Stolen Tire and a Bad Smell

If 2011 ends up being as good as 2010 is bad, I'm in for a treat. What's strange, though, is that I haven't been too far down (emotionally speaking) (I have become more agitated than I used to be, but that could be my on-going love/hate relationship with cigarettes, or possibly a side effect of drinking coffee excessively on a daily basis).
Today, I walked to my bike and found a unicycle in its place. This unicycle had the body of a bike (my bike, in particular), as well as a chain (which is quite unusual as it is unnecessary to switch gears on a single-wheeled machine).
So there's that: a stolen tire to add to the stolen phone, backpack, and books, compounded with falling off the Stella various times, plus having bugs and a moldy bathroom, as well as roughly $500 of parking tickets this year... it's been a rough one.
On the other hand, I got a new tattoo, a motorcycle, and possibly a Cabrio. I also bought a violin (which I'm now trying to sell). I am currently employed at a pretty sweet coffee shop, and certain people in my family are getting their lives together (always a good thing).
Before I go, I should mention my trip to Intelligensia today. Here goes:
I met Megan 10 minutes after I told her I'd be there. I was upset about my bike tire and the fact that I had to drive the Cadillac (which I don't trust ever since the tires began spontaneously deflating). She saw I was upset and paid for my bagel (at The Bagel... decent place. Also, Aaron's dad's favorite place, supposedly).
On to Intelligentsia... I bought a large coffee, even though I don't consider 16 ounces of coffee to be particularly large. 16 ounces of espresso, on the other hand, would probably qualify as an xxxxl, at least. Anyways, we sat outside with our bagels and coffee and had a chat. At one point, a woman walking her dog and heading in our direction caught Megan's attention. "I'm going to ask her what kind of dog that is," she declared. And she did.
Chatty Kathy's name was actually Diane, but she was fairly interesting for someone who had a lot of arbitrary (relatively speaking) things to say. Very long conversation short: she referred me to a very good friend of hers who is close to having a PhD from the University of Chicago and is starting to teach writing. She's Puerto Rican and spicy (in the words of Diane). The real root of my excitement lies in the notion that this could, if I take this lead, be the yin to the inconvenient yang I've landed lately.

As an aside, I'd like to mention that I have not been wearing deodorant for the past few days. I figure it's not good to rub or spray chemicals into my skin on a daily basis. Because my diet consists of primarily healthy and organic foods, I usually do not smell when I sweat. Today, though, I smell... bad. This is the first day in many that I haven't ridden my bike (or done any kind of exercise or physical activity, for that matter). I now have this suspicion that people are tipping me in a "get your water turned on and take a goddamn shower. Jesus"- kind of way. (My water is on, by the bye).

Page 5.

I wonder why people drink and then I think of Adam.
But my mind didn't just end up there. It never does. Briefly, here's where it came from:
The newspaper is, essentially, a tabloid. I was tipped off by Stephen Colbert's congressional hearing thing on a page (3, I think) dedicated to celebrity something or other and their individual interactions with the world. Before I got there, though, I had been reading the front page. I read half an article, turned to the page with the rest of the story and, instead, found a better-looking one.
One cover story caught my attention in a passing-interest kind of way. A 16 year-old kid had been beaten to death about a year ago and her mom was just getting over it. Cool. Furthermore, she was putting her energy towards prevention (as opposed to strictly grieving). Even better. Still no emotional attachment, though, which isn't unusual when a slightly different rendition of this tragedy can be found in a Chicago paper on a daily basis.
Then I saw it: a little half-article at the bottom of page 4.
Anyways, as it was sinking in, I got to thinking: "what would he want me to do?" Well, here's more insight: I was considering having a cigarette. Lucy hates when I smell like smoke (or have anything to do with smoke, for that matter). I felt like what's-his-name, trying to pick up girls at a funeral. 'Scumbag,' that's the word I was looking for-- trying to use a bad situation for my advantage. So that's when the question came to me: "what would he want me to do?" At first I thought about how cool of a dude he was, and how he'd tell me to stop worrying so much and smoke a damn cigarette. Then I came to my senses and thought, "he wouldn't give a damn what decision I made." See, we weren't even very good friends. In fact, "not very good friends" is still a gross exaggeration. He was.. let's see. A casual acquaintance. If we had ever seen each other in public, we may or may not have even recognized each other. Then I got to thinking about how much I think and wonder and worry about people who are, in all certainty, completely oblivious to my thoughts. Frankie didn't know I thought he was an awesome guy, worthy of admiration. Matt doesn't know how much he has impacted my life, or how I still wish I had his charisma. Uncle JP doesn't know that I try to mimic certain things he has done in his life to better my own. The list could go on forever. Although I do feel shy around people I really admire, I often feel that it is best that these sentiments be kept to myself. If I told Dot how I admired her thought-processes and loved the times we would discuss the rules of grammar, I would only cause a scene. If I told my uncle Bruce, "I understand why you drank. As much as I want to believe it was a cowardly escape from hard feelings, I am not one to judge as I barely scrape by on the decisions I make and still often teeter on the brink of making very, very awful ones," where would that get me? Where would that get him? I don't want to burden seemingly random characters in my life with the idea that I'm secretly a big fan.
I don't know. The world sickens me so terribly sometimes. Naperville might sell itself to corporate advertising. Stephen Colbert made some bad jokes in front of elected officials. A kid I knew who wasn't wasting his life being a scumbag was murdered by the hands of another kid who falsely felt entitled to an irrational jealousy.

Portraits of Stick Figures

There's a man who comes into this coffee shop and his head doesn't seem to be wired properly. He carries around sketches (along with enough copies of these sketches to flyer an entire Glenn Beck rally) that try to explain the problems with the world and the way that the U.S. will, ultimately, fall. Sometimes it's the CIA (today it was the bible) and sometimes it's hot dogs. Though he is virtually inaudible (aside from the occasional guttural noise that slips through is teeth), he insists on explaining his newly conceived process every time he comes in. Today's shift brought to light a fragment of this man's life that I will probably never know: He got into a shouting (which, in this man's case, was slightly above the level at which the average human being carries a conversation) -match with a group of women who may or may not have been prostitutes. Because he repeated himself over and over, I was able to piece together the rhetorical command I believe he was trying to convey: "Go ahead, call the police on me!" Something like that.

Corrections.

The book I'm currently reading is called The Corrections and it was written by Jonathan Franzen. The story used to be that Mr. Franzen was the first person to tell Oprah to take her book club and shove it. The story now goes that the previous story was just a big misunderstanding and that the author was quoted out of context and that, in reality, he loves Oprah.
Anyways, he just came out with a new book, Freedom, and his interviews have been coming at me from every angle (Time magazine, the Onion, NPR). Because I have read several of these interviews, and since the only writing of his that I've read was a single essay from How To Be Alone (which would probably suit me better right now than it did four years ago), I decided I should familiarize myself with an entire novel.
I won't go as far as to review the book as I'm only about a fifth of the way through it, but I will say that I'm not impressed with that shape of the world if this man is being touted as one of the best writers of the decade. While I do agree that contemporaries of his flout their form to any annoying degree, Franzen's writing seems a little... stale? That's not the exact word I'm looking for, neither is "stressed," but I think I'm getting closer.
Closing time.

Melodramatic.

I'm laughing because Aaron is laughing, not because I find it particularly humorous that our bathroom rug is covered in dog shit.
I'm calm because I'm collecting myself, not because I find it relaxing to drive, unsuccessfully, over an oil-slicked Broadway on a Vespa. I'm turning down a ride from a stranger because I wasn't completely deaf during my formative years and I would rather walk or take the bus than risk my life and dignity on the degree that I find some random dude's offer to be genuine.