A few people, none of them licensed therapists, have deemed me a manic-depressive. "You waiver between sparkling optimism and leaden despair," they say. "This emotional split even shows up in your voice: squeaky one sentence and sotto voce the next." Okay, so they don't say it exactly like that, but two or three people have shared this unsolicited analysis.
I am beginning to think that maybe they are right. After the scooter was stolen, I tried to look on the bright side. Think positive. Sure, my mode of transportation and mod-tinged coolness was gone, but I vowed to keep my chin up. It's true, the motorless life had its charms. I did enjoy taking walks around the neighborhood and greeting cats in windows, even tolerating the occasional two-mile trek home from work. Riding bicycles around the Loop at two in the morning was a reminder of how a deserted city can seem so tangible, so easily yours. And of course, my body needed the exercise, so maybe there were pluses to losing Vespy.
Well, two weeks into this stint, the dark side has taken over. As I pedaled to work today, the bike's screeching brakes announcing my arrival at each intersection, I realized that I don't really like commuting on the velocipede. At all. My asthmatic little lungs gasp for air whenever I put some muscle into the pedaling, so I cruise at a low speed. Bending over to reach the handles has led to back problems and poor posture. The tires kick mud onto my clothes, so I can't wear my best outfits (and most certainly not my new favorite, "French Mod Intellectual Annie" -- red and white striped shirt, black miniskirt, black mid-calf boots, glasses, neckscarf). The exercise leads to sweating, which will inevitably lead to pimples. And worst of all, pedaling involves moving my thighs and derriere... which means it's open season for the arse-happy catcallers of the meatpacking district. Stupid bicycling!
I am beginning to think that maybe they are right. After the scooter was stolen, I tried to look on the bright side. Think positive. Sure, my mode of transportation and mod-tinged coolness was gone, but I vowed to keep my chin up. It's true, the motorless life had its charms. I did enjoy taking walks around the neighborhood and greeting cats in windows, even tolerating the occasional two-mile trek home from work. Riding bicycles around the Loop at two in the morning was a reminder of how a deserted city can seem so tangible, so easily yours. And of course, my body needed the exercise, so maybe there were pluses to losing Vespy.
Well, two weeks into this stint, the dark side has taken over. As I pedaled to work today, the bike's screeching brakes announcing my arrival at each intersection, I realized that I don't really like commuting on the velocipede. At all. My asthmatic little lungs gasp for air whenever I put some muscle into the pedaling, so I cruise at a low speed. Bending over to reach the handles has led to back problems and poor posture. The tires kick mud onto my clothes, so I can't wear my best outfits (and most certainly not my new favorite, "French Mod Intellectual Annie" -- red and white striped shirt, black miniskirt, black mid-calf boots, glasses, neckscarf). The exercise leads to sweating, which will inevitably lead to pimples. And worst of all, pedaling involves moving my thighs and derriere... which means it's open season for the arse-happy catcallers of the meatpacking district. Stupid bicycling!
I think it's safe to say that my armchair psychologist friends were on to something. But at the end of the day, despite best efforts, ol' doom and gloom reigns once more. Now, if you'll excuse me, the Huffy calls.
Labels: vespy
From the Shitty Week Files: After the four wisdom teeth were removed, the anaesthesia began to work its magic. "I am a model patient," I told the dental assistant. "Trouvez la voiture," I instructed my mother. Having teeth plucked out of your mouth is a surprisingly less painful experience than one would expect. It's the recovery that's a bitch: eating baby food, swishing salt water, feeling hungry, dazedly stumbling around the house...
Today was supposed to be a good day. I was heading back to work after sleeping for almost three days straight, and I was going to get a lot of work done on this Big Huge Scary Project that's due next week. I felt so good, in fact, that I woke up early. "Hoody hoo, I'm going to be on time for once!" I hummed. Making it down four flights of stairs took a while, mostly because I wasn't used to walking. But I'm a trooper, you know, and I made it. I stepped out of the building and took in the beautiful blue sky, the green trees, and the glaringly empty spot where my scooter should have been.
O Vespy, my Vespy! Where had she gone? I knew right away that some scoundrel had laid his eyes on my lovely little scooter and had nabbed her. I trudged back upstairs, grabbed the appropriate paperwork, and shuffled to the nearby police headquarters. I should also mention that I was still slightly loopy from the painkillers, and so I practically slumped onto the precinct floor. In a daze I helped the police officers fill out their report, my thoughts drifting toward snacks that weren't baby food. If these sentences make little sense, it is only because the time itself made little sense.
After I'd been at work for a couple of hours, I received a phone call from Chicago's finest. They'd found Vespy. I can't divulge many details, because I'll have my day in court and all, but here is what I do know: my scooter is totaled. The thief is young enough to order a Happy Meal without receiving an arched eyebrow at the golden arches. And even after insurance, I probably won't have enough money to buy a replacement scooter. So, to sum up: kid steals my scooter, I pay insurance deductible, I have no scooter, kid likely gets off with slap on hand. You can just call my life El Stinko Grande from now on.
Today was supposed to be a good day. I was heading back to work after sleeping for almost three days straight, and I was going to get a lot of work done on this Big Huge Scary Project that's due next week. I felt so good, in fact, that I woke up early. "Hoody hoo, I'm going to be on time for once!" I hummed. Making it down four flights of stairs took a while, mostly because I wasn't used to walking. But I'm a trooper, you know, and I made it. I stepped out of the building and took in the beautiful blue sky, the green trees, and the glaringly empty spot where my scooter should have been.
O Vespy, my Vespy! Where had she gone? I knew right away that some scoundrel had laid his eyes on my lovely little scooter and had nabbed her. I trudged back upstairs, grabbed the appropriate paperwork, and shuffled to the nearby police headquarters. I should also mention that I was still slightly loopy from the painkillers, and so I practically slumped onto the precinct floor. In a daze I helped the police officers fill out their report, my thoughts drifting toward snacks that weren't baby food. If these sentences make little sense, it is only because the time itself made little sense.
After I'd been at work for a couple of hours, I received a phone call from Chicago's finest. They'd found Vespy. I can't divulge many details, because I'll have my day in court and all, but here is what I do know: my scooter is totaled. The thief is young enough to order a Happy Meal without receiving an arched eyebrow at the golden arches. And even after insurance, I probably won't have enough money to buy a replacement scooter. So, to sum up: kid steals my scooter, I pay insurance deductible, I have no scooter, kid likely gets off with slap on hand. You can just call my life El Stinko Grande from now on.
Labels: vespy
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?
As if my choice of watching Buffy instead of partaking in my regular Tuesday Museum Night wasn't proof enough, here's more evidence that I am becoming dumber every day. As Kevin gently pointed out, 'orange' has two syllables. Not one. Two. I guess I knew this in my mind yesterday when I wrote the below babble, and what I meant didn't come out correctly. See, I was thinking that one-word establishments tend to sound good. I thought of other well-named establishments: Bird, Grace, Bliss, Find... and they all happened to be monosyllabic. Orange is not, but it's a short word. So you can see how easily I got mixed up.
It was very windy driving to work today. At Fullerton and Halsted, I started imagining that a gust would lift Vespy off the ground, lifting me and the scooter into the air. Think E.T. with hoverbikes, except with a scooter, and without a candy-jonesing alien. But at Halsted and Belden, my flying Vespa dreams disappeared. Yellow "Police Line Do Not Cross" tape surrounded an apartment building on the southwest corner. An orange (there it is again!) Wolley cab was parked at the northeast corner. This wouldn't have been overly strange, but the cab was blackened by some sort of explosion. The hood was completely gone, the windshield blown out, the front half of the car charred black. The plastic on the steering wheel had melted, leaving only a metal skeleton. Peculiar. Did anybody else see this? What do you think it was? Do tell.
It was very windy driving to work today. At Fullerton and Halsted, I started imagining that a gust would lift Vespy off the ground, lifting me and the scooter into the air. Think E.T. with hoverbikes, except with a scooter, and without a candy-jonesing alien. But at Halsted and Belden, my flying Vespa dreams disappeared. Yellow "Police Line Do Not Cross" tape surrounded an apartment building on the southwest corner. An orange (there it is again!) Wolley cab was parked at the northeast corner. This wouldn't have been overly strange, but the cab was blackened by some sort of explosion. The hood was completely gone, the windshield blown out, the front half of the car charred black. The plastic on the steering wheel had melted, leaving only a metal skeleton. Peculiar. Did anybody else see this? What do you think it was? Do tell.
Labels: vespy
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.
I am sitting in my sun room, finally using it for something other than growing plants and airing out old magazines. A few weeks ago, I bought an old school desk for $3 (an old… school desk, not an 'old school' desk, although technically both are probably the same). It's storming outside, and the drip-drip-plop-plop calms me.
It's amazing how easily old things make me happy. This soul was meant for a different era. My furniture is half assemble-it-yo'self garbage that serves its purpose, but it isn't what I'd like in my nest. The rest is mostly midcentury: a Heywood Wakefield side table, a dull maroon vinyl sofa, a blue Eames swivel chair ($5!), a "cities of the world" folding table, the aforementioned desk. Materialism aside, these pieces are comforting; they erase evidence of our hurried, cheapened, polluted culture.
Speaking of comfort, I bought a scooter about a month ago. It was the most financially imprudent-and most fun-decision I've made in years, maybe ever. After dilly-dallying over what kind to buy (new or vintage? how many CCs? what color?) I chose a new Ves pa. Her name is Vespy, and she's a smooth shade of ivory with a blue seat. The helmet is red, the ride is smooth, and it never fails to make me happy. If you value fun (but not money) and you can handle the mods looking down on your scoot, go buy one. Sim ple joy, and no more bus creepies for a while.
Tonight after work, it was too late to drive down Halsted past Cabrini, so I drove into the Loop and then up LaSalle. (Yes, I know I am a big wuss, but if your wallet had been ganked at 1200N/800W, you wouldn't want to head that way if you didn't h ave to.) Anyway:
The present thunderstorm was beginning to stir, mostly just grumbling and flashing the sky with lightning. It was magnificent to watch it slash the darkness, silhouetting buildings and reminding everyone that we're weak compared to the weather.
I met someone the other night who is perhaps the most beautiful creature I've seen since moving here. Stunningly, simply, subconsciously attractive yet seemingly unaware of genetic giftedness. Despite all that, I didn't lapse into Weirdo Mode. Usually, be autiful people make me uberconscious of my overbite and Noriegan facial tendencies, but this time I actually felt perfectly settled. Chalk one up for self-esteem, chalk one up for A. Grodecki.
Confidential from KW to everybody's favorite Newsweek journalist/K biographer: It can't, won't always be comme ca. Necessary roughness and all that mess. You're that Kenny Rogers song, if you know what I'm saying. AND I THINK YOU DO.
It's amazing how easily old things make me happy. This soul was meant for a different era. My furniture is half assemble-it-yo'self garbage that serves its purpose, but it isn't what I'd like in my nest. The rest is mostly midcentury: a Heywood Wakefield side table, a dull maroon vinyl sofa, a blue Eames swivel chair ($5!), a "cities of the world" folding table, the aforementioned desk. Materialism aside, these pieces are comforting; they erase evidence of our hurried, cheapened, polluted culture.
Speaking of comfort, I bought a scooter about a month ago. It was the most financially imprudent-and most fun-decision I've made in years, maybe ever. After dilly-dallying over what kind to buy (new or vintage? how many CCs? what color?) I chose a new Ves pa. Her name is Vespy, and she's a smooth shade of ivory with a blue seat. The helmet is red, the ride is smooth, and it never fails to make me happy. If you value fun (but not money) and you can handle the mods looking down on your scoot, go buy one. Sim ple joy, and no more bus creepies for a while.
Tonight after work, it was too late to drive down Halsted past Cabrini, so I drove into the Loop and then up LaSalle. (Yes, I know I am a big wuss, but if your wallet had been ganked at 1200N/800W, you wouldn't want to head that way if you didn't h ave to.) Anyway:
The present thunderstorm was beginning to stir, mostly just grumbling and flashing the sky with lightning. It was magnificent to watch it slash the darkness, silhouetting buildings and reminding everyone that we're weak compared to the weather.
I met someone the other night who is perhaps the most beautiful creature I've seen since moving here. Stunningly, simply, subconsciously attractive yet seemingly unaware of genetic giftedness. Despite all that, I didn't lapse into Weirdo Mode. Usually, be autiful people make me uberconscious of my overbite and Noriegan facial tendencies, but this time I actually felt perfectly settled. Chalk one up for self-esteem, chalk one up for A. Grodecki.
Confidential from KW to everybody's favorite Newsweek journalist/K biographer: It can't, won't always be comme ca. Necessary roughness and all that mess. You're that Kenny Rogers song, if you know what I'm saying. AND I THINK YOU DO.
Labels: vespy
Lately I have been trying to live more, write here less--all in the hopes of experience. I find that the less time I spend online, the more I'm able to meet oddball characters, learn how to make things with me' own two hands, that sort of thing. And I am writing, not yet on paper, but in my head, which is an important first step. This step can drag on too long, and if I don't fix my computer soon, it will stop being a step and start being a dead end.
One of the many problems about modern technology is that it has allowed writers and artists to become slightly lazy, or at least picky. My father was a commercial artist, which is what graphic designers were called before computers came around. He can still design an ad with Letraset and rulers and graph paper; today, most designers would be in trouble without computers. Writers began writing with their hands, then with typewriters, and now with computers. Unfortunately, I have conditioned myself to write best when in bed with a laptop. And my rusty old laptop, in a seeming fit of prudence, insists on running only in Safe Mode. The iBook sounds better each day...
I decided to buy a Vespa scooter, and I had done all the research about it, and was ready to buy a scooter on three different occasions. But then I realized that I didn't know how to ride a scooter, and if you don't know how to do that, the fine state of Illinois won't give you a motorcycle license. So although I desperately want the baby blue Primavera 125, I must wait until next summer. But then, watch out.
The funny thing is, I fully expect a Vespa to solve all the problems in my life. Obviously, the scooter really would liberate me from the horrible CTA. And the cost of maintenance is relatively low. Yet I am placing unrealistic expectations on the little Vespa. In my little mind, Vespy (that is what the scooter would be named) will make everything a-ok. Vespy will make me the most popular lady in the city. Vespy will straighten my teeth. Vespy will lift my spirits, clean the house, and kickstart my heart. Vive Vespy!
A side note: Dissatisfied with my current job, I have decided to become a professional Croissant Quality Assurance Tester in Paris.
One of the many problems about modern technology is that it has allowed writers and artists to become slightly lazy, or at least picky. My father was a commercial artist, which is what graphic designers were called before computers came around. He can still design an ad with Letraset and rulers and graph paper; today, most designers would be in trouble without computers. Writers began writing with their hands, then with typewriters, and now with computers. Unfortunately, I have conditioned myself to write best when in bed with a laptop. And my rusty old laptop, in a seeming fit of prudence, insists on running only in Safe Mode. The iBook sounds better each day...
I decided to buy a Vespa scooter, and I had done all the research about it, and was ready to buy a scooter on three different occasions. But then I realized that I didn't know how to ride a scooter, and if you don't know how to do that, the fine state of Illinois won't give you a motorcycle license. So although I desperately want the baby blue Primavera 125, I must wait until next summer. But then, watch out.
The funny thing is, I fully expect a Vespa to solve all the problems in my life. Obviously, the scooter really would liberate me from the horrible CTA. And the cost of maintenance is relatively low. Yet I am placing unrealistic expectations on the little Vespa. In my little mind, Vespy (that is what the scooter would be named) will make everything a-ok. Vespy will make me the most popular lady in the city. Vespy will straighten my teeth. Vespy will lift my spirits, clean the house, and kickstart my heart. Vive Vespy!
A side note: Dissatisfied with my current job, I have decided to become a professional Croissant Quality Assurance Tester in Paris.
Labels: vespy
