I've heard that the orderliness of one's house is indicative of that person's soul. If this is the case then my soul has been a mess for quite some time. Relatively, anyways. Two months, maybe.
Anyways, last night and earlier today saw me and Aaron going back and forth between our two apartments, moving unnecessary amounts of belongings. Our new place looks slightly smaller with our stuff and our old place needs to be cleaned.
This coming week will be my first 30+ hour work week in recent times. It feels good being out of school so when I'm out of work my mind is free of trouble. Life will be this way until August 24th (provided that I enroll in school).
I feel like I've been doing lots of complaining lately. That's always awkward for every party involved so I'll try keeping that to a minimum. How about a brief tour of my neighborhood? Good.
Across the street from the coffee shop that is currently employing me is a crap shop. In its windows are shelves that are stocked with crap that is out-dated. Even the globe, somehow. Maybe Mr. Mercator is responsible for that. Regardless of the fact that the store sells crap, it is run by a tall, lanky, black man of, perhaps, recent African descent. At night, when the crap shop closes, the church he serves as pastor over opens. Loud music is played into the night, though outside people such as myself are only able to see the drawn curtains in the store's windows (in front of which is a poster of Mr. Jesus Christ). To the immediate west of these two establishments is an abandoned store-front. It appears to have been both a video store and a printing store, presumably on separate occasions. Wall-papered over where a pane of glass probably once stood (but was probably replaced by wooden panels after a drive-by shooting may have broken the original glass) are advertisements for Saw V and Law Abiding Citizen.
Still moving west, across Lakewood, we come to a funeral home that is no longer in operation. It was owned by the Weinstein Brothers (unless the name is fictitious) and is on the market for $2.5 mil. This includes the actual funeral home, as well as five parking lots. According to Aaron (I am like-minded on this issue), this is a great deal. If it were financially feasible, he would make the purchase and open Dead Beats, a rock and roll venue.
This neighborhood is based around Loyola University-- it's huge and its presence is undeniable. The red line stop is named Loyola, as opposed to Devon, for instance. While the main hot spots of this area seem to be Chipotle and Starbucks, there is room for development that could make this area really cool. A block from this coffee shop is Uncommon Ground, a few blocks down Devon is a bookstore called Armadillo Pillow, a music store called Flatts & Sharpe, and a (relatively) cheap movie theater called The New 400, and there's at least one local bar that isn't creepy (by creepy I'm referring to Hamilton's, which features 17 year old girls being oggled by 40 year old men, and the Oasis, which is the main hub of Jeffrey Dahmer-like past-their-prime guys. One theory has it that these people develop their creepy ways at Nick's Uptown, then congregate at the Oasis once their trade has been refined. Extrapolating on that idea is for another day, though).
The people of this neighborhood are primarily college students, aged hippies, cab-driver-type guys, and a handful of sketchy people (the close proximity of the red line will douse any good neighborhood with a hint of armed robbery). The border-area of Edgewater and Rogers Park (which is what I've been talking about this whole time) has been growing recently because it is affordable (compared to Lakeview and Lincoln Park), it is near the lake, and it is within reach of Evanston. Opening a cool music venue in this area would spur growth through the increase in visitors. I think it would allow college graduates to consider sticking around instead of moving south.
Here's what happened: I wrote most of this a few days ago. I didn't finish it, nor did I post it. This lack of continuance turned a guided tour of my neighborhood into an unorganized argument for the installation of a venue. Funny how that worked out.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Grid System
Here we are, on the verge collapse, too tired to eat and too hungry to sleep. My waking dreams are of sleeping in and my hopes are to remain in an exhausted delirium until the end is near or the final pillow falls.
Enough of that. I"m at work. I did my time for Aaron's company earlier today and now I'm at the coffee shop. My bagel is almost finished and my second cup of coffee of the day is about to begin.
It's counter-intuitive, I suppose, that coffee and cigarettes seem to give me less energy. I don't smoke cigarettes these days, but last time I started was an attempt at getting the upper hand on my busy schedule. I ended up smoking at the very least a half pack and drinking an energy drink or two by the time any given day was done that semester. I had never felt so worn out by the end. It happened in a weird way, too: the most difficult part of the day was getting out of bed. Once the hard part was over I felt in a haze. There would be brief moments of clarity, of course, because drinking energy drinks on a daily basis will do that. After school (which was generally 5 days a week from 9:30-2) I'd head downtown where I was employed by my dad as his... well, "legal assistant" was my title and "law clerk" would my what I would say to give unwarranted good impressions to random people. Truth be told, I was very ineffective. My dad was well-aware but knew I had nothing else lined up.
The worst part of this over-bearing attack of stimulants on my nervous system and on my brain was that I didn't do anything well-- I failed math class, dropped Spanish, pitied my way into an A in Abnormal Psychology, and... I don't even remember what other two classes I was taking. There, I looked it up: a B in speech and a C in Logic. My point is that my logic entering such a challenging semester was faulty: I figured that a healthy dose of stimulating beverages and smokes would ensure good grades and an excellent mind. Not the case. Oh, and within a week of the end of the semester, Girlfriendo had had it up to here (which may be her chin if she were to motion) and got the ball rolling for us to break up. The root of the problem, of course, was me.
I mention all this because I've been drinking all kinds of coffee lately. I haven't been smoking cigarettes, nor have I been drinking that red bull-urine stuff either, but it may all be in compensation. I'm fairly certain that the effects of caffeine on the nervous system of a human being is not very positive, and I don't like the idea that I haven't quit cigarettes if I'm still having to compensate. And now I don't know how to end that thought.
Here's the deal with this place I'm moving to, though: The lady downstairs smokes, the girl I'm living with smokes, Aaron's been working on a pack of Parliament lights for the past 4 days, and the Loyola kids who party every weekend and live in the building next door smoke while they're drinking outside. All of this sounds right up my alley. Well, not my current alley. Girlfriendo may murder me if I start smoking again, the ol' family will be mighty upset, Danny and Matsuo will be pissed off that I keep quitting and starting again and again...
On the other hand, what I don't usually do is reason my way through this. I call my current predicament an "intellectual relapse." I don't, normally, as I just came up with that. I would, though, had I though of that little phrase sooner. Regardless, here's what I mean (I'll use this current circumstance as an example of what usually happens at first): I stopped smoking on a daily basis about three months ago. Actually, damn near exactly three months ago. The first day or so goes by, followed by the first week or two, and my mind-set is "I never want to go through this kind of withdrawal again as long as I am alive." Once that passes, there's a two week period where I will probably smoke one or a few and realize that I've either made a terrible mistake or that I was right to quit all along. Once a month has gone by, I'm in this mode where I'm actively against smoking. I smell someone smoking a cigarette and I hold my breath; I stop going to my dad's house because he smokes inside; I stop calling my friends because they all smoke.
On to the three month mark... It's a different season, stressors are different, and my general routine has changed (maybe even my residence). At this point I feel like cigarettes was never much of a problem and that beginning again would be more of a hobby or recreation than anything else. After this mindset has set in, I go out drinking-- maybe I call up a smoker to go drinking with on purpose, just to speed up the awkward process of beginning again. I either do or do not buy a pack that first night and, when I wake up, I think, "Man, smoking was a bad idea. I feel like shit." Once the next evening comes on, though, I'm ready to go out drinking again-- only, here's the thing: I'm not particularly jonesing for a drink. I decide I may be off the path I had cleared for myself three months earlier, so I make a conscious decision to limit my smoking to when I go out drinking. The rest of the story is simple: I adjust my drinking schedule with my smoking needs and soon I'm going out every night. Sooner or later I realize that going out so often is not economically viable and I quit drinking (or, at least, cut back). Within the terms of this cut-back is a complete lack of attention on behalf of cigarette-smoking. By this point, it is a given that when I wake up, I will smoke a cigarette while my coffee is brewing.
The End
The sequel would be the other half of the circle, where the first month or so has me thinking, "What did I do without cigarettes?" My thought-process will have sped up, my social interaction will have become more frequent, and no moment will be wasted (because unoccupied time was converted into a smoke-break, of course). All of a sudden, this new and improved me is on top of the world: I can spend endless amounts of time talking to my old man, sitting in a musty apartment in Champaign, or in a crappy bar in Chicago (until I have to step outside, of course). Once that month is up, things start to free-fall: I realize that my diet has been caffeine and cigarettes, predominantly (mixing it up with Pepsi is not unheard of, though). I run on very little food (let alone healthy food) and, as far as the literal definition of "run" goes, I do very little. I take the train or my car instead of my bike and I refrain from even playing catch with Hank for very long. There's a period of uncertainty where I carry on with my ways but I'm in a depression because I begin to realize that the decisions I'm making are bad ones. Eventually, I feel the physical downsides: my heart begins to burn when I smoke, my lungs expel disgusting shades of green phlegm, and I have trouble sleeping (which is followed by trouble waking up).
At a moment in time that has not been predetermined (and sometimes in the middle of a pack), I quit. It is usually at the end of the night so I don't have to experience too many waking hours of cigarette-fiending immediately. For the next few days I am exhausted and refreshed at the same time. My conscience is eased, my breathing is easier, and my general health seems to upgrade fairly instantaneously.
It's a matter of about three months before I forget the upsides and wonder if quitting was worth it at all.
Enough of that. I"m at work. I did my time for Aaron's company earlier today and now I'm at the coffee shop. My bagel is almost finished and my second cup of coffee of the day is about to begin.
It's counter-intuitive, I suppose, that coffee and cigarettes seem to give me less energy. I don't smoke cigarettes these days, but last time I started was an attempt at getting the upper hand on my busy schedule. I ended up smoking at the very least a half pack and drinking an energy drink or two by the time any given day was done that semester. I had never felt so worn out by the end. It happened in a weird way, too: the most difficult part of the day was getting out of bed. Once the hard part was over I felt in a haze. There would be brief moments of clarity, of course, because drinking energy drinks on a daily basis will do that. After school (which was generally 5 days a week from 9:30-2) I'd head downtown where I was employed by my dad as his... well, "legal assistant" was my title and "law clerk" would my what I would say to give unwarranted good impressions to random people. Truth be told, I was very ineffective. My dad was well-aware but knew I had nothing else lined up.
The worst part of this over-bearing attack of stimulants on my nervous system and on my brain was that I didn't do anything well-- I failed math class, dropped Spanish, pitied my way into an A in Abnormal Psychology, and... I don't even remember what other two classes I was taking. There, I looked it up: a B in speech and a C in Logic. My point is that my logic entering such a challenging semester was faulty: I figured that a healthy dose of stimulating beverages and smokes would ensure good grades and an excellent mind. Not the case. Oh, and within a week of the end of the semester, Girlfriendo had had it up to here (which may be her chin if she were to motion) and got the ball rolling for us to break up. The root of the problem, of course, was me.
I mention all this because I've been drinking all kinds of coffee lately. I haven't been smoking cigarettes, nor have I been drinking that red bull-urine stuff either, but it may all be in compensation. I'm fairly certain that the effects of caffeine on the nervous system of a human being is not very positive, and I don't like the idea that I haven't quit cigarettes if I'm still having to compensate. And now I don't know how to end that thought.
Here's the deal with this place I'm moving to, though: The lady downstairs smokes, the girl I'm living with smokes, Aaron's been working on a pack of Parliament lights for the past 4 days, and the Loyola kids who party every weekend and live in the building next door smoke while they're drinking outside. All of this sounds right up my alley. Well, not my current alley. Girlfriendo may murder me if I start smoking again, the ol' family will be mighty upset, Danny and Matsuo will be pissed off that I keep quitting and starting again and again...
On the other hand, what I don't usually do is reason my way through this. I call my current predicament an "intellectual relapse." I don't, normally, as I just came up with that. I would, though, had I though of that little phrase sooner. Regardless, here's what I mean (I'll use this current circumstance as an example of what usually happens at first): I stopped smoking on a daily basis about three months ago. Actually, damn near exactly three months ago. The first day or so goes by, followed by the first week or two, and my mind-set is "I never want to go through this kind of withdrawal again as long as I am alive." Once that passes, there's a two week period where I will probably smoke one or a few and realize that I've either made a terrible mistake or that I was right to quit all along. Once a month has gone by, I'm in this mode where I'm actively against smoking. I smell someone smoking a cigarette and I hold my breath; I stop going to my dad's house because he smokes inside; I stop calling my friends because they all smoke.
On to the three month mark... It's a different season, stressors are different, and my general routine has changed (maybe even my residence). At this point I feel like cigarettes was never much of a problem and that beginning again would be more of a hobby or recreation than anything else. After this mindset has set in, I go out drinking-- maybe I call up a smoker to go drinking with on purpose, just to speed up the awkward process of beginning again. I either do or do not buy a pack that first night and, when I wake up, I think, "Man, smoking was a bad idea. I feel like shit." Once the next evening comes on, though, I'm ready to go out drinking again-- only, here's the thing: I'm not particularly jonesing for a drink. I decide I may be off the path I had cleared for myself three months earlier, so I make a conscious decision to limit my smoking to when I go out drinking. The rest of the story is simple: I adjust my drinking schedule with my smoking needs and soon I'm going out every night. Sooner or later I realize that going out so often is not economically viable and I quit drinking (or, at least, cut back). Within the terms of this cut-back is a complete lack of attention on behalf of cigarette-smoking. By this point, it is a given that when I wake up, I will smoke a cigarette while my coffee is brewing.
The End
The sequel would be the other half of the circle, where the first month or so has me thinking, "What did I do without cigarettes?" My thought-process will have sped up, my social interaction will have become more frequent, and no moment will be wasted (because unoccupied time was converted into a smoke-break, of course). All of a sudden, this new and improved me is on top of the world: I can spend endless amounts of time talking to my old man, sitting in a musty apartment in Champaign, or in a crappy bar in Chicago (until I have to step outside, of course). Once that month is up, things start to free-fall: I realize that my diet has been caffeine and cigarettes, predominantly (mixing it up with Pepsi is not unheard of, though). I run on very little food (let alone healthy food) and, as far as the literal definition of "run" goes, I do very little. I take the train or my car instead of my bike and I refrain from even playing catch with Hank for very long. There's a period of uncertainty where I carry on with my ways but I'm in a depression because I begin to realize that the decisions I'm making are bad ones. Eventually, I feel the physical downsides: my heart begins to burn when I smoke, my lungs expel disgusting shades of green phlegm, and I have trouble sleeping (which is followed by trouble waking up).
At a moment in time that has not been predetermined (and sometimes in the middle of a pack), I quit. It is usually at the end of the night so I don't have to experience too many waking hours of cigarette-fiending immediately. For the next few days I am exhausted and refreshed at the same time. My conscience is eased, my breathing is easier, and my general health seems to upgrade fairly instantaneously.
It's a matter of about three months before I forget the upsides and wonder if quitting was worth it at all.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Rules Broken
After thoroughly indulging my taste buds, I can safely say that Lincoln Park tastes like Pabst. If that's what the Taste of Lincoln Park was going for, I'm on board. The sound, on the other hand, didn't quite cut it. Brendan Kelly was scheduled to play which, at the very least, attracted me, Danny and Dave. His set was a little off though. A few more Dave Mathews covers than I had hoped for, and even his own rendition of Brown Eyed Girl. Unfortunately, time restrictions must have kept him from playing anything he wrote for the Lawrence Arms, and may even be responsible for him sounding much different than on his recordings. With his altered sound, lasered-off tattoos, and higher pitched vocals, I think he has finally cut all ties to the Lawrence Arms and punk rock. I guess this was well calculated as everyone wearing a backwards Cubs seemed to love him.
Anyways, this paper I'm supposed to be writing is turning me into quite the alcoholic (relatively speaking). Though it's still been lightly, I've been drinking a good four or five times a week over these past three, as opposed to my former intake which, for a while, hovered around one fairly drunk evening in a week. This is a step in a... different direction, I suppose, from what had been the case this time last year... (classic segue?)
I had quit Starbucks at the end of July. My last night working caused me to miss William Elliott Whitmore at Wicker Park Fest and I was sufficiently angry at Starbucks on just about every level (which is a good way to leave a job. I only went for the last shift because I was working with a girl who was cool and not worthy of pissing off). Dave and I were basking in the last warm days of drinking on my front steps, Lucy and I had broken up, and I was soon to embark on a cross country trip with Terra (whom I rarely hang out with) riding only on Greyhound buses. The full-fledged drinking really began once Lucy and I got back together and broke up again. Hm... I think I should wait for another month and a half until this topic reaches the accurate "year after" point and becomes somewhat relevant to write about.
I think I mentioned something about some other topic... Oh, that whole "testing the faith" thing. I do a lot of that. Sometimes it can be vague, like with cigarettes: am I testing my faith in how much I love smoking by quitting so often? Or maybe I'm testing my faith when I do smoke, just to see how much I enjoy being healthy. I could, on the third hand, be addicted. My mom used to tell me I was testing my faith by rejecting my Catholic upbringing. I don't think this is the case as there was never any faith to begin with. What I did do, though, was test my lack of faith by hanging out with a kid whose father turned the first floor of his house into a church. We stopped hanging out after a weekend retreat to do some good, old-fashioned bible studying. What really creeped me out was the family prayer that was said in Burger King parking lot after getting drive-thru. Even in 8th grade I was aware that no amount of prayer would save someone from that kind of diarrhea.
By the way, I think "testing the faith" is a phrase that isn't very good at all. It seems to give unnecessary amounts of gravity and meaning to things like, I don't know, drinking. "Faith" isn't something I have in drinking. That word is much too profound/ridiculous. Unfortunately, I do not care enough to come up with anything better.
Back on topic, though: the phrase "testing your faith" can be very detrimental. It can also be a life-saver (literally). Before I move forward, I would like to equate "testing your faith" with "just experimenting." There. Done. Where were we? Oh, okay. So the when I used to be fascinated with trying new and exciting ways of getting high (though not overly creative ways like making a meth-lab or abusing bottles of whipped cream), the general consensus amongst the people I hung out with was that this was not a phase, but a lifestyle. That was good and all. Like anything else, you have to go all in. I got it. You were looked down on if you were "just experimenting," even though the people who weren't and would end up having a serious problem wish they were just fooling around. Like in Inception, a deeply planted idea that is believed and, thus, adhered to, can be very powerful. I don't know what everyone else thought, but deep down I knew I was "just experimenting." If I didn't know that I would've let myself devolve into a coke-head or a caffeine-junkie.
That last example was of "just experimenting." Easy enough. Here's something that seems similar but is actually entirely different: I don't watch much television. I try not to. I consider watching lots of television as a way of shutting actual thinking from one's mind. I didn't use to mind it in excess because, for me, it happened so infrequently. I didn't have cable when I was growing up and the television I had was small and crappy. Making a day of smoking pot and watching Mrs. Doubtfire is good and fun when I'm in my friends' dorm room is good and fun. Making that a daily routine or commonplace is another story. See, I like to refrain from judging the way other people live, but I feel like I have to when important decisions are made by the general public and this particular general public has its collective head up its collective ass. So here I am, sounding like an old man or my mom or something. I don't know, maybe it's my poor vision that my eyes reject staring at glowing rectangles for more than a certain amount of time. Anyways, my point being that because I know better (which is debatable, I suppose), if I were to alter my schedule to allow for long periods of time watching Lost or TMZ or both... well, I just had a change of thought. Here's the deal: if I begin watching lots and lots of crappy television, I will be "testing my faith." I feel very strongly for not watching television, to the point that I feel bad for people who do-- so if I were to suddenly begin watching television on a very regular basis, I would be "testing my faith." The idea is that, because this is just a test of faith, I will end up abiding by the rules I believe in and not by an easier lifestyle which I happen to abhor.
Many people do this during the Christian Lenten Season, but I don't know why. People who participate in this ritual tend to act as if they're saying, "Here's a problem I have. I'll take 40 days off. It will be enough that I recognized the problem-- it isn't necessary to fix it." The majority of those not in the first category seem to be doing it to fuck with themselves, like "I guess I eat to much chocolate, but I really like it regardless so I think I'll give it up." The handful of those left over may have genuine intentions of fixing their ways.
Here's the deal: from the extensive research that I will say I've done, it is apparent to me that the idea of "testing your faith" implies returning to your former state. If that's the case, then what's the point? To gain experience? To see a new perspective? Those are good and fine reasons to do something but I think the bone I meant to pick is that people seem to refuse from past mistakes. That is very frustrating.
Speaking of very frustrating: I write these entries while I'm at work. Having to get up and do something every ten minutes leads to the tracks for these trains of thought often being scattered. My writing doesn't seem to be very cohesive these days.
Anyways, this paper I'm supposed to be writing is turning me into quite the alcoholic (relatively speaking). Though it's still been lightly, I've been drinking a good four or five times a week over these past three, as opposed to my former intake which, for a while, hovered around one fairly drunk evening in a week. This is a step in a... different direction, I suppose, from what had been the case this time last year... (classic segue?)
I had quit Starbucks at the end of July. My last night working caused me to miss William Elliott Whitmore at Wicker Park Fest and I was sufficiently angry at Starbucks on just about every level (which is a good way to leave a job. I only went for the last shift because I was working with a girl who was cool and not worthy of pissing off). Dave and I were basking in the last warm days of drinking on my front steps, Lucy and I had broken up, and I was soon to embark on a cross country trip with Terra (whom I rarely hang out with) riding only on Greyhound buses. The full-fledged drinking really began once Lucy and I got back together and broke up again. Hm... I think I should wait for another month and a half until this topic reaches the accurate "year after" point and becomes somewhat relevant to write about.
I think I mentioned something about some other topic... Oh, that whole "testing the faith" thing. I do a lot of that. Sometimes it can be vague, like with cigarettes: am I testing my faith in how much I love smoking by quitting so often? Or maybe I'm testing my faith when I do smoke, just to see how much I enjoy being healthy. I could, on the third hand, be addicted. My mom used to tell me I was testing my faith by rejecting my Catholic upbringing. I don't think this is the case as there was never any faith to begin with. What I did do, though, was test my lack of faith by hanging out with a kid whose father turned the first floor of his house into a church. We stopped hanging out after a weekend retreat to do some good, old-fashioned bible studying. What really creeped me out was the family prayer that was said in Burger King parking lot after getting drive-thru. Even in 8th grade I was aware that no amount of prayer would save someone from that kind of diarrhea.
By the way, I think "testing the faith" is a phrase that isn't very good at all. It seems to give unnecessary amounts of gravity and meaning to things like, I don't know, drinking. "Faith" isn't something I have in drinking. That word is much too profound/ridiculous. Unfortunately, I do not care enough to come up with anything better.
Back on topic, though: the phrase "testing your faith" can be very detrimental. It can also be a life-saver (literally). Before I move forward, I would like to equate "testing your faith" with "just experimenting." There. Done. Where were we? Oh, okay. So the when I used to be fascinated with trying new and exciting ways of getting high (though not overly creative ways like making a meth-lab or abusing bottles of whipped cream), the general consensus amongst the people I hung out with was that this was not a phase, but a lifestyle. That was good and all. Like anything else, you have to go all in. I got it. You were looked down on if you were "just experimenting," even though the people who weren't and would end up having a serious problem wish they were just fooling around. Like in Inception, a deeply planted idea that is believed and, thus, adhered to, can be very powerful. I don't know what everyone else thought, but deep down I knew I was "just experimenting." If I didn't know that I would've let myself devolve into a coke-head or a caffeine-junkie.
That last example was of "just experimenting." Easy enough. Here's something that seems similar but is actually entirely different: I don't watch much television. I try not to. I consider watching lots of television as a way of shutting actual thinking from one's mind. I didn't use to mind it in excess because, for me, it happened so infrequently. I didn't have cable when I was growing up and the television I had was small and crappy. Making a day of smoking pot and watching Mrs. Doubtfire is good and fun when I'm in my friends' dorm room is good and fun. Making that a daily routine or commonplace is another story. See, I like to refrain from judging the way other people live, but I feel like I have to when important decisions are made by the general public and this particular general public has its collective head up its collective ass. So here I am, sounding like an old man or my mom or something. I don't know, maybe it's my poor vision that my eyes reject staring at glowing rectangles for more than a certain amount of time. Anyways, my point being that because I know better (which is debatable, I suppose), if I were to alter my schedule to allow for long periods of time watching Lost or TMZ or both... well, I just had a change of thought. Here's the deal: if I begin watching lots and lots of crappy television, I will be "testing my faith." I feel very strongly for not watching television, to the point that I feel bad for people who do-- so if I were to suddenly begin watching television on a very regular basis, I would be "testing my faith." The idea is that, because this is just a test of faith, I will end up abiding by the rules I believe in and not by an easier lifestyle which I happen to abhor.
Many people do this during the Christian Lenten Season, but I don't know why. People who participate in this ritual tend to act as if they're saying, "Here's a problem I have. I'll take 40 days off. It will be enough that I recognized the problem-- it isn't necessary to fix it." The majority of those not in the first category seem to be doing it to fuck with themselves, like "I guess I eat to much chocolate, but I really like it regardless so I think I'll give it up." The handful of those left over may have genuine intentions of fixing their ways.
Here's the deal: from the extensive research that I will say I've done, it is apparent to me that the idea of "testing your faith" implies returning to your former state. If that's the case, then what's the point? To gain experience? To see a new perspective? Those are good and fine reasons to do something but I think the bone I meant to pick is that people seem to refuse from past mistakes. That is very frustrating.
Speaking of very frustrating: I write these entries while I'm at work. Having to get up and do something every ten minutes leads to the tracks for these trains of thought often being scattered. My writing doesn't seem to be very cohesive these days.
Friday, July 23, 2010
Tonight, you
Outside it's raining and inside it's about 100 degrees. The thermometer reads 89 but that's not entirely accurate. It feels higher with the humidity. The rain outside is nearly torrential and my banana seems to be ripening in record time.
I saw Inception last night. Y'know, the one with Leonardo DiCaprio? And Juno? Notice how I referred to her as "Juno," as opposed to "Ellen Page"? Here's why: she's not a very good actress. She was perfect for the role as a teenager making snide remarks just as George Clooney is a perfect fit for any movie that needs George Clooney as a character (see: Batman and Robin for a movie that needed Bruce Wayne, not George Clooney). She was okay, though-- for the task she was assigned. It was as if Jonathan Nolan recognized her lack of skill after her contract was signed, so he designated her as "the character who points out the obvious in case any member of the audience couldn't comprehend what was going on." The necessity of this sort of role in this particular movie is questionable.
I am not a movie-critic-- I am a random-thought generator (and not a very lucky one at that). Take into account that I was groggy from this cold and under-caffeinated because my sore throat interpreted hot coffee as being awful all day yesterday.
Back to that banana: I had been looking forward to eating this particular banana for a few days now. It's the second to last one left from the bunch I bought recently and it was the better of the two. Because I was running late, it was the only thing I brought to snack on. So, noticing a window of about 20 minutes without customers, I decided it was time. I smile, grab the banana, and begin peeling. First things first, the banana decides, as a good 80% makes a clean break and heads for the floor. The salvaged portion wasn't the best I'd ever had-- just barely overripe. So it goes.
I think I'll name this entry Hand... Banana.
The next entry will be about questioning your faith (if I remember to write it). Not talking necessarily about religion here. For instance, I used to love baseball. Now I see it only as a way for people to avoid thinking outside of certain settings they've set up for themselves. Maybe I'm being very realistic or maybe I'm being a sour puss. I'll discuss these matters... Sunday, maybe.
I saw Inception last night. Y'know, the one with Leonardo DiCaprio? And Juno? Notice how I referred to her as "Juno," as opposed to "Ellen Page"? Here's why: she's not a very good actress. She was perfect for the role as a teenager making snide remarks just as George Clooney is a perfect fit for any movie that needs George Clooney as a character (see: Batman and Robin for a movie that needed Bruce Wayne, not George Clooney). She was okay, though-- for the task she was assigned. It was as if Jonathan Nolan recognized her lack of skill after her contract was signed, so he designated her as "the character who points out the obvious in case any member of the audience couldn't comprehend what was going on." The necessity of this sort of role in this particular movie is questionable.
I am not a movie-critic-- I am a random-thought generator (and not a very lucky one at that). Take into account that I was groggy from this cold and under-caffeinated because my sore throat interpreted hot coffee as being awful all day yesterday.
Back to that banana: I had been looking forward to eating this particular banana for a few days now. It's the second to last one left from the bunch I bought recently and it was the better of the two. Because I was running late, it was the only thing I brought to snack on. So, noticing a window of about 20 minutes without customers, I decided it was time. I smile, grab the banana, and begin peeling. First things first, the banana decides, as a good 80% makes a clean break and heads for the floor. The salvaged portion wasn't the best I'd ever had-- just barely overripe. So it goes.
I think I'll name this entry Hand... Banana.
The next entry will be about questioning your faith (if I remember to write it). Not talking necessarily about religion here. For instance, I used to love baseball. Now I see it only as a way for people to avoid thinking outside of certain settings they've set up for themselves. Maybe I'm being very realistic or maybe I'm being a sour puss. I'll discuss these matters... Sunday, maybe.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Incomplete 1
Last night was the first time I ever took part in a police line-up. It worked like this: the suspected suspect was taken into custody yesterday afternoon-- I had pointed him out from six different pictures. So they took that guy and added four other somewhat similar looking guys to make sure I knew what the guy looked like. It wasn't difficult; the guy had enough unique characteristics that it'd be hard to mistake somebody else for him. That's what I thought, anyways, until a guy walked by Stella a few minutes ago. This new guy had all the same features (from a distance, that is... and my poor eye sight must be taken into account) but was less... bum-like-- that is to say that he was more clean-cut. More tidy, I guess. His hair was better groomed and he had an earring (as I described to police on the night of the incident). I'm tempted to call the detective and inform him but I think it'd be better if I keep a good eye out tonight and tomorrow to possibly confirm my suspicions.
Like this time one week ago, I feel fucked. Last week I had a 5 page paper due in two days. Now I have a ten page paper due in two days. What's worse is that I can barely use any of my 5 page paper because the topic isn't narrow enough. I'm sick of reading and comparing the two Mayor Daleys and I've barely even started!
Like this time one week ago, I feel fucked. Last week I had a 5 page paper due in two days. Now I have a ten page paper due in two days. What's worse is that I can barely use any of my 5 page paper because the topic isn't narrow enough. I'm sick of reading and comparing the two Mayor Daleys and I've barely even started!
Monday, July 19, 2010
From the Noble Tree
Today is Hank's birthday. He's 15 and in the middle of his terrible-twos. The music playing sounds like Earl's but was probably made by Bob Dylan. The weather can't decide between menacing and merciful. The people I had to call ended up phoning me. The only return I have to make is to Detective Beck to schedule an appointment for a line-up. They must have arrested that dude last night or earlier today because Aaron ran into Stella last night after having seen the guy walking down Lakewood by Devon.
I suppose I should be on my way. My homework is almost done and I just made a 9:30 appointment at the Belmont and Western police station.
My topic of interest for today was going to be related to this guy. Say I pick a guy out of a line-up that looks just like the guy who robbed me. Say I'm fairly certain. What if I'm wrong? Should I feel bad? If I were in the line-up and I was chosen, would I be angry at the person who chose me or would I be angry at the tall, lanky guy who somewhat resembled me and robbed a person in the neighborhood where I tend to hang out? Hm.. Anyhow, whoever robbed me is just perpetuating a stereotype.. one that I thought people were trying to break. Why do people so often act the way society expects them to act? I'm not a fan.
I suppose I should be on my way. My homework is almost done and I just made a 9:30 appointment at the Belmont and Western police station.
My topic of interest for today was going to be related to this guy. Say I pick a guy out of a line-up that looks just like the guy who robbed me. Say I'm fairly certain. What if I'm wrong? Should I feel bad? If I were in the line-up and I was chosen, would I be angry at the person who chose me or would I be angry at the tall, lanky guy who somewhat resembled me and robbed a person in the neighborhood where I tend to hang out? Hm.. Anyhow, whoever robbed me is just perpetuating a stereotype.. one that I thought people were trying to break. Why do people so often act the way society expects them to act? I'm not a fan.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
An Evening of Extraordinary Circumstance
There's a kid named Adam staying at my mom's house. He's from France and will be catching a flight home on Monday. My mom has told me of several occasions where this Adam kid has been less than appreciative of the hospitality he's been given. For instance, after a night of miniature golfing and swinging at baseballs in batting cages, my mom wasn't given so much as a "thank you." This could be the case for several reasons. Maybe he thinks his thanks is implied or possibly he assumes it very commonplace to go out and go miniature golfing on a regular basis. Who cares, though. What interests me is a parallel I see to a trip I took to Mexico during the summer between 8th grade and freshman year. I went with a kid named Paul and traveled around the country for about a month. What's already similar is the fact that both my and Adam's respective trips have been unnecessarily long. Like Adam and our family, I barely knew Paul's family. What I knew of Paul beforehand did not flatter his character too much. Basically, I thought he was an asshole. So did everyone else, apparently, as I was a close enough friend for him to invite me on a trip to Mexico.
So this Adam kid lacks manners. One thing Paul's parents loved about me was how polite I was. I thanked them for any gesture that was even remotely courteous and I displayed the utmost patience for their youngest child, who was an outspoken brat. One memorable car ride lasted an hour and a half and Augustin (this kid's name) declared "Je chaud!" every two minutes. To this day I do not know what stopped me from punching him in the face. So my (arguably) extreme courtesy was complemented by a complete lack of communication after they dropped me off at the airport and I caught my flight home-- no postcard, no letter of thanks, nothing. I had bought a batarang (the batman symbol-shaped knife thing) that seemed about as close to the real thing as I have ever seen. I was tempted to contact Paul or his family to retrieve that as I had left it behind in fear that airport security would accuse me of being Batman or something.
So the connection is that Adam and I, when Adam goes home and this whole ordeal is over, will have conducted our manners in an inverse fashion in relation to the other.
The second parallel I've noticed reminded me of itself last night. When my parents lived on Wolfram between Sheffield and Halsted back in... the early '90's, they would go to a bar called Lawry's. I remember going there once for their chicken dinner, I think. Or chicken wings. Something like that. Anyways, I remember that the Kansas State football game was on, and that Martín Gramática was playing and that he was an amazing placekicker. This was in 1999 or '98. Somewhere around there. So this bar was on Diversey, about a block west of Sheffield on the north side of the street. Three years ago it was bought by a couple of dudes who invested in classier beer, replaced the facade and made it much less of a dive. This is where Girlfriendo and I went last night, as well as several other nights.
Although these two circumstances with vaguely related aspects are merely arbitrary coincidences that would be just as important to the world if they went completely unnoticed, it is the best subject matter I could come up with today.
So this Adam kid lacks manners. One thing Paul's parents loved about me was how polite I was. I thanked them for any gesture that was even remotely courteous and I displayed the utmost patience for their youngest child, who was an outspoken brat. One memorable car ride lasted an hour and a half and Augustin (this kid's name) declared "Je chaud!" every two minutes. To this day I do not know what stopped me from punching him in the face. So my (arguably) extreme courtesy was complemented by a complete lack of communication after they dropped me off at the airport and I caught my flight home-- no postcard, no letter of thanks, nothing. I had bought a batarang (the batman symbol-shaped knife thing) that seemed about as close to the real thing as I have ever seen. I was tempted to contact Paul or his family to retrieve that as I had left it behind in fear that airport security would accuse me of being Batman or something.
So the connection is that Adam and I, when Adam goes home and this whole ordeal is over, will have conducted our manners in an inverse fashion in relation to the other.
The second parallel I've noticed reminded me of itself last night. When my parents lived on Wolfram between Sheffield and Halsted back in... the early '90's, they would go to a bar called Lawry's. I remember going there once for their chicken dinner, I think. Or chicken wings. Something like that. Anyways, I remember that the Kansas State football game was on, and that Martín Gramática was playing and that he was an amazing placekicker. This was in 1999 or '98. Somewhere around there. So this bar was on Diversey, about a block west of Sheffield on the north side of the street. Three years ago it was bought by a couple of dudes who invested in classier beer, replaced the facade and made it much less of a dive. This is where Girlfriendo and I went last night, as well as several other nights.
Although these two circumstances with vaguely related aspects are merely arbitrary coincidences that would be just as important to the world if they went completely unnoticed, it is the best subject matter I could come up with today.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Bump in the Road.
I can now cross two things off of my to-do list: get robbed at gun-point and fall off a moving vehicle.
The latter incident took place last night (but had nothing to do with a latter). Girlfriendo and I were riding back from Pitchfork. We had seen the tail end of Broken Social Scene before the entirety of Modest Mouse. Why did I buy tickets? Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time. From that day on, though, the anticipation of going to the show grew less and less until I was genuinely disinterested in the prospect. This was exacerbated by my last-minute trip to SummerFest, which features Modest Mouse.
Back on topic. So after the show we found Vivian and decided to hang out at the same place: Big Star. Those plans fell through with Danny's hesitation towards going to Wicker Park. "Small Bar [on Fullerton] it is!" we decided. Here's where it gets interesting: Girlfriendo and I had driven my scooter down to Washington Park. Having to go to Southport and Fullerton, the obvious route was Ashland all the way. At Cortland, though, I decided to turn and take "Danny's Shortcut," which is the street that runs on the east end of Finkl & Sons and empties into Southport at its northern outlet. I had taken this route once before (in broad daylight) and didn't remember anything being particularly dangerous. Poor foresight, I guess, as this street has train tracks to compound the hazardous potholes and uneven surfaces that are normal aspects of most other streets in Chicago. What got me was the platform that holds the train tracks. There seems to be three levels of instability on this street: the actual street isn't too bad, but that eventually ends and one is forced to merge onto what I will call the train track platform. Once there, You have the option of crossing over the train tracks or simply standing your ground. I didn't make it tat far, though. When I decided to drift onto the platform I was heading for something that wasn't quite a bump, but wasn't quite a curb. The mistake I made was merging. I should have made a blatant turn towards this half-curb instead of drifting into it. Well, regardless of what I should have done, the curb thing rejected the maneuver I tried. My wheel was angled about 40 degrees to the left and was pushed so far off course that it ended up at about 40 degrees to the right. Not being able to react in time, Girlfriendo, the bike, and I slid to the right and across the pavement.
Having never been in a real accident before, I wasn't sure how to react. I remembered what Chris Jackson did when he was in the train wreck at 43rd street a few years back: he checked how everyone else was. So I asked Girlfriendo if she was okay and we noticed that we were both about equally scraped and bruised but, otherwise, okay. The only real lingering concern I have is my neck. She says hers also hurts; I'm thinking it must be some kind of whiplash but I have yet to ask anybody who might know. I have a minor headache that coffee hasn't been able to cure and my neck is stiff and sore.
The latter incident took place last night (but had nothing to do with a latter). Girlfriendo and I were riding back from Pitchfork. We had seen the tail end of Broken Social Scene before the entirety of Modest Mouse. Why did I buy tickets? Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time. From that day on, though, the anticipation of going to the show grew less and less until I was genuinely disinterested in the prospect. This was exacerbated by my last-minute trip to SummerFest, which features Modest Mouse.
Back on topic. So after the show we found Vivian and decided to hang out at the same place: Big Star. Those plans fell through with Danny's hesitation towards going to Wicker Park. "Small Bar [on Fullerton] it is!" we decided. Here's where it gets interesting: Girlfriendo and I had driven my scooter down to Washington Park. Having to go to Southport and Fullerton, the obvious route was Ashland all the way. At Cortland, though, I decided to turn and take "Danny's Shortcut," which is the street that runs on the east end of Finkl & Sons and empties into Southport at its northern outlet. I had taken this route once before (in broad daylight) and didn't remember anything being particularly dangerous. Poor foresight, I guess, as this street has train tracks to compound the hazardous potholes and uneven surfaces that are normal aspects of most other streets in Chicago. What got me was the platform that holds the train tracks. There seems to be three levels of instability on this street: the actual street isn't too bad, but that eventually ends and one is forced to merge onto what I will call the train track platform. Once there, You have the option of crossing over the train tracks or simply standing your ground. I didn't make it tat far, though. When I decided to drift onto the platform I was heading for something that wasn't quite a bump, but wasn't quite a curb. The mistake I made was merging. I should have made a blatant turn towards this half-curb instead of drifting into it. Well, regardless of what I should have done, the curb thing rejected the maneuver I tried. My wheel was angled about 40 degrees to the left and was pushed so far off course that it ended up at about 40 degrees to the right. Not being able to react in time, Girlfriendo, the bike, and I slid to the right and across the pavement.
Having never been in a real accident before, I wasn't sure how to react. I remembered what Chris Jackson did when he was in the train wreck at 43rd street a few years back: he checked how everyone else was. So I asked Girlfriendo if she was okay and we noticed that we were both about equally scraped and bruised but, otherwise, okay. The only real lingering concern I have is my neck. She says hers also hurts; I'm thinking it must be some kind of whiplash but I have yet to ask anybody who might know. I have a minor headache that coffee hasn't been able to cure and my neck is stiff and sore.
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