10-24-07

This is an exercise.

I contemplated whether or not to wait to take the Lexapro until I returned from New York. What if it didn’t agree with my overly sensitive system? What if it made me feel more tense, bereft, and down than I already felt? Could I chance it? The answer was yes, because procrastinating yet again, even for a legitimate reason, was not acceptable.

Tuesday morning, down the hatch. Immediate blurriness, but tolerable enough, like I’d imbibed too much caffeine. Fatigue coupled with an underlying hyperactivity. Driving to work in the west suburbs was odd. The sky was a rare orangey grey color; I can’t recall if it stormed or not. Exiting off the highway, I felt disembodied. The next two days, concentration was something I had to concentrate on. It was difficult to focus on what my boss said. I nodded a lot. It was stressful teaching my classes. I didn’t want to be there and couldn’t convey that feeling to my students. I did let my reading class go very early one day, though. One student asked me if I was hungover and one told me I looked pale. I think that was the day I introduced the word “shitcanned” to them.

Thursday night I went to my parents’ house after work to eat pork chops and mashed potatoes covered in canned vegetarian vegetable soup. My mom simmered the chops for a few hours, and they were from a well-fed pig. Juicy and tasty. They’d take me to the airport in an hour or so afterwards. I felt less floaty but very hyper, but I was also very excited to greet my NYC friends and to see two of them marry.

Needless to say, it was hard for me to contain myself on the plane. I forced myself to peruse an Elle magazine featuring bleached blonde Scarlett Johannson on the cover, but I was disinterested. My leg shook constantly. I am glad I did not start jumping up and down in my seat. I pictured myself running to my great friend Maddog, leaping and engulfing him in a huge hug, but the post-9/ll airport climate isn't conducive to powerful displays of excitement. I settled for a tight hug and smooch.

(While I was walking towards the baggage claim area, I saw a guy named Shimme who used to live in Milwaukee. He was in a screamo band with Davey von Bohlen way back in the day. I didn’t know him but a friend at that time did. He and his presumed girlfriend looked like they never left 1994.)

Maddog and I decided to grab a cab so that we could make it to the Neptune show on time.

How good it felt to cruise down Metropolitan Avenue in Williamsburg, Brooklyn! Cute people were in out mad abundance due to the CMJ festival. The Luna Lounge relocated from Manhattan to that street. The area has really built up. New cafes, bbqs, restaurants. I didn’t have time to try any of them, though.

Upon dropping off my suitcase and visiting the roof where Mr. Maddog pleasured a lady, we headed back out to Union Pool. Neptune! After three years. And there was Dan, a block away from the club, talking to his underage, artsy, cute nephew and his girlfriend. Got a huge bear hug from the man who digs bears and continued on our way. I hadn’t been to a show at Union Pool. Their back room venue is really quaint and welcoming, with a nice old-timey stage surrounded by Christmas tree lights. Mark from Neptune, who I knew back in Chicago seven years ago, and our friend Martin were sitting right inside the door, so I swooped down for a dual hug. SO GOOD to see these people! That’s all I thought. And then I remembered to bust out the lone stick of Wisconsin beef jerky I’d carried with me for Martin and Maddog to share.

Neptune took awhile to set up, but it was worth it, even though the guys didn’t think they played a good set. Technical difficulties or something, but it sounded more intense than the last time I’d see them, so I dug it. A woman whose boyfriend used to be in the band talked to me awhile about academia and jewelry making. Later, after watching some guys from another Boston band bicker about who was drunk and who should’ve been packing up the gear, I started to talking to a cute bald guy about Powers and Dewars. He even told me to have a good night when I left with Maddog. I felt so exhilarated. It is so difficult to talk to strangers in Milwaukee. Or did the Lexapro make it easier?

The next day the weather was working against me. Sultry southern-style humidity in NYC, complete with nonstop rain and drizzle almost all day. I’d taken my pill and gone back to sleep for another hour. That helped. Walking down Bedford Avenue--wow. I was already a little out of it, so when I saw the charcuterie--cheese shop--in the storefront that used to house the independent bookstore/zine shop, I actually stopped and shook my head with squinted eyes. Opened them. Yep, still a cheese shop. Damn, it’s gone! And down the street--the fun dive bar that served the huge foam cups of cheap beer like the Turkey’s Nest was gone, too. Some fancy pants bar was in its place. The same thing happened to the punk bar in 2004. I tripped over the sidewalk while staring at the bar. I don’t think anyone noticed, though. Then I went down into the subway to go into the city.

Chinatown and Soho immediately wore me out, and I cursed myself for walking south when I meant to go north. Has it been that long? I cut over onto Lafayette and couldn’t find the Vice store, so I stopped in Brooklyn Industries instead. Some cute stuff was on sale, but I wasn’t in the mood to shop, really. As I walked past the skater/snowboarder store, I noticed about 40 or so young men, mostly Asian, Hispanic, and black, queued up behind a barrier. A man stood in front of them holding a video camera, a big one, like they use on the news. Mustering my talking to strangers courage, I approached an early twenty something black boy and asked in a very upbeat tone if I could ask why they were standing in line. It was for sneakers called “dunks,” and they’d be there overnight. I wished him well and kept walking, thinking about that episode of Entourage where Vince shells out $5,000 for a pair of custom sneaks for Turtle after he misses out on a limited pair because he didn’t stand in line all night.

Next stop was St Mark’s books, but it was disappointing. They didn’t have the new Arthur Nersesian novel or anything else I wanted. Steve had texted me back though, and so I headed over to a store called 99x that sold Fred Perry, and promptly threw down $150 for a nylon black jacket that was made in China. It is *very* cool, but that was a stupid move on my part. I chattered away at the shop’s owner because I hadn’t talked to anyone in person all day and I was still feeling pretty hyper. I blabbered on about the skinhead and Joe Strummer movies I’d seen, and also scored some Fred Perry buttons and a little key chain eyeglass cleaner thing in the shape of a Perry polo. I decided my shopping was done and then went to the Whitney Museum on the Upper East Side, such a boring part of NYC. Nothing in the entire museum struck me, and I kept texting Neat. Damn distracting meds. I thought I’d be into Kara Walker’s exhibit, as she creates powerful representations of the way black women have been abused and exploited, but it was overwhelming.

Back out into the shitty rain to Union Square, to kill time at Virgin before I met with the professor who taught my postmodernism and ecocriticism classes. I didn't buy anything there but decided I liked the Enon CD. It was great to chat with Bennett about academia, literature, tv, and poetry. He’s really hip and always interested in what other people are interested in. He bought me vegan mashed potato croquettes at Zen Palate, and then we browsed at the Strand bookstore, where I bought Bukowski’s Ham on Rye, Shaw’s Pygmalion, and a dinky backpack that was meant for a nine-year-old. (I really shouldn’t shop when I’m tired.) I also lost my Metrocard. I knew I would if I didn’t take it out of that pocket. Dumbass. Not a New Yorker thing to do.

My pulse started racing again as I went back down into the Union Square subway station, where a pretty decent 7-piece brass band had been playing to an enthusiastic crowd earlier. Now I needed to go to Times Square to see my girl Claire Danes perform in the play Pygmalion--that’s why I bought the book. I wanted to make sure I could reference it if I didn’t understand the play. There were these dorky Midwestern co-eds on the train with someone’s mom, who actually bent over to pick up a penny she saw on the floor for “good luck.” A Jamaican teen mocked her. Kiss it, kiss it, he said! I looked at him and laughed. She didn’t hear.

As gross as it is when you think about it literally, I delight in Times Square at night, just because I’ve never experienced anything similar to it. The lights light up the night sky and the sensation is just really unique.

As it turns out, I didn’t need the book. The play was easy to follow (it‘s about a ‘lowly‘ girl who ‘learns‘ to act ‘upper class‘ and one ups her ‘teacher‘ at the end of the play), humorous and Claire was absolutely great. I was mad no one stood up and cheered, but I felt weird doing it alone. I yelled loudly when she bowed to the crowd, though. I’m sure she heard me! Skinny little thing. It was so fulfilling to get to see her face light up like it did on MSCL

Afterwards I went back to Brooklyn to meet Maddog at Barcade, yes, a bar with lots of arcade games. There wasn’t any eye candy in sight and I was fucking exhausted, so I was not at all disappointed go home and eat a frozen pizza (for some reason the late night greasy spots around the area either close early or are closed down due to the gentrification).

Sleep came relatively easily both nights--Thursday and Friday. It was really surprising, because I was on a strange couch in a living room that was basically part of a hallway and light streamed in the morning. But I got a solid six hours in. Yeah, meds! Saturday was the wedding. I woke up and text-gossiped with Benito for awhile, which was fun. Maddog had to leave early because he was a groomsman, so Chris, Kat and I made ourselves pretty and went up to Union Square together. The wedding was being held at the Manhattan Penthouse on 14th St and Fifth Avenue. It had a gorgeous view of the city from huge windows.

The ceremony itself was short and sweet. Diane looked so pretty walking down the aisle with her dad. I thought I’d cry, but I didn’t. I just felt really happy.

Afterwards there wasn’t a receiving line. We went back into the bar area and were offered tuna tartar, chicken skewers covered with peanut sauce, guacamole, beef something or other, and spring rolls. People started drinking, but it wasn’t even 1pm yet. I had to wait it out, plus I had three calls to return. I had to still see Zack, Kevin, and Nate. Three very different people. How would I pull it off!? The meds still distracted me, and I obsessively checked my phone. I was disgusted with myself but couldn’t stop, and I thought about the email one of my work colleagues sent about a student whose fingers twitch during class while she stares at her backpack which holds her cell phone.

It was a young people’s wedding. We danced, flitted about, danced in between courses (which included tasty ravioli and really good, not too sweet wedding cake). D and D started things off with their dance routine. I wish I'd gotten better pictures. Two quirky Brooklyn performers I love, Corn Mo and Vic Thrill, sang two songs each. D and D didn’t do the annoying bouquet and garter tosses. Hallelujah! They did feed each other cake, though, and we made sure to clink our silverware against our glasses so they’d smooch. There wasn’t a head table, either. The bride and groom sat in the middle of the room at their own “sweetheart table,” which I hadn’t seen before. I was at a great table of folks. I talked to two slightly younger friends about their dealings with anxiety. It was really helpful to hear their stories and have people to relate to.

The whole afternoon was really heartening, because I was in contact with so many nice, productive people who all asked me, “So, how’s Milwaukee?” People in Milwaukee rarely ask each other what is new in their lives. It was refreshing, but also tiring. I repeated myself so many times! But I was glad to be spoken to, and interested also in hearing what was new with other folks. One of Maddog’s friends is the accountant at the new Darren Star (Sex and the City) show. She doesn’t act like an ass because she works for a tv show, yet so many Milwaukeeians won’t even talk to new people if they are unsure how “cool” the new folks are, and by what standards?

After the wedding, Pete, Emily and I walked to 32nd street to go to a roof bar at the top of the La Quinta hotel, and passed a lot of crazy New Yorkers trying to sell cheap knock off bags, sneakers and CDs, and also saw a movie or tv crew setting up. I didn’t even make the hotel connection until we arrived. I don’t think I’d walked down that block, near the Macy’s flagship, until then. It was in Koreatown. We had a blast up on the roof. I caught a slight buzz for a minute and of course showed everyone my friend’s dick photo that is stored in my phone for such occasions. I was scared to drink, but it was okay. When we left, two rickshaws were being propelled through the street, weaving in and out of stopped traffic, its passengers yelling in delight. So did I! The street is really walled off due to its narrowness and consistently tall buildings lining either side. It was dark except for a few street and business lights, so the scene just delighted me. The energy! The spectacle! The rickshaws! New York! Wahooo!

I piled into a taxi-van with the Murrays and their friend. It took forever to get to the East Village because it was going to dinner/movie/show time. We went to Rififi, somewhere you could walk right past, for its soul night. The sign just said subway soul outside. The cheapest beer was a $3 PBR. They were charging $5 for a Brooklyn lager, which is just ridiculous, but I just had one glass of wine, and my newly bald (yeah! Bring on the bald guys!) friend Kevin bought mine, so that was cool. I didn’t go dance, but I talked a LOT. To Kev, about our current life situations, and Nate from fucking high school. So random. He recently had an encounter that made me really jealous when he retold the story to me. Now I am one of his confidantes, so I at least get to live vicariously. Amidst all this chatting, my gaylatearrivalcompletewithfauxhawkboyfriend finally made his grand entrance, which spurred me to emit a spontaneous shriek from my bird lips.

We left Rififi around 12:30 and went to a bar called Lunasa. It felt nice and chill, and I met Zack’s French roommate and his friend. We talked about where the Harley Davidson store was in Paris. They were getting frustrated because they couldn’t picture it, just like how I get frustrated when I get turned around in big cities I used to live in. They probably thought I was a simpleton, but I liked listening to them talk, and hearing about a foursome. Good stories.

Walking to the L at 2ish am after munching on a hot pepperoni and mushroom slice felt frightening. A little too much alcohol, excitement, and energy exerted plus the meds. I was so incredibly jumpy. Plus I think about walking in the dark in Milwaukee and how that is something I just don’t do. There were people on either side of me walking down all of the blocks, but I was still incredibly nervous. The L train stop was as alive as usual, though, at 2isham. Drunk friends jibber jabbering, tired people going home from work, less drunk people dressed up from their nights out. A British guy and some hip looking older New York guy with platinum hair discussing British and New York culture and music. New York has culture, said the American, but the music here’s got no balls….or something like that.

Sunday I awoke to get a good Steve hug and some conversation at a café in Williamsburg. We sat outside and I dogwatched. Dogwatching in NYC is the best. The great dane, the pug looking but not quite pug dogs, the Chihuahuas. Unfortunately we didn’t get to catch up for very long, but it was better than not catching up at all. All my friends are the same, good, with their quirks. Me too. Except now I’m on meds.

Zack was tired and hungover so I decided to rally and train over to Prospect Heights. He’s living not far from my first apartment. I do not miss that neighborhood, really. It’s pretty over by him, closer to the park, but I hated that apartment. I was miserable half the time. It colors it for me. I got to see his Frijole (boyfriend) for just a few minutes, and his friend Colleen, got to check out their Brooklyn abodes (I love scoping NYC apartments. I always ask how much is the rent. Is that rude?)

We went to brunch at the Italian joint I think Rebecca and I ate in. Real deal Italian waiter and owner. Mediocre brunch food. Nothing too great, but it wasn’t overpriced or tasteless, either. We were both spacey as usual…huh? What? Sorry… ha! Then off to the park for just a little bit before I had to sit back on the train for another 45 minutes. It was worth it. I still can’t decide, though, whether I dislike riding trains or driving cars more.

A few more minutes spent with Maddog and Chris before leaving their very cute but very tiny and mouse infested apartment. I got a ride in the van to the airport. That was fun! Chris is a truck driver so he knows all the moves. It’s pretty crazy driving on a NYC highway. I always slouch down when I’m in cabs, so being above the other cars in the van made for a new experience.

I was sad to say goodbye to the guys, but I know it won’t be that long before I return. All I have to do is put forty dollars away from each check for 6 months and I can afford another ticket. I need to do that, too. At this point, I really can’t say whether or not I would like to live there again. It’s such a trade off, the lifestyles, the value. And it’s so far from home. But I definitely can’t let almost 2 years go by again. I’ve been so despondent, so completely entrenched in angst, stress, and anxiety, ever since I’ve returned ‘home.’ The first year I got re-acclimated to this city, so it made sense that I felt off. The whole PhD thing threw me for a loop. And getting older did, too. And this fucked up political climate. A lot of people feel helpless and scared. I’m glad I’m taking something to make me feel more stable. I can tell it’s working, although I can’t wait for the fatigue to wear. I have too much to do, and too much (way too much) to say!

The day was too short. North Avenue exit, head west. Traffic’s backed up, so why not turn here and look for parking? North on Paulina. Boom! Silver car pulling out, and my dented Cavalier fit the spot perfectly. There wasn’t even a need to do one of those classic Chicago parking jobs where the front driver’s side bumper juts out into the street slightly. Wasn’t a permit parking only, either. No risk of a ticket. The need to urinated consumed. Gallery Café should have a bathroom. Yeah, with purchase of a tiny piece of carrot-pineapple bread for $2.75. The cashier couldn’t figure out how to make change from my ten, but I didn’t get pissed; I sympathized. My usual line: “Yeah, I’m an English teacher. No good at the math.” She laughed and admitted she suffered from the same affliction. Four girls in line ahead of me to piss, then only three, when the toothy yet coiffed young yup graciously let me pass her up. I just drove here from Milwaukee, I chattered. I really** have to pee. Oh, I understand! She said knowingly. You can go ahead of me. I babbled on while her friend finished up in the restroom, about the insane accident I saw on the other side of the freeway. Gnarly. Fire trucks, ambulances, several police cars. One car in the ditch, the other facing oncoming traffic, flung into the median. In my head, I couldn’t believe I was speaking to this looking like that girl, and I was even more amazed she was talking to me.
When I left, headed towards Quimby’s, I passed a store called Akira. 40% Off signs beckoned. I looked at the clothes through the window, glanced at the price tag. $30. A price I can afford! I eagerly entered. Soft wooley green thigh high socks topped with black lace trim caught my eye. At $24, they were definitely affordable. I filed their image away in my head. I had the excitement shopping dizzies. The drive had been stressful. WI drivers suck.

Headed over to the sale racks and fondled some really pretty Betsy Johnson dresses. I just took them in. White Marilyn Monroe style with black polka dots. So pretty. Most of the other items were to fit a midget, but there was a lot of denim on sale. Nothing stood out and not much was in size 30 or above, and I didn’t need any new jeans. Lacoste sweaters on sale for $60 but they were ugly. Cute Ben Sherman dress, though, but it would wrinkle easily and I’d never iron that shit. Then there was the really pretty black fancy dress for $20, but where would I wear it in fucking Milwaukee? I left.

Quimby’s slightly disappointed. I thought there was a new issue of Burn Collector out, but I didn’t see any. Sold out, maybe. I looked for Ben Weasel’s books too, but didn’t seem them. Didn’t ask, either. Was excited by a new Julie Ducette and Jeffrey Brown, but both weren’t of much substance. Ducette’s wasn’t a story and Brown’s story was about a cat, and I love cats, but I prefer his autobiographical graphic novels. Brown had put out a single issue comic I’d never seen, though, so I grabbed that an issue of the East Village Inky, more for a friedn, but I’ll read it first.

Stupid rain falling down on me as soon as I got outside. Wanted to walk down Milwaukee, but drove instead. Tried to parallel park on Milwaukee but failed miserable, panicked, afraid I’d hold up traffic. Randomly turned down a permit only street and parked. Just wanted to check out the used designer clothes store and the new Ragstock. Got a cheap necklace at the first place (Damn! The stretch Miss Sixtys were just a little too tight. But my ass really is big for my frame!) Ragstock wasn’t worth the trip, at all. It’s teeny tiny and features the lamest stuff from the Belmont store. Cheap tween wear. Quickly darted into the Brown Elephant, but realized that I wasn’t of the right mind to shop. Well, I’d realized that at Akira. Admitted to myself it wasn't a good day to shop.

But that feeling. Did I mention it? It was just same old trendy Wicker Park but the feeling of being there, among many people on the street, it affected me. My energy came burbling back, I started getting that feeling that I‘d like to write. Sit in the cafes there and write. I so rarely feel like that when I‘m out anywhere in Milwaukee. People, cars, congestion. Chicago people really aren’t that hot. They look Midwestern. But at least there’s more of them to look at, meet, maybe even, um....

It’s about 2:00 now, should get down to the southside. Well, near southside, between Pilsen and Bridgeport--McKinley Park, I guess. Okay, on Milwaukee, go to Division, jump on highway, it will be quicker. But I spaced and was still on Milwaukee. Didn’t mind. Not much traffic. Passed the Chopin Theater. Going further and further, feeling a little lost, damn! Highway entrance. Oh well, Halsted’s gotta be down here. Sort of close to LPC Group. Chicago…Elston….ah yeah, there. And I knew which way to turn, even though it was a confusing three-street intersection: Milwaukee, Halsted, and Grand. The Loop to my left, industrial vastness to my right. Stop and stall traffic, but it’s okay. It’s not that far.

Here comes UIC. Took a breath. How would it feel to teach here? To be involved in this academic community? It’s a real university….

Then Greektown. I was here once, I always think that, how I was only in this area really one time, well, except when I saw Vagina Monologues there. Who the fuck was I with? I think Theresa and Rachel, or maybe just Theresa. That Blue Line stop was shut down for a long time, I think. Be fun to go back again. Maybe not at night on a weekend, at prime dinner time. Be annoying.

Okay, here’s Roosevelt. Traffic’s moving really easily now. 18th St should be soon. Yep, here’s the Pilsen art galleries. They were okay, nothing really impressive the night I came last Sept. Jen’s seriously stood out, and I’m not even saying that because she’s my friend.

Cermak. Up and over a grated bridge. Slick. Go slow. Archer should be right up there. Okay, cool. Went too far past the address. Turned around. Parked in some random muddy lot. Got out. Realized there was no 2522 Archer Ave. That’d be where the train stop was. I ran 2521 anyway. A nice guy with braces came down and talked to me. He didn’t know what I was talking about, but at least he was nice. Okay, fuck. What to do?? Called Rachel’s house. Tracy answered, thank god! Pulled up the info from her email. The address was 2966!! What the fuck?!?!! So far off! Confused but relieved, I headed west. Crazy little random ramshackle house, so out of place. Some guy let me in and I walked through his shit to the back door, then down below to the basement, where Rachel, Sarah, and Eric, Sarah’s boyfriend, sat. The address was wrong! Whoever emailed it to me-----That was ME! Sarah yelled. You’re lucky Tracy was home I said! I was about to go shopping on Michigan Ave. They all laughed. Ah, anarchists with senses of humor….

Feeling a little light-headed in need of food. Nibble on a peach and have a chicken taco. Help seal up envelopes of books for quite awhile. Vic from the A-zone arrives. Hair much shorter and flippy, still the most bland dresser I’ve ever seen. She is smart. She rebukes some of my dumb chatty political comments. I sort of think her obnoxious, yet I don’t really think through everything I say. I’m not that well-informed. I said Bush was stupid for trying to charge immigrants thousands of dollars to obtain citizenship. She said he wasn’t, that he was smart, he’s getting what he wants done. But I don’t know. I just wasn’t clear. She did that a few other times. It was annoying, but overall it was okay. Just communication failing.

When the baby talk started I just kept thinking: My friend is right! It does never end! Only with radicals, they bring up terms like “co parenting” and use it contexts I don’t understand. Like two couples share custody of one kid? I don’t know. Rachel said she didn’t want to give birth but wouldn’t mind a child. Sarah said she felt the complete opposite way! Vic said she didn’t want either. Goddamnfuckthisbabytalk!

Rachel and I got to catch up a little, but we were working. She came with me to get the Mexican food. Weird not melted warm cheese enchiladas. Cold cheese. Still tasty. Bland rice and beans. Chicago style Mexican. It won’t kill ya, but it ain’t that good! Sarah must have grabbed some hot sauce, because her stuff tasted better. Horchata too, just too add more weight to that ass. Sigh….

I learned from Sarah and Eric that they only pay about $40-50 a month for their car insurance through Geico. That’s exciting…possibilities.

Around 6:30 they decided to call it quits. I really wanted to have a drink at Skylark, cool, huge open dive bar that apparently serves tater tots. But then I’d have to pee, and I’d be sleepier driving home…and Rachel was probably tired from being in Detroit and camping the week before. I didn’t want to sleep there or drive too late in the rain. So I headed back east. North on Halstead. East on 18th St. Boom. Highway right there.

As I rode up the on ramp, my heart beat. It felt full. I was resisting the idea of going home. Loop skyline right there, the cars, that feeling of needing to be aware, not get killed. Just the whole thing. It’s so hard to describe. Tightened throat. Near tears. I don’t wanna go back there! I was screaming inwardly. Don’t wanna. Fuck that place! This is home. Will this be home again? I don’t know! Avoided the rain successfully until Kenosha then it hit, hard. Scary on and off, blurry. Got off at Rawson and ended up north on 27th St, ugly, boring, depressing 27th with all of its random crappy small businesses and dozens of chain stores. Oh yeah, it’s convenient, but it’s…nothing. And there’s no energy here, but there’s angst. Milwaukee drivers are angst-filled. They can’t wait to be done doing the same shit they did yesterday or last week. They just want to go home or to where they go everyday and feel that normalcy.

I don’t.

Back to work tomorrow teaching the kids! Noooooo! Chicago was SO FUN and RELAXING. I didn’t want to come home. Highlights:

**Going up the escalator from the Chicago Red line stop and having this huge guy in front of me turn around and sneeze at me. A lot of shit flew out of his mouth. Not snot, spit. But damn, a drop of it hit me above my lip. I laughed my ass off. Then this woman who was walking down the stairs said “I *saw* that!” while shaking her head. I kept laughing. “I know,” I replied, “Did he even *see* me?”

Of course some other guy was walking down the street yelling about religion into thin air. Ah, so great, being back in the city.

**Seeing my friend Irie after over five years. He is super nice, squeezable like a teddy, knows the best progressive hip hop (we met him at a lounge where the DJ mixed some rap song with Cory Hart‘s “Sunglasses at Night“ eighties song!), always knows what’s going on, and works at a porn shop that sells pussy molds where he has to fight with crack heads and the last time he did the fucker grabbed his arm, pulled the scab off his new tattoo and fucked it up!

**Later realizing that I probably traumatized my good friend’s girlfriend who dislikes vulgarity and reality by screaming about men who like to fuck women so hard they bleed and what chick likes that I mean I get that some chicks like pain but really to bleed I don’t know about that but whatever it’s cool I just am not into it….She thinks swearing makes one “sound uneducated.” No, lady. Swearing inappropriately makes you seem uneducated. Belting out a good what the fucking fuck amongst friends, or, shit, family, is alll gooood! It relieves stress, damnit!

*Going to the Museum of Contemporary Art for the first time in years. There is a great photography exhibit right now. There were a lot of standouts. They even had some of Larry Clark’s (maker of shocker films like Kids) early stuff. Cool video by this Iranian woman. All good stuff.

*Seeing the Dials finally at the Hideout. Their set was preceded by a Thax Douglas reading. He is an older, chubby gay poet who writes poems inspired by indie bands. Yeah, I know. The one about the Dials had something to do with a snail and was really short. The bitch checking Ids pissed me off, but she was the only person in Chicago during a three-day visit to do! Miraculous!

*Eating pierogis at this new place on Belmont. Spinach and meat are GOOD.

*Getting a pair of Diesel jeans and a cute, short schoolgirl skirt for a total of $12.

*Getting a free button that was supposed to be $2 because the bored, indie rocker cashier was too lazy to ring it up. I threw it on my pile while he was dealing with the clothes and he didn’t notice it until after I paid him. It’s cool to get shit free, but how lazy can someone be? Ha!

*Being on a bus with a take no shit bus driver who totally fucked with a stupid cab driver and watching a bus totally cut off a stupid prick in a purple truck who was turning where he wasn’t supposed.

*Seeing all of my friends, obviously.

*Deciding to cut out drinking for awhile unless I really have a taste for it because it doesn’t make me feel fun at all and doing so will save me money and help me lose those fucking five-to-seven pounds I‘ve been wanting to lose for way too long.

*Eating well, except for my Friday night Jimmy Johns. Seriously. Miso soup and two maki rolls for $6; pierogis; homemade fish tacos with spicy Mexican style polenta and lettuce with cilantro vinaigrette dressing; veggie chorizo with scramble tofu, black beans, tortillas and guac. Yahoo!

*Being around lots of people of varying races and classes, although of course I saw a lot of hipsters and yuppies. None of them really irked me though. People in Chicago seemed so approachable and friendly this trip!

*Listening to my friend totally cuss out some telemarketers on his cell phone.

*Bowling at the recently remodeled Fireside Bowl. I should’ve taken notes. It’s still ugly as hell in there. They could’ve chosen a shade of paint that wasn’t grey or beige. They didn’t change the bar and the beer is still cheap. The bathrooms is the same. But it is not the same. The vibe was so strange. Still crappy but with Depaul kids and yuppies and just normal folks around. Some punkers, a few, bowling. Everyone bowling. No one watching a punk band and posturing. Goddamnit I saw Assuck there. I moved to Chicago ten years ago! So punk! So political! Boy Sets Fire after our house was broken into. Braid a lot. Man. So many bands. There’s still shows there but it’s not often and again, it’s not the same. I don’t like commas tonight.

*Sitting around at Virgin Megastore and people watching. They had a Chuck D doll for sale!

Things that sort of sucked:

+Not being able to see the skull made of melted AC/DC cassettes at the Museum of Surgical whatever due to technology failing and getting a late start.

+Having to run back and forth from J’s to J’s to get my stuff and shower.

+Getting all stupid about a Fendi bag at Neiman Marcus and buying shit at Filene’s Basement that I didn’t need because I was delirious from lack of sustenance.

+Waiting for a half hour to get through the second toll on the way home. Really, how can they tell who has an Ipass or not?

+Coming home to the same old shit.

ATTIDUDE ADJUSTMENT< COMMENCE!

I was reading Chicago’s Lumpen magazine tonight and was very interested in the article about Chicago perhaps becoming the site of the 2016 Summer Olympics. The woman who wrote it, Burke Bindbeutel, did not mention where she procured her information, but I assume it‘s from just living in Chicago, reading The Tribune, watching the news, etc.

Clearly, it takes shitloads of cash ($2 billion) to ready a city for something like the Olympics, but I never really thought about how it could permanently disrupt a city and displace residents. Chicago becomes more and more gentrified as the years pass, so I don’t doubt that, as Bindbeutel claims, the city and a lot of its residents will be really fucked afterwards.
Apparently, Mayor Daley is going to create an “Olympic Village” on 37 acres on the near south side now, even though he won’t know for a few more years whether or not the city will host the games. This will give real estate companies the ability to convert even more housing into blasé looking condominiums that are ridiculously priced, and doing so will push out a lot of the people living on the south side, which Bindbeutel says is one of the last “affordable” areas (yet not super dangerous, I’m assuming) left. I don’t doubt that, either. I saw Division St and other parts of Wicker Park transform into a yuppie playground within two-three years. Driving along Ashland Ave, you pass dozens of cookie cutter condos. There are still some parts of Chicago left that emit a vibe, but they are quickly disappearing, and it’s just very sad.

I yahoo-searched this “Olympic Village” to confirm Bindbeutel’s report and to get a little more information. According to a January 23rd article on the CBS Chicago web site, an 80,000 seat oval-shaped stadium would be built specifically for the games and then taken down. Also according to the article, the area “would serve as athlete housing for the Olympics, and then become a whole new Chicago neighborhood, with homes, apartments, hotels and businesses when the games are over.” A pricey new neighborhood, certainly.

The city also wants to spend about a billion dollars on revamping Loop transportation. However, the Loop is NOT the area where the transit needs to be improved in Chicago, so to me it’s a waste of money. But, like Bindbeutel notes, housing the games is a prime “public relations opportunity.” The city can be marketed to the visitors from all of the nations.

It seems sort of doubtful that Chicago would be chosen over LA, Tokyo, and Rio de Janeiro. It will be CRAZY down there if is, though. Part of me would be disgusted and want to avoid it at all costs, but part of me would be curious, too.

As a sidebar, Bindbeutel included some comments from a sportswriter named Dave Zirin in which he details some of the nasty asides related to the Olympics. He mentions a 1968 massacre of students in Mexico City that happened because “Mexican security forces” wanted “to make their city ‘hospitable’ for an international audience.”

When I read that quote, I felt shocked. I’ve never heard of governmental police forces gunning down people because of the Olympics, so I decided to research the occurrence.

It was called the Tlatelolco Massacre. It happened after weeks of student protests, on October 2. (The site I looked at, www.bookrags.com, didn’t describe what the students were protesting, but people being pissed off at their government is not uncommon, especially in huge international cities). About 5,000 people had gathered for a “peace rally” that evening, and, apparently, “army and police forces-equipped with armored cars and tanks — surrounded the square and began firing live rounds into the crowd, hitting not only the protestors, but also other people who were present for reasons unrelated to the demonstration.” The goon squads said that the protestors were armed and firing at them, but the site says a 1997 investigation found that they were not armed. The average death estimate hovers around a few hundred, but the government only reported 4 dead at the time. Sounds like how the media reports 5,000 people at an anti-Iraq war protest when it was triple that.

As grotesque as this massacre was, it doesn’t sound like it necessarily happened because the Olympics were happening in Mexico City, although the site does say that the protestors wanted “to exploit” the Olympics due to all the media present. So I guess maybe there might have been more pressure to “subdue” the protests. In either case, I am appalled. It bums me out that things that should just be fun are always tainted by selfish, capitalist and often brutal governments.

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.

My friend and I were driving east on North. We were going to do that American thing where you sit your ass on a stool and drink beverages that make you feel sleepy and also make you pudgy. Pudgy Americans, no less. I ordered a fucking Miller product unknowingly and enjoyed it, even (chocolate lager, yum yum).

For dinner I scarfed down a plate full of carbs. Seriously. I had a "jerk" chicken SALAD sandwich. There was about 2 tablespoons of chicken salad on obscenely thick bread. Carbs! For sides, we got friend plantains and fried sweet potato chips. Um, really? Does anyone need TWO friends salty chip sides? Ever hear of a salad, people? I guess they thought the little watermelon wedges offset all of the carbs and salt. SO AMERICAN.

Ahem. Yes. So. Two weekends ago I was really fucked up depressed. Anxious. Couldn't focus. Driving in fucking blizzard conditions on the goddamn highway headed east. One lane. Cars that had hit each other off to each side. Squeezing in close to the car beside me so the fire truck could get through. Just way too surreal. I decided I must exit on Highway 100, which is also conveniently the exit for bullshit Mayfair. I go and I spend somefuckingsixtyfuckingdollars on make-up and body lotion and gel at Sephora. If I spend $36 more I will get a FREE GIFT! Then I went into Boston Store. And I tried on probably 15 items of clothing, possibly twenty. I was having a slight panic attack. My phone rang and that only exacerbated it, due to the name on the caller ID. All of these clothes were so cheap, half off, $7, whatever. I bought three things I think. Then I went home. Then the next day I spend another fifty dollars or so at the other mall on the south side. I went with my mom. Then I went to the big department stores in Oak Creek and spent more money. Yep stayed in one store trying things on for over an hour. Fifty or forty here, seventy there, but the seventy was on stuff I needed, like products and shit. Then I spent $7 on a chicken goat cheese apple walnut salad from Panera. Yeah, healthy, lookit that dressing. Goddamn, the bagel is NEVER going to rescind!

And the day after that I spent $70 on the I-Trip. Fuck!

At dinner, my friend told me how last week he'd gone out to dinner then to a strip club, and his friend convinced the strippers to come back to his house. Then they all did coke together, dude. Partied it up! But it didn't get any sleazier. No strippers stripping in the house. A lot of money spent.

So in the car on North Avenue I started laughing, talking about my shopping. "I get depressed and I shop!" I exclaimed. "I get depressed and do coke with strippers!" he chimed in. "We're such Americans. We're such pussies!" I laughed. He laughed too, and then we said should try to meet up once a week and do something not in the bar.

Oh, the high hopes of Americans!

Hilarious and Honest, Forthright and Sad Celebrity Profiles

A month or so ago, I read an interview with Lindsay Lohan that was so surprisingly entertaining that I must mention it here.

Andrew Goldman interviewed and scribed the Lohan piece for Elle magazine. The reason why it's a delightful read is because Goldman is unafraid to let Lohan represent herself as a naïve, ditzy, self-absorbed yet very aware young woman. She's a decent actress, from what I could tell from only watching Mean Girls, that is, but wow...it's quite curious how someone can come off like a bubblehead and somewhat savvy simultaneously.

Lohan makes Goldman chase her all over NYC before he finally meets her at a restaurant. He comments, "I was taking a trip through Lohanland, and if I had to pen a travel article on my stay there, it would be one-word short, and in the diction of its indigenous people: 'Whatever.'" Here, he does a marvelous job of conveying that she's an inconsiderate wench while remaining rather polite about it.

When describing her appearance, Goldman states that Lohan is "badly in need of a manicure." My immediate thought was that he *must* be gay. What hetero man would notice a woman's fingernails and actually COMMENT on them? However, a few lines down he remarks upon her "fabled chest." Gay? Straight? Who cares! He said Lindsay Lohan had funky cubicles in print. All I have to say is: Ha!

During the interview, it is clear that Goldman was being condescending towards Lohan AND that he was controlling the interview (or at least that is what he wants his readers to believe). For instance, after she claims that Garrison Keillor said he would write her a sequel to the film Prairie Home Companion, Goldman merely murmurs, "Neat" and continues on with his line of questioning. He makes a similar move after she dumbly states, "I just feel like people need to think more before they act. Even me sometimes." He quickly asks "Could you give me an example?" She takes the bait and proceeds to talk about how she ran into Paris Hilton, with whom she was (is?) feuding, and Paris swore at her because Lohan had called her man Starvros, and blah lala lala la! Finally, after she prattles on about how she doesn't want men she's sleeping with to be with anyone but her, but that SHE herself should be able to fuck others, he responds, "Huh. Interesting…." It sounds like he's being pretty disdainful, and I finding it really, really funny! I really have not laughed so loudly at any other celebrity interview.

Here's a few other instances when he lets her blabber away about her surreal Hollywood life:

1. When she admits, "Well. [I] say things that aren't true a lot, just because it's fun."

2. When she asks, "But you know, it's actually weird when the paparazzo's not there and things aren't being written, because you kind of wonder, Do people not care anymore?"

3. When she talks about Paris Hilton and that Brandon Davis guy PRANK CALLING her…..Yeah.

4. When she says, "People say I got Botox in my armpits! No!" (Goldman hilariously asks "Why would you get Botox in your armpits?" Apparently, it stops one from sweating. Ah, Hollowwood….)

5. Last but not least, when she gets defensive about being seen partying with her mother at the NYC club Bungalow. Goldman: "You never long for a more traditional relationship with your mother?" Lohan: "Mischa Barton was there with her mom!" You can just *hear* a whiney, protesting tone!

Oh, hell, no. I mean, hell, yes! I seriously recommend reading the entire interview if you are ever in a waiting room somewhere and you see the September, 2006 issue of Elle (and yes, she's on the cover).