Toblerone's mother is a chocoholic. I have known this for the past eight years and was saddened when I could no longer find her jar of Tootsie Rolls. I knew this during the wake for her husband, when everyone was offered a Hershey's bar, and I knew this on Wednesday, when she was baking something that filled the house with the perfume of mocha.
If I ruminated on my relationship with Mrs. Lerone (as she's named in my telephone's list of contacts), I would come to the conclusion that I've been pretty good to her. This is neither an under- nor an overstatement-- there have been times when I've helped her out more than I thought I was capable of, just as there have been times that I've fallen short of what I was supposed to do. "Pretty good," over eight years, becomes "very consistent."
This longevity is something I've surprised myself with. I always considered myself the kind of person that would drop something after a certain amount of time, if for no other reason than the thought that such a long period of time would be awkward.
Anyhow, my relationship with Toblerone has always been a good one (except the few times that I didn't walk him. I hope he can forgive me-- I was in high school and my mind was often elsewhere).
First, let me digress...
Toblerone I was the dog I first started walking. We met when he was four years old (28 years old in approximated dog years, though the actual conversion isn't nearly as simple as "every Earth year equals 7 dog years") and he already had a full, gray beard. His demeanor was calm to the point of saintliness and he peed more often than a Cubs fan during a bad game. He was great, though, and his passing wasn't fun for anybody.
Toblerone II is the latest installment. He's seemingly a literal ball of energy and he likes to dispel some of his excitement by gnawing on things that aren't meant to be gnawed on (my backpack, trash on the side of the street, Hank's hand). Like the old Toby, though, he means nothing but well. He even has something in common with me: we both have unexpectedly deep voices (his always in the form of a gravelly growl or bark, mine only occasionally).
I have not been neighbors with Mrs. Lerone since last December when my mother sold our house and we moved up north. Despite this change of living arrangements, I stuck on as Toby IIs weekend athletic trainer (of sorts). I now make the commute nearly every day (though Toby and Mrs. Lerone do skip town fairly frequently) to take the little guy on an extended walk, or to the dog park, or just to play fetch and chew on sticks.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Sunday, August 22, 2010
A Roger Brown Cityscape
Like every other day, today I learned something new: I fill all the requirements of "babysitter's creepy boyfriend." Here's how it went:
Lucy babysits twins who are two years old.
Exhibit 1: Warranted Dirty Looks
One parent is Irish and has bleach-white skin while the husband is Indian and has pretty dark skin. When we took the kids to the zoo, people looked at the four of us as if Lucy and I were the parents. This is conceivable: I'm 22 and I've been mistaken for being a few years older. Regardless of how old I look, though, I think what really drew the dirty looks was the unshaven face, tattooed arms, and old, dirty shoes.
Exhibit 2: The Guy on the Couch
I thought I had these kids on my side. I held them up to get a better view of the tiger, I kept the beat with my hand on my knee as they butchered "Row, Row, Row Your Boat," and I let them try on my fancy helmet and showed them how the visor shoots into place when you press a certain button. When I left, everyone was happy.
Fast-forward through my night. A few shots of cheap whiskey and several PBRs becomes 3:30 in the morning and I show up at the house where Lucy's babysitting. In my hand is a bag and in the bag is yellow curry with chicken from Late Night Thai (when I picked it up, the guy at the counter remarked, "three nights in a row, huh?"). On my breath there is liquor and in my wallet there is... less than I had hoped for.
I ate sitting on the floor under a few stray rays of light that came from the stairway. Lucy was in bed a few feet away and trying to sleep. I couldn't finish the potato aspect of the dish before my drunken brain led me to bed and haphazardly spilled my body, luckily, on the mattress.
(Resume forward motion at a tolerable speed)
It's noon. Or maybe it's 5 PM. Did I miss work? Am I running late? Does Bekki hate me? The boy-twin is asking about the reappearance of my shoes and helmet while I'm half-jokingly hiding under the blanket on the guest-bed. Taking a peak and noticing the emptiness of the room, I sit up and down the second half of the can of Coke that had gone unfinished with my meal.
I've been detected! Cameron (the boy-twin) asks, "Is he waking up?" One thing I've noticed with young kids is that if you answer their questions honestly and very matter-of-fact-ly, the interrogation tends to end right there. Remembering this, I reply (regardless of whom the question was directed at), "Yep!" He starts with another question but is quickly rushed into a different train of thought by Lucy, who recognizes the awkwardness with ease.
At the next interval between children noticing me, Lucy handed me her keys and sent me to her place. On my walk over I realized that it was only 9 in the morning. There was sleep to be had! That's when I remembered the Coke I drank, and for a second worried that I wouldn't be able to fall back asleep. That fear was quickly dispelled, though, as I passed out until 2 in the afternoon.
Turns out I had woken up and left just in time to be 10 minutes late to work. Sweet!
Tomorrow will mark a return to a normal schedule. This will include working 5 days a week, going to school 4 days a week, trying to walk Toby every day, and somehow fitting the ol' family, girlfriend, and friends in the cracks. This kind of schedule makes me wonder why I buy records and books and instruments when I won't have time to use any of them in the foreseeable future. Hm...
So tonight... last night before school. It's looking like a good night to shave my face. And buy cereal from Dominick's. And maybe some more Late Night Thai. The possibilities are endless.
Lucy babysits twins who are two years old.
Exhibit 1: Warranted Dirty Looks
One parent is Irish and has bleach-white skin while the husband is Indian and has pretty dark skin. When we took the kids to the zoo, people looked at the four of us as if Lucy and I were the parents. This is conceivable: I'm 22 and I've been mistaken for being a few years older. Regardless of how old I look, though, I think what really drew the dirty looks was the unshaven face, tattooed arms, and old, dirty shoes.
Exhibit 2: The Guy on the Couch
I thought I had these kids on my side. I held them up to get a better view of the tiger, I kept the beat with my hand on my knee as they butchered "Row, Row, Row Your Boat," and I let them try on my fancy helmet and showed them how the visor shoots into place when you press a certain button. When I left, everyone was happy.
Fast-forward through my night. A few shots of cheap whiskey and several PBRs becomes 3:30 in the morning and I show up at the house where Lucy's babysitting. In my hand is a bag and in the bag is yellow curry with chicken from Late Night Thai (when I picked it up, the guy at the counter remarked, "three nights in a row, huh?"). On my breath there is liquor and in my wallet there is... less than I had hoped for.
I ate sitting on the floor under a few stray rays of light that came from the stairway. Lucy was in bed a few feet away and trying to sleep. I couldn't finish the potato aspect of the dish before my drunken brain led me to bed and haphazardly spilled my body, luckily, on the mattress.
(Resume forward motion at a tolerable speed)
It's noon. Or maybe it's 5 PM. Did I miss work? Am I running late? Does Bekki hate me? The boy-twin is asking about the reappearance of my shoes and helmet while I'm half-jokingly hiding under the blanket on the guest-bed. Taking a peak and noticing the emptiness of the room, I sit up and down the second half of the can of Coke that had gone unfinished with my meal.
I've been detected! Cameron (the boy-twin) asks, "Is he waking up?" One thing I've noticed with young kids is that if you answer their questions honestly and very matter-of-fact-ly, the interrogation tends to end right there. Remembering this, I reply (regardless of whom the question was directed at), "Yep!" He starts with another question but is quickly rushed into a different train of thought by Lucy, who recognizes the awkwardness with ease.
At the next interval between children noticing me, Lucy handed me her keys and sent me to her place. On my walk over I realized that it was only 9 in the morning. There was sleep to be had! That's when I remembered the Coke I drank, and for a second worried that I wouldn't be able to fall back asleep. That fear was quickly dispelled, though, as I passed out until 2 in the afternoon.
Turns out I had woken up and left just in time to be 10 minutes late to work. Sweet!
Tomorrow will mark a return to a normal schedule. This will include working 5 days a week, going to school 4 days a week, trying to walk Toby every day, and somehow fitting the ol' family, girlfriend, and friends in the cracks. This kind of schedule makes me wonder why I buy records and books and instruments when I won't have time to use any of them in the foreseeable future. Hm...
So tonight... last night before school. It's looking like a good night to shave my face. And buy cereal from Dominick's. And maybe some more Late Night Thai. The possibilities are endless.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Watching the Fire as We Grow Old
Across the street is a man picking garbage out of a trash can. After looking for nothing in particular, he is now stomping on something.
The weather here is gray, as is the mood. Elliott Smith is playing and I'm watching the end of my summer vacation drive by too fast, or blow its nose in the back of the coffee shop, or pick garbage out of a can. I am at work, which means I am sending e-mails that don't particularly need to be sent, reading a book between customers, and constantly planning for the rest of the night which will, with great consistency, turn out to be mediocre.
But everything's okay. School starts on Monday and I finally have a desk. When the weather gets bad, I won't have a car (if someone will buy it). Seeing my girlfriend will be difficult but not impossible. Maybe I'll be forced to get straight A's? Maybe.
Just give me a motorcycle and a guitar and a pen and paper and a pack of cigarettes and some bourbon. I don't think I'd need much else. I won't need an audience and I won't need any food. My cash wouldn't have nowhere to go and I'd quit my job first chance I got. I'd take a little less and I'd make it into some more.
My mother told me that people get sad when they turn 18, and that their sadness only gets worse until their fifties or sixties, when they're happy again... or dead. I think it's a fear of death, or of how to make ends meet until the end. I'm not afraid of death. Every movie and every album and every life is a different length. Some end before they should. Some sequels and some kids should never have been made. I won't anticipate the end if the rest of the movie is good, but I'll know it shouldn't go on forever. I'm just worried that my story won't develop the right characters, or that meaningful scenes will be cut short. And I don't want my song to have too many choruses, either. Summer is usually the chorus, but this summer was the bridge. Maybe tomorrow night can be a brief chorus before the verse of school kicks in. Maybe cigarettes as a theme is simply a narrative tool that illustrates how easily I can be defeated, or how well I can do when I apply myself. Maybe it's trying to show that my natural inclination is toward smelling bad. Or maybe it's because, when I smoke, I isolate myself from close relationships while indulging myself in good times
The weather here is gray, as is the mood. Elliott Smith is playing and I'm watching the end of my summer vacation drive by too fast, or blow its nose in the back of the coffee shop, or pick garbage out of a can. I am at work, which means I am sending e-mails that don't particularly need to be sent, reading a book between customers, and constantly planning for the rest of the night which will, with great consistency, turn out to be mediocre.
But everything's okay. School starts on Monday and I finally have a desk. When the weather gets bad, I won't have a car (if someone will buy it). Seeing my girlfriend will be difficult but not impossible. Maybe I'll be forced to get straight A's? Maybe.
Just give me a motorcycle and a guitar and a pen and paper and a pack of cigarettes and some bourbon. I don't think I'd need much else. I won't need an audience and I won't need any food. My cash wouldn't have nowhere to go and I'd quit my job first chance I got. I'd take a little less and I'd make it into some more.
My mother told me that people get sad when they turn 18, and that their sadness only gets worse until their fifties or sixties, when they're happy again... or dead. I think it's a fear of death, or of how to make ends meet until the end. I'm not afraid of death. Every movie and every album and every life is a different length. Some end before they should. Some sequels and some kids should never have been made. I won't anticipate the end if the rest of the movie is good, but I'll know it shouldn't go on forever. I'm just worried that my story won't develop the right characters, or that meaningful scenes will be cut short. And I don't want my song to have too many choruses, either. Summer is usually the chorus, but this summer was the bridge. Maybe tomorrow night can be a brief chorus before the verse of school kicks in. Maybe cigarettes as a theme is simply a narrative tool that illustrates how easily I can be defeated, or how well I can do when I apply myself. Maybe it's trying to show that my natural inclination is toward smelling bad. Or maybe it's because, when I smoke, I isolate myself from close relationships while indulging myself in good times
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
A-huggin' the pillow where my baby used to lay
Two parking tickets and $100 later, I'm back. It's almost 10 in the morning and I'm at work, drinking a cup of coffee that, once upon a time, was warm. To my right is a bag of cereal (Mini Wheats), and beside that is the uneaten half of my Clif Bar. For me, the refrigerator holds two green tea Arnold Palmers, the rest of my green Naked juice, and a Pepsi Throwback (which, once again, will probably cause numerous new cavities in my teeth).
So this summer... It's been productive, to say the most. I earned an A and a B during summer school, am employed at a job I don't hate, moved into a new apartment, read a few books, bought a bunch of new records, chipped away at my debt (though I still have a long way to go), and I saw some sweet shows.
Debauchery, on the other hand, has not come out in full force this year. This could mean one of three things: 1) I'm slowing down in my old age, 2) I'm under control now that I have a girlfriendo, or 3) some summers are less action-packed than others. I don't know which idea I favor least, but I suppose it's not a bad thing that I haven't blacked out due to excessive drinking or recreational drug use. I've gotten high a few times, but the amount of smoke I've toked in various sessions this summer could have been inhaled in one sitting under my previous tolerance.
So summer's wrapping up and I still haven't registered for classes, which start on Monday. The only thing left to do before the summer is officially over is to go to New York for Labor Day weekend. It's about time I got out of Chicago for more than six hours.
Oh, so I think I understand something about my body. Ha, that sounds funny. Anyways, I feel as if my body has some kind of protective shield against alcoholism and cigarette addiction. Here's what I noticed:
When I drink heavily for an extended period of time, the calories from the liquor replace the calories from food. Basically, the more I drink, the less I eat. With cigarettes, the more I smoke, the less I eat.
This can mean a couple of things. First of all, this can be an obesity defense mechanism. Under this system, I will never gain weight (let alone become obese). What I meant by this being a shield against alcoholism and cigarette addiction is that I don't think it's possible for a human being to withstand the kind of malnutrition that goes on when I drink and/or smoke heavily. After a short period, my body is given a choice: cut it out, or die! I've always taken the first option.
Anyhow, speaking of food, my diet on Wednesdays is predominantly compressed foods, like Clif Bars and superfood juices. I would love to eat things that provide more than bare bones-sustenance but... I don't have time.
So this summer... It's been productive, to say the most. I earned an A and a B during summer school, am employed at a job I don't hate, moved into a new apartment, read a few books, bought a bunch of new records, chipped away at my debt (though I still have a long way to go), and I saw some sweet shows.
Debauchery, on the other hand, has not come out in full force this year. This could mean one of three things: 1) I'm slowing down in my old age, 2) I'm under control now that I have a girlfriendo, or 3) some summers are less action-packed than others. I don't know which idea I favor least, but I suppose it's not a bad thing that I haven't blacked out due to excessive drinking or recreational drug use. I've gotten high a few times, but the amount of smoke I've toked in various sessions this summer could have been inhaled in one sitting under my previous tolerance.
So summer's wrapping up and I still haven't registered for classes, which start on Monday. The only thing left to do before the summer is officially over is to go to New York for Labor Day weekend. It's about time I got out of Chicago for more than six hours.
Oh, so I think I understand something about my body. Ha, that sounds funny. Anyways, I feel as if my body has some kind of protective shield against alcoholism and cigarette addiction. Here's what I noticed:
When I drink heavily for an extended period of time, the calories from the liquor replace the calories from food. Basically, the more I drink, the less I eat. With cigarettes, the more I smoke, the less I eat.
This can mean a couple of things. First of all, this can be an obesity defense mechanism. Under this system, I will never gain weight (let alone become obese). What I meant by this being a shield against alcoholism and cigarette addiction is that I don't think it's possible for a human being to withstand the kind of malnutrition that goes on when I drink and/or smoke heavily. After a short period, my body is given a choice: cut it out, or die! I've always taken the first option.
Anyhow, speaking of food, my diet on Wednesdays is predominantly compressed foods, like Clif Bars and superfood juices. I would love to eat things that provide more than bare bones-sustenance but... I don't have time.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Illinois Smith
A recurring question that keeps bothering me is, "why do people do things that they know are wrong?" I've exhausted this question in my own head and on various pages in my diary-- no answers, though. And here's what really gets me: I do it, too.
What brings this question up again is Indiana Jones. He was mentioned accidentally when Lucy's roommate was trying recall the action hero that Angelina Jolie played a while ago.
Indiana Jones' theme song was the jingle that played when someone would call my composition teacher's cell phone. This bothered me for on real reason: this particular teacher quickly dissected the plot of Indiana Jones to expose its implications as being very, well, fucked up-- the way Forrest Gump isn't quite as innocent as one might suspect. I saw Indiana Jones once and I was in... 6th grade? It was around the night that the White Sox and Tigers got into a huge, bench-clearing brawl... April 28th, 2000 sounds about right. I've lived ten years, enjoyed countless beers and blunts, and have seen several movies that I enjoyed more, so my memory of the plot and specific scenes is very unreliable. From my professor's rant, the movie depicts the people of India as being helpless when not under British control and, generally, a savage people. His whole telling of the story cast a very negative light on the now classic film, yet he still saw it fit to include the theme song in his daily life. His reasoning was that he liked "to wake up to adventure." That's all good and well, but other adventurous songs have been written. Furthermore, if you're aware that something is morally bankrupt, why would you support it?
I was thinking along terms of WalMart, but that whole system is fucked. If I'm in a small town and I'm not making enough money to feed my kids, I'm sure I'd cut corners and shop at WalMart occasionally, no matter how much I would hate myself for doing so.
What brings this question up again is Indiana Jones. He was mentioned accidentally when Lucy's roommate was trying recall the action hero that Angelina Jolie played a while ago.
Indiana Jones' theme song was the jingle that played when someone would call my composition teacher's cell phone. This bothered me for on real reason: this particular teacher quickly dissected the plot of Indiana Jones to expose its implications as being very, well, fucked up-- the way Forrest Gump isn't quite as innocent as one might suspect. I saw Indiana Jones once and I was in... 6th grade? It was around the night that the White Sox and Tigers got into a huge, bench-clearing brawl... April 28th, 2000 sounds about right. I've lived ten years, enjoyed countless beers and blunts, and have seen several movies that I enjoyed more, so my memory of the plot and specific scenes is very unreliable. From my professor's rant, the movie depicts the people of India as being helpless when not under British control and, generally, a savage people. His whole telling of the story cast a very negative light on the now classic film, yet he still saw it fit to include the theme song in his daily life. His reasoning was that he liked "to wake up to adventure." That's all good and well, but other adventurous songs have been written. Furthermore, if you're aware that something is morally bankrupt, why would you support it?
I was thinking along terms of WalMart, but that whole system is fucked. If I'm in a small town and I'm not making enough money to feed my kids, I'm sure I'd cut corners and shop at WalMart occasionally, no matter how much I would hate myself for doing so.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Rock Me, Mama, Like a Wagon Wheel
I made a connection today. Check it out:
When I read, I seclude myself. When I write, I expose myself.
I'm at work right now. When I'm at work (and I'm not working), I'm either reading or writing.
When I'm reading I am, essentially, listening. Somebody is telling me a story or spilling their guts or deciding who has a better shot at winning tonight's baseball game and all I can do it sit their and use my eyes as a sponge.
When I write, I am engaged in a conversation. It may be entirely first or third person, but I'm talking and the blank page is listening as it fills up. In this case, my brain is working in a more social capacity than it is when I read.
What brought this to my attention is simple: I usually devote my time to writing entries on this page, or e-mails to whomever. Occasionally, I check ESPN's forecast for the upcoming Sox game, or look for an interesting article on Fark. Regardless, most of my time is spent writing or conversing with customers (or doing dishes). Today, though, I have spent the first two and a half hours reading a book. This is different than usual because I'm reading one thing. It consists of chapters but it is a continuous piece of writing that requires me to flex different pieces of my brain.
Now for what actually brought this to my attention: business hasn't been too steady today (not that this is particularly unusual), which has given me many opportunities to read several pages without being interrupted. When I did have customers, though, I could barely make any audible sounds, let alone carry a conversation. It caught me off guard. I've been awake and active since noon-- I'm not especially alert, nor am I very tired (I mean, I could go for a nap... but that's consistently been the case lately).
To wrap this up on a completely different note, have seconds and pennies fallen through the cracks and out of view? What I mean is this: because cell phones and credit cards are more convenient than watches and cash, are little things like seconds and pennies becoming obsolete? Maybe not, but maybe so. My cell phone has a timer and I still save all my pennies. Just a thought.
When I read, I seclude myself. When I write, I expose myself.
I'm at work right now. When I'm at work (and I'm not working), I'm either reading or writing.
When I'm reading I am, essentially, listening. Somebody is telling me a story or spilling their guts or deciding who has a better shot at winning tonight's baseball game and all I can do it sit their and use my eyes as a sponge.
When I write, I am engaged in a conversation. It may be entirely first or third person, but I'm talking and the blank page is listening as it fills up. In this case, my brain is working in a more social capacity than it is when I read.
What brought this to my attention is simple: I usually devote my time to writing entries on this page, or e-mails to whomever. Occasionally, I check ESPN's forecast for the upcoming Sox game, or look for an interesting article on Fark. Regardless, most of my time is spent writing or conversing with customers (or doing dishes). Today, though, I have spent the first two and a half hours reading a book. This is different than usual because I'm reading one thing. It consists of chapters but it is a continuous piece of writing that requires me to flex different pieces of my brain.
Now for what actually brought this to my attention: business hasn't been too steady today (not that this is particularly unusual), which has given me many opportunities to read several pages without being interrupted. When I did have customers, though, I could barely make any audible sounds, let alone carry a conversation. It caught me off guard. I've been awake and active since noon-- I'm not especially alert, nor am I very tired (I mean, I could go for a nap... but that's consistently been the case lately).
To wrap this up on a completely different note, have seconds and pennies fallen through the cracks and out of view? What I mean is this: because cell phones and credit cards are more convenient than watches and cash, are little things like seconds and pennies becoming obsolete? Maybe not, but maybe so. My cell phone has a timer and I still save all my pennies. Just a thought.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Lucy, I'm Home
Two more firsts in my relationship with the Stella: today I went on Lake Shore Drive and yesterday I crashed into some guy.
Here's what led up to the latter event: I had gone to bed around 1:30 in the morning and had to wake up at 6:30 in order to have enough time to shower and eat a cup of yogurt before work at 7:15. Unusually, I was three minutes early to work! I was on all day, as far as a barista can be "on." For sustenance, I drank a large bottle of the Naked Green Machine juice, ate two Clif bars, and drank lots of coffee.
My shift ended at 4, at which time I filled my bowl of ramen with hot water and walking into the scorching heat (it was hot enough for a safety advisory to be issued until 9 o'clock that evening). I enjoyed my hot soup outside with Tony (the guy who drives a 750 CC Honda) and talked biking. I showed him how a manual scooter works and he was impressed. He told me I could take his bike around the block once I get my M-Class license.
After 30 or 40 minutes, I headed down to Bryn Mawr to walk the Honda Elite to ScooterWorks. Well, that's not exactly what happened: first I called my mom and told her it was impossibly hot and that walking 3+miles (half of which while maneuvering a dead scooter) was out of the question. She understood and suggested I come back at night. I wasn't thrilled with her idea, plus I decided that I give myself too many breaks. Then I went to Bryn Mawr and Broadway.
The walk to ScooterWorks mildly sucked but it wasn't so bad-- I had a bottle of Arnold Palmer, which always makes life easier.
I was tired when I got back to the Stella. I had to head to my mom's for dinner and Hank wanted to play catch beforehand. The route I had in my head was simple: Broadway to Clark to Wrightwood. This went as planned until the Broadway/Halsted fork at Grace. I was about eight cars back when the light turned green, which gave me sufficient time to make it through the intersection. I was going maybe 30 MPH when it happened; I think I was in 3rd gear: a biker came out of Grace, ignoring his red light. I meant to stay on Broadway, which would have forgiven the biker's breaking of the rules-- I didn't, though. This mistake that I made had no legal or fault-assuming repercussions on the incident as it is just as well that I go straight as opposed to taking the slight left. So I'm going straight and this dude comes out of nowhere. I wave at him, the kind of wave that says, "Get the hell outta here!" He doesn't, and, if I remember correctly, he was grinning the whole way (he may have been drunk). I grab the break (and the clutch, too, accidentally) and try to avoid him. His course, versus mine, made him nearly impossible to avoid. His front tire collides with the back of the Stella and we both go down. Here's where it seems to get interesting: when the Stella hits the ground, I accidentally rev the throttle (in the chaos, the gear has gone into 4th).
My brain ran a quick systems diagnostic of my body, decided everything was okay (but that my shins are lightly scraped) and I checked for the other guy. I had looked back as the throttle had accidentally revved and seen the guy's face just inches from the back tire. As I'm standing up, I see a dark puddle of red on the pavement. Immediately, the vision of seeing red while swimming in the ocean moments before noticing a shark gnawing on my legs passes through my mind. That vision never occurred but the thought troubled me for a time while I was a freshman in high school. Anyhow, My heart leaps at the thought that I had just killed some red-light-running biker asshole. That worry was quickly dispelled when I saw that it was oil that had spilled out of my engine and that the guy seemed to be okay. We both jumped up, I shook his hand in recognition of understanding that it was an accident, and he took off.
I spent the next 20 minutes decompressing and looking for the cap to my oil intake. A wise old Latino man who was missing his two front teeth (but had given up searching) helped me out as we recapitulated what had happened from our differing perspectives. He said I had the light and that I was lucky for having a helmet (the other guy wasn't wearing one). We couldn't find the cap, even after enlisting the help of a hobo.
When I decided that I was ready, I strapped on my helmet, hopped on, and rode away-- about 10 feet. The wheel had been bent and was no longer true to the handlebars. I called Will and got instructions on how to bend it back. I had no luck, though, so I decided I'd walk it to my mom's. A block or two down, I decided I had had enough of walking scooters places, so I tried bending it again. Turns out I had been bracing the wrong part of the wheel. I tried a new way and it worked. So I rode home.
And that was that. Everyone appreciated the pool-of-blood part of my story.
Time to close up shop.
Here's what led up to the latter event: I had gone to bed around 1:30 in the morning and had to wake up at 6:30 in order to have enough time to shower and eat a cup of yogurt before work at 7:15. Unusually, I was three minutes early to work! I was on all day, as far as a barista can be "on." For sustenance, I drank a large bottle of the Naked Green Machine juice, ate two Clif bars, and drank lots of coffee.
My shift ended at 4, at which time I filled my bowl of ramen with hot water and walking into the scorching heat (it was hot enough for a safety advisory to be issued until 9 o'clock that evening). I enjoyed my hot soup outside with Tony (the guy who drives a 750 CC Honda) and talked biking. I showed him how a manual scooter works and he was impressed. He told me I could take his bike around the block once I get my M-Class license.
After 30 or 40 minutes, I headed down to Bryn Mawr to walk the Honda Elite to ScooterWorks. Well, that's not exactly what happened: first I called my mom and told her it was impossibly hot and that walking 3+miles (half of which while maneuvering a dead scooter) was out of the question. She understood and suggested I come back at night. I wasn't thrilled with her idea, plus I decided that I give myself too many breaks. Then I went to Bryn Mawr and Broadway.
The walk to ScooterWorks mildly sucked but it wasn't so bad-- I had a bottle of Arnold Palmer, which always makes life easier.
I was tired when I got back to the Stella. I had to head to my mom's for dinner and Hank wanted to play catch beforehand. The route I had in my head was simple: Broadway to Clark to Wrightwood. This went as planned until the Broadway/Halsted fork at Grace. I was about eight cars back when the light turned green, which gave me sufficient time to make it through the intersection. I was going maybe 30 MPH when it happened; I think I was in 3rd gear: a biker came out of Grace, ignoring his red light. I meant to stay on Broadway, which would have forgiven the biker's breaking of the rules-- I didn't, though. This mistake that I made had no legal or fault-assuming repercussions on the incident as it is just as well that I go straight as opposed to taking the slight left. So I'm going straight and this dude comes out of nowhere. I wave at him, the kind of wave that says, "Get the hell outta here!" He doesn't, and, if I remember correctly, he was grinning the whole way (he may have been drunk). I grab the break (and the clutch, too, accidentally) and try to avoid him. His course, versus mine, made him nearly impossible to avoid. His front tire collides with the back of the Stella and we both go down. Here's where it seems to get interesting: when the Stella hits the ground, I accidentally rev the throttle (in the chaos, the gear has gone into 4th).
My brain ran a quick systems diagnostic of my body, decided everything was okay (but that my shins are lightly scraped) and I checked for the other guy. I had looked back as the throttle had accidentally revved and seen the guy's face just inches from the back tire. As I'm standing up, I see a dark puddle of red on the pavement. Immediately, the vision of seeing red while swimming in the ocean moments before noticing a shark gnawing on my legs passes through my mind. That vision never occurred but the thought troubled me for a time while I was a freshman in high school. Anyhow, My heart leaps at the thought that I had just killed some red-light-running biker asshole. That worry was quickly dispelled when I saw that it was oil that had spilled out of my engine and that the guy seemed to be okay. We both jumped up, I shook his hand in recognition of understanding that it was an accident, and he took off.
I spent the next 20 minutes decompressing and looking for the cap to my oil intake. A wise old Latino man who was missing his two front teeth (but had given up searching) helped me out as we recapitulated what had happened from our differing perspectives. He said I had the light and that I was lucky for having a helmet (the other guy wasn't wearing one). We couldn't find the cap, even after enlisting the help of a hobo.
When I decided that I was ready, I strapped on my helmet, hopped on, and rode away-- about 10 feet. The wheel had been bent and was no longer true to the handlebars. I called Will and got instructions on how to bend it back. I had no luck, though, so I decided I'd walk it to my mom's. A block or two down, I decided I had had enough of walking scooters places, so I tried bending it again. Turns out I had been bracing the wrong part of the wheel. I tried a new way and it worked. So I rode home.
And that was that. Everyone appreciated the pool-of-blood part of my story.
Time to close up shop.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Tony the Law Tiger
There's this legal group called the Law Tigers. The commercials I've seen have come on during White Sox games. There angle is geared towards people who drive motorcycles. Presumably, motorcyclists watch the White Sox. Anyways, the whole gimmick is that these lawyers ride motorcycles and, therefore, are worthy of representing any given motorcyclist who becomes involved in an accident. That's good and well, I suppose-- I'd rather buy a guitar from a guy who plays guitar than from a guy who plays the kazoo, provided that the kazooist is at least proficient in his knowledge about guitars.
There are two commercials I've seen: one is simply a biker gang being gawked at by an obviously fake tiger. The second one has more to it. There's a father and son, and the dad talks about how his son should grow up well and should know which decisions to make. There's something about following in the dad's footsteps. That kinda thing. Then it mentions that no motorcyclist should "ride alone." By "ride alone" they mean that everyone should-- just as religiously as wearing a helmet-- include a Law Tigers card on their keys or in their wallet. If this idea wasn't somehow inspired by Lionel Hutz then I must have misinterpreted his character. Never in my brief life have I witnessed such innovation in the ambulance-chasing industry. This is the legal version of prescription drug advertisements. No kidding.
Just had to get that off my chest.
Alright, speaking of motorcycles:
Last night, Will showed me a Honda CB 360 on local eBay in Rockford. $450 was the asking price and the condition was good. The only thing close to a problem was the left turn signal, which only works manually. I e-mailed the seller as soon as I could with my offer(which was the price he had asked for). This morning the guy sends me an e-mail that just says, "SOLD". Assuming this guy meant it as in, "Sold! It's yours!" I get my hopes up. I tell Will and he says he's been talking to the guy about it. Point of the story: my hopes are back down. This doesn't look like it will be mine.
Update: I didn't get it. upon examination of both e-mails between myself and the seller, one of us is having trouble without clarity through the use of the English language. Maybe both of us. My last hope for buying a bike in the near future will rest on the strength of tonight's pitch to my mom. I have to come up with something clever to convince her that I'm worthy of lending $1,300 to.
Time to eat ramen and hike the Elite to ScooterWorks.
There are two commercials I've seen: one is simply a biker gang being gawked at by an obviously fake tiger. The second one has more to it. There's a father and son, and the dad talks about how his son should grow up well and should know which decisions to make. There's something about following in the dad's footsteps. That kinda thing. Then it mentions that no motorcyclist should "ride alone." By "ride alone" they mean that everyone should-- just as religiously as wearing a helmet-- include a Law Tigers card on their keys or in their wallet. If this idea wasn't somehow inspired by Lionel Hutz then I must have misinterpreted his character. Never in my brief life have I witnessed such innovation in the ambulance-chasing industry. This is the legal version of prescription drug advertisements. No kidding.
Just had to get that off my chest.
Alright, speaking of motorcycles:
Last night, Will showed me a Honda CB 360 on local eBay in Rockford. $450 was the asking price and the condition was good. The only thing close to a problem was the left turn signal, which only works manually. I e-mailed the seller as soon as I could with my offer(which was the price he had asked for). This morning the guy sends me an e-mail that just says, "SOLD". Assuming this guy meant it as in, "Sold! It's yours!" I get my hopes up. I tell Will and he says he's been talking to the guy about it. Point of the story: my hopes are back down. This doesn't look like it will be mine.
Update: I didn't get it. upon examination of both e-mails between myself and the seller, one of us is having trouble without clarity through the use of the English language. Maybe both of us. My last hope for buying a bike in the near future will rest on the strength of tonight's pitch to my mom. I have to come up with something clever to convince her that I'm worthy of lending $1,300 to.
Time to eat ramen and hike the Elite to ScooterWorks.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Let's Lynch the Landlord
I drove Girlfriendo to from Lincoln Park to the Target on Peterson near Damen. It was probably the longest ride I have done on a scooter with a passenger. It went well. The Stella is much more stable than the Elite. Speaking of the Elite, tomorrow I will have to walk it from Broadway to Damen. And two blocks south. It won't be as bad as last time, when I had to walk it from Montrose and Broadway. A mile and a half of walking with a scooter isn't the most thrilling event to look forward to, though.
After dropping her off, I went home. My plan was to shower before going to find a cup of coffee to wake me up. I altered my plan to include a 20 minute nap. Unfortunately, those 20 minutes turned into 3 hours. I was almost late for work...
So I'm working today. It was supposed to be my day off but then the girl taking the evening shift presumably can't come in until 6 or can't come in at all. I was looking forward to the day off but now I'll have to wait until Saturday.
So this extended nap I took... One of the reasons I couldn't wake up was because of a dream I was having: it was a nightmare, but not the in the conventional sense. Until this dream, i had never met this landlord. Turns out, she's a conniving bitch. For instance, she let me watch as she installed fake circulating vents. When I asked what would happen if my roommate came home drunk, turned on the stove, then passed out, leaving me at the mercy of the gas fumes, she said I would probably die.
I'm trying to remember more of the crazy things she was doing but my brain isn't having it.
After this abbreviated workday, I'm going to Reckless to spend money on things I don't need. Today, Sundowner came out with another album. Sundowner is Chris McCaughan from the Lawrence Arms. Whether or not it's a masterpiece is beside the point-- I'm looking for a familiar voice singing about familiar places.
After dropping her off, I went home. My plan was to shower before going to find a cup of coffee to wake me up. I altered my plan to include a 20 minute nap. Unfortunately, those 20 minutes turned into 3 hours. I was almost late for work...
So I'm working today. It was supposed to be my day off but then the girl taking the evening shift presumably can't come in until 6 or can't come in at all. I was looking forward to the day off but now I'll have to wait until Saturday.
So this extended nap I took... One of the reasons I couldn't wake up was because of a dream I was having: it was a nightmare, but not the in the conventional sense. Until this dream, i had never met this landlord. Turns out, she's a conniving bitch. For instance, she let me watch as she installed fake circulating vents. When I asked what would happen if my roommate came home drunk, turned on the stove, then passed out, leaving me at the mercy of the gas fumes, she said I would probably die.
I'm trying to remember more of the crazy things she was doing but my brain isn't having it.
After this abbreviated workday, I'm going to Reckless to spend money on things I don't need. Today, Sundowner came out with another album. Sundowner is Chris McCaughan from the Lawrence Arms. Whether or not it's a masterpiece is beside the point-- I'm looking for a familiar voice singing about familiar places.
Monday, August 9, 2010
History of the Defeated
I'm not sure why, but watching A.J. Pierzynski play baseball makes the whole idea of a grown man making a living playing a game seem absurd. This notion is not new to me, it's just that I can often watch a baseball game for a good amount of time before the ugly head of realism shows itself. When Ramon Castro is in the line-up, I can watch an entire game as if the fate of the world would be changed for the worse if this game did not exist-- when A.J. plays (specifically, when A.J. bats), I feel embarrassed about keeping an eye on the results of multiple games. This feeling is very confusing because, when I can get past how ridiculous he seems, I kind of admire him. Mr. Pierzynski doesn't cheat, he just tries to get away with ridiculous things (and gets away with a relatively good amount).
Last night was a party at Nick's house. Vi thought I wanted to hang out at Nick's Uptown and rescinded her enthusiasm when I told her what the actual plan was and the address of where it was to take place. It was less awkward than I had anticipated on account of the people being friendly in a general way. Dave and I split 12 beers before calling it a night. It was only 2 in the morning and Nick had disappeared an hour or so beforehand (presumably to pass out).
Anyhow, Nick's persona has mellowed out considerably.
In 3rd grade he wrote a book for a Young Author's assignment. To the best of my recollection, it was about a refrigerator that killed people. I know his sketches and stories were consistently shocking, occasionally crude, and generally disturbing. We once went
In 6th grade he had a mohawk and wore combat boots. He listened to the Dead Kennedys and took to Jello Biafra up until the point that I lost touch with him.
In freshman or sophomore year of high school I talked to him and he recommended Modest Mouse. A month or two later, Float On was in seemingly every commercial and on every radio I came across. It was a good call if he was into predicting future trends in pop culture.
So now, Nick smokes weed and drinks beer and is more disgruntled with the state of the world than he is actively pissed off at it. I suppose he's a little more defeated than I remember him being.
Last night was a party at Nick's house. Vi thought I wanted to hang out at Nick's Uptown and rescinded her enthusiasm when I told her what the actual plan was and the address of where it was to take place. It was less awkward than I had anticipated on account of the people being friendly in a general way. Dave and I split 12 beers before calling it a night. It was only 2 in the morning and Nick had disappeared an hour or so beforehand (presumably to pass out).
Anyhow, Nick's persona has mellowed out considerably.
In 3rd grade he wrote a book for a Young Author's assignment. To the best of my recollection, it was about a refrigerator that killed people. I know his sketches and stories were consistently shocking, occasionally crude, and generally disturbing. We once went
In 6th grade he had a mohawk and wore combat boots. He listened to the Dead Kennedys and took to Jello Biafra up until the point that I lost touch with him.
In freshman or sophomore year of high school I talked to him and he recommended Modest Mouse. A month or two later, Float On was in seemingly every commercial and on every radio I came across. It was a good call if he was into predicting future trends in pop culture.
So now, Nick smokes weed and drinks beer and is more disgruntled with the state of the world than he is actively pissed off at it. I suppose he's a little more defeated than I remember him being.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
I've got a couple books on tape and a fresh pack of cigarettes.
There's a fly in the display case. This is not good for business as the display case holds the pastries and various other edible items. Bekki wanted to use her vinegar trick, which involves a cup with a hole in the cap and about an inch of vinegar in the bottom. The fly enjoys the smell and flies in but can't find its way out, eventually dying of starvation and asphyxiation.
I am currently eating a sandwich in a very strategic way. See, a customer could walk in at any point. It'd be awkward for my mouth to be full of bread and ham, so my bites are either tiny, or huge (in which case I chew as fast as I can). I bought the sandwich on my way here.. two hours ago. It's not and its peak of deliciousness was reached about five minutes after I ordered it. The accompanying cream soda is in the fridge and shouldn't have lost any of its kick.
Murder By Death is playing on the stereo through a cord that is connected to my computer. "Murder By Death" is what my shirt says. I didn't have time to change any clothing from the waist down before work, but a new shirt is basically a new outfit (unfortunately only in appearance and not in smell).
Nick Wallin is having people over tonight. He graduated from Pratt. Funny I should be attending this graduation, seeing as I last saw him when we graduated 8th grade. Well, I saw him one time since, which was at a party somewhere on Milwaukee Avenue, near Kimball, I think. He was shorter than I had anticipated and we didn't talk for more than a minute or two. Come to think of it, I think he and his friends were doing what me and my friends were doing: at a party standing around. Come to think of it, I don't really see the point. Okay, okay, maybe I'm looking into this a little too much. You go to a party to be around other people. Some people dance, some people chug beers, and some people hold up the walls-- why did I go? The walls were sturdy enough and my friends aren't very social outside of the circle we're in. Or maybe that's just me. There were other aspects, too, that I tend to forget nowadays, like "maybe I'll get lucky!"
So that's my night.
Last night, after 9 hours of work, I took a nap. The evening was supposed to include drunkenness with Matsuo, Woj and Dave. Juan backed out and Earl didn't get back to Chicago at a reasonable hour. Girlfriendo lost her stomachin the south loop and required my services. Cristina ended up getting her onto the Brown Line and I arrived at Girlfriendo's apartment at the same time they did. It wasn't pretty. When she finished puking, we straightened things out. Turns out there was a logical explanation. Things should be back to where they should be. So there's that. All the commotion put the final touches on a gathering of the... well, of me, Matsuo, Woj and them-- "we didn't hang out" is what I'm trying to say.
What else... I've been averaging two Arizona Arnold Palmer(the one made with green tea)s per day. That's impressive and disgusting all at once. Also, I buy a bottle of Pepsi Throwback every time I get a chance. I now have two open bottles in my refrigerator, one of which is flat. I've also been primarily eating burritos for the past couple of days. My car is still over-flowing with the left-overs from mt move. There are valuable records sitting in my car that have probably become warped due to the heat.
I am currently eating a sandwich in a very strategic way. See, a customer could walk in at any point. It'd be awkward for my mouth to be full of bread and ham, so my bites are either tiny, or huge (in which case I chew as fast as I can). I bought the sandwich on my way here.. two hours ago. It's not and its peak of deliciousness was reached about five minutes after I ordered it. The accompanying cream soda is in the fridge and shouldn't have lost any of its kick.
Murder By Death is playing on the stereo through a cord that is connected to my computer. "Murder By Death" is what my shirt says. I didn't have time to change any clothing from the waist down before work, but a new shirt is basically a new outfit (unfortunately only in appearance and not in smell).
Nick Wallin is having people over tonight. He graduated from Pratt. Funny I should be attending this graduation, seeing as I last saw him when we graduated 8th grade. Well, I saw him one time since, which was at a party somewhere on Milwaukee Avenue, near Kimball, I think. He was shorter than I had anticipated and we didn't talk for more than a minute or two. Come to think of it, I think he and his friends were doing what me and my friends were doing: at a party standing around. Come to think of it, I don't really see the point. Okay, okay, maybe I'm looking into this a little too much. You go to a party to be around other people. Some people dance, some people chug beers, and some people hold up the walls-- why did I go? The walls were sturdy enough and my friends aren't very social outside of the circle we're in. Or maybe that's just me. There were other aspects, too, that I tend to forget nowadays, like "maybe I'll get lucky!"
So that's my night.
Last night, after 9 hours of work, I took a nap. The evening was supposed to include drunkenness with Matsuo, Woj and Dave. Juan backed out and Earl didn't get back to Chicago at a reasonable hour. Girlfriendo lost her stomachin the south loop and required my services. Cristina ended up getting her onto the Brown Line and I arrived at Girlfriendo's apartment at the same time they did. It wasn't pretty. When she finished puking, we straightened things out. Turns out there was a logical explanation. Things should be back to where they should be. So there's that. All the commotion put the final touches on a gathering of the... well, of me, Matsuo, Woj and them-- "we didn't hang out" is what I'm trying to say.
What else... I've been averaging two Arizona Arnold Palmer(the one made with green tea)s per day. That's impressive and disgusting all at once. Also, I buy a bottle of Pepsi Throwback every time I get a chance. I now have two open bottles in my refrigerator, one of which is flat. I've also been primarily eating burritos for the past couple of days. My car is still over-flowing with the left-overs from mt move. There are valuable records sitting in my car that have probably become warped due to the heat.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Would we be for better baby, would we be for worse?
There's probably a scientific theory to explain what I went through last night.
I had a choice between knowing something terrible or not knowing at all. The decision of whether or not to accept is a simple one. Finding out that a terrible piece of information exists is not easy to accept. It'd be like driving in the country and seeing a funnel cloud: you can either remain alert and decide what mechanism of survival to deploy, or you can shut your eyes and pretend nothing is going on.
Instead of sitting in the dark, letting my imagination describe the monster in my closet, I turned on the light. Unfortunately, the face of this beast is far uglier than I had anticipated: its claws are long and its hold is steady. Its powers of intimidation don't lay dormant with its hibernation. It is disgusting.
Now, hungover or not, I want to vomit. I slept for three hours in what seemed like a wink. My head has a new area of concentration. It is a basement to the pre-existing first floor and it is full of men busy at work on a project with plans that I am unfamiliar with.
My anger is to the brim but the blanket of confusion and indecision is serving as a calm. Do I say forgive and forget? This is ancient history, right? But a foundation of lies can't build the truth, right?
This is very frustrating. This is a test, I'm sure. Not a blatant test-- it's not a test for the sake of testing. It's just a thing... that doubles as a test. Can I drop the illusion that I was so comfortable with? Was it an illusion? Am I trusting the right people here?
All I can think about is puking. This is bad. What's worse is that this page has turned into a confessional of sorts. Definitely not the intended purpose. Maybe I was born a decade late and was destined to be in an emo band or something. I don't know.
My mind is cluttered. What I will do tonight is buy a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of bourbon and clear a few things up. Just me and my head. And Dave, Matsuo, Juan, Earl. You know. People. Woj.
Driving the Stella helps. I never understood how a person could go for a drive as a way of meditating. Now I do. Driving my Cadillac isn't particularly engrossing-- there's no art, just touch and go. With the Stella, you have to let your mind absorb the machine. You can't use a cell phone or listen to music. It's great. It provided an excellent break from being pissed off.
Anyways, to sum all this up, I'll go back to the age-old debate: do you look under your kid's mattress to see if he's reading Playboy? Remember, you might find more than you hoped for, like your kid's bong or meth lab. Ignorance, in certain cases, can be blissful in trivial matters such as relationships with the ones you love.
I had a choice between knowing something terrible or not knowing at all. The decision of whether or not to accept is a simple one. Finding out that a terrible piece of information exists is not easy to accept. It'd be like driving in the country and seeing a funnel cloud: you can either remain alert and decide what mechanism of survival to deploy, or you can shut your eyes and pretend nothing is going on.
Instead of sitting in the dark, letting my imagination describe the monster in my closet, I turned on the light. Unfortunately, the face of this beast is far uglier than I had anticipated: its claws are long and its hold is steady. Its powers of intimidation don't lay dormant with its hibernation. It is disgusting.
Now, hungover or not, I want to vomit. I slept for three hours in what seemed like a wink. My head has a new area of concentration. It is a basement to the pre-existing first floor and it is full of men busy at work on a project with plans that I am unfamiliar with.
My anger is to the brim but the blanket of confusion and indecision is serving as a calm. Do I say forgive and forget? This is ancient history, right? But a foundation of lies can't build the truth, right?
This is very frustrating. This is a test, I'm sure. Not a blatant test-- it's not a test for the sake of testing. It's just a thing... that doubles as a test. Can I drop the illusion that I was so comfortable with? Was it an illusion? Am I trusting the right people here?
All I can think about is puking. This is bad. What's worse is that this page has turned into a confessional of sorts. Definitely not the intended purpose. Maybe I was born a decade late and was destined to be in an emo band or something. I don't know.
My mind is cluttered. What I will do tonight is buy a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of bourbon and clear a few things up. Just me and my head. And Dave, Matsuo, Juan, Earl. You know. People. Woj.
Driving the Stella helps. I never understood how a person could go for a drive as a way of meditating. Now I do. Driving my Cadillac isn't particularly engrossing-- there's no art, just touch and go. With the Stella, you have to let your mind absorb the machine. You can't use a cell phone or listen to music. It's great. It provided an excellent break from being pissed off.
Anyways, to sum all this up, I'll go back to the age-old debate: do you look under your kid's mattress to see if he's reading Playboy? Remember, you might find more than you hoped for, like your kid's bong or meth lab. Ignorance, in certain cases, can be blissful in trivial matters such as relationships with the ones you love.
Friday, August 6, 2010
Run Me Down
There was once a time when my brain was functioning up to its standards and life was in order. Well, maybe there wasn't. But, like any lucky baseball player past his prime, my brain had what is known in the world of sports as the "twilight of its career." Omar Vizquel is on the White Sox right now. He was a rookie for the Seattle Mariners when Ghostbusters debuted in theaters and spent his best days with the Cleveland Indians. He's currently 43 and playing as well as he ever has. His career and current standing is a prime example of where my brain once was.
As they will be for Omar one day, those days seem to have come and gone for my brain. The days of being proficient at semi-difficult crossword puzzles and reading 200 year-old Russian literature appear to be exclusively seen in my metaphorical rear-view mirror. Take this morning, for example: I spent a good half of an hour searching for my deodorant. In my better days, I would have come up with a clever way to extinguish future odors that may present themselves in the pits between my arms and torso. I definitely wouldn't have spent so long had been brain functioning the way it could (and should), the way I can't hold down a boring job for very long because routine bores the hell out of me. Maybe I'm okay with routine now? I don't know.
Anyways, I rode my bike down to Lincoln Park two nights ago. The root of my recent frustration may lay in the fact that I've been finding ways around exercising over the past month. I know the benefits of exercising: my brain works better, I feel more capable of... living my life, I suppose, and... I'm sure there's more. The trouble is that it's been far too humid lately, I've had a blast riding scooters, and obesity poses no serious threat to my physical health. If anything, exercising forces me to eat more. When I don't exercise, I tend to forget to eat or not allow time between sleep and work.
Enough of that. I need to get back to work so I can have a few beers before I go home and arrange my apartment.
As they will be for Omar one day, those days seem to have come and gone for my brain. The days of being proficient at semi-difficult crossword puzzles and reading 200 year-old Russian literature appear to be exclusively seen in my metaphorical rear-view mirror. Take this morning, for example: I spent a good half of an hour searching for my deodorant. In my better days, I would have come up with a clever way to extinguish future odors that may present themselves in the pits between my arms and torso. I definitely wouldn't have spent so long had been brain functioning the way it could (and should), the way I can't hold down a boring job for very long because routine bores the hell out of me. Maybe I'm okay with routine now? I don't know.
Anyways, I rode my bike down to Lincoln Park two nights ago. The root of my recent frustration may lay in the fact that I've been finding ways around exercising over the past month. I know the benefits of exercising: my brain works better, I feel more capable of... living my life, I suppose, and... I'm sure there's more. The trouble is that it's been far too humid lately, I've had a blast riding scooters, and obesity poses no serious threat to my physical health. If anything, exercising forces me to eat more. When I don't exercise, I tend to forget to eat or not allow time between sleep and work.
Enough of that. I need to get back to work so I can have a few beers before I go home and arrange my apartment.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Hear the solider groan, "We'll go at it alone"
I had to get out of bed this morning. That helps. All the windows were open due to the "sweating balls" magnitude of last night's heat. Luckily, the rain that the strong wind blew in went primarily on the stuff left by my room's former occupant. I don't feel bad.
Last night, Will informed me of a Honda CB 350 on Craigslist. I e-mailed the owner and have had my fingers crossed ever since.
Today is the second consecutive (but last, this week) day of waking up early and going to work. It was more difficult this morning, for some reason. I could guess as to why but then gonI'd have to speak in barista jargon... no one wants that (least of all, me).
After work but before I walk Mr. Toblerone, I will be at Reckless. The new Arcade Fire album is supposed to be worth listening to and I could use some fresh jams to put my mind back in some sort of rhythm.
Alright, now that all the bullet-points are finished, on to today's topic...
How about rain boots? They're pretty fucking hideous under any circumstance I can conjure up.
Maybe I should begin the way I usually do.
When I write, I sit down and start typing (or physically writing) whatever's in my head. I try to use some sort of rhyming scheme or commonality between words to, if nothing else, keep me interested. My topic is usually myself because I don't read articles or books very thoroughly and, thus, don't have much of an educated opinion on anything. Maybe that's tragic. What if I had the most important message in the world? What if I was the second coming of Jesus, for instance, and I had to expose Santa Claus as having ulterior motives? Well, if I couldn't write or speak in an organized manner then I'd be fucked. Conversely, deranged people like Adolf Hitler or clever-but-not-brilliant people like Barack Obama come off sounding credible with the acquisition of a skill, like speaking or writing. This is an old thought, though, and if someone has an opinion one way or another about Hitler or Barack Obama then that same person is probably already familiar.
Looking back on that last paragraph, I don't see how the first few sentences led me to the rest of the paragraph. Anyways, where was I, anywhere? I guess my point in all that is another idea that's been hashed and re-hashed countless times, which is that the dumbest people tend to have the loudest and strongest voices. I don't think there's anything ridiculous about that statement... but then, one drunken night with Danny, he said (in what seemed like an awkward confidence) something like, "I don't want to come off as sounding paranoid, but the majority of people are into some pretty dumb things." I was shocked. Was this such a scary idea to him? Like Winston Smith, was Danny ashamed to be thinking such thoughts?
It seems to me that, as I get older, people my age grow more and more fearful of deviating from the way they perceive things as being. It's like they see the way the world works and, because it's there, assume that it correct. That's a pretty terrifying thought. For one reason or another, I have a vendetta against television. I'm sure I've written about it on this page before. How is it okay to allow yourself to be barraged by advertisements and product placement during programming that is selected by the likes of Rupert Murdoch and Ted Turner? How can so many people spend 20+ hours a week exposing their minds to something that is not the least bit trustworthy?
The Arcade Fire got some things right on Neon Bible. I'll see if we're still on the same page.
Last night, Will informed me of a Honda CB 350 on Craigslist. I e-mailed the owner and have had my fingers crossed ever since.
Today is the second consecutive (but last, this week) day of waking up early and going to work. It was more difficult this morning, for some reason. I could guess as to why but then gonI'd have to speak in barista jargon... no one wants that (least of all, me).
After work but before I walk Mr. Toblerone, I will be at Reckless. The new Arcade Fire album is supposed to be worth listening to and I could use some fresh jams to put my mind back in some sort of rhythm.
Alright, now that all the bullet-points are finished, on to today's topic...
How about rain boots? They're pretty fucking hideous under any circumstance I can conjure up.
Maybe I should begin the way I usually do.
When I write, I sit down and start typing (or physically writing) whatever's in my head. I try to use some sort of rhyming scheme or commonality between words to, if nothing else, keep me interested. My topic is usually myself because I don't read articles or books very thoroughly and, thus, don't have much of an educated opinion on anything. Maybe that's tragic. What if I had the most important message in the world? What if I was the second coming of Jesus, for instance, and I had to expose Santa Claus as having ulterior motives? Well, if I couldn't write or speak in an organized manner then I'd be fucked. Conversely, deranged people like Adolf Hitler or clever-but-not-brilliant people like Barack Obama come off sounding credible with the acquisition of a skill, like speaking or writing. This is an old thought, though, and if someone has an opinion one way or another about Hitler or Barack Obama then that same person is probably already familiar.
Looking back on that last paragraph, I don't see how the first few sentences led me to the rest of the paragraph. Anyways, where was I, anywhere? I guess my point in all that is another idea that's been hashed and re-hashed countless times, which is that the dumbest people tend to have the loudest and strongest voices. I don't think there's anything ridiculous about that statement... but then, one drunken night with Danny, he said (in what seemed like an awkward confidence) something like, "I don't want to come off as sounding paranoid, but the majority of people are into some pretty dumb things." I was shocked. Was this such a scary idea to him? Like Winston Smith, was Danny ashamed to be thinking such thoughts?
It seems to me that, as I get older, people my age grow more and more fearful of deviating from the way they perceive things as being. It's like they see the way the world works and, because it's there, assume that it correct. That's a pretty terrifying thought. For one reason or another, I have a vendetta against television. I'm sure I've written about it on this page before. How is it okay to allow yourself to be barraged by advertisements and product placement during programming that is selected by the likes of Rupert Murdoch and Ted Turner? How can so many people spend 20+ hours a week exposing their minds to something that is not the least bit trustworthy?
The Arcade Fire got some things right on Neon Bible. I'll see if we're still on the same page.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
What's Funny Uh-oh? Uh-oh.
I just posted the previous entry but doctored it to make it appear as if it was published when I wrote it. Nice.
Speaking of nice, last night was Whiskey Night at my new place. Earl, Juan, and Kevin came to my old place with six tall boys and a bottle of... something. It seemed cheap but the taste wasn't a bad one. The portion was a fifth and we finished it somewhat quickly. I now have empirical evidence that my porch is a decent place to hang out. It's no 905 Fullerton, but what is anymore?
Earl chatted me up about R. Stevie Moore while Kevin and Juan talked about college. At one point I went inside and found a giant pizza in front of Aaron and Neil. They were playing video games and made it through about half of the pizza. I bought the rest and it was eaten on the porch. It had begun raining by the time they finally left, and Juan and I weren't finished with a conversation that had me arguing on behalf of Miley Cyrus and Lil Wayne and against their fans. He said Lil Wayne had a moral responsibility not to put out music that sucks, regardless of whether or not people will buy it.
Waking up this morning was not quite as entertaining, but it also wasn't horrible. I slept on the couch that should be removed from my room by today (it belongs to the former occupant) next to three open windows. The rain blew in but hit the screen on its way and lightly misted my sleeping face. Dave's sleeping bag was my blanket. It was definitely one of the more comfortable makeshift beds I had ever made.
Although I do the same thing when I'm uncomfortable or when I have to pee, I overslept. The mist and cool breeze against a warm sleeping bag was just too damn comfortable. I finally rousted myself at about 7:05, giving myself a good 10 minutes before I was supposed to get to work. Luckily, the shop officially opens at 7:30, which I was on time for. Unluckily, my car had a flat tire last night. If it isn't still flat (Aaron, Neil and I re-inflated it and used Fix-a-Flat), it is definitely full of my garbage that I need to bring to my new apartment. The scooter is broken down and parked on Bryn Mawr, and I left my bike at Lucy's last night. Basically, I have no mode of transportation. I only option is to use the CTA. That said, I walked to work.
Walking, as many of you know, makes short distances seem far (funny haha). Because it's been a while since I've walked to a place with the purpose of being on time (as opposed to merely recreational walking), I misjudged the time it would take me, coupled with my late awakening, and so I was late to work.
Sorry, I don't really know where I'm going with all this. I suppose I'm a bit hungover. I'm pleasantly surprised at how well my body is taking to the after-effects of an evening spent drinking. I used one trick, though, that I learned from the late, great Chris Jackson: Gatorade. Maybe it's the electrolytes, or maybe it's the disgusting amount of sugar, but Gatorade works wonders for the prevention of a hangover. Chris told me to drink a bottle before passing out, but I drank one on my way to work this morning. I still have that morning-after whiskey-stomach whose trademark is being a little weak and is going to cause me to take a great-Mexican-food-style dump at some point. There's a downside: drinking coffee on a weak stomach has never been a talent of mine. This is troublesome because the other thing (the only other thing, so that's good) ailing me is the lack of sleep. Four hours isn't terrible. I won't complain.
Here's what's on my mind: tips. The acronym I learned had the word meaning To Insure Promptness and was in a book called A View From Saturday.
When I worked at Starbucks, I once used the (debatable) full name. The manager took it down because it was inappropriate. To me, the idea of tipping is inappropriate. Well, wait, let me draw a line here. Tipping for a meal at a restaurant is cool. Tipping a valet guy is understandable, and tipping your barber is a given. Tipping your barista? That line has been crossed.
Here, let me clarify: when you work at Starbucks, it takes two seconds to pour a cup of coffee, a shot of espresso is brewed by pressing a button, and the teas are pre-made and pre-packaged. What tips do in this situation is empower the "barista," allowing him to go out of his or her way to make your drink taste worse than it should. I tip, though, because sometimes I don't want to deal with the dirty looks that get into those greedy eyes that are fixed on the tip jar. When those eyes are not appeased, the look is piercing.
According to my Old Man, Starbucks is responsible for tip jars being in coffee shops. I don't know if this is true or if the coffee shop my dad frequented prior to the rise of Starbucks was actually a 7-11.
To sum that up, it should be taken into consideration that I used to work for Starbucks, I currently make less tips than I did for that beast, and the skill that my current job requires is far greater. This whole "being angry about not getting tipped enough" was brought upon by Earl casually mentioning that the tip rate at his store was $1.50 an hour, which is horrible (relative to other Starbucks stores where he had worked).
To clarify further: I love my job. For the amount of people that come in, I make a lot in tips. The volume of business that any Starbucks location has is enormous compared to a Mom and Pop store like this. In the rare occasions when I sit back and think about things pertaining to Starbucks, I get angry. I would be thrilled to see them go under.
Well, that's my brain. I'm going to finish my last twenty minutes of work with my bag of Cracker Jacks. That said, this entry seems to have a good amount of advertising and name-dropping that is going unpaid for. Hm.
Before I go, I must make note of something that could be world-record worthy: I have not used the bathroom since I left my apartment this morning. I have since had a bottle of Gatorade and a decent amount of coffee. I'm impressed.
Speaking of nice, last night was Whiskey Night at my new place. Earl, Juan, and Kevin came to my old place with six tall boys and a bottle of... something. It seemed cheap but the taste wasn't a bad one. The portion was a fifth and we finished it somewhat quickly. I now have empirical evidence that my porch is a decent place to hang out. It's no 905 Fullerton, but what is anymore?
Earl chatted me up about R. Stevie Moore while Kevin and Juan talked about college. At one point I went inside and found a giant pizza in front of Aaron and Neil. They were playing video games and made it through about half of the pizza. I bought the rest and it was eaten on the porch. It had begun raining by the time they finally left, and Juan and I weren't finished with a conversation that had me arguing on behalf of Miley Cyrus and Lil Wayne and against their fans. He said Lil Wayne had a moral responsibility not to put out music that sucks, regardless of whether or not people will buy it.
Waking up this morning was not quite as entertaining, but it also wasn't horrible. I slept on the couch that should be removed from my room by today (it belongs to the former occupant) next to three open windows. The rain blew in but hit the screen on its way and lightly misted my sleeping face. Dave's sleeping bag was my blanket. It was definitely one of the more comfortable makeshift beds I had ever made.
Although I do the same thing when I'm uncomfortable or when I have to pee, I overslept. The mist and cool breeze against a warm sleeping bag was just too damn comfortable. I finally rousted myself at about 7:05, giving myself a good 10 minutes before I was supposed to get to work. Luckily, the shop officially opens at 7:30, which I was on time for. Unluckily, my car had a flat tire last night. If it isn't still flat (Aaron, Neil and I re-inflated it and used Fix-a-Flat), it is definitely full of my garbage that I need to bring to my new apartment. The scooter is broken down and parked on Bryn Mawr, and I left my bike at Lucy's last night. Basically, I have no mode of transportation. I only option is to use the CTA. That said, I walked to work.
Walking, as many of you know, makes short distances seem far (funny haha). Because it's been a while since I've walked to a place with the purpose of being on time (as opposed to merely recreational walking), I misjudged the time it would take me, coupled with my late awakening, and so I was late to work.
Sorry, I don't really know where I'm going with all this. I suppose I'm a bit hungover. I'm pleasantly surprised at how well my body is taking to the after-effects of an evening spent drinking. I used one trick, though, that I learned from the late, great Chris Jackson: Gatorade. Maybe it's the electrolytes, or maybe it's the disgusting amount of sugar, but Gatorade works wonders for the prevention of a hangover. Chris told me to drink a bottle before passing out, but I drank one on my way to work this morning. I still have that morning-after whiskey-stomach whose trademark is being a little weak and is going to cause me to take a great-Mexican-food-style dump at some point. There's a downside: drinking coffee on a weak stomach has never been a talent of mine. This is troublesome because the other thing (the only other thing, so that's good) ailing me is the lack of sleep. Four hours isn't terrible. I won't complain.
Here's what's on my mind: tips. The acronym I learned had the word meaning To Insure Promptness and was in a book called A View From Saturday.
When I worked at Starbucks, I once used the (debatable) full name. The manager took it down because it was inappropriate. To me, the idea of tipping is inappropriate. Well, wait, let me draw a line here. Tipping for a meal at a restaurant is cool. Tipping a valet guy is understandable, and tipping your barber is a given. Tipping your barista? That line has been crossed.
Here, let me clarify: when you work at Starbucks, it takes two seconds to pour a cup of coffee, a shot of espresso is brewed by pressing a button, and the teas are pre-made and pre-packaged. What tips do in this situation is empower the "barista," allowing him to go out of his or her way to make your drink taste worse than it should. I tip, though, because sometimes I don't want to deal with the dirty looks that get into those greedy eyes that are fixed on the tip jar. When those eyes are not appeased, the look is piercing.
According to my Old Man, Starbucks is responsible for tip jars being in coffee shops. I don't know if this is true or if the coffee shop my dad frequented prior to the rise of Starbucks was actually a 7-11.
To sum that up, it should be taken into consideration that I used to work for Starbucks, I currently make less tips than I did for that beast, and the skill that my current job requires is far greater. This whole "being angry about not getting tipped enough" was brought upon by Earl casually mentioning that the tip rate at his store was $1.50 an hour, which is horrible (relative to other Starbucks stores where he had worked).
To clarify further: I love my job. For the amount of people that come in, I make a lot in tips. The volume of business that any Starbucks location has is enormous compared to a Mom and Pop store like this. In the rare occasions when I sit back and think about things pertaining to Starbucks, I get angry. I would be thrilled to see them go under.
Well, that's my brain. I'm going to finish my last twenty minutes of work with my bag of Cracker Jacks. That said, this entry seems to have a good amount of advertising and name-dropping that is going unpaid for. Hm.
Before I go, I must make note of something that could be world-record worthy: I have not used the bathroom since I left my apartment this morning. I have since had a bottle of Gatorade and a decent amount of coffee. I'm impressed.
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