4:00pm. Shut down the computer. Thank God another boring fucking day of editing real estate ads is complete. Go to the freezer to retrieve the frozen eye compress. Lie down on the futon to let the eyes rest and tear up, as the dryness always overwhelms. Shove numerous potato chips into my mouth. Jaunt quickly to the library to renew my card, then sprint back home after browsing through a Chicago fashion magazine due to the lentils. I was wondering what took so long; the binge potato chip eating must have spurred the lentils on.
Around 5:30 I picked up E. and we made our way to Big Bay Beach to swim. It was partially cloudy and only about 78 degrees. Big Bay and Atwater Beaches are beautiful and unique. To reach both, one must descend down the steep sloping hills that are covered in field greens that are patrolled by show off goldfinches, swallows, timid rabbits, moles, mice and flying grasshoppers.
E.’s friend N. pulled up behind us as we were exiting my banged up Cavalier. We were going to feast on spinach pies, olives and strawberries before jumping into the waves of Lake Michigan. Floating alongside the concrete pier upon which we made ourselves comfortable was a 10-12 ft long sturdy tree branch that E. later managed to use a makeshift floatation device. The waves were quite grand, but the water was chilly. I managed to wade around for about a half an hour, feeling pleasantly uninhibited while wearing my plain, two piece Old Navy suit. I romped like a child, not wanting to completely submerge myself because I was not going home to stay afterwards. I sat down on the edge of the beach and let the waves roll over me, which resulted in a pile of rocky sand landing in my bottoms. Since we were the only three at the beach, I simply removed them and quickly put them back on so that the sand could escape.
After conversing for awhile about random subjects like Liberace, Jesus Christ Superstar, Dan Savage’s column about fucking horses and fucking men, we had to leave so that we could attend the vigil for Cindy Sheehan/against the war. I really think that Sheehan is behaving like a bit of a martyr and I can’t help but wonder what her stance was when the war began, but President Bush is certainly making an ass of himself by refusing to speak to her because as was reported on the Jon Stewart show, he has to live his life (on vacation, at the dude ranch).
Nearly 1,000 people lined up along Lincoln Memorial Drive. The lit candles made for a lovely sight, and many drivers honked in alignment with those holding them. E. and I found her friend and his friend, 2 union organizers/writers. I felt silly without a candle, so E. set off to find me one, only to run into her blunt, sassy father and our friend T., with whom I’d recently had a spat. Since we’d recently had a dumb drunken blowout and are both quite caustic at times, it felt both logical and ironic to first see him at a peace rally. I got to hold his candle.
Any type of activist work should always be followed by a leisurely activity like consuming alcoholic beverages at a favored bar, so E., T, her friend and I drove southbound to Bayview’s the Palm. We blared FEAR’s “Let’s Have a War” (it’s on the Repo Man soundtrack; I have never owned any FEAR records and never will because, as the person behind a Repo Man soundtrack review at http://starling.rinet.ru/music/temp/repoman.html so aptly put it, “Punk does not equal asshole, which was these overrated rednecks' fatal mistake”) while driving over the Hoan Bridge at 60 mph with the windows rolled down with a view of the moon glinting on the lake. E.'s friend requested it. I couldn’t help but momentarily regress back to being 19 and standing in some Racine Punk’s dank, dark basement, tentatively swilling Busch light from a can, and in that moment, I didn't dislike FEAR so much.
The Palm is my adult bar. It's fairly quiet and some sort of old time soul type music is usually playing. The bar also features one of the most impressive selections of booze and beer I’ve ever seen, including some pricey Belgian ales. They also carry Point in case any shitty beer snobs happen to be visit the bar, as well as great specials, like this Trois Poistelles (?!?!?!) beer. Its label looked like one should imbibe it while waiting to be chained or perhaps de-chained from some witchy lair. On the back label, it showed pictures of two different shapes of glasses, one wide and short and one taller and narrower, similar to a Weisse beer glass. The latter picture had a red x marked over it. Upon noticing it, I had to let out a now seldom emitted HAAAA! Apparently, it is only proper to drink the beverage in a certain type of glass. To make such a subtle demand on the beer’s packaging seemed very odd, yet the HAAAA! came out, followed by a fit of more normal laughter. Thankfully the rest of the table found it amusing as well. I meant to take the bottle home with me to use as another makeshift vase, but E. tore at the label just like I do (I was sipping Ace Pear Cider all night). I'll just have to return later in the week and buy my own bottle.
Conversation was interesting as usual, too many being had at once, really. We scorned George Bush, there was some labor talk, cats and devils were mentioned, I made a pun out of E.’s friend’s “checkered past” and the fact that he smokes “Checkers” cigarettes, said friend made a witty comment about peggedpantmotherfuckers, I boasted about my grocery store score--a 12 pack of Scott bath tissue purchased at $4.70 instead of its normal $9.35 full price, E., T., and her friend discussed the logistics of a drinking contest, and it went on until about midnight.
Back at home, alone, I downed some water and ate some buttered saltines(I prefer cheese but had none) to soak up the cider, and sunk into on the futon instead of the bed, desiring closer proximity to the a/c. My cat curled up in my arms and it was good night.
Around 5:30 I picked up E. and we made our way to Big Bay Beach to swim. It was partially cloudy and only about 78 degrees. Big Bay and Atwater Beaches are beautiful and unique. To reach both, one must descend down the steep sloping hills that are covered in field greens that are patrolled by show off goldfinches, swallows, timid rabbits, moles, mice and flying grasshoppers.
E.’s friend N. pulled up behind us as we were exiting my banged up Cavalier. We were going to feast on spinach pies, olives and strawberries before jumping into the waves of Lake Michigan. Floating alongside the concrete pier upon which we made ourselves comfortable was a 10-12 ft long sturdy tree branch that E. later managed to use a makeshift floatation device. The waves were quite grand, but the water was chilly. I managed to wade around for about a half an hour, feeling pleasantly uninhibited while wearing my plain, two piece Old Navy suit. I romped like a child, not wanting to completely submerge myself because I was not going home to stay afterwards. I sat down on the edge of the beach and let the waves roll over me, which resulted in a pile of rocky sand landing in my bottoms. Since we were the only three at the beach, I simply removed them and quickly put them back on so that the sand could escape.
After conversing for awhile about random subjects like Liberace, Jesus Christ Superstar, Dan Savage’s column about fucking horses and fucking men, we had to leave so that we could attend the vigil for Cindy Sheehan/against the war. I really think that Sheehan is behaving like a bit of a martyr and I can’t help but wonder what her stance was when the war began, but President Bush is certainly making an ass of himself by refusing to speak to her because as was reported on the Jon Stewart show, he has to live his life (on vacation, at the dude ranch).
Nearly 1,000 people lined up along Lincoln Memorial Drive. The lit candles made for a lovely sight, and many drivers honked in alignment with those holding them. E. and I found her friend and his friend, 2 union organizers/writers. I felt silly without a candle, so E. set off to find me one, only to run into her blunt, sassy father and our friend T., with whom I’d recently had a spat. Since we’d recently had a dumb drunken blowout and are both quite caustic at times, it felt both logical and ironic to first see him at a peace rally. I got to hold his candle.
Any type of activist work should always be followed by a leisurely activity like consuming alcoholic beverages at a favored bar, so E., T, her friend and I drove southbound to Bayview’s the Palm. We blared FEAR’s “Let’s Have a War” (it’s on the Repo Man soundtrack; I have never owned any FEAR records and never will because, as the person behind a Repo Man soundtrack review at http://starling.rinet.ru/music/temp/repoman.html so aptly put it, “Punk does not equal asshole, which was these overrated rednecks' fatal mistake”) while driving over the Hoan Bridge at 60 mph with the windows rolled down with a view of the moon glinting on the lake. E.'s friend requested it. I couldn’t help but momentarily regress back to being 19 and standing in some Racine Punk’s dank, dark basement, tentatively swilling Busch light from a can, and in that moment, I didn't dislike FEAR so much.
The Palm is my adult bar. It's fairly quiet and some sort of old time soul type music is usually playing. The bar also features one of the most impressive selections of booze and beer I’ve ever seen, including some pricey Belgian ales. They also carry Point in case any shitty beer snobs happen to be visit the bar, as well as great specials, like this Trois Poistelles (?!?!?!) beer. Its label looked like one should imbibe it while waiting to be chained or perhaps de-chained from some witchy lair. On the back label, it showed pictures of two different shapes of glasses, one wide and short and one taller and narrower, similar to a Weisse beer glass. The latter picture had a red x marked over it. Upon noticing it, I had to let out a now seldom emitted HAAAA! Apparently, it is only proper to drink the beverage in a certain type of glass. To make such a subtle demand on the beer’s packaging seemed very odd, yet the HAAAA! came out, followed by a fit of more normal laughter. Thankfully the rest of the table found it amusing as well. I meant to take the bottle home with me to use as another makeshift vase, but E. tore at the label just like I do (I was sipping Ace Pear Cider all night). I'll just have to return later in the week and buy my own bottle.
Conversation was interesting as usual, too many being had at once, really. We scorned George Bush, there was some labor talk, cats and devils were mentioned, I made a pun out of E.’s friend’s “checkered past” and the fact that he smokes “Checkers” cigarettes, said friend made a witty comment about peggedpantmotherfuckers, I boasted about my grocery store score--a 12 pack of Scott bath tissue purchased at $4.70 instead of its normal $9.35 full price, E., T., and her friend discussed the logistics of a drinking contest, and it went on until about midnight.
Back at home, alone, I downed some water and ate some buttered saltines(I prefer cheese but had none) to soak up the cider, and sunk into on the futon instead of the bed, desiring closer proximity to the a/c. My cat curled up in my arms and it was good night.
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