Driving down Farwell towards the nearest ATM I could use that wouldn’t entail incurring a fee. How could I forget? St. Patrick’s Day. Lots of guys crossing the street wherever they pleased. Coatless even though the temperature’s hovering around forty degrees and adorned with at least one green clothing item. I wonder how many fools drunk at 1pm will get hit by cars today. It’s the same at Oakland and North. That bar on the corner was packed with undergrads. I sped past to go get my $11 hair cut ($16 with tip). The same woman who gave me the super short boy cut a few months ago evens out my still very short hair. As she begins, a very loud, very self-entitled man walks in. How long is the wait? he booms, even though there is no one else sitting in the waiting area. There is no wait, the owner of place, a man so old it’s amazing he’s not dead, replies. Well I need someone very experienced to cut my hair! he says offensively. One of the more hagged looking stylists takes him on. I have been cutting hair for thirty years, she tells him defensively.
His name is Miko and he is Serbian, not Russian as I thought at first. He is studying in the MIS program at UWM and he needs a good haircut because he is on his way to Miami. The stylist is handling him well, asking him a lot of questions. She is trying to gain a new customer, because he told her that Cost Cutters sent him to this place but if she does a good job, he might become a regular.
Thankfully, my trim takes all of ten minutes and I get to leave. My stylist is a working class lady that let all of my loose hair fall all over my face and into my eyes. She blew it out with the hair dryer, though. Classy.
Then it’s into the car and out to Stallis. On Locust, some very un-Riverwest looking co-eds traipse about, again with no coats. I think of my friend bartending down the street and how he will have to endure these drunken St Patty’s folks all afternoon and mentally sympathize with him.
When I reach the thrift store I don’t have high hopes. I peruse the shoes, idly thumb through the dusty record bins (so many bins--so much shit! I once came across a huge stack of eighties alternative records someone’s dumped there. A score. But not today). An eight year old boy (estimated) asks his mother about using the bathroom. It’s over there, she points. Oh, good, I thought, I have to go too! A minute later, I hear him tinkling. He must not shut the door at home, because he sure didn’t in the store.
Two loud retarded (literally) male voices keep ringing out atop of the din. One keeps accusing the other of being mean to him, gets mad because he doesn’t know where his companion is in the store. I realize I am more interested in the bric a brac than the hipster purse. I feel weird because my style is changing so much. I am passing over things I would have liked three or four years ago. It constantly amazes me that I am thirtyfuckingthree. It’s a lot different, even, from twentyfuckingnine. I wish my transition would complete itself soon. This limbo process sucks.
I am happy to find some little flying birds to attach to my walls. I also buy a Cheap Trick Dream Police eight track because it’s in pristine condition. I do not know what I will do with it? Sell it to a freak Cheap Trick collector on Ebay? Ha.
I look through the clothes just in case. I am feeling patient, and it pays off. I score an A-Line red stretch skirt from Zara, a store in NYC (and elsewhere) that knocks off designer stuff and charges usually under $100, a lot of items hover around $40. That was $3.99. Even nicer is the $1.99 Banana Republic blue dress shirt with the blazing white collar and cuffs.
Yay.
I head south on 76th street through Stallis. I am scoping out a new ‘hood to move to. I have friends on 60th and Oklahoma, but when I get there I am not very impressed. I don’t get the vibe I need to live somewhere. There’s a lot of amenities nearby, though. I feel disappointed. I continue eastward. I like the area right around 35th and Oklahoma a lot. I feel like I should live further west than that, but the idea is becoming a bit unsettling. The west side feels so foreign. I guess that could be good though. That’s what I told my friend who lives on 15th and Oklahoma. She drove around with me for a bit and pointed out some different little hoods. I still have lots of places to pass through, through. One thing is certain: it will be nice to visit the East Side instead of live there.
At the café, my parents call and want to know if I want to meet them for a St. Patrick’s Day drink. I really, really don’t. I am not opposed to being festive, but I don’t want to be around a lot of people who have been drinking for ten hours. Besides, my leftover rotisserie chicken awaits me. I need to eat it. I am getting hungry cranky, and I have just learned that the cousin of the man I obsessed over during graduate school read at the Schwartz in Bayview last night and I didn’t know. I know I have to let it go, but that feeling when you’ve missed something and can’t get it back is so unsettling. Coupled with that is the feeling of Why couldn’t that fucker just email me and give me a heads up? Promote his cousin. But I am that scary to him. But fuck him, really. Can’t keep going back to the past…which is exactly why I need to move. Badly.
His name is Miko and he is Serbian, not Russian as I thought at first. He is studying in the MIS program at UWM and he needs a good haircut because he is on his way to Miami. The stylist is handling him well, asking him a lot of questions. She is trying to gain a new customer, because he told her that Cost Cutters sent him to this place but if she does a good job, he might become a regular.
Thankfully, my trim takes all of ten minutes and I get to leave. My stylist is a working class lady that let all of my loose hair fall all over my face and into my eyes. She blew it out with the hair dryer, though. Classy.
Then it’s into the car and out to Stallis. On Locust, some very un-Riverwest looking co-eds traipse about, again with no coats. I think of my friend bartending down the street and how he will have to endure these drunken St Patty’s folks all afternoon and mentally sympathize with him.
When I reach the thrift store I don’t have high hopes. I peruse the shoes, idly thumb through the dusty record bins (so many bins--so much shit! I once came across a huge stack of eighties alternative records someone’s dumped there. A score. But not today). An eight year old boy (estimated) asks his mother about using the bathroom. It’s over there, she points. Oh, good, I thought, I have to go too! A minute later, I hear him tinkling. He must not shut the door at home, because he sure didn’t in the store.
Two loud retarded (literally) male voices keep ringing out atop of the din. One keeps accusing the other of being mean to him, gets mad because he doesn’t know where his companion is in the store. I realize I am more interested in the bric a brac than the hipster purse. I feel weird because my style is changing so much. I am passing over things I would have liked three or four years ago. It constantly amazes me that I am thirtyfuckingthree. It’s a lot different, even, from twentyfuckingnine. I wish my transition would complete itself soon. This limbo process sucks.
I am happy to find some little flying birds to attach to my walls. I also buy a Cheap Trick Dream Police eight track because it’s in pristine condition. I do not know what I will do with it? Sell it to a freak Cheap Trick collector on Ebay? Ha.
I look through the clothes just in case. I am feeling patient, and it pays off. I score an A-Line red stretch skirt from Zara, a store in NYC (and elsewhere) that knocks off designer stuff and charges usually under $100, a lot of items hover around $40. That was $3.99. Even nicer is the $1.99 Banana Republic blue dress shirt with the blazing white collar and cuffs.
Yay.
I head south on 76th street through Stallis. I am scoping out a new ‘hood to move to. I have friends on 60th and Oklahoma, but when I get there I am not very impressed. I don’t get the vibe I need to live somewhere. There’s a lot of amenities nearby, though. I feel disappointed. I continue eastward. I like the area right around 35th and Oklahoma a lot. I feel like I should live further west than that, but the idea is becoming a bit unsettling. The west side feels so foreign. I guess that could be good though. That’s what I told my friend who lives on 15th and Oklahoma. She drove around with me for a bit and pointed out some different little hoods. I still have lots of places to pass through, through. One thing is certain: it will be nice to visit the East Side instead of live there.
At the café, my parents call and want to know if I want to meet them for a St. Patrick’s Day drink. I really, really don’t. I am not opposed to being festive, but I don’t want to be around a lot of people who have been drinking for ten hours. Besides, my leftover rotisserie chicken awaits me. I need to eat it. I am getting hungry cranky, and I have just learned that the cousin of the man I obsessed over during graduate school read at the Schwartz in Bayview last night and I didn’t know. I know I have to let it go, but that feeling when you’ve missed something and can’t get it back is so unsettling. Coupled with that is the feeling of Why couldn’t that fucker just email me and give me a heads up? Promote his cousin. But I am that scary to him. But fuck him, really. Can’t keep going back to the past…which is exactly why I need to move. Badly.
posted by Jen Threat at
5:26 PM
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