Illinois Airship

Like many of you, I followed with waning interest the reports of...

Fri, 04 Feb 2011 16:47:00 -0600

Like many of you, I followed with waning interest the reports of mass animal die-off. To me, they kind of pale in comparison to Republican politicians redefining rape and the struggle of an entire country of people to bring about democracy in their nation, but for some folks it seems this was IT. The sign. The undeniable beginning of the catastrophic domino effect that would render this world a burnt out wasteland covered in dead birds and let’s say… wild packs of mutant dogs. And that’s fine. The world needs people to freak out about stuff like that.

More interesting to me were the friends of mine that seem perversely fascinated by the idea of the apocalypse happening in our lifetime. I imagine it’s generational. Or maybe just a sign of the times. Without doing any actual research I would hazard a guess that since the actual invention of mankind’s ability to destroy itself whether it be environmental, nuclear or zombie related this type of concept has sold pretty well in hardcover and paperback. My limited liberal arts education calls to mind the Japanese art of Butoh as well as Albert Hughes’ incendiary movie The Book of Eli that bravely showed us that Denzel Washington would be in anything if the price were right.

But I digress. Listen, I’m just as fascinated with the prospect of my life taking on an apocalyptic narrative as the next guy. Who would I hug? Where would I go? What would I do? Probably cry a lot and regret my lack of friends with guns and underground shelters. However, some of my friends who have been chronicling the animal deaths seem to have this element of GLEE about them. Like they’re looking forward to it. Like they experience actual enjoyment from the minutely possible “we’re all gonna die” prospect evidenced by these animals mysteriously passing as opposed to the strange yet banal curiosity most people have to contemplate the worst, if only for a moment. As if the forecast of biblical endtime horrors were something to feel awesome about living to see. Yay! You get to blog the apocalypse! Congratulations!

And when the reports come in that these birds have died for actual causes from anything other than besides “an act of god” or “the mysterious hand of fate” there seems to be a genuine disappointment. People, believe me. It’s a GOOD thing. You don’t really want to die in the apocalypse. You want to die happy from being too awesome.

And also, at no point did I hear anybody say “Oh, those poor fish/birds/cows.” Geez people. SELFISH.

My Grandmother on my Dad’s side died when I was about three. I...

Wed, 26 Jan 2011 17:34:42 -0600

My Grandmother on my Dad’s side died when I was about three. I don’t remember much of her besides the smell of cigarette smoke. My Grandfather, however, even now despite having a girlfriend (he’s a slick Gramps) still cries at every mention of her. An old man, his memories are like a book he can look through now being on the last chapter. And he still smiles and chokes up at parts long since written and finished.

This was something that weighed on me when I was a kid. After the initial fear we all experience when young concerning our own mortality I worried about the people in my life left behind. Now, this was before puberty so in my mind I saw all my family including parents and grandfather crying over the fact that I was gone. It never occurred to me that I might outlive all of them because hmmm I might’ve been a dumb kid. I would become terribly depressed in thinking how upset they’d all be. How neurotic can a kid be at twelve years old?

I’ve been rereading all my favorite Vonnegut recently, all of which came to me in rapid succession when I was fifteen. It was Cat’s Cradle, God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater and Slaughterhouse-Five, which now are my three favorites in that order. Cat’s Cradle was and still is my favorite and I was very struck at fifteen while reading it when Vonnegut talked about a karass- a group of people cosmically linked without their knowledge and whose destinies are preordained to intertwine. He talks about an older couple called the Mintons who are a part of a duprass whose metaphysical grouping was just two. He makes mention that members of a duprass always die within a week of each other. And when the Mintons are about to tumble into the sea as the ground beneath them crumbles and cracks Vonnegut says “The image of a voyage seems to have occurred to the voyaging Mintons, too, for they waved to us with wan amiability. They held hands. They faced the sea. Out they went; then down they went in a cataclysmic rush, we’re gone.”

And how glorious is that? To be linked with one person, especially a person whom you love, so intrinsically that your very existence is tied to one another? The idea of myself dying at the same exact moment as the person I loved was a beautiful idea as a teenager. Now it seems pretty selfish considering how I treat my body, as it’d probably be dooming my partner to a premature death. Perhaps it’s too romantic to be possible. And too stupid. Like Romeo and Juliet. And too sad. Like Old Dan and Little Ann from Where the Red Fern Grows. Ugh. Never mind. I can’t even think of that book without getting sad. Like when someone mentions Event Horizon, but with watery eyes instead of shudders.

Oh man. Have you seen Event Horizon? Fuuuucked up.

Psh. Turns out the only people who can dig through the center of...

Sun, 16 Jan 2011 15:16:00 -0600

Psh. Turns out the only people who can dig through the center of the earth to China live in Chile and Argentina. Whatever. Who wants to dig a hole to China?

I did you FUCKER. Sure, it’s about as antiquated as chasing a hoop with a stick, but do you know how many hours I put into digging that hole as a kid? My parents were super pissed that I was digging up their garden, but that’s because they didn’t understand WHAT PASSION IS. Fuck, I was the Howard Hughes of digging through the center of the earth. I’m sorry, what did you say? I could still dig a hole to China if I didn’t go through the center of the earth? Slack much? I’d rather give up altogether than do things half-assed.

And I did. I gave up. Not because of the whole antipodal issue, but probably because I decided I wanted to be a champion bullwhip-performer or something like that instead. Yeah, I’m a giverupper. That’s me. That moment was the beginning of a long history of giving up. Not a spaceman. Not a pirate. Not Michael Jordan’s best friend. I’m a big disappointment to childhood me..

But then again, I might have drowned when I reached the bottom of the Indian Ocean. So there’s that.

It could be worse. I once knew a kid with a picture of Foghorn...

Mon, 10 Jan 2011 17:18:36 -0600

It could be worse. I once knew a kid with a picture of Foghorn Leghorn in full tux regalia tapdancing over a giant logo for Skoal chewing tobacco. Actually, when you say that out loud it sounds pretty cool.

But this one was my first. An overly prominent tattoo on my forearm wherin black swallows (yuk yuk) fly out of my inner-elbow and cascade down my arm. No, it’s not a particularly well done tattoo. And for good reason as it was done by an apprentice friend of mine for a bottle of Jack Daniels. Why why why would I get something so shitty you ask? Doy. Same reason I’ve ever done anything ever, of course. To impress a girl, stupid. Now ahem, this could in hindsight have been an incredibly bad decision since I no longer see this girl and the memory of us together is something that comes to me in flashes of wistfulness and fear when I’m feeling especially drunk or emotionally fragile like relationship post-traumatic-syndrome, but I say why cry over spilt arm blood? Fuck that.

Rather it’s a reminder that I can be recklessly and stupidly in love. A reminder that I can be impulsive with my feelings and actions. A reminder that I have that potential to walk into traffic, tattoo my body or set my life on fire for the depth of feelings I can have for someone. Not in the literal sense of course- I’m afeared of fire and I don’t see how getting hit by a car would help a relationship of mine, but you know what I mean.

Now that we are all older and colder we can more easily differentiate the line between love and the teenage infatuation that can drown us while young, but I say we rebel against that stricture. We should all want to throw ourselves on the grenade again. To live forever in the ribcage of some young girl and feel our world shatter with loss as our tide rolls back out to sea again. Cynicism about love is an old man’s game and none of us are dead yet. We just have to make sure it doesn’t cross into the crazy cut-her-name-into-my-arm-I-did-it-all-for-you-damien side of things. So I will keep the tattoo. And keep hoping I will be that stupid again.

But goddammit why’d it have to be birds? Fuck.

Homesick. And maybe a little tipsy.

Sat, 25 Dec 2010 23:39:02 -0600

I’ve never spent Christmas in Chicago. I’ve never spent Christmas in Bali either, for...

I say that I’m friends with all my...

Mon, 10 May 2010 14:35:39 -0500

I say that I’m friends with all my ex-girlfriends.

That’s basically the truth, but there’s a thick vein of bullshit in all that. Let me explain with an example. So, the other day I went to an event in which an ex of mine was one of the performers. After the conclusion of said event we all stood outside talking, smoking and generally enjoying the breeze coming in off the lake and curling its way through southern Chicago. We talked about this and that- friendly and comfortable. But the entire time I’m thinking “Damn. We used to date the shit out of each other and even though we’re totally cool and not reminiscing I can’t help but think on it because I REMEMBER EVERYTHING. I remember your awful cat. I remember all the books on your bookshelves. I remember making you laugh so hard you cried. I remember you having nightmares. I remember how you fit perfectly against me when we slept and how cold your hands always were. I remember you telling me secrets. I remember your family. I remember our relationship moving from a happy Belle and Sebastian song to a depressing The Elected song to a John Cage recording of cats fighting in an alleyway. The point is, I remember we were very much in love and now we’re talking about good Korean eateries like two schmucks who’ve met a couple times at a book club? What the cock is that shit?”

It’s not a big deal and I’ll be goddamned if I know what a better alternative is, but it’s strange. The fact is is that we’re still friends, but like “help you move-same yoga class” friends. Everything worth saying was said late at night in the stillness of her bedroom and now all that’s left is pleasantries and shared jokes. Friendliness, but no intimacy. But I can’t help but remember that shared history when we make eye contact when talking about the ecological implications of wind-farming. Weird. Not bad. Just weird.

I left out the memory of her farting on me one night as she slept, but I was trying to prove a point- so there you go.

So, I do this thing when I make eye contact with toddlers on the...

Thu, 06 May 2010 21:18:00 -0500

So, I do this thing when I make eye contact with toddlers on the subway. I make a funny face and when the kid giggles and looks up at their mom/dad for acknowledgment of said silliness I drop the face and turn towards the window. The kids get confused because they think “I’m almost positive that that dude just made a funny face, but I’m only four. Perhaps I imagined it.” I like to think of it as helping kids question reality in my own small way. Plus, it’s super funny.

Not to equate small children and tourists, but a few years ago there was a film shoot here in Chicago for a movie called Public Enemies. The movie was directed by Michael Mann, whose unflinching commitment to portray John Dillinger’s life as mind-numbingly dull as possible was truly a masterstroke of genius. Anyway, the elevated subway lines were outfitted with antique subway trains for the shots of the movie that would involve that degree of historical accuracy. You never rode in these trains, but every now and then you’d see one slide by on its way to the shoot.

One night, in what some people might call a drunken stupor, I found myself riding the El back towards home. The only other people on the train with me were some Asian tourists. I knew they were tourists not because they were Asian, but because they all had cameras and were talking excitedly in a foreign language and comparing postcards of the Buckingham Fountain and other Chicago landmarks. As to how I knew they were Asian, let’s just call it a hunch.

As they huddled around each other one of the antique trains floated by us, lit with a warm glow that shone amber through the fog and gave the car an aura that made it seem to hover by the windows. Only one girl from the group of tourists saw this happen. She stood agog and watched mouth gaping as it drifted by and out of sight like Chicago’s own Flying Dutchman- a train cursed never to put into station.

The girl turned back to her friends and began chattering to them excitedly about what she had just witnessed: an apparition all-ablaze and not three feet away from them. She used sweeping hand motions to convey its size and speed. She imitated her reaction as it had sailed by them busy with their postcards. Her brethren looked at her and laughed. I could see her in the corner of my eye trying to make her case, frustrated at not being believed. In a moment of desperation she looked up at me, the only other person on the train car. I could feel her eyes boring into the side of my face pleading “Please, tell them you saw this.”

I continued to look out the window until my stop.

Pretty fucked up, right? I like to think that she went back home with her mind filled with thoughts of Chicago, a city where on a dark night one can see spectres looming out of the fog- ill fated to ride the rails until judgment day. To her, Chicago will forever be a place of big buildings, a mighty lake that stretches the eastern horizon and ghost trains that haunt our subways and neighborhoods. And when I hear the scream of the train late at night as it winds through the city screeching in the 3 a.m. blackness I believe her to be right. And that makes me really fucking happy.

written for dirtydirt magazine. you should check it out! gonna be dope!

Forget Paris. Romance is a Sunday. I love sundays. Sundays are...

Fri, 11 Dec 2009 16:12:51 -0600

Forget Paris. Romance is a Sunday.

I love sundays. Sundays are the absolute best. Forgetting about the trepidation of work following on Monday and just making the day an absolute non-productive/all relaxed span of time. I plan on making this true forever. Even in the future. And sharing that slow and quiet stretch with whoever I end up with. I look forward to domestic bliss in a way completely unbefitting of being the city mouse who likes tall buildings and the siren song of ambulances when he goes to sleep.

Because we can claim Sunday as our own. In the morning, in our house. White walls and old paint, our kitchen table will be oak and across it will be spread layers of newspaper, newly dropped off, for us to comb through and share. As we read and sip our coffees the sun will shine through the windows overlooking our snow covered yard. The morning light will hit the sill and the bright columns of colored light will intermix with glittering dust particles. Our robes will be clean, our toes will be warm and I see no reason why we can’t go back to bed if we want to.

But we won’t. We’ll get dressed and take the dog on a walk, maybe into town. You’ll go to that used bookstore where you like to run your hand along the spines of books as you walk down the aisles and take great intakes of breath smelling the yellowing pages and aging covers. I’m going to stop in at Ed’s and have my hair cut and listen to him talk about friends from the army and baseball players long forgotten. We’ll meet back at the square next to the statue and begin a slow leisurely walk home as the sun dips deeper toward the trees that line the horizon on all sides. Maybe we picked up a movie that we can half pay attention to as we sit and decide what we want for dinner. After this, we can sip tea and watch the streetlights buzz on. Then to bed and after what transpires there I want to read a book I’ve always loved as you slumber beside me, one hand outstretched and laying against my chest.

Oh my fucking god, that’s going to be so fucking AWESOME. FUCK PARIS.

I don’t want to start any shit here but- If your god tells...

Thu, 10 Dec 2009 18:03:12 -0600

I don’t want to start any shit here but-

If your god tells you that certain people are going to hell (or anywhere- especially Iowa- sorry Iowa) if you do something it doesn’t approve of, then I say you should get a new god. Because what kind of lame omniscient being are you worshipping that would be such a jerk? Is your god a five year old? Do you really want to go to his birthday party that bad that you’re worried about making him cry? I mean, if you turn out to be right and that kind of god actually exists then your god’s kind of a punk. Know what I’m saying? Maybe you should tell your god to MAN UP and not be such a wuss. It’s a big world out there and freaking out every time two dudes say they love each other is really gonna knock the energy out of you. Let’s save the hellfire for murderers and rapists, okay? Listen, dude, just because you started the band doesn’t mean you always get to decide what we’re going to play.

That might seem non-sequitous, but it makes PERFECT sense to me.

When I was five I wanted to be a brontosaurus when I grew up. I...

Wed, 09 Dec 2009 17:57:01 -0600

When I was five I wanted to be a brontosaurus when I grew up. I haven’t moved that much further beyond this point since then.

Recently I was asked what my Christmas wish would be. No restrictions, just the opportunity to receive whatever I wanted. Now, I know these types of things are usually a set-up. Sure, you want to say “Money! Rent! A car that runs on dreams and emits only the sound of babies laughing!’ but you know as soon as you do that your jerk friend when asked next is going to sandbag you by saying something like “World Peace and the assurance that all children will be warm and happy.” What a cock, right?

So, while recently enjoying an especially heartwarming car ride with some very close friends up to the north side this question was passed around. The answers were pretty much what you’d expect, but what stood out to me was a friend’s answer in saying “I wish that I felt the way I did when I was five.” This has stayed with me for the past week. I wish to change my answer to this one.

Not everyone had a good childhood experience. In fact, I’m realizing more and more every day that many of us didn’t. Without going into too much detail I can say that I had a good one. Truly idyllic. But it isn’t the feeling of playing tag or worrying about the monsters I was SURE were awaiting a careless foot or hand under my bed that I wish to experience again. It’s the feeling of possibility. The assurance that a long and happy life stretched out before me and that I could be anything I wanted to. That this experience of living was just beginning and any of my wildest dreams would be possible. The world is a child’s oyster because you have the time and unrestricted imagination to attempt anything. To aspire to anything.

I am not a pirate. I am not an astronaut. I am not a firefighter. I am not a cowboy. And I don’t think I’m unhappy because I am not any of those things. Most of them (with the exception of a cowboy) I no longer want to be. But I really miss the feeling that I could. Y’know? How do I get that back?

Now I work with children and in the music business. The music business is a soul-crushing monstrosity that can make me not enjoy anything. Especially music. I also work with children because I see in them that hope and I want to make sure someone is fostering it. Because only cynical douchebags shrug their shoulders and say “That’s life.” Plus, kids are totally cool.

And that’s why I’m trying to find a different job then the well-paying one I have now. I don’t buy that “everyone hates their job” shit. I don’t cotton much to that kind of defeatism. Fuck it, I’m still a five year old. Now somebody get me a job listening to music and eating delicious sandwiches. FIND IT.

Sometimes I feel like this blog is a Seinfield-ian “What’s the deal with…?” only with feelings. Maybe my Christmas wish should be to grow the fuck up.

It has begun snowing here in Chicago again. If you’ve...

Thu, 03 Dec 2009 17:44:50 -0600

It has begun snowing here in Chicago again.

If you’ve never been to Chicago then you might not know that the only thing more intense than our weather is our ability to talk about it. It’s an inevitability. With minus zero winds and freezing rain we talk about weather (a conversation topic usually reserved for awkward moments on dates and at bus stops) with an excitement and fervor usually reserved for politics and sports. Everyone has their own theories on what will happen day-to-day with the weather, each person agreeing that trusting the “Weatherman” is a cardinal mistake and the equivalent of listening to eastern mystics or trying to divine the wind pattern from the entrails of birds and chicken bones flung against the ground. What can be agreed upon is that weather becomes a monster in Chicago. Cold freezing impasses at intersections and shin deep slush anticipating ankles and dry socks. One walks down the street swearing into the wind and when finally climbing aboard a bus or train is greeted by a host of red noses and empathetic eyes as the caked snow sloughs off shoulders to become puddles on the floor. But somehow this intensity of pure cold hell becomes a badge of honor. We literally weather the weather. Perhaps our complaining is really bragging. We snuff at others who come from warmer clients and enjoy enlightening new residents as to the severity of the winter they face. “You think this is bad? You just wait.” is the preferred answer to autumn cold complaints. It is our shared burden and our collective pride. I dread it, hate it and thrive on it.

But sometimes it’s majestic. Sheets of ice that stretch across the lake heave and crack while icicles descend crystalline off the gargoyles on the gothic downtown buildings. On late nights, with beer jackets wrapped tightly around us, the pristine uninterrupted expanse of freshly fallen snow glows orange under streetlights as if bathed in a candles warmth and we catch snowflakes on our tongues as we struggle laughing through cold drifts, our ankles dry and cheeks flushed. We strip to long-johns and cuddle under covers reliving childlike games of eskimos and arctic tundras.

Today the flakes fall lightly and the air is crisp. I’m going to take a walk and listen to Arcade Fire’s Funeral on my ipod. I’m through worrying about the fucking weather.

In my opinion, Thanksgiving is for eating food with friends,...

Sun, 29 Nov 2009 19:44:13 -0600

In my opinion, Thanksgiving is for eating food with friends, reflecting on that it’s the family you pick that you’re truly thankful for. Plus, there’s beer.

But sometimes Thanksgiving is traveling to the houses of current girlfriends to meet their families, making my life seem like the Woody Allen movie I never wished it would be.

One was in Green Door, Wisconsin. The girl I was dating at the time was the daughter of a nurse (lovely woman) and a circuit court judge (total asshole). Now, I’ve always gone over well with parents. Sure, there’s the whole “I’m getting with your daughter” awkwardness, but I can be a pretty self-effacing guy when the chips are down, so I wasn’t too worried. But this father. Yikes. To preface, this was a law family. Everyone was associated with criminal justice in some sort of way. They all had that authoritarian attitude that makes you feel distinctly uncomfortable for being the art college student who believes in the decriminalization of drugs for economic, social and selfish purposes.

At any rate, the first instance of “I cannot believe this fucktitude” was when we were sitting down for dinner and her father made a point to spell out my name for her uncle, a local County Sheriff. He did this so the uncle could, I shit you not, run a check on me in between dinner and pie. “He checks out.” he winked at the dad as he sat back down and buried a lump of pumpkin pie in his fat piggish face. I silently brooded in anger over this invasion of my privacy and also thanked god that the pot-dealing charge I had been hit with when I was seventeen had been expunged from my record.

Seriously, this shit was like my own personal Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner, but with the racial tension replaced by people talking about Nascar. Awkwardness the whole night and only later would I realize that the fact that the girl I was dating thought all this was normal and acceptable behavior probably signaled the first cough in the death of our relationship.

That Thanksgiving sucked.

I get tested pretty regularly, but just to make sure, I monitor...

Fri, 27 Nov 2009 15:46:26 -0600

I get tested pretty regularly, but just to make sure, I monitor my behavior for kayaking, rock climbing and horseback riding on the beach. If television is any indication, people with sexually transmitted diseases LOVE that shit.

Did you ever have a mini-society at school? That’s where...

Wed, 25 Nov 2009 17:31:24 -0600

Did you ever have a mini-society at school? That’s where the teacher prints out a bunch of fake money and the kids in class are assigned to groups to “produce” something to sell to each other in an educational exercise that demonstrates commerce and the importance of free trade! Super duper!

anyway

In third grade on the eve of the start of this exercise Dan, my best friend of 7 years and the boy with whom I someday hoped to live out my days with in our giant treehouse chucking rocks at girls and living out the idyllic prepubescent existence, had no clue what to do for our assignment. Neither did I. We couldn’t make anything. We were too lazy to try to and we were convinced that wrapping colored pipe cleaners around pencils to sell was completely lame. What to do? With two hours left we were fast approaching the very real possibility that we would flunk a completely unimportant and silly assignment. But then-

While shuffling through a deck of cards, Dan had an amazing idea. We would open up the first and only casino in the class’ mini-society. He’d deal blackjack. I’d deal poker. We wouldn’t have to produce anything. If we lost our money so be it.

So what happened? What happened? WE TOOK THAT FUCKING SOCIETY FOR EVERYTHING IT WAS FUCKING WORTH. Buying stuff to buy stuff was only fun for some of the more shallow kids. The rest wanted action. And that’s what Dan and Gus brought to the table. High stakes poker and blackjack. Walk in a third grade schlub and walk out a fictional millionaire. The kids were hooked. Some bet their entire allowance of cash and lost it all. They couldn’t stop. Dan and I were like Biff Tannin in Back to the Future 2. The class was our oyster. Sometimes we would buy candy for everyone in the class from somebody who brought it in to sell. We were like the twin monopoly guys. Then, when there were only a few minutes left at the end of the exercise we took all our cash and bought everyone out. Dan and Gus owned the entire society.

I remember Mrs. Stamford being very upset by this whole exercise. She never conducted it with any of her subsequent classes after that.

Dunno why I just thought of that.

So, I’m a dude who believes in science. Shit, I’m no...

Tue, 04 Aug 2009 12:12:00 -0500

So, I’m a dude who believes in science. Shit, I’m no SCIENTIST, but when it comes to the mysteries of the universe I tend to think it has more to do with gravity and atoms than Jesus or a giant turtle that carries the earth on its back, although that would be fuckin’ sweet. I get into arguments about the afterlife (nothing, dead in the ground) and in my opinion anyone who doesn’t believe in evolution has more in common with a monkey’s intelligence than any normal human.

I feel this way for two reasons. The first is simply because I enjoy being given a little evidence to back up theories and ideas that are thrown my way. The second is because I feel that through science the world and universe are revealed to be impossible and incredible, even more so given the boundaries of science i.e. gravity, entropy etc.

But lately? Man, lately I’ve been craving some real magic. Remember that Bigfoot hoax awhile back where those two hikers reported to have frozen the body of one and found three more living in a cave outside in Georgia? Dude, it was on CNN. I knew it had to be false, of course, but the hope and excitement burned in me like a child trying to stay up to catch a glimpse of Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy. I, at that moment, wanted all the storybooks I read as a kid to be validated. If there are Bigfoot then there could be Nessie, giant eagles and chupacabras, right? I desperately wanted my world revealed to me to be exactly as fantastical and incredible as the kids I teach still think it is.

It was a hoax. I was left to content myself with the coelacanth. Shit.

I really love the analogy of something being so rare that to find or see it is like “spotting a unicorn” because it implies that unicorns exist. I also like it because I’m super childish.

Romanticism comes in many different forms. Sure, you could lock...

Fri, 31 Jul 2009 16:47:20 -0500

Romanticism comes in many different forms.

Sure, you could lock eyes with her across a crowded ballroom and grow infatuated with the way she holds her glass and the delicate laugh that sighs from her lips as she makes idle discourse with foreign dignitaries.

But you could also get the same feeling from that conversation you had with her where you asked her how her experience in Paris was wherein she described having sex with this random guy on Jim Morrison’s gravestone, but the guy started to get burning hot and then he turned into a werewolf that chased her through the streets and you didn’t realize until she started singing that shitty song by Bush that that she literally just fed you the opening sequence of American Werewolf in Paris. Then, my friends, you are a smitten kitten.

Yeah, sometimes that “moonlight, June light and you” crap can take a long fuck off a short shit.

I don’t cry. Ever. Crying is for women and babies! Am I...

Tue, 28 Jul 2009 16:05:59 -0500

I don’t cry. Ever. Crying is for women and babies! Am I right, guys? All right! Let’s go get beer! High-fives all around! Let’s go! Wait, I gotta grab my phone. I’ll catch up with you guys. All right! (another round of high-fives)

Okay, they’re gone.

So, sure. I cry when truly big shit happens like the death of loved ones, when Obama was elected, Wednesdays, etc. But there some very certain wuss circumstances in which I cry: Movies. Movies that necessitate that man-crying “woof” where we clear our throats and think about how awesome that time was when we were accidentally delivered two pizzas and only charged for one. You know. Gooood times.

But which movies? It’s probably pretty cliche, but Braveheart gets me every time. Maybe it’s a dude thing, but man. FREEEEEEEDOOOOOOM! No amount of anti-Semitic alcoholic Australian antics are gonna ruin that for me. No way. But that’s an easy one. That’s a gimme.

It’s no big deal to cry during ET. It’s a sad movie. It was built to fuck with your emotions. The difference is that it really gets me bad. Like those crying Twilight fans bad. Hell, one time I was out on a date with this girl- one of those dates where you sort of realize in the first few minutes that it isn’t gonna work and that you’re going to be forced to spend the next three mind numbing hours listening to them talk about their friends. Yeah. At any rate, I don’t even remember what movie we were going to, but ET was being re-released in theatres. As soon as that ET music started I realized that I might be about to openly weep during a PREVIEW. But I was keeping it cool. Angling my face away from the side where she was sitting and thinking about kites. Then, of course, right at the end of the preview ET points his finger at Elliot’s chest and says “RIIIIIIGHT HEEEEERE” and I make one of those intake-of-breath sounds like a truck just backed up over my nuts. I blubbered. So busted.

Then there’s that part of Robin Hood where the rooster sings Not In Nottingham. A friend of mine was watching this recently when I awoke hung-over and fragile after my birthday. I had to leave the room when the bunny gave that crumb to the mouse. Holy shit. I was not ready for that. Waterworks.

The last is TV commercials. I know I need a vacation when I get teared up during insurance ads and shit like this. But that’s probably Tom Waits’ fault.

My favorite book when I was a kid was Douglas Adam’s Long...

Mon, 27 Jul 2009 14:02:43 -0500

My favorite book when I was a kid was Douglas Adam’s Long Dark Tea Time of the Soul. In it, a woman in London calls pizza places for delivery in full knowledge that places in England don’t deliver. She does this to give herself an excuse to yell and rant and generally blow off steam. I do the same thing.

But see with me it’s my bank. Motherfuckin’ Bank of America. I hate BofA with every fiber of my being. For the times they placed a hold on my money for reasons they weren’t even able to describe to the many many overdraft fees I’ve incurred because of their slowness to post my checks. They’re dicks. Dicks, I say!

But what can you do? They’re too big. And they DO NOT give a shit about you, me or any person who still takes out money orders to pay the rent. You’ve got a better chance of Jake or Gary Busey biting off your pinky finger at some point in your lifetime than Bank of America conceding a fuckin’ dime even if was admittedly their fault your checking account now has a minus sign next to it. Weird example, but correct.

So, you know what I do? Every time I really want to rage about something I go into my local branch and scope out the personnel. I avoid the tellers, they’re just schlubs like me and don’t actually have any personal stake in their fucked-up company. I find a manager, preferably a disagreeable one and start discussing my personal finances. If the manager is nice then I don’t make a fuss. I don’t want to be mean. There’s no sense in ruining a persons day just for doing their job. But if they try and say that these inconsistencies in their systems are somehow my fault then it’s on. Oh, it’s fuckin’ on. If I play my cards right I can have both of us screaming obscenities at each other within ten minutes. I usually leave the branch yelling something like “You’re bloodsuckers! BLOODSUCKERS!”.

I come away from the situation feeling cleansed- miles high and completely Zen. I walk home with a smile on my face and a whole holy host of angels singing Cloud Nine by The Temptations. It’s my therapy. It’s my stress ball. It’s my heroin.

Does this make me a dick? Probably.

But FUCK Bank of America.

Whaddya mean, you don’t like kids? I’m sorry, but is...

Sun, 26 Jul 2009 14:49:57 -0500

Whaddya mean, you don’t like kids? I’m sorry, but is someone missing a soul?

Sure, they can be annoying, loud and obnoxious. So can you, dude. We still call you to hang out, right?

Shit, man. Kids are the best. Our whole generation is so committed to our irony and sarcasm that it can be incredibly refreshing to hang out with someone who thinks sunshine is all it takes to have a good day. Y’know what? I DO want to play ninja turtles. And the fact that you want to be Raphael too just proves that you know what you’re talking about. We’re going to get along just fine.

Kids are intuitive, logical and sometimes wise completely unintentionally. The other day, I was taking care of Katie, who is a little strawberry haired goofball who looks like a mini-princess version of Prince Harry. She’s four and a half, but sweet on this kid she goes to kindergarten with. “Do you have a girlfriend?” she asked. “Nope.” I said deciding it would be impossible to put “I recently had my heart broken and so I’m a little wary of girls and since from a biological standpoint being gay isn’t an option I’m gonna go ahead and be alone for awhile.” in terms she would understand. Later during our walk through Logan Square she said, “There will always be pretty girls who want to be with you.” Holy shit. Have you ever gotten a there-are-plenty-of-fish-in-the-sea talk from a four and a half year old? It’s the only time I ever believed it.

And hey, it ain’t gonna happen anytime soon, but I can’t wait to have children. Boy or girl, I won’t care. Oh, you think I’m crazy? You think I don’t have what it takes to be a parent? I’m a preschool teacher and nanny, dude. I’ve got the paternal instinct on lock. I look totally adorable holding a baby and I can change a diaper in ten seconds. The poop doesn’t even bother me anymore. Shit.

I plan on teaching the little one to run up to people, ask them to bend down to their level and then whisper “Psychic powers.” in their ear before running away. How awesome will that be?

Plus, I’m totally looking forward to raising kids with you.

I think I’m onto a conspiracy, here.More and more,...

Fri, 24 Jul 2009 18:08:23 -0500

I think I’m onto a conspiracy, here.

More and more, recently, I’ve been running into a specific type of person I call “new”. They come in all shapes and sizes, but more often than not it’s a specific type of flighty girl that seems to pop up more and more frequently around me as of late. You can usually tell them by their dress and complete obliviousness to everything that’s happened in the world as of one week ago. It’s as if they’ve just stepped off their spaceship moments prior to meeting you. Their presence would be stranger if it didn’t make life so goddamned interesting.

They step out of their apartments wearing rain galoshes, tutus and scarves- dressed like wizards trying to pass themselves off as muggles. They’re convinced that rain means heartbreak somewhere and have no concept of how weird a five second pause in the middle of a sentence seems to the rest of us. Sometimes I can swear I catch them looking at a faucet like it’s some sort of new invention. Not in the awed oh-my-god-what-is-that observation, but in the running-water-how-quaint-I-shall-make-a-note-of-this kind of way.

They have no cell phone. They don’t use the Internet. They have no TV. They have no interest in who Judd Apatow is and they talk to homeless men on the subway. They give their heart willingly. They’re convinced people are inherently good. They get taken advantage of often.

I have depressing thoughts of a sentient race of aliens who landed here and disguised themselves to look like us. While here, they are robbed, lied to and laughed at. Their hearts are broken and we reveal to them who we really are as a species. But they just stand there and stare at us with quiet observation and amazement, much in the same way we look at gorillas and marvel at “how much they are like us.”

I really fuckin’ hope this is all in my head.