Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Monday, August 11, 2008
Evidence of the Power of the Human Mind
Billions of years of evolution so I could lie in bed this morning and think:
I wonder if George Clooney is worried about aging? Do you think he's a happy person, overall, or has his fame brought a weight of expectation and anxiety that he can never live up to?
Hm, he's a man, though. A white man. Life can't be that hard for him.
I wonder if George Clooney is worried about aging? Do you think he's a happy person, overall, or has his fame brought a weight of expectation and anxiety that he can never live up to?
Hm, he's a man, though. A white man. Life can't be that hard for him.
Thursday, August 07, 2008
Extended Coterie Exhausts Banks With Their Loudmouth Antics -- Film at 11
Banks was dying for a lull. What can I say? We're not the lulling type.
The web of banter was so thick that I began calling out the relatively infrequent lulls wherever I was happy to find them. “Lull!” I would say. “That’s definitely a lull.”
Monday, August 04, 2008
Hey guys, I'm back from the dark side. Missed ya!
So, not dead! Which is great.
Did have a crushing low there, post vacation.
As it turns out, I am someone who definitely benefits from the meds that have stabilized me for the last five years. There are mixed blessings, to be sure, as the Effexor (or, as I now know it is charmingly nicknamed, Side Effexor, hardy har) had some horrendous side effects. It is good to be free of it and of them.
But the subsequent gaping abyss that opened in my mind in its absence was not a welcome visitor.
There's lots of talk about various forms of depression and their presence and subsequent impact on our culture. There's lots of skepticism aimed at the pharmaceutical industry and the way it markets and profits from this endemic disease. There's the pedantic lecturing that goes on to friends and family of the afflicted -- a shaking of the finger and a reminder that they are not going to be able to "just snap out of it" on their own.
All of this confuses the issue and takes into the public realm of debate something which is, in its most basic form, a deeply personal experience. Andrew Solomon, in his book on the subject, says that depression "can be described only in metaphor and allegory." And I could talk to you about being trapped in a lightless pit, about the iron vice on my head, about the small hands clutching and pulling me into the murk. I could even recount the moments standing by the tub with the hairdryer in my hand and having fleeting thoughts about just how simple it all could be. . . but it would be not only pointless, but, at this point, cliche.
So I will say a few things, express some gratitude, bullet style:
- having gone through this personal hell in the past, I was able to recognize it for what it was this time.
- I have great friends and family upon whom I was able to lean.
- there are some great drugs out there, hallelujah.
In conclusion, I am feeling much better. And, soon, I will be able to write more of the frivolous bullshit for which you come.
Like how I'm in Chicago right now. And how I went to see Radiohead and some kids handed me a joint and there were massive fireworks above Soldier Field and the night was warm and we were surrounded by the skyline and it was a gorgeous moment.
And I remembered that life, my friends, is very, very good.
Did have a crushing low there, post vacation.
As it turns out, I am someone who definitely benefits from the meds that have stabilized me for the last five years. There are mixed blessings, to be sure, as the Effexor (or, as I now know it is charmingly nicknamed, Side Effexor, hardy har) had some horrendous side effects. It is good to be free of it and of them.
But the subsequent gaping abyss that opened in my mind in its absence was not a welcome visitor.
There's lots of talk about various forms of depression and their presence and subsequent impact on our culture. There's lots of skepticism aimed at the pharmaceutical industry and the way it markets and profits from this endemic disease. There's the pedantic lecturing that goes on to friends and family of the afflicted -- a shaking of the finger and a reminder that they are not going to be able to "just snap out of it" on their own.
All of this confuses the issue and takes into the public realm of debate something which is, in its most basic form, a deeply personal experience. Andrew Solomon, in his book on the subject, says that depression "can be described only in metaphor and allegory." And I could talk to you about being trapped in a lightless pit, about the iron vice on my head, about the small hands clutching and pulling me into the murk. I could even recount the moments standing by the tub with the hairdryer in my hand and having fleeting thoughts about just how simple it all could be. . . but it would be not only pointless, but, at this point, cliche.
So I will say a few things, express some gratitude, bullet style:
- having gone through this personal hell in the past, I was able to recognize it for what it was this time.
- I have great friends and family upon whom I was able to lean.
- there are some great drugs out there, hallelujah.
In conclusion, I am feeling much better. And, soon, I will be able to write more of the frivolous bullshit for which you come.
Like how I'm in Chicago right now. And how I went to see Radiohead and some kids handed me a joint and there were massive fireworks above Soldier Field and the night was warm and we were surrounded by the skyline and it was a gorgeous moment.
And I remembered that life, my friends, is very, very good.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Aw Shit, Luc, Yer Right
I forgot to blog about the important videos Swissair has running right now:
Waiting Room - Watch a funny movie here
GAGS! JUST FOR LAUGHS!
They play these videos with no sound throughout the flight -- mostly people ignore them and harass the nice stewardesses for more liquor. This one actually had the whole plane cracking up.
Anyway, yes, I have much more to write, I just got all caught up in life there for a minute.
Goal for the week: More Russia!
Waiting Room - Watch a funny movie here
GAGS! JUST FOR LAUGHS!
They play these videos with no sound throughout the flight -- mostly people ignore them and harass the nice stewardesses for more liquor. This one actually had the whole plane cracking up.
Anyway, yes, I have much more to write, I just got all caught up in life there for a minute.
Goal for the week: More Russia!
Friday, June 13, 2008
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Observations: Installment 2
Russian Red
When Jennifer picked us up at the airport, we told her about my Communist Red highlights.
She said, "You'll fit in great, here! Lots of women have that color hair!" Turns out, I have Russian Red highlights -- only these women in russia? They have redded the whole head:
For your reference -- communist red.
Examples of the form:
Preferred Mode of Transportation
We took a bus into the city center -- through row after row of sprawling, square high-rises in various states of disrepair. The broken windows, patched-up balconies, and soot-stained cinder block construction reminded me of the projects on the southside of Chicago -- where people are crowded in abject poverty.
Jennifer told us that this is actually where much of the population lives -- not just the poor, but everyone -- in these soviet-era housing blocs, cramped into small apartments.
Apparently, also -- the government is in the midst of planning to tear them down and rebuild. Not just in St. Petersburg, but across the country. This is a project of mind-boggling proportions. I didn't take pictures of them, because, somehow, I was bashful of doing this, obviously documenting the scarred landscape.
We pass police standing by the side of the road in blue fatigues toting machine guns, for no apparent reason.
As we enter the city center, the architecture turns to massive, imposing rows of imperial-looking stone facades. We disembark at a square with a statue of Lenin -- Jen insists we have our picture taken by a surly passerby, as this is one of the few statues left of Lenin in St. Petersburg.
At this point, Jen announces that we'll get a cab.
Here she is hailing said "cab."
You'll note that she's not doing that thing that most of us do, which is to scan the horizon for a yellow car with a lit sign atop.
That's because, in St. Petersburg, when you get a cab, you get a gypsy cab. That is, some dude driving his car around and ferrying people about for money without any sort of official sanction. Or meter, or really indication on the outside of his car that yes, he's a Taxi and yo, he's free!
Eventually, someone pulls over and Jennifer negotiates a rate for us and our luggage.
In our time there, we take several gypsy cabs, sober, drunk, day, night -- it's a blind practice but never futile -- someone always picks us up.
Every once and awhile you see an official-looking car with a proper light atop speeding through the streets in typical manic Russian fashion, but apparently these vehicles are wildly overpriced and relegated to tourists and business travelers.
Next Up: Toasts! Signage! White nights! Rock and Roll!
When Jennifer picked us up at the airport, we told her about my Communist Red highlights.
She said, "You'll fit in great, here! Lots of women have that color hair!" Turns out, I have Russian Red highlights -- only these women in russia? They have redded the whole head:
For your reference -- communist red.
Examples of the form:
Preferred Mode of Transportation
We took a bus into the city center -- through row after row of sprawling, square high-rises in various states of disrepair. The broken windows, patched-up balconies, and soot-stained cinder block construction reminded me of the projects on the southside of Chicago -- where people are crowded in abject poverty.
Jennifer told us that this is actually where much of the population lives -- not just the poor, but everyone -- in these soviet-era housing blocs, cramped into small apartments.
Apparently, also -- the government is in the midst of planning to tear them down and rebuild. Not just in St. Petersburg, but across the country. This is a project of mind-boggling proportions. I didn't take pictures of them, because, somehow, I was bashful of doing this, obviously documenting the scarred landscape.
We pass police standing by the side of the road in blue fatigues toting machine guns, for no apparent reason.
As we enter the city center, the architecture turns to massive, imposing rows of imperial-looking stone facades. We disembark at a square with a statue of Lenin -- Jen insists we have our picture taken by a surly passerby, as this is one of the few statues left of Lenin in St. Petersburg.
At this point, Jen announces that we'll get a cab.
Here she is hailing said "cab."
You'll note that she's not doing that thing that most of us do, which is to scan the horizon for a yellow car with a lit sign atop.
That's because, in St. Petersburg, when you get a cab, you get a gypsy cab. That is, some dude driving his car around and ferrying people about for money without any sort of official sanction. Or meter, or really indication on the outside of his car that yes, he's a Taxi and yo, he's free!
Eventually, someone pulls over and Jennifer negotiates a rate for us and our luggage.
In our time there, we take several gypsy cabs, sober, drunk, day, night -- it's a blind practice but never futile -- someone always picks us up.
Every once and awhile you see an official-looking car with a proper light atop speeding through the streets in typical manic Russian fashion, but apparently these vehicles are wildly overpriced and relegated to tourists and business travelers.
Next Up: Toasts! Signage! White nights! Rock and Roll!
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Piter: Some observations. Installment one.
St. Pete Inhales.
The first thing we notice upon entering St. Petersburg -- disembarking the plane, walking into the slate-gray soviet-era Pulova International Airport -- is the smell of cigarette smoke.
The Russians are serious about their smoking. They would not let a little thing like a customs line stand in their way. In fact, in our week in Russia, there are only three places where smoking is banned -- in St. Issac's Cathedral, inside the Church on the Spilled Blood, and in the Metro.
The cigarette smoke in Russia is a serious affair. It's not just that it's everywhere. It's the quality of the smoke -- darker, somehow. More insistent, pungent, wafting in heavy curls, hanging in the air in dense walls of fumes. You can feel the smoke penetrating your pores, digging in, clinging to he fibers of your clothing, winding into your hair, seeping into your lungs.
I don't want to say that Russian cigarettes are noxious -- I'm afraid it might be insulting to the culture of which they are an inseparable part. But I've smoked these formidable sticks in my time and it's not completely unlike what I imagine it would be to smoke fiberglass. Or Asbestos, maybe.
When one isn't smelling cigarettes, you can savor the smell of diesel.
Stiletto. Pumps. In. The Club.
Jennifer says, "It's pretty much a requirement that the women here take care of themselves."
Tall, thin, they stride through the city on towering heels. Mothers on the playground, women in suits and skirts, everywhere -- Stiletto Pumps.
They are all dressed purposefully, their hair blonde by nurture, their legs clad in nylon and faces perfectly made up -- if unsmiling.
Unsmiling as a Rule
There's something missing, I think, when I'm first trolling the streets, bars cafes -- it's laughter.
There's not superfluous laughter here -- in this way Jen and I stand out like sore thumbs -- laughing boisterously and cacophonously at absurdities everywhere -- gigantic dogs sitting on benches like people, outrageously mistranslated menus (Tree Scooops of ice cream).
Families pose for pictures in front of landmarks with their faces grim and serious.
At the same time, there is a huge sense of living in the moment -- you've got some money, go out and have a fabulous party! Live for today! That is both in contrast and perfectly fitting with a typically cynical worldview.
Next up: Signage. Drinkage. Transportation.
And other fun things!
The first thing we notice upon entering St. Petersburg -- disembarking the plane, walking into the slate-gray soviet-era Pulova International Airport -- is the smell of cigarette smoke.
The Russians are serious about their smoking. They would not let a little thing like a customs line stand in their way. In fact, in our week in Russia, there are only three places where smoking is banned -- in St. Issac's Cathedral, inside the Church on the Spilled Blood, and in the Metro.
The cigarette smoke in Russia is a serious affair. It's not just that it's everywhere. It's the quality of the smoke -- darker, somehow. More insistent, pungent, wafting in heavy curls, hanging in the air in dense walls of fumes. You can feel the smoke penetrating your pores, digging in, clinging to he fibers of your clothing, winding into your hair, seeping into your lungs.
I don't want to say that Russian cigarettes are noxious -- I'm afraid it might be insulting to the culture of which they are an inseparable part. But I've smoked these formidable sticks in my time and it's not completely unlike what I imagine it would be to smoke fiberglass. Or Asbestos, maybe.
When one isn't smelling cigarettes, you can savor the smell of diesel.
Stiletto. Pumps. In. The Club.
Jennifer says, "It's pretty much a requirement that the women here take care of themselves."
Tall, thin, they stride through the city on towering heels. Mothers on the playground, women in suits and skirts, everywhere -- Stiletto Pumps.
They are all dressed purposefully, their hair blonde by nurture, their legs clad in nylon and faces perfectly made up -- if unsmiling.
Unsmiling as a Rule
There's something missing, I think, when I'm first trolling the streets, bars cafes -- it's laughter.
There's not superfluous laughter here -- in this way Jen and I stand out like sore thumbs -- laughing boisterously and cacophonously at absurdities everywhere -- gigantic dogs sitting on benches like people, outrageously mistranslated menus (Tree Scooops of ice cream).
Families pose for pictures in front of landmarks with their faces grim and serious.
At the same time, there is a huge sense of living in the moment -- you've got some money, go out and have a fabulous party! Live for today! That is both in contrast and perfectly fitting with a typically cynical worldview.
Next up: Signage. Drinkage. Transportation.
And other fun things!
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
This Next Song Is Called "I Want To Fuck All The Girls In The World (in the name of rock and roll)"
So, I have lots and lots to write about St. Petersburg - and many photos to post. Unfortunately, one of the important photos I neglected to take was of a fantastic sign on Nevesky Prospekt for a shoe store called "Handbags for Feet."
This is quite possibly the best store name ever. Throughout our visit "Handbags for XXX" was a favorite refrain -- those pants are handbags for legs! This food is handbags for my mouth!
Wait, that is a tangent.
I am not here really to tell you about all my adventures.
I am here to tell you about a band we saw called Sweat. As in "WE ARE SWEAT! AND WE ARE HERE TO MAKE YOU SWEAT! CAN YOU FEEL THE SWEATING?" (Shout that in a Russian accent -- and you have the beginnings of a fabulous time, I promise you.)
This band played with one of our faves, JD and the Blenders, starring our friend JD.
There will be plenty of time, too, for me to write about that important experience.
But Anne and I are in France, now, stuffing ourselves with cheese and bread, fresh air, stunning mountains, and rest. And we've yet to wash the Sweat off our bodies -- this band rocked out in a stunning way that was the perfect mix of pitch-perfect American rock and roll and a touch of inrony. And we miss them.
Dear Sweat -- come play San Francisco!
This is quite possibly the best store name ever. Throughout our visit "Handbags for XXX" was a favorite refrain -- those pants are handbags for legs! This food is handbags for my mouth!
Wait, that is a tangent.
I am not here really to tell you about all my adventures.
I am here to tell you about a band we saw called Sweat. As in "WE ARE SWEAT! AND WE ARE HERE TO MAKE YOU SWEAT! CAN YOU FEEL THE SWEATING?" (Shout that in a Russian accent -- and you have the beginnings of a fabulous time, I promise you.)
This band played with one of our faves, JD and the Blenders, starring our friend JD.
There will be plenty of time, too, for me to write about that important experience.
But Anne and I are in France, now, stuffing ourselves with cheese and bread, fresh air, stunning mountains, and rest. And we've yet to wash the Sweat off our bodies -- this band rocked out in a stunning way that was the perfect mix of pitch-perfect American rock and roll and a touch of inrony. And we miss them.
Dear Sweat -- come play San Francisco!
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Brief Recap, in Quote Form
Anne, at the Hermitage: That's the thing about splendor. It just requires so much UPKEEP.
Me: Who are all the screaming drunks in green hats?
Tamara: The police.
Anne: I want to take your picture!
Hana: Oh, excellent, because this is the first time I've matched my eye makeup to my handbag, and I want it captured.
Later, Anne stages a photoshoot with Hana and I in the men's bathroom in a bar called Fidel. Fidel is next door to the bar called Datcha, which is celebrating its fourth anniversary. We stand outside drinking beers we don't ever remember ordering or paying for -- they just appeared.
We talk to Welsh, Finnish, British, American, Russian people who are all living interesting lives -- journalists, musicians, translators -- Jennifer seems to know everyone.
Fans -- there are fans who come and speak to her in the street -- and they all know she is leaving soon. They press email addresses on slips of paper into her palms.
Drunk, in the gypsy cab (preferred method of transportation in St. Petersburgh), Jennifer laments: How will people in Syracuse know how important I am?
We think they'll know. Darlings, the woman has a famousness about her.
Me: Who are all the screaming drunks in green hats?
Tamara: The police.
Anne: I want to take your picture!
Hana: Oh, excellent, because this is the first time I've matched my eye makeup to my handbag, and I want it captured.
Later, Anne stages a photoshoot with Hana and I in the men's bathroom in a bar called Fidel. Fidel is next door to the bar called Datcha, which is celebrating its fourth anniversary. We stand outside drinking beers we don't ever remember ordering or paying for -- they just appeared.
We talk to Welsh, Finnish, British, American, Russian people who are all living interesting lives -- journalists, musicians, translators -- Jennifer seems to know everyone.
Fans -- there are fans who come and speak to her in the street -- and they all know she is leaving soon. They press email addresses on slips of paper into her palms.
Drunk, in the gypsy cab (preferred method of transportation in St. Petersburgh), Jennifer laments: How will people in Syracuse know how important I am?
We think they'll know. Darlings, the woman has a famousness about her.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Quotes from the last few days
Me: So, what day is it?
Anne: Sunday.
Me: So tomorrow's Saturday, right?
Anne: Um. . . no.
***
Joanna: You americans do cookies and brownies well, but biscuits terribly.
Me: What defines a biscuit, exactly?
Joanna: Well, it's made of biscuit!
***
Misha: Our cat is the father of 8!
***
Anne, in the Vienna airport, after examining the perplexing rock vending machine (one euro per rock!): I bet you wish you were blogging right now.
I blame her for talking me out of bringing my laptop.
But we are in Russia! I can see onion domes out the window. I have already had my chilled vodka shot with a pickle chaser -- and there's another one being poured now. We are listening to a Russian girl folk rock band.
Jennifer will be playing her last Ska Jazz Review show on Friday -- she is moving to Syracuse for grad school -- and it should be a blowout. And we will be there.
Life is amazing and rich. Dosvedanya, Bitches.
Anne: Sunday.
Me: So tomorrow's Saturday, right?
Anne: Um. . . no.
***
Joanna: You americans do cookies and brownies well, but biscuits terribly.
Me: What defines a biscuit, exactly?
Joanna: Well, it's made of biscuit!
***
Misha: Our cat is the father of 8!
***
Anne, in the Vienna airport, after examining the perplexing rock vending machine (one euro per rock!): I bet you wish you were blogging right now.
I blame her for talking me out of bringing my laptop.
But we are in Russia! I can see onion domes out the window. I have already had my chilled vodka shot with a pickle chaser -- and there's another one being poured now. We are listening to a Russian girl folk rock band.
Jennifer will be playing her last Ska Jazz Review show on Friday -- she is moving to Syracuse for grad school -- and it should be a blowout. And we will be there.
Life is amazing and rich. Dosvedanya, Bitches.
Friday, May 23, 2008
This moment may be the best one
I'm going on vacation -- I'm leaving tomorrow -- London, St. Petersburg, Geneva, Amsterdam -- and right this second I'm beyond happy because I am no longer on call -- I don't have to think about work for 2 and a half weeks. Oh, bliss.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Communist Red
So, I have this kind of adorable, bleach-blonde, kewpie doll quirkfest of a hairdresser named Ally. Perpetually sweet, tattooed, clad in DIY punk ("this t-shirt is an homage to Andy Warhol. I drew the scars myself. I have one at home where I made eyelets out of cigarette burns."), she is charming and probably dangerous for me.
Today she was not herself -- turns out she broke up with her boyfriend, of whom she has tattoos -- serious stuff.
So, I guess I was feeling like I wanted to please her -- cheer her a bit -- and, well, cheer me, and I guess, be punk rock for my post-soviet adventure -- but when she said, "You're going to Russia? We've got to give you Communist Red Highlights!" I agreed.
Hoooo boy, I'm punk rock.
Today she was not herself -- turns out she broke up with her boyfriend, of whom she has tattoos -- serious stuff.
So, I guess I was feeling like I wanted to please her -- cheer her a bit -- and, well, cheer me, and I guess, be punk rock for my post-soviet adventure -- but when she said, "You're going to Russia? We've got to give you Communist Red Highlights!" I agreed.
Hoooo boy, I'm punk rock.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
While trip planning
Me: i'm excited
I haven't been to london since 95
Anne: aw
yeah, I hardly know it at all
me: i hardly remembs
that's um
13 (choke) years ago?
really?
am I making that up???
WTF
god
to be twenty
Anne: your math is horrible. it's only been a few years
like 4 maybe
me: like two
Anne: I was talking today about 18 year olds... being born in 1990. omg. And I'm OK with the fact that they are 18 and I'm not, but being born in 1990???? NOT OK
me: TOTALLY NOT OK
Anne: at all
I was pubescent it 1990
and you were born???
I could be your mother
and you're 18!!!
me: I babysat you
you were a baby
and now you're in college
Anne: fuck
me: drunk
I haven't been to london since 95
Anne: aw
yeah, I hardly know it at all
me: i hardly remembs
that's um
13 (choke) years ago?
really?
am I making that up???
WTF
god
to be twenty
Anne: your math is horrible. it's only been a few years
like 4 maybe
me: like two
Anne: I was talking today about 18 year olds... being born in 1990. omg. And I'm OK with the fact that they are 18 and I'm not, but being born in 1990???? NOT OK
me: TOTALLY NOT OK
Anne: at all
I was pubescent it 1990
and you were born???
I could be your mother
and you're 18!!!
me: I babysat you
you were a baby
and now you're in college
Anne: fuck
me: drunk
Friday, May 16, 2008
Friday, May 09, 2008
That Story
Okay, so this is a contender for that story. I don't think anyone has actually told that story yet, but somehow I feel like the whole thing has escalated to point where no tall tale will ever, in our minds, fit the bill. So just a suggestion, not a proud, flourishing entry.
Exhibit A: Johnny (AKA, Jonathan, Johnny T., JT Santos)
Johnny T is one of those friends who is not just your friend, but a fixture in your life. JT and I go back, oh, nigh upon eleven years or so. A good third of our lives have been spent as cohorts. A good number of bartenders in the city of Chicago still give me free drinks when I walk in because I'm Johnny's sister. (Or at least that is what we spent many years claiming.)
Johnny is a Character. He and I mesh at a cosmic level -- in the places where we are broken, the places where we are both utterly normal and absolutely outcast.
JT will perhaps not be pleased to see the following in print, but he won't deny it: boy is a ladies' man, gains pleasure from stoking the fires of sexual desire, has always been one to compulsively ensure that everyone in the room wants to sleep with him. This is also where we mesh well: I have no desire to sleep with him. Our friendship has benefited from this, much like how my relationship with my dad benefitted from financial independence -- we have to find other common ground and build our relationship from there.
There's plenty of ground. Fandom of various bands, sick sense of humor, and, in our early late twenties, we had similar self-destructive interests.
Right. But which story is this?
We've got plenty of "that time we" stories -- we enjoy telling them to each other over beers, boring our friends and family while we indulge one another. This one I like because it involves The Media.
Or rather, Paper! The printed kind. Old school. (My "story" stories seem to have this in common.) The Chicago Reader. Johnny was a roamer, a train-taker, a walker; one of those guys on the train at noon in tight jeans, a tattered blazer with a popped collar, a satchel with a notebook and a book of Raymond Carver stories, and giant headphones clamped to his head. He regularly consumed the Reader in coffee shops.
The first part he always read, before the 5,000 word articles on local politics or the indepth guide to local shows, before Savage Love or the ironic indy cartoons -- he always read Missed Connections first.
Because he was pretty sure that, inevitably, one of these days, all this roaming and looking deep in the presence of all these hipster slips of girls with their thrift store dresses and funky haircuts would pay off. He just knew, at some point, he would find himself in there.
He would mentally catalog, in fact, the moments: That girl in the green cardigan and the headband on the Blue Line may have caught his eye as she looked up from her copy of Atlas Shrugged. Was that girl in the ironic tshirt and painted on jeans at the bar tipping her glass to him?
Enter Antagonism
So, right, closest friends do share these things -- confide in the quiet drunk hours of a late late night. As he did me, explain this compulsion and faith that He Would Be Noticed.
I suppose, in retrospect, we were Jock Friends at this time, because my plan was pretty much hatched immediately.
Jocks
It was 2002, I think, and the Indiana University Hoosier basketball team was In The Playoffs -- which is, pretty much, the only time we would have cared -- but we wanted to take in a game among shouting fans in a beer-soaked sports bar. Cheering! Fandom!
We picked a bar that would be jock-ish, but not so crowded that we would have to stake out a table early in the day in order to sit. We just weren't that dedicated.
Jonathan immediately began to flirt with the waitress, a curly-headed blonde with a no-bullshit attitude who pretty much blew him off completely, aside from the obligatory delivery of the tall boy and mini pizza.
Indiana lost. We went home drunk.
Which is kinda neither here nor there, just a setup for what happened next.
Because it was almost
April Fool's Day
So, March madness leads to the day I realized you can place a Missed Connections ad for free. On the Internets. (Before it was even called the Internets -- oh, the olden days.)
And so I filled out the form:
And promptly forgot all about it.
Two weeks later, the ad runs in the paper.
Have I mentioned I forgot all about it?
Until I get a phone call.
"Rebecca! I'm in the missed connections!"
I thought about telling him. At that very moment -- I even felt bad, until he said, "I always knew this would happen."
Eh, maybe we'll see where this goes.
There was a party that week. I don't remember what we were celebrating, but I had a lot of parties in that apartment. I suppose that's a reminiscence for another day.
I was in the kitchen, probably administering an alcoholic beverage, when Sarah ran in to tell me -- "Johnny was in the missed connections! Did you hear this?"
Maybe, too, I was a bad friend when I said, "Actually. . . "
By the end of the evening, Johnny was the only one who missed that particular connection.
This went on.
For a couple of weeks. The ad ran in the paper again, and Jonathan ruminated on it. He savored his moment and imagined every possible outcome. He talked idly about it often.
I started to get concerned -- why had I been so specific? I mean, a random girl on the train can stay a random girl on the train. A waitress will still be serving beers in the same place this week and next week. That's her job. She can't escape into the anonymity of the crowd.
There was a massive heat wave that April. Suddenly, inexplicably, we had 90 degree weather. I had no air conditioning, unfortunately.
One sticky, hungover Saturday afternoon, we pulled out the futon and were lying side-by-side, not touching, rather lying there maximizing sweaty surface area and trying to cool off.
I was nodding off when Johnny said, "The thing is, she said, 'let's share a pizza sometime.' I'm just not sure I'd like to date a girl who would say 'let's share a pizza sometime.'"
Well, this was that moment.
I said, "Well, have you thought that maybe. . . it wasn't well. . . what if it wasn't real?"
"what?"
There was a moment where he stared at the ceiling and then he turned to me.
I gave that half-apologetic smile.
"Sorry."
Johnny is my brother for a reason.
The reason is this:
He laughed. He cackled and hollered and he said, "I can't believe it. You got me. You pulled the perfect hoax. I can't believe you told me. I would have definitely worked this for longer."
I just couldn't let him go back and confront the poor curly haired blonde.
Exhibit A: Johnny (AKA, Jonathan, Johnny T., JT Santos)
Johnny T is one of those friends who is not just your friend, but a fixture in your life. JT and I go back, oh, nigh upon eleven years or so. A good third of our lives have been spent as cohorts. A good number of bartenders in the city of Chicago still give me free drinks when I walk in because I'm Johnny's sister. (Or at least that is what we spent many years claiming.)
Johnny is a Character. He and I mesh at a cosmic level -- in the places where we are broken, the places where we are both utterly normal and absolutely outcast.
JT will perhaps not be pleased to see the following in print, but he won't deny it: boy is a ladies' man, gains pleasure from stoking the fires of sexual desire, has always been one to compulsively ensure that everyone in the room wants to sleep with him. This is also where we mesh well: I have no desire to sleep with him. Our friendship has benefited from this, much like how my relationship with my dad benefitted from financial independence -- we have to find other common ground and build our relationship from there.
There's plenty of ground. Fandom of various bands, sick sense of humor, and, in our early late twenties, we had similar self-destructive interests.
Right. But which story is this?
We've got plenty of "that time we" stories -- we enjoy telling them to each other over beers, boring our friends and family while we indulge one another. This one I like because it involves The Media.
Or rather, Paper! The printed kind. Old school. (My "story" stories seem to have this in common.) The Chicago Reader. Johnny was a roamer, a train-taker, a walker; one of those guys on the train at noon in tight jeans, a tattered blazer with a popped collar, a satchel with a notebook and a book of Raymond Carver stories, and giant headphones clamped to his head. He regularly consumed the Reader in coffee shops.
The first part he always read, before the 5,000 word articles on local politics or the indepth guide to local shows, before Savage Love or the ironic indy cartoons -- he always read Missed Connections first.
Because he was pretty sure that, inevitably, one of these days, all this roaming and looking deep in the presence of all these hipster slips of girls with their thrift store dresses and funky haircuts would pay off. He just knew, at some point, he would find himself in there.
He would mentally catalog, in fact, the moments: That girl in the green cardigan and the headband on the Blue Line may have caught his eye as she looked up from her copy of Atlas Shrugged. Was that girl in the ironic tshirt and painted on jeans at the bar tipping her glass to him?
Enter Antagonism
So, right, closest friends do share these things -- confide in the quiet drunk hours of a late late night. As he did me, explain this compulsion and faith that He Would Be Noticed.
I suppose, in retrospect, we were Jock Friends at this time, because my plan was pretty much hatched immediately.
Jocks
It was 2002, I think, and the Indiana University Hoosier basketball team was In The Playoffs -- which is, pretty much, the only time we would have cared -- but we wanted to take in a game among shouting fans in a beer-soaked sports bar. Cheering! Fandom!
We picked a bar that would be jock-ish, but not so crowded that we would have to stake out a table early in the day in order to sit. We just weren't that dedicated.
Jonathan immediately began to flirt with the waitress, a curly-headed blonde with a no-bullshit attitude who pretty much blew him off completely, aside from the obligatory delivery of the tall boy and mini pizza.
Indiana lost. We went home drunk.
Which is kinda neither here nor there, just a setup for what happened next.
Because it was almost
April Fool's Day
So, March madness leads to the day I realized you can place a Missed Connections ad for free. On the Internets. (Before it was even called the Internets -- oh, the olden days.)
And so I filled out the form:
You were at Sluggers for the Indiana game. I served you an Old Style and a pizza with sausage and onions. Was that girl your girlfriend? Maybe you'd like to share a pizza with me sometime.
And promptly forgot all about it.
Two weeks later, the ad runs in the paper.
Have I mentioned I forgot all about it?
Until I get a phone call.
"Rebecca! I'm in the missed connections!"
I thought about telling him. At that very moment -- I even felt bad, until he said, "I always knew this would happen."
Eh, maybe we'll see where this goes.
There was a party that week. I don't remember what we were celebrating, but I had a lot of parties in that apartment. I suppose that's a reminiscence for another day.
I was in the kitchen, probably administering an alcoholic beverage, when Sarah ran in to tell me -- "Johnny was in the missed connections! Did you hear this?"
Maybe, too, I was a bad friend when I said, "Actually. . . "
By the end of the evening, Johnny was the only one who missed that particular connection.
This went on.
For a couple of weeks. The ad ran in the paper again, and Jonathan ruminated on it. He savored his moment and imagined every possible outcome. He talked idly about it often.
I started to get concerned -- why had I been so specific? I mean, a random girl on the train can stay a random girl on the train. A waitress will still be serving beers in the same place this week and next week. That's her job. She can't escape into the anonymity of the crowd.
There was a massive heat wave that April. Suddenly, inexplicably, we had 90 degree weather. I had no air conditioning, unfortunately.
One sticky, hungover Saturday afternoon, we pulled out the futon and were lying side-by-side, not touching, rather lying there maximizing sweaty surface area and trying to cool off.
I was nodding off when Johnny said, "The thing is, she said, 'let's share a pizza sometime.' I'm just not sure I'd like to date a girl who would say 'let's share a pizza sometime.'"
Well, this was that moment.
I said, "Well, have you thought that maybe. . . it wasn't well. . . what if it wasn't real?"
"what?"
There was a moment where he stared at the ceiling and then he turned to me.
I gave that half-apologetic smile.
"Sorry."
Johnny is my brother for a reason.
The reason is this:
He laughed. He cackled and hollered and he said, "I can't believe it. You got me. You pulled the perfect hoax. I can't believe you told me. I would have definitely worked this for longer."
I just couldn't let him go back and confront the poor curly haired blonde.
Tuesday, May 06, 2008
Hey Everybody! (In which I write about non-battlestar-galatcia-related topics)
So, right.
That thing I do for money has been wresting control of that thing I call my life lately, so less write-y and more anxiet-y.
But ladies and gents, there is a light at the end of le tunnel! It's called "I'm going to leave the country on May 24."
Of course, then, I couldn't find my passport -- but, the US managed to turn one around for me in a mere week. Now, on to getting that vital other document -- my Russian Visa.
I'm finally
Finally
Going to Russia (assuming they issue my Visa, dear Gods of the consulate, please say yes).
In the meantime, shaking off the existential angst of those eternal questions of life: How will I live after I've loved and lost? What if no one comes to my party? What if I can't get my hair cut before I leave the country?
When will I ever write that dang story?
Speaking of that dang story -- I will address a little of the storied past of my career.
So, I stumbled into PR from a short-lived and low-paid gig in public radio (glamour, a bit, money, fame, big city life, not so much).
I answered an advertisement (in the paper, of all things. Remember that? Made of paper?) and it said something about stuffing envelopes (which really doesn't happen that much anymore, now that the digital has edged paper out of the picture).
I went in, and I interviewed first with my perky, blond, young colleague-to-be, who, while literally looking around herself from her perch in the conference room (lest someone overhear) leaned over to deliver a conspiratorial whisper about Judi, the boss: "She's kind of a yeller."
Not like old yeller, peeps -- like full on bellows, high pitched screams, ranging from strident insistence to hysterical anger. Mostly about irrational details.
Certainly don't need to go into said irrational details - but let me provide you two illustrative ones:
One:
She hired me based upon the results of a writing test. Not the kind wherein you write something and your writing is judged.
no.
A handwriting test.
Granted, I do have a lovely hand -- but the computer she paid to analyze my handwriting said I would be hard working, meek, and easily manipulated. No joke. She actually pointed that out to me at one point during my six-month tenure, saying that she was disappointed that I did not turn out as this handwriting test had indicated I would.
I would like to suggest that perhaps the fine art of graphology, based upon this experience, is the highest grade of straight-up, pure bullshit. Cuz, me = easily manipulated? Perhaps. Meek? Never.
Two:
When I finally resigned after six tortured months, after six (6) colleagues were hired and quit (several after a single day, two after a single week), she announced to me that she wanted to kill herself. I have to say, as a twenty-nothing with zero experience, I was good, but not THAT good.
At this moment, you may be screaming to me: POINT! DOES THIS STORY HAVE A POINT!
I guess the moral of the story is -- It. could. be. worse.
That thing I do for money has been wresting control of that thing I call my life lately, so less write-y and more anxiet-y.
But ladies and gents, there is a light at the end of le tunnel! It's called "I'm going to leave the country on May 24."
Of course, then, I couldn't find my passport -- but, the US managed to turn one around for me in a mere week. Now, on to getting that vital other document -- my Russian Visa.
I'm finally
Finally
Going to Russia (assuming they issue my Visa, dear Gods of the consulate, please say yes).
In the meantime, shaking off the existential angst of those eternal questions of life: How will I live after I've loved and lost? What if no one comes to my party? What if I can't get my hair cut before I leave the country?
When will I ever write that dang story?
Speaking of that dang story -- I will address a little of the storied past of my career.
So, I stumbled into PR from a short-lived and low-paid gig in public radio (glamour, a bit, money, fame, big city life, not so much).
I answered an advertisement (in the paper, of all things. Remember that? Made of paper?) and it said something about stuffing envelopes (which really doesn't happen that much anymore, now that the digital has edged paper out of the picture).
I went in, and I interviewed first with my perky, blond, young colleague-to-be, who, while literally looking around herself from her perch in the conference room (lest someone overhear) leaned over to deliver a conspiratorial whisper about Judi, the boss: "She's kind of a yeller."
Not like old yeller, peeps -- like full on bellows, high pitched screams, ranging from strident insistence to hysterical anger. Mostly about irrational details.
Certainly don't need to go into said irrational details - but let me provide you two illustrative ones:
One:
She hired me based upon the results of a writing test. Not the kind wherein you write something and your writing is judged.
no.
A handwriting test.
Granted, I do have a lovely hand -- but the computer she paid to analyze my handwriting said I would be hard working, meek, and easily manipulated. No joke. She actually pointed that out to me at one point during my six-month tenure, saying that she was disappointed that I did not turn out as this handwriting test had indicated I would.
I would like to suggest that perhaps the fine art of graphology, based upon this experience, is the highest grade of straight-up, pure bullshit. Cuz, me = easily manipulated? Perhaps. Meek? Never.
Two:
When I finally resigned after six tortured months, after six (6) colleagues were hired and quit (several after a single day, two after a single week), she announced to me that she wanted to kill herself. I have to say, as a twenty-nothing with zero experience, I was good, but not THAT good.
At this moment, you may be screaming to me: POINT! DOES THIS STORY HAVE A POINT!
I guess the moral of the story is -- It. could. be. worse.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
I'm feeling it~
Anne and I rip into the new live cd/dvd from The Gossip with the same relish we have enjoyed new releases from our favorite artists for the last twelve years. I pop the DVD in and blast it through the speakers in the living room.
Anne: Holy shit look at that outfit. Beth Ditto is insane.
Me: I'm still mad at you for missing that show last year. At Bottom of The Hill. A bar. WTF is this crowd?? WHEN DID THIS HAPPEN?
Anne: I feel like performing this much would be such a workout. I wonder how she doesn't lose weight?
Later, I text Anne: THIS IS FOR THE FAGGOTS!
She texts back: FOR THE G-A-Y-S!
Anne: Holy shit look at that outfit. Beth Ditto is insane.
Me: I'm still mad at you for missing that show last year. At Bottom of The Hill. A bar. WTF is this crowd?? WHEN DID THIS HAPPEN?
Anne: I feel like performing this much would be such a workout. I wonder how she doesn't lose weight?
Later, I text Anne: THIS IS FOR THE FAGGOTS!
She texts back: FOR THE G-A-Y-S!
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