the truth.
Sarge finishes his computer work and hands me some paperwork. He gives me his business card and tells me to call me if I have any further information or if I'd like to have coffee sometime. When I leave the station, I squeeze my thumb until a bright, tiny dot of blood surfaces under the sun.
When I pull myself up to the counter, I spot the remaining smelly culprit: Four officers are unwrapping foil packages to reveal their crispy beige dinners. They joke around with each other before acknowledging my existence. A sergeant—the officers actually call him Sarge, which amazes me—lumbers up to the counter. His right eye has blood in it.
I give him my ID and explain the situation as he takes notes. "Anyone holding a grudge against you?" he asks. "Boyfriend, ex-boyfriend or somethin'?"
"No," I say quietly. The old man still hasn't moved. Sarge takes my ID over to a computer from the triassic period and starts to enter numbers. I pass the time by stretching. A couple of patrol cops walk into the station. One is about my age, and he gives me a funny look. Maybe he's been talking with the Polish guy, I think, and he's going to arrest me for suspected prostitution. Then cop who looks like Hulk Hogan says, "Whoa, look at those guns!" and points at my arms. "That's my dad," he continues, thumbing in the direction of the old man. "He waits here for me sometimes." At first I think he's joking in a junior-high way, but then he says, "How you doin', Pop?" to the old statue of a man and I figure he might be telling the truth.
Sarge finishes his computer work and hands me some paperwork. He gives me his business card and tells me to call me if I have any further information or if I'd like to have coffee sometime. When I leave the station, I squeeze my thumb until a bright, tiny dot of blood surfaces under the sun.
Labels: chicago
The morning is sweaty-hot, and aside from the toddlers in strollers, Carlos and I might be the youngest people at the antique market. We're surrounded by baby boomers, elderly couples, people our age whose lifestyle—dogs, babies, mortgage—propels them closer to middle age than us.
The market is enormous and better curated than what I'd expected. Dealers from all over the midwest have set up shop, and the result is overwhelming. It would take a few hours to look at everything, so we don't even try. We like a lot of the same things. Chairs, mostly. I spot a pair of white Bertoia side chairs, exactly what I've been looking for, but they've already been sold for a ridiculously low price that makes me jealous.
The strange thing is, when you see all of this stuff in one place, it makes you not want to buy anything at all. There's so much of it, and it's all old, and you realize how unnecessary it is to manufacture new nightstands (or curtains, or whatever) when there are so many existing ones. I left without buying anything, and then pedaled home to a house already full of too much.
The market is enormous and better curated than what I'd expected. Dealers from all over the midwest have set up shop, and the result is overwhelming. It would take a few hours to look at everything, so we don't even try. We like a lot of the same things. Chairs, mostly. I spot a pair of white Bertoia side chairs, exactly what I've been looking for, but they've already been sold for a ridiculously low price that makes me jealous.
The strange thing is, when you see all of this stuff in one place, it makes you not want to buy anything at all. There's so much of it, and it's all old, and you realize how unnecessary it is to manufacture new nightstands (or curtains, or whatever) when there are so many existing ones. I left without buying anything, and then pedaled home to a house already full of too much.
Labels: chicago
The scene: It's early evening at the shoe department of Neiman Marcus, which has been transformed into a runway show and soiree for young designer ZAC POSEN, who is actually pulling off a white tuxedo with black trim. Our heroine, ANNIE, is by herself in a sea of thousand-dollar handbags and designer shoes; most of her own outfit was bought on eBay. A fashion show has just concluded, and ANNIE has immensely enjoyed both the frocks and the satisfaction of seeing models up-close (they, too, have pimples). HIRED WAITSTAFF mills about with homemade confections, which makes ANNIE feel class guilt.
ANNIE, spotting POSEN: Oh hello! I am Annie. Thank you for doing the interview with me.
ZAC: Oh, hello! Very nice to meet you. It was a pleasure.
ANNIE: Everything looked beautiful tonight [this should be said genuinely].
ZAC: Thank you.
ANNIE: What do you think of Chicago so far?
ZAC: I really love it [again, should be said genuinely]. The architecture is amazing, all of this area downtown. I'm hoping to go to the museum tomorrow.
ANNIE: Oh yes, you should go if you have time. There's a great exhibit about international tourism and travel right now. [cue ominous music, dim lights]
ZAC: That sounds interesting.
ANNIE: [a beat, then holds up blue lollipop] I FEEL LIKE TELLY SAVALAS! HUH HUH HUH.
ZAC: [looks politely perplexed, is ushered away as ANNIE once again feels like she can't take herself anywhere]
ANNIE, spotting POSEN: Oh hello! I am Annie. Thank you for doing the interview with me.
ZAC: Oh, hello! Very nice to meet you. It was a pleasure.
ANNIE: Everything looked beautiful tonight [this should be said genuinely].
ZAC: Thank you.
ANNIE: What do you think of Chicago so far?
ZAC: I really love it [again, should be said genuinely]. The architecture is amazing, all of this area downtown. I'm hoping to go to the museum tomorrow.
ANNIE: Oh yes, you should go if you have time. There's a great exhibit about international tourism and travel right now. [cue ominous music, dim lights]
ZAC: That sounds interesting.
ANNIE: [a beat, then holds up blue lollipop] I FEEL LIKE TELLY SAVALAS! HUH HUH HUH.
ZAC: [looks politely perplexed, is ushered away as ANNIE once again feels like she can't take herself anywhere]
Labels: chicago
I'm all right at being an adult, but secretly I like to do little-kid things. If I had my way, people would still play kickball and ride bikes and play Uno all the time. So that's why I was very happy to be part of last week's Coloring Club. Coloring Club is exactly what you'd think it would be: a group of people dining, drinking, and coloring with markers and crayons. I was so happy. Browse the gallery if you like.
Labels: chicago
A few weeks ago:
It's an hour before midnight, and the Rainbo is comfortably filled with the kinds of people who don't have to worry about waking up early the next day. I've become one of these people; there's something better about going out late on a Tuesday rather than on a Friday.
Among the revelers is the friend I'm meeting, who we'll call Miss X (in honor of the MC5, natch). We grab the second booth from the left and start to talk about the Edwards/Cheney debate that just went down. We have smuggled in some Caramellos, and it somehow feels little-girlish to eat the waxy chocolate in the midst of all the drinking.
Jesse's in the booth next to us, and I tell Miss X that he's thinking of growing a beard again. I'm against the idea, and to emphasize my support of shaving, I text-message him: NO DAN HIGGS BEARD. The beard discussion mutates into one about dude style in general: what's with pleated pants? why do so many of them grow their sideburns out until they look downright pubic? why would they grow moustaches? soul patches?
And just as we're reaching the peak of giggly perplexity, we're approached by a young man. He starts to slide his narrow hips into the booth before asking, "Do you mind if I join you ladies?"
I do, but he's already here, so we tell him he can sit for a bit. He's grinning lazily at Miss X. For a second I feel happy that he's not leering at me, but then my sympathies shift to Miss X, whose decolletage is being eyed hungrily by our newfound booth-mate. He introduces himself, but over the din all I can hear is that he's 22 and he's a writer (uh-oh). The lighting is dim, but when I look at his outfit I swear that he's wearing a corduroy tie with a corduroy blazer. I wonder if his outfit makes swish-swish sounds when he walks, just like how my scratchy corduroy pants did when I was a girl.
Both Miss X and I are displaying polite disinterest, which is our first mistake. We women do this too much. We don't want to look like cold bitches by telling men to leave us alone, so when some drunk clown is crookedly propping himself up on our table, we instead try to drop hints that we're not interested. The problem with this approach is that it's neither honest nor effective. The person in question often takes the absence of a direct "no" as the green light to keep on feeding us lines.
And so that's how, ten minutes later, Mr. Corduroy is still at our booth. He's also three sheets to the wind, he's now inviting Miss X back to his apartment — "My place is two blocks away, c'mon, you have to pay for drinks here" — and he's worn out his welcome. I can't tell if Miss X minds him being around, because her refusals of his offer are polite rather than forceful. She's a little drunk, and so I decide I must defend her honor, a duty that may or may not involve fisticuffs.
When Miss X excuses herself to use the loo, Mr. Corduroy makes an appeal to me, the cute sidekick. "Your friend would come home with me if you weren't here," he says, delusional. "I'm a nice guy; I just want to get to know her better." I consider telling him that she's my lesbian lover, but instead I say ice-cold, "She can do what she wants, and apparently she's not interested in going home with you." As Miss X starts her return from the bathroom, Mr. Corduroy again argues that if it weren't for my presence, he'd totally have this secured. Right.
Significantly drunker than before, he further attempts to cajole Miss X, who is either too tipsy or polite to tell him off. He's weaving all over the place, which is pretty difficult to do if you're sitting, I'd imagine. As he continues his wheedling, he starts to lean toward me with an outstretched, heavy hand. It's then that I realize that his hand's trajectory is leading toward my left breast. And then I say something so uncharacteristically brash that it sounds like arrows shooting from my tongue: Don't you dare touch my tits.
Him: Aw no, I wouldn't do that ever, why would you think I'd do something like that, I have total respect, I'm not sleazy.
So then I tell him that it sure looked like he was trying to "accidentally" cop a feel and that he's a major sleazeball. And yes, he is being pushy. And no, Miss X does not want to go home with him, and maybe he should get a clue and realize that when a woman says no, she means no. He apologizes and leaves our booth. We join James and Sam and go out for eggs at the 24-hour diner.
It's an hour before midnight, and the Rainbo is comfortably filled with the kinds of people who don't have to worry about waking up early the next day. I've become one of these people; there's something better about going out late on a Tuesday rather than on a Friday.
Among the revelers is the friend I'm meeting, who we'll call Miss X (in honor of the MC5, natch). We grab the second booth from the left and start to talk about the Edwards/Cheney debate that just went down. We have smuggled in some Caramellos, and it somehow feels little-girlish to eat the waxy chocolate in the midst of all the drinking.
Jesse's in the booth next to us, and I tell Miss X that he's thinking of growing a beard again. I'm against the idea, and to emphasize my support of shaving, I text-message him: NO DAN HIGGS BEARD. The beard discussion mutates into one about dude style in general: what's with pleated pants? why do so many of them grow their sideburns out until they look downright pubic? why would they grow moustaches? soul patches?
And just as we're reaching the peak of giggly perplexity, we're approached by a young man. He starts to slide his narrow hips into the booth before asking, "Do you mind if I join you ladies?"
I do, but he's already here, so we tell him he can sit for a bit. He's grinning lazily at Miss X. For a second I feel happy that he's not leering at me, but then my sympathies shift to Miss X, whose decolletage is being eyed hungrily by our newfound booth-mate. He introduces himself, but over the din all I can hear is that he's 22 and he's a writer (uh-oh). The lighting is dim, but when I look at his outfit I swear that he's wearing a corduroy tie with a corduroy blazer. I wonder if his outfit makes swish-swish sounds when he walks, just like how my scratchy corduroy pants did when I was a girl.
Both Miss X and I are displaying polite disinterest, which is our first mistake. We women do this too much. We don't want to look like cold bitches by telling men to leave us alone, so when some drunk clown is crookedly propping himself up on our table, we instead try to drop hints that we're not interested. The problem with this approach is that it's neither honest nor effective. The person in question often takes the absence of a direct "no" as the green light to keep on feeding us lines.
And so that's how, ten minutes later, Mr. Corduroy is still at our booth. He's also three sheets to the wind, he's now inviting Miss X back to his apartment — "My place is two blocks away, c'mon, you have to pay for drinks here" — and he's worn out his welcome. I can't tell if Miss X minds him being around, because her refusals of his offer are polite rather than forceful. She's a little drunk, and so I decide I must defend her honor, a duty that may or may not involve fisticuffs.
When Miss X excuses herself to use the loo, Mr. Corduroy makes an appeal to me, the cute sidekick. "Your friend would come home with me if you weren't here," he says, delusional. "I'm a nice guy; I just want to get to know her better." I consider telling him that she's my lesbian lover, but instead I say ice-cold, "She can do what she wants, and apparently she's not interested in going home with you." As Miss X starts her return from the bathroom, Mr. Corduroy again argues that if it weren't for my presence, he'd totally have this secured. Right.
Significantly drunker than before, he further attempts to cajole Miss X, who is either too tipsy or polite to tell him off. He's weaving all over the place, which is pretty difficult to do if you're sitting, I'd imagine. As he continues his wheedling, he starts to lean toward me with an outstretched, heavy hand. It's then that I realize that his hand's trajectory is leading toward my left breast. And then I say something so uncharacteristically brash that it sounds like arrows shooting from my tongue: Don't you dare touch my tits.
Him: Aw no, I wouldn't do that ever, why would you think I'd do something like that, I have total respect, I'm not sleazy.
So then I tell him that it sure looked like he was trying to "accidentally" cop a feel and that he's a major sleazeball. And yes, he is being pushy. And no, Miss X does not want to go home with him, and maybe he should get a clue and realize that when a woman says no, she means no. He apologizes and leaves our booth. We join James and Sam and go out for eggs at the 24-hour diner.
Labels: chicago
As I was pedaling to Kinko's this morning, I saw a guy in his early twenties chasing a woman of about the same age. They were in the parking lot of a gas station, running around feverishly and shouting. At first I thought they were perhaps playing some sort of game like "Oh dang! You threw a water balloon at me and I'm gonna totally get you back." But then she ran into the middle of heavy traffic, yelling and looking seriously distressed. He followed her and pushed her to the sidewalk, where she curled up into a fetal position.
I looked around. Not counting drivers, a half-dozen people were watching this scene go down: me, two white women, an old Latino, a white dude watching from his condo balcony, and a black woman. We all stood there with concerned looks on our faces, waiting for someone to do something. Everybody looked worried, but nobody moved. The original couple was still in trouble.
The guy pulled the still-screaming woman back through traffic. The spectators gawked. So I darted into traffic, looking really tough while pushing a Free Spirit "Brittany" bicycle (with basket). By this point, the guy had pushed the woman into the back of a SUV. I hurried up to the car. "Hey, it looks like there's a problem here," I said as forcefully as I could. "BITCH," the guy replied, hurling something (a bottlecap?) at me before driving away. So I dialed 911 to report the bastard (for what he did to the woman, not to me). Half of the witnesses then came forward chanting variations on the license plate.
I wish I could say that I was really heroic and that I instinctively did the right thing. But I'm ashamed to admit that I hesitated, and I really didn't want to get involved. I kept hoping that it was all a joke, or that someone bigger and stronger than me would have stepped in. I keep thinking that if someone had acted faster—if I had acted faster—maybe that woman wouldn't be in such a bad situation, at least for now.
I looked around. Not counting drivers, a half-dozen people were watching this scene go down: me, two white women, an old Latino, a white dude watching from his condo balcony, and a black woman. We all stood there with concerned looks on our faces, waiting for someone to do something. Everybody looked worried, but nobody moved. The original couple was still in trouble.
The guy pulled the still-screaming woman back through traffic. The spectators gawked. So I darted into traffic, looking really tough while pushing a Free Spirit "Brittany" bicycle (with basket). By this point, the guy had pushed the woman into the back of a SUV. I hurried up to the car. "Hey, it looks like there's a problem here," I said as forcefully as I could. "BITCH," the guy replied, hurling something (a bottlecap?) at me before driving away. So I dialed 911 to report the bastard (for what he did to the woman, not to me). Half of the witnesses then came forward chanting variations on the license plate.
I wish I could say that I was really heroic and that I instinctively did the right thing. But I'm ashamed to admit that I hesitated, and I really didn't want to get involved. I kept hoping that it was all a joke, or that someone bigger and stronger than me would have stepped in. I keep thinking that if someone had acted faster—if I had acted faster—maybe that woman wouldn't be in such a bad situation, at least for now.
Labels: chicago
Jesse and I are working on our respective projects in his office, drinking Coca-Cola and eating stale Polish chocolate. The air inside this second-floor converted apartment is warm, but the cool breeze outside blows in from time to time. Jesse doesn't know it yet, but he's going to help me write this. I hope he is not angry about it.
Me: What are you doing?
Modest Mouse (yelping): YEAH I DON'T WANT YOU TO BE ALONE DOWN THERE! BE ALONE DOWN THERE!
Jesse: What?
Me: WHAT ARE YOU DOING?
Jesse: Working on Better Propaganda. What are you doing?
Me: Kinda itching my eye.
Jesse: And?
Me: Nothing. Tell me something clever.
Jesse: Annie in the Attic is a pretty bad name for a record.
Me: What is it called?
Jesse: Satanic Panic in the Attic.
Me: That's not so good. Do you have a good joke for me?
Jesse: What's a good one? (Clutches head frustratedly) Someone told me a joke at Rainbo the other night. (Pause) I don't know, man, I'm coming up with [either "nothing" or "a monkey"]. It's the heat.
Modest Mouse (quieter now): TALKIN' SHIT ABOUT A PRETTY SUNSET!
(five minutes pass)
Me:Did you think of that joke?
Jesse: No. It has something to do with a bear and a bar.
Me: Oh, I know this one.
Jesse: Some sort of a pun, with a bear eating a woman at the bar? Do you know what I'm talking about?
Me: No.
Modest Mouse (drawling): Cowboy Dan's a major player in the cowboy scene.
Me: This bear walks into the bar, and he sits down, and the bartender goes, "What can I get you?" And the bear just sits there for a while (pantomimes sitting in an ursine fashion). And the bartender goes, "Hey, why the long paws?" No! The big pause. Why the big paws?
Jesse: Yeah, that's not the one. It's like, "If you don't serve me I'm going to eat that woman over there." And the punchline is a pun. I can't remember.
Modest Mouse (inquisitively): Have I toldja? Have I toldja?
Me: What are you doing?
Modest Mouse (yelping): YEAH I DON'T WANT YOU TO BE ALONE DOWN THERE! BE ALONE DOWN THERE!
Jesse: What?
Me: WHAT ARE YOU DOING?
Jesse: Working on Better Propaganda. What are you doing?
Me: Kinda itching my eye.
Jesse: And?
Me: Nothing. Tell me something clever.
Jesse: Annie in the Attic is a pretty bad name for a record.
Me: What is it called?
Jesse: Satanic Panic in the Attic.
Me: That's not so good. Do you have a good joke for me?
Jesse: What's a good one? (Clutches head frustratedly) Someone told me a joke at Rainbo the other night. (Pause) I don't know, man, I'm coming up with [either "nothing" or "a monkey"]. It's the heat.
Modest Mouse (quieter now): TALKIN' SHIT ABOUT A PRETTY SUNSET!
(five minutes pass)
Me:Did you think of that joke?
Jesse: No. It has something to do with a bear and a bar.
Me: Oh, I know this one.
Jesse: Some sort of a pun, with a bear eating a woman at the bar? Do you know what I'm talking about?
Me: No.
Modest Mouse (drawling): Cowboy Dan's a major player in the cowboy scene.
Me: This bear walks into the bar, and he sits down, and the bartender goes, "What can I get you?" And the bear just sits there for a while (pantomimes sitting in an ursine fashion). And the bartender goes, "Hey, why the long paws?" No! The big pause. Why the big paws?
Jesse: Yeah, that's not the one. It's like, "If you don't serve me I'm going to eat that woman over there." And the punchline is a pun. I can't remember.
Modest Mouse (inquisitively): Have I toldja? Have I toldja?
Labels: chicago
Sign on an endcap display of smoothies at Dominick's: Summer rhymes with smoothies!
I had a packed weekend. The truth is that on the weekends, I like to do nothing at all. I enjoy eggy brunches, afternoon naps, lazy evenings, reading, and bicycle rides. Maybe renting a movie or taking Itha to the park if Weeks and I can ever get our schedules straight. But in general? I like to rest.
This weekend, however, was busy. I went to Lula with Jen on Friday night, which was pretty low-key. Then on Saturday, I ran errands in the morning before going home to pick up my bike. "I will go to the park and finish my book," I thought. "And probably I will run into people there, which will be all right." Except it didn't happen. Instead, I watched a group of kickboxing teenagers and glared at a pair of bratty pre-teens who had splashed water on me. I ate a petit pain au chocolat, and later I ate some so-so pad Thai from Penny's. I finished my book and took a nap. Throughout all of this, I tried to hide from the bright sunshine, but still I felt sunburn creeping over my shoulders.
Later in the afternoon, I pedaled down to Venus headquarters to send out some mailings and do other editorial tasks. Went home, ate some more (a recurring theme), and went to a goodbye party for Chad. Rode bike to Camp Gay and saw some bands. Was going to pedal over to Club Foot to see my brother play records, but by one in the morning, I chose sleep instead.
What's interesting to me now is that as I recount my Saturday, the writing tone changes. When I spend time alone, doing very little, I tend to notice more things and process the time differently. I remember details like snapshots. But when I get busy in my personal life (no, not getting busy in that way, pervy) my hours are whittled down to a to-do list. Or a "done" list. It's the difference between describing what I did and listing what I did. Nothing really profound to say, just a personal observation.
I had a packed weekend. The truth is that on the weekends, I like to do nothing at all. I enjoy eggy brunches, afternoon naps, lazy evenings, reading, and bicycle rides. Maybe renting a movie or taking Itha to the park if Weeks and I can ever get our schedules straight. But in general? I like to rest.
This weekend, however, was busy. I went to Lula with Jen on Friday night, which was pretty low-key. Then on Saturday, I ran errands in the morning before going home to pick up my bike. "I will go to the park and finish my book," I thought. "And probably I will run into people there, which will be all right." Except it didn't happen. Instead, I watched a group of kickboxing teenagers and glared at a pair of bratty pre-teens who had splashed water on me. I ate a petit pain au chocolat, and later I ate some so-so pad Thai from Penny's. I finished my book and took a nap. Throughout all of this, I tried to hide from the bright sunshine, but still I felt sunburn creeping over my shoulders.
Later in the afternoon, I pedaled down to Venus headquarters to send out some mailings and do other editorial tasks. Went home, ate some more (a recurring theme), and went to a goodbye party for Chad. Rode bike to Camp Gay and saw some bands. Was going to pedal over to Club Foot to see my brother play records, but by one in the morning, I chose sleep instead.
What's interesting to me now is that as I recount my Saturday, the writing tone changes. When I spend time alone, doing very little, I tend to notice more things and process the time differently. I remember details like snapshots. But when I get busy in my personal life (no, not getting busy in that way, pervy) my hours are whittled down to a to-do list. Or a "done" list. It's the difference between describing what I did and listing what I did. Nothing really profound to say, just a personal observation.
Labels: chicago
On Saturday night, Miles and I decided to paint the town red, or at least a deep shade of pink. We had a tasty dinner at Rodan and then moved on to the Rainbo. I hadn't been there since... February? Although they were playing some great music, we didn't stay long before moving on to Zakopane. Zakopane is neither hip nor glamorous; it has bikini-clad women on beer advertisements and a pool table and a television hanging in the corner. It's the kind of place that has regulars who've probably saddled up to the bar for years.
So Miles and I were discussing plans for our yet-to-be-named emo hardcore band, when the fiftysomething man next to us announced, "I'm going to buy you both a drink!" He had a slightly ruddy face, sad eyes, and about 40 extra pounds. Both Miles and I were shaken, I think, by this man's enthusiasm for buying us drinks. I pushed away his words with the sort of politeness that you use when a lonely, drunk stranger is trying to connect. I mean, I don't want to be rude; I just didn't want him to buy me a drink. Miles, however, was game. He's a brave man like that. "HEYYYY! DRINKS!" roared the man, slamming his empty glass on the formica countertop.
The bartender poured beers and whiskey shots, and the men drank them. Miles took his shot quietly, while the man sipped his before unleashing a hearty and impressively insane HAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Then the man told Miles and me that we made a lovely couple, really interesting-looking, a lovely couple, out on the town, really nice. We didn't correct him on the nuances of our long and platonic friendship, because it really didn't matter.
Then Miles abandoned me for the WC! And I was left alone with our new friend, who by that point had become pretty drunk. He was a bit wobbly, and he slurred unintelligibles at me while looking at my thighs. "Youra stunner," he mumbled, leaning in a little bit. "Eezzz bizzz." I began to feel rather nervous. Miles returned, my knight in girls' Levis. "Youraaa lovely, good-lookin COUPLE," he continued. "Srrrorfle bwahtzzz," which I interpreted to mean something about our supposed sex life.
The thing is, Miles and I don't have a sex life. We never have. It was time to set the record straight with this man. "Oh! Well! Miles and I, we are friends. We've been friends for almost ten years," I chirped, like I was a recruiter for some touchy-feely Care Bears cult. Miles and I felt old for a moment, and then the poor drunk man's face deflated. He became relatively quiet for a few moments, and then he hurriedly stumbled outside without a word of goodbye.
In unrelated news, I am looking for a job in writing, producing, editing. Print or web, either way. If you know of anything, please let me know. Thank you!
So Miles and I were discussing plans for our yet-to-be-named emo hardcore band, when the fiftysomething man next to us announced, "I'm going to buy you both a drink!" He had a slightly ruddy face, sad eyes, and about 40 extra pounds. Both Miles and I were shaken, I think, by this man's enthusiasm for buying us drinks. I pushed away his words with the sort of politeness that you use when a lonely, drunk stranger is trying to connect. I mean, I don't want to be rude; I just didn't want him to buy me a drink. Miles, however, was game. He's a brave man like that. "HEYYYY! DRINKS!" roared the man, slamming his empty glass on the formica countertop.
The bartender poured beers and whiskey shots, and the men drank them. Miles took his shot quietly, while the man sipped his before unleashing a hearty and impressively insane HAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Then the man told Miles and me that we made a lovely couple, really interesting-looking, a lovely couple, out on the town, really nice. We didn't correct him on the nuances of our long and platonic friendship, because it really didn't matter.
Then Miles abandoned me for the WC! And I was left alone with our new friend, who by that point had become pretty drunk. He was a bit wobbly, and he slurred unintelligibles at me while looking at my thighs. "Youra stunner," he mumbled, leaning in a little bit. "Eezzz bizzz." I began to feel rather nervous. Miles returned, my knight in girls' Levis. "Youraaa lovely, good-lookin COUPLE," he continued. "Srrrorfle bwahtzzz," which I interpreted to mean something about our supposed sex life.
The thing is, Miles and I don't have a sex life. We never have. It was time to set the record straight with this man. "Oh! Well! Miles and I, we are friends. We've been friends for almost ten years," I chirped, like I was a recruiter for some touchy-feely Care Bears cult. Miles and I felt old for a moment, and then the poor drunk man's face deflated. He became relatively quiet for a few moments, and then he hurriedly stumbled outside without a word of goodbye.
In unrelated news, I am looking for a job in writing, producing, editing. Print or web, either way. If you know of anything, please let me know. Thank you!
Labels: chicago
Last night at Reckless, I ran into my new friend Chad, who just moved here from Louisiana. His quick wit and general hilarity had me close to tears the other evening, and he was full of the funny yesterday, too. Chad has dozens of wonderfully oddball stories of the South, and he delivers them with lots of flourish and detail. I knew that Chad had conducted a few interviews with musicians recently, so we started talking about the awkward aspects of interviewing people. I mentioned how much I dislike hearing my voice while transcribing, and Chad replied, "Oh honey, I know. I swear to god, I get so embarrassed. I probably sound like a gay cowboy!"
Miles is allowing me to borrow a guitar so that I can figure out if musicianship is the right thing for me. I'd always wanted to play a cool instrument (as opposed to the relatively dorky violin which dominated my adolescence), but I made up excuses to avoid picking up the drums (nowhere to practice) or the bass (female bass player is a rock cliche) or the guitar (the necks are too big). Then I turned 26, and realized that if I didn't start now, I'd soon be too grizzled to be in a proper rock and roll band. And dear Miles, along with my father's gift of the how-to book Total Guitar, stepped in.
The first night of playing was fun. I made an E-major chord, an A-major chord, and a D-major chord. I was quite pleased with my accomplishment. I actually thought to myself, "This is how Hendrix started. This is how it all begins!" The following day, my fingers were tender, but I kept at it. For a week, I practiced every night for at least an hour. I told Miles that I'd be good by the end of the summer so that we could start our emo hardcore band in the fall.
My enthusiasm was unstoppable until I tried making barre chords. As it turns out, the guitar's neck is too big for my fingers to move beyond, say, the fourth fret. So it's time to buy a guitar. I like the lady-sized looks of these guitars, but I'd feel really nerdy playing a guitar with a little O+ sign on it. It's like using Crest For Girls toothpaste or something. This weekend, I might sneak around Guitar Center to monkey around with a few different guitars. Any suggestions?
Miles is allowing me to borrow a guitar so that I can figure out if musicianship is the right thing for me. I'd always wanted to play a cool instrument (as opposed to the relatively dorky violin which dominated my adolescence), but I made up excuses to avoid picking up the drums (nowhere to practice) or the bass (female bass player is a rock cliche) or the guitar (the necks are too big). Then I turned 26, and realized that if I didn't start now, I'd soon be too grizzled to be in a proper rock and roll band. And dear Miles, along with my father's gift of the how-to book Total Guitar, stepped in.
The first night of playing was fun. I made an E-major chord, an A-major chord, and a D-major chord. I was quite pleased with my accomplishment. I actually thought to myself, "This is how Hendrix started. This is how it all begins!" The following day, my fingers were tender, but I kept at it. For a week, I practiced every night for at least an hour. I told Miles that I'd be good by the end of the summer so that we could start our emo hardcore band in the fall.
My enthusiasm was unstoppable until I tried making barre chords. As it turns out, the guitar's neck is too big for my fingers to move beyond, say, the fourth fret. So it's time to buy a guitar. I like the lady-sized looks of these guitars, but I'd feel really nerdy playing a guitar with a little O+ sign on it. It's like using Crest For Girls toothpaste or something. This weekend, I might sneak around Guitar Center to monkey around with a few different guitars. Any suggestions?
Labels: chicago
Tonight I walked the streets of Chicago during a month that felt like anything but January. My puffy down jacket, donned in anticipation of whipping winter winds, was ultimately too warm for the evening's mildness. I smelled the stink of early spring--not the pleasant, promising scent of flowers to come, but the thawing dog shit and dank odor that comes before it. Still, I ran up Wolcott as though today were the first day of Spring. I did it partly because I was late, but mostly because I could.
McFoxerson was working the door, and I remembered that it was almost exactly one year since we'd met. Sentimental sappiness made me want to mention this anniversary of acquaintance, but I didn't. I'm the sort of old-fashioned girl who remembers these silly details, but most people aren't, and that's okay. We talked about dentists, just like the old pals we someday might become.
Miles was waiting on a wooden curve, wearing his yellow scarf that I like so much. I told him a good secret because he's the person who I thought would enjoy it most. He did. At some point, I realized that we've known each other for seven years. The old are right: time does pass quickly.
The walk home was lonely.
At two in the morning, I will put on my pajamas to begin the tedious process of fighting insomnia. Since Christmas, I've had only two good nights of sleep. The others have been filled with wide-open eyes and tossing and turning and confusion. When I do manage to sleep, the dreams are anxious: social nightmares of my deepest emotional fears. I'll try for something different tonight. Again.
McFoxerson was working the door, and I remembered that it was almost exactly one year since we'd met. Sentimental sappiness made me want to mention this anniversary of acquaintance, but I didn't. I'm the sort of old-fashioned girl who remembers these silly details, but most people aren't, and that's okay. We talked about dentists, just like the old pals we someday might become.
Miles was waiting on a wooden curve, wearing his yellow scarf that I like so much. I told him a good secret because he's the person who I thought would enjoy it most. He did. At some point, I realized that we've known each other for seven years. The old are right: time does pass quickly.
The walk home was lonely.
At two in the morning, I will put on my pajamas to begin the tedious process of fighting insomnia. Since Christmas, I've had only two good nights of sleep. The others have been filled with wide-open eyes and tossing and turning and confusion. When I do manage to sleep, the dreams are anxious: social nightmares of my deepest emotional fears. I'll try for something different tonight. Again.
Labels: chicago
I keep running into one of Chicago's young musicians around town. For reasons of privacy, we will call him Cap'n Joan of Owls. During one particular week, I saw Cap'n Joan of Owls three times at Lula Cafe alone. He popped up here and there, everywhere. I'd briefly talked with him once during the winter, when he sported what I considered an unfortunate mustache—a mustn'tstache, if you will. Anyway, the point is, we've never been introduced, but surely he has to think it's weird that we keep showing up at the same places. We're probably both thinking, "Argh, there's that weirdo again! Am I being stalked? Whatever would bring one person to Lula three times within five days? I will pretend that I saw nobody, and carry on smoothly with my normal day."
I hadn't seen Cap'n Joan of Owls in a couple of weeks, so I thought maybe the planets had realigned, keeping us on our normal paths away from each other. But then, I was shopping at Saks Fifth Avenue, and there he was sitting with his ladyfriend. Finally I decided to say something. "Why do we keep running into each other?" I said to Cap'n Joan of Owls. "I mean, don't you notice that we're always at the same places? This is kind of weird."
Cap'n Joan of Owls just smiled sweetly at me. "And why are you at Saks Fifth Avenue?" I continued. "I didn't know you liked Marc Jacobs."
I hadn't seen Cap'n Joan of Owls in a couple of weeks, so I thought maybe the planets had realigned, keeping us on our normal paths away from each other. But then, I was shopping at Saks Fifth Avenue, and there he was sitting with his ladyfriend. Finally I decided to say something. "Why do we keep running into each other?" I said to Cap'n Joan of Owls. "I mean, don't you notice that we're always at the same places? This is kind of weird."
Cap'n Joan of Owls just smiled sweetly at me. "And why are you at Saks Fifth Avenue?" I continued. "I didn't know you liked Marc Jacobs."
With a gentle shrug, Cap'n Joan of Owls said, "Man, who doesn't?" and then walked away.
Oh, I should mention that all of the Saks bit was a dream. But it was pretty convincing, eh?
I've got an idea for a new reality television show. It's called Assclown of the Week (ACTW). The concept is simple: cameras follow me around the city during various run-ins with jerks, and the at-home viewers can call a toll-free number to vote for that week’s winner. After the votes are tallied, the cameras will capture Ed McMahon as he surprises the Assclown-elect with the big news. ACTW will then have to decide if he or she wants to walk around with a sandwich board ("I am the ACTW. Ask me about my shyster ways!") for a chance at winning my gentle forgiveness or prizes, whichever they want.
This week’s contestants: driver of the gigantic teal SUV who almost hit me on Division yesterday, flipping me off though I inarguably had the right-of-way; the lad who talks about how he’d be sad if we didn’t stay friends after dumping me, but only monosyllabically acknowledges me at the Empty Bottle before winning a gold medal in the avoidance Olympics; pushy guy who pressured Karinsa to play video poker with him, but turned surly when she politely and kindly declined.
To keep the program somewhat cheery, we will also feature Good Egg of the Week. This week’s nominees: the boys of Italo, for looking irrepressibly happy while playing their instruments; the cheerful cashier at Target, for managing to be genuinely nice to people even though she doesn’t have to be; Miles, for seeing that I was about to come apart on Wednesday, and pulling me back together with a kind squeeze of the shoulder.
The good thing is that it was harder to come up with a list of meanies than sweeties. But you know, you don’t win the Nielsens with tales of love and happiness.
This week’s contestants: driver of the gigantic teal SUV who almost hit me on Division yesterday, flipping me off though I inarguably had the right-of-way; the lad who talks about how he’d be sad if we didn’t stay friends after dumping me, but only monosyllabically acknowledges me at the Empty Bottle before winning a gold medal in the avoidance Olympics; pushy guy who pressured Karinsa to play video poker with him, but turned surly when she politely and kindly declined.
To keep the program somewhat cheery, we will also feature Good Egg of the Week. This week’s nominees: the boys of Italo, for looking irrepressibly happy while playing their instruments; the cheerful cashier at Target, for managing to be genuinely nice to people even though she doesn’t have to be; Miles, for seeing that I was about to come apart on Wednesday, and pulling me back together with a kind squeeze of the shoulder.
The good thing is that it was harder to come up with a list of meanies than sweeties. But you know, you don’t win the Nielsens with tales of love and happiness.
Labels: chicago
Owlie and I nickname people. That in itself doesn't seem too strange, but it is a bit dumb that even when we know these people, we refer to them by their code names. Additionally ridiculous: with the exception of one female, we do not code-name girls and women. Here is a partial list of this year's nicknames.
diesel boy: more of a man, really, but this sounds better. has shaggy hair and really does look like he should be wearing overpriced denim. no relation to lame-o pop-punk band of same name.
tuxedo boy: wears tuxedos around town. is charming in an oddball way, like me, and disarmingly beautiful, unlike me.
pigpen: the tenant in our apartment who hasn't moved his schtuff out. he is the biggest slob on the planet, with a nest full of hippy shit and uncleaned cat litter boxes.
the (un)happy little elf: boy who looks like an extra in lord of the rings; is misanthropic and hard to read.
gary sinise: big-time flirt who really does look like the actor. humantorch and max fischer have said that gary sinise looks like a tool. their words, not mine.
max fischer: our friend looks eerily like the star of rushmore. he is such a nice boy.
teach: crazy guy who danced on chic-a-go-go with us. he was a loud and nutty hip-hop type, waving his hands in the air like he just didn't care. his accomplices in dancing were two or three pre-teenage boys who turned out to be his students. after the taping completed, teach removed his fubu and began talking with friends about that night's town and country show.
foxy mcfoxerson: also mentioned here more than a few times. we are friends now, and that makes me happy. he is one of the few people aware of his nickname, and for a while he thought i had renamed him captain assclown. no, silly foxy! that was just a temporary thing.
whitelegs the pirate: i could never remember this kid's name. all i could remember was that he attended a chic-a-go-go taping and had legs even whiter than mine. he rides a vespa, apparently.
edward norton tootie: owlie says he looks like her friend tootie; i say he looks like edward norton. this is really all i know of him.
tre cool: i have not actually met this gentleman, but owlie has. she says he really is tres cool.
rapscallion: i had a huge huge huge crush on him, but he kinda did what the next bloke did...
jfk/mr. president: takes me on a date in which we have a lovely time, says he's glad we went out, and never calls again.
gramps: treats me as though i am twelve. regards me as his little sister, which is kind of sweet but also patronizing.
the fake evan: this is the guy who is on the rainbo calendars almost every year. he always looks a little bit like evan, what with the glasses and all, but he's not! he's the fake evan!
diesel boy: more of a man, really, but this sounds better. has shaggy hair and really does look like he should be wearing overpriced denim. no relation to lame-o pop-punk band of same name.
tuxedo boy: wears tuxedos around town. is charming in an oddball way, like me, and disarmingly beautiful, unlike me.
pigpen: the tenant in our apartment who hasn't moved his schtuff out. he is the biggest slob on the planet, with a nest full of hippy shit and uncleaned cat litter boxes.
the (un)happy little elf: boy who looks like an extra in lord of the rings; is misanthropic and hard to read.
gary sinise: big-time flirt who really does look like the actor. humantorch and max fischer have said that gary sinise looks like a tool. their words, not mine.
max fischer: our friend looks eerily like the star of rushmore. he is such a nice boy.
teach: crazy guy who danced on chic-a-go-go with us. he was a loud and nutty hip-hop type, waving his hands in the air like he just didn't care. his accomplices in dancing were two or three pre-teenage boys who turned out to be his students. after the taping completed, teach removed his fubu and began talking with friends about that night's town and country show.
foxy mcfoxerson: also mentioned here more than a few times. we are friends now, and that makes me happy. he is one of the few people aware of his nickname, and for a while he thought i had renamed him captain assclown. no, silly foxy! that was just a temporary thing.
whitelegs the pirate: i could never remember this kid's name. all i could remember was that he attended a chic-a-go-go taping and had legs even whiter than mine. he rides a vespa, apparently.
edward norton tootie: owlie says he looks like her friend tootie; i say he looks like edward norton. this is really all i know of him.
tre cool: i have not actually met this gentleman, but owlie has. she says he really is tres cool.
rapscallion: i had a huge huge huge crush on him, but he kinda did what the next bloke did...
jfk/mr. president: takes me on a date in which we have a lovely time, says he's glad we went out, and never calls again.
gramps: treats me as though i am twelve. regards me as his little sister, which is kind of sweet but also patronizing.
the fake evan: this is the guy who is on the rainbo calendars almost every year. he always looks a little bit like evan, what with the glasses and all, but he's not! he's the fake evan!
Labels: chicago
Last night I rode the scooter for miles through a Chicago spring evening (a dinnertime trek with horrid weather). My glasses were opaque with fog, my pants stuck to my thighs, and even through gloves my stiff little fingers could barely move. The sky spat icy droplets like needles ramming into my body at thirty miles an hour. My face hurt so much that I wanted to cry, but instead I took great pride in being tough enough to zoom through the streets. The bus is for rain-fearing sissies.
Around nine I went to Bite and drew woodland creatures. I tried to draw a frog, but then I realized that I couldn't imagine what frogs look like. So instead I drew a snake, and gave the drawings to my partner in crime for the evening.
Partner in Crime and I went next door to the Empty Bottle. Boy, was it crowded. I saw Grouchy Vespa Boy, who strangely looked happy to see me. He waved me over and was oddly flirtatious. Usually he is a depressive git who finds the worst in everything, but he revealed that he and his ladyfriend broke up. Aha. We excitedly carried on for a minute about how nice it is to be single ("Because everybody thinks you're cute!" / "Yes, and you can flirt with impunity!"). He's the mod-est guy I know. He has that floppy longish hair, a scooter, and last night he was wearing a suit with an ascot. An ascot! A wee bit over the top, yes, but weirdly endearing.
Partner In Crime used the word "fisticuffs" at one point last night. What's not to love about a quirky, wide vocabulary?
Around nine I went to Bite and drew woodland creatures. I tried to draw a frog, but then I realized that I couldn't imagine what frogs look like. So instead I drew a snake, and gave the drawings to my partner in crime for the evening.
Partner in Crime and I went next door to the Empty Bottle. Boy, was it crowded. I saw Grouchy Vespa Boy, who strangely looked happy to see me. He waved me over and was oddly flirtatious. Usually he is a depressive git who finds the worst in everything, but he revealed that he and his ladyfriend broke up. Aha. We excitedly carried on for a minute about how nice it is to be single ("Because everybody thinks you're cute!" / "Yes, and you can flirt with impunity!"). He's the mod-est guy I know. He has that floppy longish hair, a scooter, and last night he was wearing a suit with an ascot. An ascot! A wee bit over the top, yes, but weirdly endearing.
Partner In Crime used the word "fisticuffs" at one point last night. What's not to love about a quirky, wide vocabulary?
work: I stayed until almost eight o'clock, which used to be a normal occurrence, but is now blissfully rare. I don't know if we've learned to work smarter or harder, but either way, the occasional late night isn't bad.
bus: I rode the Division bus to Damen, watching other bus riders as usual. One gentleman looked rather glum, so on my way off the bus, I smiled and said, "Cheer up." He smiled and I felt happy.
jinx: It's good that this coffee shop has reopened, but it is not as nice as it used to be. The pinball machines are gone, and the stereo was playing Soundgarden. The cheese on the grilled cheese sandwich tasted mildly meaty.
rainbo: I wish I'd been able to go earlier, to beat the beginnings of the crowd. Why is this place so busy on a Wednesday night?
max fischer: There was a fake Max Fischer at Rainbo last night! He wore big glasses and pulled his dark hair down a bit, just like our friend Max. But only the genuine Max was able to discuss Richard Yates. And only the real Max would ask today, "So what happened after I left you in the arms of that womanizing vulture?"
human torch: Habitually a very stylish guy, Human Torchwas wearing a magnificent cowboy shirt. When he pointed out the label that said WILLIE NELSON, I had to restrain myself from ripping it off of him. I mean this in a greedy clotheshorse sense, not a "Watch out Torchy, 'cause I'm coming to getchoo!" way.
door guy: looks like he should be in the Small Faces. I told him that and he asked if I was saying he looked like Rod Stewart. Maybe he didn't take it as a compliment.
gary sinise: Assclown of the week. Again! He would look at me out of the corner of his eye, but avoid eye contact. It was obvious that he did not want to talk, so I decided to be a jerk and approach him. I gave him nothing but honey, just to kill him with kindness.
evan: Looked "schocked" to see me. Said he liked my bag in the way he always speaks when he's thinking I am maybe a little insane to be so enthusiastic about, say, the best bag ever. Seemed terrified that I would whip out photographic evidence of Matlock jumping like a bunny or wearing makeup.
evan's cousin: Probably does not understand why Evan ever dated me, especially after I told her, "Evan was a very good boyfriend for the most part."
kurt: The nicest guy! I made a bunny drawing for him. I'd really like to be his friend.
X: shaved that musn'tstache and looks babyfaced again. Did not seem to remember me from a few weeks ago, or was too busy trying to see if incredibly drunk friend was sleeping or passed out.
foxy mcfoxerson: telephone talk in the early evening, face-to-face talk in the later. We straightened things out and are friends. Friends with crushy tension rippling under the surface, maybe, but friends all the same. It makes me happy because I trust him in a way that I feel all over, and as he said, "You make a goddam good friend, Thursday."
bus: I rode the Division bus to Damen, watching other bus riders as usual. One gentleman looked rather glum, so on my way off the bus, I smiled and said, "Cheer up." He smiled and I felt happy.
jinx: It's good that this coffee shop has reopened, but it is not as nice as it used to be. The pinball machines are gone, and the stereo was playing Soundgarden. The cheese on the grilled cheese sandwich tasted mildly meaty.
rainbo: I wish I'd been able to go earlier, to beat the beginnings of the crowd. Why is this place so busy on a Wednesday night?
max fischer: There was a fake Max Fischer at Rainbo last night! He wore big glasses and pulled his dark hair down a bit, just like our friend Max. But only the genuine Max was able to discuss Richard Yates. And only the real Max would ask today, "So what happened after I left you in the arms of that womanizing vulture?"
human torch: Habitually a very stylish guy, Human Torchwas wearing a magnificent cowboy shirt. When he pointed out the label that said WILLIE NELSON, I had to restrain myself from ripping it off of him. I mean this in a greedy clotheshorse sense, not a "Watch out Torchy, 'cause I'm coming to getchoo!" way.
door guy: looks like he should be in the Small Faces. I told him that and he asked if I was saying he looked like Rod Stewart. Maybe he didn't take it as a compliment.
gary sinise: Assclown of the week. Again! He would look at me out of the corner of his eye, but avoid eye contact. It was obvious that he did not want to talk, so I decided to be a jerk and approach him. I gave him nothing but honey, just to kill him with kindness.
evan: Looked "schocked" to see me. Said he liked my bag in the way he always speaks when he's thinking I am maybe a little insane to be so enthusiastic about, say, the best bag ever. Seemed terrified that I would whip out photographic evidence of Matlock jumping like a bunny or wearing makeup.
evan's cousin: Probably does not understand why Evan ever dated me, especially after I told her, "Evan was a very good boyfriend for the most part."
kurt: The nicest guy! I made a bunny drawing for him. I'd really like to be his friend.
X: shaved that musn'tstache and looks babyfaced again. Did not seem to remember me from a few weeks ago, or was too busy trying to see if incredibly drunk friend was sleeping or passed out.
foxy mcfoxerson: telephone talk in the early evening, face-to-face talk in the later. We straightened things out and are friends. Friends with crushy tension rippling under the surface, maybe, but friends all the same. It makes me happy because I trust him in a way that I feel all over, and as he said, "You make a goddam good friend, Thursday."
Labels: chicago
Well! It looks as though Miss Owlie and I have found a new nest. We have to apply for it and all that jazz, of course, but the landlord would be insane to not take us! The apartment is a fourth-floor walkup in Ukranian Village. I immediately liked the smell of the staircase, although its twists made me feel like Scottie Ferguson. The apartment itself is, for lack of better terms, cool and unique. And as Bob Barker would say, the price is right! Its common areas are spacious and lofty, with skylights and big windows. The bedrooms are small, but who needs big bedrooms when you can look out your window and see the lights of our fair skyline?
- - -
Our second Chic-a-Go-Go appearance was another success. The Humantorch joined in the fun this time, sportin' cool shades and a red-hot t-shirt. Everybody in the dance party looks really smooth except for me and Owlie. We just can't stop grinning and doing a fast Twist. While most of the other people are looking tough and holding up their hands during the "holla back" song, she and I are flashing goofy smiles.
- - -
Last night was adventure night supreme. It was originally going to be girls' night out, but the addition of our boy friends made it even more fun. The more, the merrier. I feel happy to have more friends here in Chicago. I feel fortunate to have met Owlie, who is funny and smart and kind and trustworthy. It was hard to live here without having a good girl friend, and now not only do I have one, I have the best one! We noticed that the eighties look seems to be big, but we are both stuck on the sixties/mod/old-lady look.
When we arrived at the establishment, I saw "Gary Sinise," who was trying to look tough with his arms folded. At first I thought, "Oh boy, what happened to the niceness exhibited last week? Rats." But then as I went to join my friends, he sent me a sly little wink. And later, we talked about writing and Mies van der Rohe. I started babbling (this is what happens when I talk with men I find even mildly attractive) about architecture and the lines of the IBM building. Gary Sinise seemed amused by this architectural tangent, and he said, "Maybe you should give me your phone number." Maybe. He looks like he smells good.
Owls McGee and V. have a friend who looks like Riley from Buffy! He was a little bit tipsy, and he wouldn't stop talking about how much he hates Paul McCartney. His argument was based on the theory that Sir Paul is dating an amputee simply to advance his own career. Hollow, Riley, a hollow argument.
Oh, I'm feeling too lazy and private to go into all the stories of last night, but it was a fun evening. I love going somewhere and seeing friendly people, meeting new ones, and even seeing old ones. Last night I did finally get to (unexpectedly) face Foxy McFoxerson. He looked the same as always, except his hair is now on the longish side. "Hey, Metal-hair," I said to him. He gave me a nervous smile as I walked toward him. We talked a little bit, and our eyes still smiled at each other (I shifted them downward so he wouldn't see). I'll leave it at that.
- - -
Our second Chic-a-Go-Go appearance was another success. The Humantorch joined in the fun this time, sportin' cool shades and a red-hot t-shirt. Everybody in the dance party looks really smooth except for me and Owlie. We just can't stop grinning and doing a fast Twist. While most of the other people are looking tough and holding up their hands during the "holla back" song, she and I are flashing goofy smiles.
- - -
Last night was adventure night supreme. It was originally going to be girls' night out, but the addition of our boy friends made it even more fun. The more, the merrier. I feel happy to have more friends here in Chicago. I feel fortunate to have met Owlie, who is funny and smart and kind and trustworthy. It was hard to live here without having a good girl friend, and now not only do I have one, I have the best one! We noticed that the eighties look seems to be big, but we are both stuck on the sixties/mod/old-lady look.
When we arrived at the establishment, I saw "Gary Sinise," who was trying to look tough with his arms folded. At first I thought, "Oh boy, what happened to the niceness exhibited last week? Rats." But then as I went to join my friends, he sent me a sly little wink. And later, we talked about writing and Mies van der Rohe. I started babbling (this is what happens when I talk with men I find even mildly attractive) about architecture and the lines of the IBM building. Gary Sinise seemed amused by this architectural tangent, and he said, "Maybe you should give me your phone number." Maybe. He looks like he smells good.
Owls McGee and V. have a friend who looks like Riley from Buffy! He was a little bit tipsy, and he wouldn't stop talking about how much he hates Paul McCartney. His argument was based on the theory that Sir Paul is dating an amputee simply to advance his own career. Hollow, Riley, a hollow argument.
Oh, I'm feeling too lazy and private to go into all the stories of last night, but it was a fun evening. I love going somewhere and seeing friendly people, meeting new ones, and even seeing old ones. Last night I did finally get to (unexpectedly) face Foxy McFoxerson. He looked the same as always, except his hair is now on the longish side. "Hey, Metal-hair," I said to him. He gave me a nervous smile as I walked toward him. We talked a little bit, and our eyes still smiled at each other (I shifted them downward so he wouldn't see). I'll leave it at that.
Labels: chicago
Rainbo: wood galore
Schubas: withering hipsters
Hideout: cute, smells good
Fireside: bright, tiled
Empty Bottle: fashionville
Tumans: bad toilet
Schubas: withering hipsters
Hideout: cute, smells good
Fireside: bright, tiled
Empty Bottle: fashionville
Tumans: bad toilet
Labels: chicago
Laaaaaasst niiiiiight:
While waiting for the westbound bus at Halsted and Chicago, an eastbound cabbie honked and slowed down. I smiled, shook my head, and waved him onward. A few minutes later he pulled up to the curb and said, "Hop in, I'm finishing for the night and I'll give you a free ride." So I did. "I sometimes do this if it's cold, and you gave me a nice smile. I believe you should do kind things simply for the sake of kindness," he told me around Ogden. What a lovely surprise!
The cabbie dropped me off at Woodsy's apartment, and I joined the supercouple for a screening of Mariah Carey's Glitter. Woodsy made delicious English tea with milk and sugar, and his roommate Joey sat with us. Wow! What a wonderful movie. One of my fellow cinemaphiles succinctly described Ms. Carey's performance as follows: "You know, I look back at all the times I've seen her, and I can't believe it took this long to see that she is completely and totally insane."
Also great: the male lead (Dice, who conveniently wears a gold nameplate necklace in case you forgot his name) is Spin's DJ of the year. At one point, Dice decides to get a three-piece instrumental combo together. We see him plinky-dinking on a keyboard, and then he runs over to the drummer and says, "Try it like this!" before doing a wicked drum fill. We all giggled, thinking of someone we know.
After the movie, I walked to Tuman's to wish Miles a happy birthday. Yay Miles, yay Miles' nice friend! Max Fischer was there, too, and I invited him to join me on this week's Taking Care of Biz-a-ness adventure.
I was feeling very sleepy, so I left around midnight. The plan was to hit up the ATM at Division and Damen, and take a cab from there. But the tea-caffeination and air's brisk chill perked me up. "Oh, maybe I'll see if anybody's at the Rainbo," I thought. I sat at the curve of the wooden bar, ordered some cranberry juice, and began writing valentines ("Please go on a date this Thursday so that I can live vicariously through you," to my parents). Leroy walked in (wearing a very smart shirt/sweater combination) and we talked for a bit. I told him I liked his band's new album design, which is the truth! He didn't seem weirded out to see me, which allayed my earlier "Leroy thinks I am a dolt" anxiety. Yay!
Later, Henry sat down next to me. He's one of the kindest people I've met since moving here. There's a difference between being nice and being kind; people can fake niceness, but you can't fake kindness. We talked about Francoise Hardy, our plastic-eating cats, and the vividness of dreamlife. "You've got an old soul, Annie," he said. It was a compliment.
I stayed at the Rainbo until closing, and a group of people milled about the door. A homeless man approached us, and we gave him some money. He was very friendly, and he said I had a beautiful smile. I blushed. I caught a ride to North and Damen with Henry and Andy, who is a fellow library aficionado. Ran into Leroy again. "Hey stranger," I said. He smiled. Henry caught a taxi for me, and the driver was friendly. I was happy to watch the white clouds drift east lazily, with buildings piercing the navy sky. I tipped the cabbie well and scurried to the door. Oh, but upon searching for my keys, I came up empty-handed.
When you lose your keys, there are a few brief moments during which you tell yourself that if you rifle through your bag one more time, they'll show up. I emptied my bag three times before accepting the truth: it was past two am, I had no way to enter my apartment, and it was cold outside. I rang a friend four times, woke him, and hobbled over to his apartment. I slept very well and remain perky despite sleeping half my normal amount.
In an hour I begin calling various establishments in search of the keys. If luck is not on my side, perhaps the landlord will be.
While waiting for the westbound bus at Halsted and Chicago, an eastbound cabbie honked and slowed down. I smiled, shook my head, and waved him onward. A few minutes later he pulled up to the curb and said, "Hop in, I'm finishing for the night and I'll give you a free ride." So I did. "I sometimes do this if it's cold, and you gave me a nice smile. I believe you should do kind things simply for the sake of kindness," he told me around Ogden. What a lovely surprise!
The cabbie dropped me off at Woodsy's apartment, and I joined the supercouple for a screening of Mariah Carey's Glitter. Woodsy made delicious English tea with milk and sugar, and his roommate Joey sat with us. Wow! What a wonderful movie. One of my fellow cinemaphiles succinctly described Ms. Carey's performance as follows: "You know, I look back at all the times I've seen her, and I can't believe it took this long to see that she is completely and totally insane."
Also great: the male lead (Dice, who conveniently wears a gold nameplate necklace in case you forgot his name) is Spin's DJ of the year. At one point, Dice decides to get a three-piece instrumental combo together. We see him plinky-dinking on a keyboard, and then he runs over to the drummer and says, "Try it like this!" before doing a wicked drum fill. We all giggled, thinking of someone we know.
After the movie, I walked to Tuman's to wish Miles a happy birthday. Yay Miles, yay Miles' nice friend! Max Fischer was there, too, and I invited him to join me on this week's Taking Care of Biz-a-ness adventure.
I was feeling very sleepy, so I left around midnight. The plan was to hit up the ATM at Division and Damen, and take a cab from there. But the tea-caffeination and air's brisk chill perked me up. "Oh, maybe I'll see if anybody's at the Rainbo," I thought. I sat at the curve of the wooden bar, ordered some cranberry juice, and began writing valentines ("Please go on a date this Thursday so that I can live vicariously through you," to my parents). Leroy walked in (wearing a very smart shirt/sweater combination) and we talked for a bit. I told him I liked his band's new album design, which is the truth! He didn't seem weirded out to see me, which allayed my earlier "Leroy thinks I am a dolt" anxiety. Yay!
Later, Henry sat down next to me. He's one of the kindest people I've met since moving here. There's a difference between being nice and being kind; people can fake niceness, but you can't fake kindness. We talked about Francoise Hardy, our plastic-eating cats, and the vividness of dreamlife. "You've got an old soul, Annie," he said. It was a compliment.
I stayed at the Rainbo until closing, and a group of people milled about the door. A homeless man approached us, and we gave him some money. He was very friendly, and he said I had a beautiful smile. I blushed. I caught a ride to North and Damen with Henry and Andy, who is a fellow library aficionado. Ran into Leroy again. "Hey stranger," I said. He smiled. Henry caught a taxi for me, and the driver was friendly. I was happy to watch the white clouds drift east lazily, with buildings piercing the navy sky. I tipped the cabbie well and scurried to the door. Oh, but upon searching for my keys, I came up empty-handed.
When you lose your keys, there are a few brief moments during which you tell yourself that if you rifle through your bag one more time, they'll show up. I emptied my bag three times before accepting the truth: it was past two am, I had no way to enter my apartment, and it was cold outside. I rang a friend four times, woke him, and hobbled over to his apartment. I slept very well and remain perky despite sleeping half my normal amount.
In an hour I begin calling various establishments in search of the keys. If luck is not on my side, perhaps the landlord will be.
Labels: chicago
As a public service, this internet web site is happy to bring you bathroom reviews of various venues and/or bars.
1. The Hideout
The walls are yellow, with lipsticked kisses all over. This bathroom has two stalls, one significantly smaller than the other. It smells very fresh and clean, but no air fresheners are visible. Lots of Depo-Provera posters and brochures. Nice soap, twisty faucets, paper towels arranged in basket. Best bathroom ever!
2. Fireside Bowl
Everybody says these bathrooms are disgusting, but you know what? While they're not sparkling, they certainly aren't that bad. Ladies, you still probably want to aim and hover, or build a toilet paper nest. But it's not as though this pink porcelain palace is crawling with rats or mold.
3. Empty Bottle
Odd layout, with two regular stalls and a third mini-room that serves as a larger stall. The graffiti here tends to be rather mean-spirited. Rarely any soap. Floor looks as though it hasn't been thoroughly cleaned in a long time, but this may be due to poor lighting.
4. Tuman's Alcohol Abuse Center
To get to the bathroom, you must walk down a somewhat narrow eight-foot hallway with low ceilings. The bathroom cleanliness ranks up there with that of the Bottle, but the graffiti is slightly less bitchy. Apparently, the men's WC is a dump in comparison.
5. Schubas Tavern
Filthy, stinkola unisex bathrooms. Obviously, it doesn't matter to men if the bathroom is unisex, because you don't need to sit when you pee. When some men leave the seat up, this means that if we want to sit, we ladies must touch the seat, which is especially dirty at Schubas.
1. The Hideout
The walls are yellow, with lipsticked kisses all over. This bathroom has two stalls, one significantly smaller than the other. It smells very fresh and clean, but no air fresheners are visible. Lots of Depo-Provera posters and brochures. Nice soap, twisty faucets, paper towels arranged in basket. Best bathroom ever!
2. Fireside Bowl
Everybody says these bathrooms are disgusting, but you know what? While they're not sparkling, they certainly aren't that bad. Ladies, you still probably want to aim and hover, or build a toilet paper nest. But it's not as though this pink porcelain palace is crawling with rats or mold.
3. Empty Bottle
Odd layout, with two regular stalls and a third mini-room that serves as a larger stall. The graffiti here tends to be rather mean-spirited. Rarely any soap. Floor looks as though it hasn't been thoroughly cleaned in a long time, but this may be due to poor lighting.
4. Tuman's Alcohol Abuse Center
To get to the bathroom, you must walk down a somewhat narrow eight-foot hallway with low ceilings. The bathroom cleanliness ranks up there with that of the Bottle, but the graffiti is slightly less bitchy. Apparently, the men's WC is a dump in comparison.
5. Schubas Tavern
Filthy, stinkola unisex bathrooms. Obviously, it doesn't matter to men if the bathroom is unisex, because you don't need to sit when you pee. When some men leave the seat up, this means that if we want to sit, we ladies must touch the seat, which is especially dirty at Schubas.
Labels: chicago
I should have been a quartet of furry paws / Scuttling across boughs of silent trees.
Grimace drove the bus today. Grimace is a fortysomething black woman with bright purple hair. She is always friendly, and she doesn't slow for yellow lights. This morning, the sun made her hair shine; she looked oddly happy to be driving the bus. Some other time, you'll get more stories of CTA passengers: Grizzle, the Aging Punk Rocker; Insurance Prevert; Man Who Rides The Bus For One Block; Jock Reader, the Bus Chum; Fraulein Cellphone; and many, so very many more.
Grimace drove the bus today. Grimace is a fortysomething black woman with bright purple hair. She is always friendly, and she doesn't slow for yellow lights. This morning, the sun made her hair shine; she looked oddly happy to be driving the bus. Some other time, you'll get more stories of CTA passengers: Grizzle, the Aging Punk Rocker; Insurance Prevert; Man Who Rides The Bus For One Block; Jock Reader, the Bus Chum; Fraulein Cellphone; and many, so very many more.
Labels: chicago
Last night I had a terrible time falling asleep. My heart hurt, not in a whiny emo sense, but literally. I've been having intermittent chest pains along with leg and arm numbness. It might be a good idea to go back to the doctor, but I am lazy, cheap, and scared of needles.
Saturday was one of those perfect sunny Autumn days, a promising beginning for the season. I woke up early because a telemarketer called, offering discounted subscriptions to magazines. He kept pushing Marie Claire, which Evan had given me for Christmas, and Shape. I told the telemarketer that I was not interested in buying magazines. He suggested Fitness, which made me wonder if somehow he knew that I hadn't been riding my bicycle enough. Finally I acquiesced and said that I would buy a subscription to either Bitch or Bust. He backed off. They do every time.
I then picked up some oil, fed it to Vespy, and gave her a good cleaning. Then I zipped into the sunshine and scooted around town, honking at other scooters and enjoying the day. At night, Arrin came over so that we could walk to a party at Evan and Jaime's. He seemed unusually worried that the cats would pee on his jacket. This might be understandable if I had mentioned their incontinence, but they're really good at using their litter box. The party was fun, because lots of people were there (including another Ann T. [for the record, I'm Anne with an -e, like Anne Shirley]). Erin and I left around midnight. We took Vespy north on Clark, and boy howdy, did we get attention from the rowdy, happy bar stumblers. It's great to have girl friends. We are living the days that we'll recall as old ladies. My mom has a collection of pictures from the mid-sixties, when she was my age. I have always wanted that photographed lifestyle, complete with girlfriends and picnics and the sun filtering through leaves in Lincoln Park. Except, you know, updated for today's youth and their Spock Rock style.
Anyway, after dropping Erin off, I scooted up to Andersonville, which is one of my favorite places to visit. Sometimes I like to ride my bicycle along the lakefront, stop at the Foster Avenue Beach, and then stroll around the neighborhood. There's a shop called The Acorn (!) as well as a feminist bookstore called Women and Children First. Anyway, I wandered into Simon's around 1. Generally speaking, I don't like bars, but for some reason I like Simon's. It's the place where hipsters come to die, in a way. The crowd is made up of locals and late-twentysomethings who have outgrown the Rainbo. Simon's has Schlitz signs, pretty colored lights in the front window, and comfortable sofas in the back. The bar was crowded but not packed, and I bought my Cherry Coke and sat on the corner bench by the front window. I tried to look nonchalant while reading my museum brochures, but it's hard to not feel a little pathetic when you're sipping a non-alcoholic beverage at a bar on a Saturday night. I just didn't want to be alone that night, and even in isolation, it was better to be alone with others than alone with self. Evan and I have a long-standing argument over whether Simon's is my bar or his bar. He claims it as his, because he goes there more often than I do (which makes sense, as he drinks and I don't). But I say it's mine, because Todd treated me to a soda there first.
This week is a decent concert week: Sigur Ros plays the Vic on Thursday. Tickets are $20 and they're probably already sold out, but I'm tempted to check it out. It's only a few blocks from home, and post-rockin' shows are slightly amusing in their un-fun-ness. Then, on John's birthday, zee American Analog Set is playing. Lots of head-nodding to ensue. It's too bad that every show couldn't be a Ted Leo show. Everybody would dance.
Saturday was one of those perfect sunny Autumn days, a promising beginning for the season. I woke up early because a telemarketer called, offering discounted subscriptions to magazines. He kept pushing Marie Claire, which Evan had given me for Christmas, and Shape. I told the telemarketer that I was not interested in buying magazines. He suggested Fitness, which made me wonder if somehow he knew that I hadn't been riding my bicycle enough. Finally I acquiesced and said that I would buy a subscription to either Bitch or Bust. He backed off. They do every time.
I then picked up some oil, fed it to Vespy, and gave her a good cleaning. Then I zipped into the sunshine and scooted around town, honking at other scooters and enjoying the day. At night, Arrin came over so that we could walk to a party at Evan and Jaime's. He seemed unusually worried that the cats would pee on his jacket. This might be understandable if I had mentioned their incontinence, but they're really good at using their litter box. The party was fun, because lots of people were there (including another Ann T. [for the record, I'm Anne with an -e, like Anne Shirley]). Erin and I left around midnight. We took Vespy north on Clark, and boy howdy, did we get attention from the rowdy, happy bar stumblers. It's great to have girl friends. We are living the days that we'll recall as old ladies. My mom has a collection of pictures from the mid-sixties, when she was my age. I have always wanted that photographed lifestyle, complete with girlfriends and picnics and the sun filtering through leaves in Lincoln Park. Except, you know, updated for today's youth and their Spock Rock style.
Anyway, after dropping Erin off, I scooted up to Andersonville, which is one of my favorite places to visit. Sometimes I like to ride my bicycle along the lakefront, stop at the Foster Avenue Beach, and then stroll around the neighborhood. There's a shop called The Acorn (!) as well as a feminist bookstore called Women and Children First. Anyway, I wandered into Simon's around 1. Generally speaking, I don't like bars, but for some reason I like Simon's. It's the place where hipsters come to die, in a way. The crowd is made up of locals and late-twentysomethings who have outgrown the Rainbo. Simon's has Schlitz signs, pretty colored lights in the front window, and comfortable sofas in the back. The bar was crowded but not packed, and I bought my Cherry Coke and sat on the corner bench by the front window. I tried to look nonchalant while reading my museum brochures, but it's hard to not feel a little pathetic when you're sipping a non-alcoholic beverage at a bar on a Saturday night. I just didn't want to be alone that night, and even in isolation, it was better to be alone with others than alone with self. Evan and I have a long-standing argument over whether Simon's is my bar or his bar. He claims it as his, because he goes there more often than I do (which makes sense, as he drinks and I don't). But I say it's mine, because Todd treated me to a soda there first.
This week is a decent concert week: Sigur Ros plays the Vic on Thursday. Tickets are $20 and they're probably already sold out, but I'm tempted to check it out. It's only a few blocks from home, and post-rockin' shows are slightly amusing in their un-fun-ness. Then, on John's birthday, zee American Analog Set is playing. Lots of head-nodding to ensue. It's too bad that every show couldn't be a Ted Leo show. Everybody would dance.
On Saturday, in Wicker Park, Jaime gave me a slick laminate churchy flyer. It advertised a concert for "rapper CHRIST FA REAL," which made me think of Krysta (she's my girl, girl). Suddenly, rapper CHRIST FA REAL is making the rounds of the Michigan alumni hipster elite. Kevin witnessed crowds lining up to get a glimpse of CFR. I found some mp3s of "Demon Killa" and other CFR hot traxxx. Unfortunately, I'm not feelin' rapper CHRIST FA REAL. He sounds like a dubbed-out version of Jay-Z, with a children's choir in the background singing about killing demons. Fa real.
I was going through some old journal entries today, just reflecting on how much things have changed in personal, political, worldwide arenas over the past years (and recently, days). I've been doing this web site for just under five years now, and what was once an intensely personal endeavor has now become just another update-type site. It is too difficult to share anything of much depth anymore.
F'rinstance, did I mention that Evan and I stopped dating? That happened a long time ago. Last summer, we were tired of doing the long-distance lurve thing. But we weren't tired of each other, aside from little things that are almost endearing in their annoyance (his post-rock analysis, my constant drowsiness). So we decided that one of us could make a cross-country move, and we'd make a nest together. He thought of transferring to a law school in New York, but we agreed that it was simply too expensive (and I didn't want to be saddled with guilt if things between us were to sour). New York was shaving a part of me (and my finances) every day, and I missed my family. So, while still living in Brooklyn, I flew to Chicago a few times for job interviews. I snagged a job, subleased the Brooklyn apartment, and reserved a Ryder truck. My mother flew out to help me move, and two days before I was to arrive in Chicago, Evan said that he could not live with me. So with no Brooklyn apartment, with boxes everywhere, and with eight hundred miles ahead, I left New York anyway. And here I am now. Evan lives a few blocks away; we shop at the same grocery and record stores. I don't have any emotional analysis to put up here. I don't really want to think about it now, either. Time to purge the sturm und drang.
Erin and I went to Penny's Noodle Shop last night. We dined outside on plastic furniture, watching packs of Gapped-out men walk to the nearby bars. Mysterious Yellow Vespa Guy drove past us. I see him around town maybe once a week. I had seen his scooter at Scooterworks when I was shopping for a ride of my own. A pretty vehicle, but also overpriced for what it is. We went to a pub after eating, and a band of old Irish guys played their hearts out while we sipped our Guinness (Erin) and Cedona (moi). A girl turned twenty-one and Erin made a possible missed connection. It was good to not feel old that night.
I was going through some old journal entries today, just reflecting on how much things have changed in personal, political, worldwide arenas over the past years (and recently, days). I've been doing this web site for just under five years now, and what was once an intensely personal endeavor has now become just another update-type site. It is too difficult to share anything of much depth anymore.
F'rinstance, did I mention that Evan and I stopped dating? That happened a long time ago. Last summer, we were tired of doing the long-distance lurve thing. But we weren't tired of each other, aside from little things that are almost endearing in their annoyance (his post-rock analysis, my constant drowsiness). So we decided that one of us could make a cross-country move, and we'd make a nest together. He thought of transferring to a law school in New York, but we agreed that it was simply too expensive (and I didn't want to be saddled with guilt if things between us were to sour). New York was shaving a part of me (and my finances) every day, and I missed my family. So, while still living in Brooklyn, I flew to Chicago a few times for job interviews. I snagged a job, subleased the Brooklyn apartment, and reserved a Ryder truck. My mother flew out to help me move, and two days before I was to arrive in Chicago, Evan said that he could not live with me. So with no Brooklyn apartment, with boxes everywhere, and with eight hundred miles ahead, I left New York anyway. And here I am now. Evan lives a few blocks away; we shop at the same grocery and record stores. I don't have any emotional analysis to put up here. I don't really want to think about it now, either. Time to purge the sturm und drang.
Erin and I went to Penny's Noodle Shop last night. We dined outside on plastic furniture, watching packs of Gapped-out men walk to the nearby bars. Mysterious Yellow Vespa Guy drove past us. I see him around town maybe once a week. I had seen his scooter at Scooterworks when I was shopping for a ride of my own. A pretty vehicle, but also overpriced for what it is. We went to a pub after eating, and a band of old Irish guys played their hearts out while we sipped our Guinness (Erin) and Cedona (moi). A girl turned twenty-one and Erin made a possible missed connection. It was good to not feel old that night.
Labels: chicago
The other night, Ted Leo and the Pharmacists played a rock show at the Empty Bottle. Adam and I had gone to Reckless for an in-store performance earlier in the day, but in my personal opinion, you can't get too much of that sound. The newish record is on Lookout, so go pick it up today, today, today. I had gone to the show by myself, so for about 15 minutes, I stood and watched the A-Set alone. Some guy kept shifting closer to me with every little indie rocker head-bob. I don't know if this was done on purpose, or if he was unaware of his encroachment on my Coke-sippin' territory. Either way, I was very happy to later find a human torch and Mr. Party J esus because awkwardness loves company, especially the company of good Michigan people.
Is it abnormal to have only two pairs of jeans? An informal poll says yes. A salesguy at the Crap (ho ho, that's THE GAP) seemed shocked, absolutely shocked when I said that I had only two pairs. He steered me toward some low-riders and some hiphug gers and some bunhuggers too. I told him that none of those would fit, but he believed otherwise. Five minutes later, in the fitting room, I laughed loudly because there's no way those pants would look good on anybody over 15.
The thing is, my two pairs of jeans are not so cute. I have had the first pair for a year and I've washed them maybe four times. Every time I wash them, they shrink a little bit, but only in the posterior. Perhaps the ol' rump is seeing the effect of one too many croissants. The other pair of jeans-what was I thinking? They are all stretchy and would probably be fine if I were, oh, Jennifer Lopez, and I liked showing off my derriere. But I'm not, and I don't, and the only reason I bought those flashdance ass pants was that they were something like 80% off. Dummy dummy.
So I went to the Diesel store today and found a lovely pair of jeans-just the right balance of messiness and crisp lines, none of that flared-leg hippie nonsense-but they cost $125. Call me a big cheapo, but that is too much money to pay for a pair of pan ts that can be ruined by some schmutz on a bus seat. A prisoner of skirts, I remain.
Haven't fed squirrels in months. Must get back to that. Must get back to basics and rule over acornian subjects with the crown and scepter of the Squirrel Emperor.
Is it abnormal to have only two pairs of jeans? An informal poll says yes. A salesguy at the Crap (ho ho, that's THE GAP) seemed shocked, absolutely shocked when I said that I had only two pairs. He steered me toward some low-riders and some hiphug gers and some bunhuggers too. I told him that none of those would fit, but he believed otherwise. Five minutes later, in the fitting room, I laughed loudly because there's no way those pants would look good on anybody over 15.
The thing is, my two pairs of jeans are not so cute. I have had the first pair for a year and I've washed them maybe four times. Every time I wash them, they shrink a little bit, but only in the posterior. Perhaps the ol' rump is seeing the effect of one too many croissants. The other pair of jeans-what was I thinking? They are all stretchy and would probably be fine if I were, oh, Jennifer Lopez, and I liked showing off my derriere. But I'm not, and I don't, and the only reason I bought those flashdance ass pants was that they were something like 80% off. Dummy dummy.
So I went to the Diesel store today and found a lovely pair of jeans-just the right balance of messiness and crisp lines, none of that flared-leg hippie nonsense-but they cost $125. Call me a big cheapo, but that is too much money to pay for a pair of pan ts that can be ruined by some schmutz on a bus seat. A prisoner of skirts, I remain.
Haven't fed squirrels in months. Must get back to that. Must get back to basics and rule over acornian subjects with the crown and scepter of the Squirrel Emperor.
This morning I woke at eight, gobbled some raisin bran, and started walking. I trotted down Fullerton past Sheffield, then took the El to Armitage for no real reason -- it's not a far walk, but the air was fairly mild, so why not? (I almost stayed on the train for an elevated tour of Chicago, but past experience has taught me that halfway through the trip, I'll get antsy to return home.) Four Kraftwerk-lookin' indie rockers stood on the platform with me; they were thick-spectacled, pale, and thin. I felt instantly uncool for wearing my purple pajama top under my coat, even though they wouldn't see it. Indie rockers make me nervous.
When I was younger, I slipped into punk rock because I didn't (want to) fit in with mainstream culture. Now that I'm out of that scene, I still don't fit in with what I see, and so that makes me feel nicheless. If only bookish awkwardness would come into fashion. Then I'd be more popular than honey.
By the way, I have bypassed three big bargains in as many days. And I didn't buy a thing. Low-priced consumerism, I shall still triumph over thee!
Okay, so here's my clever Christmas present mentioned in passing below. My squirrely (but ultimately human) friend is getting thinner and thinner with each passing day. At this point, it might not be a bad idea to force-feed him lard-slicked Bugles in hopes of fattening him up. He says that he doesn't have time to eat, and that he'll make up for it later. When "later" is, your guess is as good as mine. So I went to the Jewel on Southport and bought three bags of groceries. Then I stayed in on Friday and cooked like crazy: pasta in sun-dried tomato pesto, rice and beans, spiced couscous, vegetable pie, and so on. Each dish got its own Glad Ware container, which promptly went into the freezer. See, the plan is that Squirrely Chum can reheat each dish and have a home-cooked meal in minutes (tm)! Unfortunately, after all this cooking --always after the fact do I remember these things-- I recalled that S.C. has a small refrigerator and an even smaller freezer. Ugh.
(Did you notice all my street name-dropping today? It's called LOCAL COLOR. ha ha ha.)
When I was younger, I slipped into punk rock because I didn't (want to) fit in with mainstream culture. Now that I'm out of that scene, I still don't fit in with what I see, and so that makes me feel nicheless. If only bookish awkwardness would come into fashion. Then I'd be more popular than honey.
By the way, I have bypassed three big bargains in as many days. And I didn't buy a thing. Low-priced consumerism, I shall still triumph over thee!
Okay, so here's my clever Christmas present mentioned in passing below. My squirrely (but ultimately human) friend is getting thinner and thinner with each passing day. At this point, it might not be a bad idea to force-feed him lard-slicked Bugles in hopes of fattening him up. He says that he doesn't have time to eat, and that he'll make up for it later. When "later" is, your guess is as good as mine. So I went to the Jewel on Southport and bought three bags of groceries. Then I stayed in on Friday and cooked like crazy: pasta in sun-dried tomato pesto, rice and beans, spiced couscous, vegetable pie, and so on. Each dish got its own Glad Ware container, which promptly went into the freezer. See, the plan is that Squirrely Chum can reheat each dish and have a home-cooked meal in minutes (tm)! Unfortunately, after all this cooking --always after the fact do I remember these things-- I recalled that S.C. has a small refrigerator and an even smaller freezer. Ugh.
(Did you notice all my street name-dropping today? It's called LOCAL COLOR. ha ha ha.)
Labels: chicago
