These Are Mean Streets

I saw this outside my apartment this morning.

Horrifying.

My God, You Staple Papers Like No One I've Ever Seen

I have a habit of giving exuberant, cheerleader-style compliments to people, but only inside my head. Monday I passed a woman-of-a-certain-age in the hallway where I'm working and thought, "Oh, look at that red coat! You are looking sassy!"

I do this on a regular basis, so chances are if you know me I have probably mentally complimented you in some luxurious, ebullient way. 

Girl, Don't Tell Me Where You've Been

Whenever I would fall ill as a child, as a ritual my mother would read to me Eve Merriam's 1966 children's book, Miss Tibbett's Typewriter. Miss Tibbett was an old woman with a greying bun of hair who lived with her cat and a typewriter in an apartment in the city, a building thick with ivy growth.  The premise of the story has to do with English and letters and words and the quick brown fox jumping over the lazy dog easily; Miss Tibbett an every-cheery role model for a different creative life just like the others in real life or novels or film who too lived alone or fought with social expectations or were fearless and brave — the Jo Marches and Claire Phillips and a dozen of my English literature teachers; they did what they loved and felt passion for ideas and went home at the end of the day and probably drank tea or brandy and maybe had complicated love affairs with men they never told anyone about. I loved Miss Tibbett, the pencil illustrations of her tiny frame hunched over paper, her tabby on the desk, the idea that having a typewriter and friendly business owners to interact with could so impassion an existence.

The romanticism of this woman in the city who is friends with everyone in her neighborhood and wanders around typing signs for businesses was completely sold on me. But the versions of the townspeople I interact with on a regular basis are fearful for me, they tell me to find a rich husband (landlord Saul), or could have sworn I had one (maintenance guy Jose), or ask me if I watch my movies alone or "with somebody" (video store clerk Malcom). I appreciate their protectiveness but want to rebel against their expectation, I want to somehow prove I am safe walking alone, that crime is random and yet unlikely, that I can keep my wits. Yet most nights I am reminded this is not the case, that you cannot be a friendly single woman in a sprawling city without endangering yourself. Give a smile to the wrong person while you're in a good mood, and pow, proposition, lewd words, a walk-with-me. One time, a guy on the street told me, "I'd love to ______ my _____ in those _______." When I whipped around and declared in frightened astonishment, "That's disgusting, asshole!" He yelled back, "YOU ARE A FUCKING BITCH!"

YOU ARE A FUCKING BITCH! This exchange would have never happened to Miss Tibbett.

The Lord Is Just Two Exits Away

According to highway billboards in Georgia, I should be doing the following things:

1. "Read God's Word and Do What It Says" — Almighty God
2. See the best strippers around!
3. Get engaged

I am not sure if this is the order one should follow or if it's acceptable to change things up, but it is evident nonetheless that God authors billboards and commands thee to betroth all strippers, in addition to selling a timeshare and moving into a retirement community to take up golf, or at least moving into a development that has the word "golf" in the title where one might practice standing still as the silhouette of a person playing fake golf.

Alongside these commandments from the Peach State is the nationwide "SPA." It's important to note that truckers and (sometimes) soldiers get discounts at the SPA. In conclusion, SPA does not = spa.

Are Cats Stoners? Discuss.

Point I: When I accidentally drop things in my apartment, my cat kind of freaks out and positions herself in the corner of a room, as if to say, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING? WHY ARE YOU DOING THAT? WHAT IS GOING ON? AM I GOING TO DIE? I AM GOING TO DIE. I AM SERIOUSLY GOING TO DIE."

Point II: I have been to Amsterdam, and can emphatically say there are a lot of blitzed cats. Apart from men in speedos rollerskating through the city square and multilingual beggars ("What I said was: 'I'm homeless. Can I have some money?'"), cats are the third most insane population. When you're at an Amsterdam coffee shop, chances are there is a cat perched on the stool behind you, just waiting for you to turn around so it can stare at you with those all-knowing, crazy crazy cat eyes. Terrified as the room begins to spin, you stumble out of the smoke-filled cavern only to see more cats rolling around outside in the dirt, taunting you. They might even follow you home, just like that guy in the Vondelpark muttering "goede avond, goede avond, goede avond, please, please ride my bicycle."

Oh, Great, Not THAT Guy Again

Does anyone else find it amusing that invasive asian carp looks like he's swimming upside down? Look at this guy:

I'd be a jerk, too, if I looked like that.

What Happens When You're At the Bar and It's Your Birthday

There is a great uniter out there, and it is called the "birthday phenomenon." I believe if more people celebrated their birthdays out in the open, there would be more peace and understanding and friendship in the world. Think about it. Have you ever sang "Happy Birthday" for a complete stranger? Check. When you notice it's somebody's birthday, do you get excited and enthusiastically cheer for them even if they're just passing you on the street with a posse of balloons and kazoos and clowns? CHECK. Giving a birthday shout out is ridiculously easy; even the laziest lazy lazy man can participate. Who needs UN peace talks when you can buy Hamas a birthday cake and a shot of Bacardi?

I'd like to give this theory some credibility, and feel it might be easiest to do so by describing a few encounters I had this weekend. It should be noted that when it's your birthday, the bar becomes a place where somehow a lot of people find out your name, and then yell it at you in regular intervals. I have also chosen to highlight the following incidents because they go with the theme of "confusing."

Round 1

Girl I don't know: Emily!

[She motions to me with her index finger. I walk over to her.]

Girl I don't know: Hi! Will you help me with something?

Me: [solidarity!] Sure! What's up?

[Girl I do not know leads me into the women's bathroom. She locks the door, faces me, and takes off her shirt.]

Me: … Is everything OK?

Round 2

Guy Who Is Unquestionably Gay: So where are you from?
Me: I live a few blocks away. This is my 'hood!
Guy Who Is Unquestionably Gay: What have you been up to?
Me: I've just been spending the day with my friends, who are awesome!
Guy Who Is Unquestionably Gay: Can I buy you a drink?
Me: Oh, hey! Sure! Thanks, man!
Guy Who Is Unquestionably Gay:  Oh, Emily. Emily?
Me: Yeah?
Guy Who Is Unquestionably Gay:I need to tell you something.
Me: What's that?
Guy Who Is Unquestionably Gay: Well, I should just tell you that I'm engaged to be married, so...
Me: Oh, cool!  … OH! Oh! No, I didn't think you were —
Guy Who Is Unquestionably Gay: — to a man!
Me: Yeah! Yeah! I mean ... I know! I mean, that's awesome! No! I mean, I didn't think you were hitting on me or anything! Don't worry! Congrats! Where are you going to get married?
Guy Who Is Unquestionably Gay: Am I that obvious? [Sticks out hand.] Come with me. Meet my partner.
[We walk to another table; introductions are had.]
Guy Who Is Unquestionably Gay: [Leans in, puts his hand on my waist, and whispers in my ear.] So, we just started having threesomes.

Round 3

Man alone at the bar, drinking whiskey all night: Emily, right?
Me: Yeah!
Man alone at the bar, drinking whiskey all night: It's your birthday.
Me: Yes!
Man alone at the bar, drinking whiskey all night: Can I buy you a shot?
Me: Oh, thanks, but I don't really need one! Thank you though!
Man alone at the bar, drinking whiskey all night: Where do you live?
Me: Oh, around here actually! [I point out the window to nothing in particular.]
Man alone at the bar, drinking whiskey all night: Right. But … where exactly do you live?


On second thought, my theory should probably be scrapped.

A Clean Pair of Eyes

The sweet release I hardly believed would occur before Thanksgiving nudges me into a pair of shoes Sunday, having finally finished the project that has kept me inside for over a month, weeks of which I lost track but that were measured dimly by depleting packs of instant oatmeal and the oft-improbable hope that maybe, maybe, the tunnel I’d lost myself in would have an exit. I find myself stumbling outside of my apartment for the first time in days, wincing at the sunlight — it streams through the iron gates that protect the nearby Catholic school courtyard in dizzying fingertips, and for a moment I lose my balance. It’s at once as if I have never been outside before.




"There are no commitments," I say aloud. "Only bargains." A neutered line from Stoppard’s The Real Thing. I stop and stare at a squirrel perched at the merging of two sidewalks; it cocks its head in tune with mine; I've never before glimpsed such a creature. And while making my way to Clark Street, I pass strangers headed to food or people or objects and meet their eyes unselfconsciously — they are the very first human beings on Earth and I —I!— am granted permission to exist in their reality. 

That evening, I find myself at a friend’s Thanksgiving dinner, where it takes me over an hour to remember how to properly socialize with people I don’t know. I have forgotten how to converse as if it's as complicated as identifying planetary dust. By the time I get warmed up, I realize I'm exhausted. I go to bed without setting an alarm and when I wake I go for a wonderfully long run and then return to pack my bag for an afternoon at the café; while exiting through the back door I run into my next-door neighbor Ron and we have a convivial chat about nothing. I decide this is all I want: A neighbor whose name I know and a hot mug of coffee at a bakery with pretty lights, and once I get the name of the guy across the street from whom I buy the Sunday Times I will be completely set for a completely contented life. I consider this again as I refill my mug and a warm shudder pulses through me. What is the point beyond all these small things that add up in successive thrusts to equal seeing the world with the uncomplicated eyes of a child, a far-flung visitor, a patient emerging from distress. Hurrah, nuncles — happy feasting.

I Thought I Told You to Never Call Me Here!

I'm going to give up everything I'm doing right now in order to find these men:

Video Dating from the Found Footage Festival

This will be for a documentary film. If all goes well some of these men will be infirm and throw potatoes at me.

Bonuses would include meeting really old mothers (100 years +) who say things like, "Oh, well, you know Toooom. Such a goood boy buuut always misunderstooood," while Tom shouts in the background:

"Mom! DO YOU WANT TO EAT NOW? DO YOU NEED TO EAT, MOM?  SOUP? SOUP?!?!!"

Young Unemployed Person Painfully Indexing Everything

While contemplating current desires, I decided that my thwarted access to them due this unreasonable freelance project schedule falls under the umbrella of "yuppie problems." Of course, I mean this to be true only if "yuppie" stands for Your Unfortunate Pallor Presupposes Impossible Escape, or Your Unemployment Paycheck: Pretty Insufficient — Enjoy! 

I'd also give you more acronyms, but unlike most contemporary yuppies I am self-deprecating and like to give up on things right away.

On Sound and Sleep

You might think all melodies sound the same when you're on hour sixteen of your workday, but pitch — the intensity, the modulation, the rise and fall of a violin — it really makes a difference. I've been in a quiet spot today, and venture that Radiohead could have been a mistake. The last four albums I've listened to are Amnesiac, B-Sides, Hail to the Thief, and Kid A, in that order. By the time the Kid A cut of "Morning Bell" shimmied into my aural space, I thought I was going to die of heartache.

Thank you, voters, I will be smoking this medical marijuana overseas, as I nurse this aching bac—hip. Hip! I said, "hip," right? Oh, fuck it. I have cancer.

Because we live in a world that does not yet make sense (note: See Maine), I've decided it just as logical to marry myself and then fake my fake spouse's death (note: me), so my fake self and I can enjoy a delightful life together free from the confining structures of "society."

Do you know where people go when they fake their deaths? Barbados. That's right. The land of palm trees, delightful colorful buildings, and hurricanes named after terribly insecure but nice enough when you get to know them I guess secretaries. I know nothing at all about Barbados, except that it is a former British colony, which means that people in Barbados play cricket. They also clearly call each other "Sir" this-or-that and ride bicycles. So while you're off at your silly accounting job or painting your garage turquoise or wearing that stupid bow tie, I'll be swigging whiskey out of a jar with local cricket sensation Sir Jasper Kenneth Louisville Reginald Johnson IV. Unsurprisingly, he is quite the dandy.

Dispatches From the Underground

Have you ever given any thought to the guy who creates the long index at the end of complicated and unwieldy textbooks?

Me either — until I started being That Guy. And let me tell you, That Guy is exhausted. Having elected to give myself a day off, I'd like to allow you a glimpse into the world of such an indexer by highlighting the past week. When your eyes start bleeding, remember: Today is Halloween!

Hour 1: Download template and print out bookmaps. Reward self by checking e-mail.
Hour 2: Click back on template file. Well, that was exhausting. Time to eat.
Hour 3: Decide you woke up too early. Go back to sleep.
Hour 7: Finally working, really working. Realize you don't even understand this project. What are you indexing, exactly? What terms apply? What does the word "Collocation" even mean? Is it too late to quit?
Hour 12: Why, why you damned fool, were you so incompetently lazy this morning? It's 7:30 p.m. now and you've so much work ahead of you. Time to get cracking! Oh, wait, what was that one song you wanted to hear? Search for video on YouTube.

There is Nothing Left to Fear // Now That Bigfoot is Captured

I try to live strongly by the philosophy of "Just Say Yes." Generally speaking, this proves to be a pleasant way to go. I've traveled a lot, have gotten lost in weird places, and once had a random person give me a foot massage in the middle of a cornfield. That said, there are times—and  I can only speak for myself, so the following are just things people have said to me (really)—when it's best to forgo this decision-making process and simply break into a run:

Recent Conversations I've Had With My Cat

"I need to give you fresh water, don't I? Yeah, I didn't do that this morning. Want some of this Gatorade?"

"Stop looking at me with those eyes."

"Get a job!"

"When, WHEN will you learn to read the newspaper?!"

"Alix, where are you? Alix, come here! Alix! Alix!?"

"Oh my god, are you dead?"

Venereal Disease: It Can Happen to Anyone

Spending the last few days glued to my desk on a soul-crushing freelance assignment, I caught a glimpse of my future. It came right after I spilled a bunch of salsa on my keyboard, and it spoke with a nasally voice. In fact, I'm pretty sure it was Wayne Knight's character from Jurassic Park:

While not surprised, I am disappointed that this large, wide, and slightly off-putting vision did not bring me snacks. When my future self comes to visit my present self, I at least expect pretzels, and not that terrible unsalted kind.

Day 25: And what exactly is the sum of all thrills?

Luckily for the thrill seeker in all of us (besides me personally, as I don't have health insurance, and all the people who vehemently hate thrill), Disney has debuted a new, design-your-own ride at Epcot Center called "The Sum of All Thrills." Evidently, this ride was named by Michael Bay, perhaps in consort with Tom Clancy. The description by John Sutter on CNN.com states: "sitting in a carriage with their legs and arms outside the ride, kids watch a video version of their ride while the arm moves them from side to side and up and down to stimulate the feeling of a real roller coaster. Fans blow air at the riders at various speeds to give people the sensation that they're moving forward."

Now, honestly, this is fantastic. I've been looking for more ways to do things without actually doing them. Especially when I have to stand in line and wait to not do them. Sign me up! After a little research, I found information on other rides in the works by Disney:

Just Another Day at the Office
Full-price ticket holders will be ushered into small, self-contained cubicles called "Action Offices." Once strapped via thick belt of steel into an uncomfortable desk chair, they will be greeted by an overenthusiastic "manager" named Ted, whose real name is Eric, a 16-year-old summer employee who honestly just wants to go home already; his girlfriend's parents are out of town and his older brother Dan is letting him borrow the car, but only until 11 p.m. as as long as Eric doesn't "do anything" Dan "wouldn't do." Ted wears a polyester suit with tennis shoes and shows ticket holders how to stare soullessly at a nearby desk phone, which is from 1987 and rings incessantly. Action Offices are equipped with free Wi-Fi for patrons to check Gmail and Facebook status updates in between infrequent or nonexistent visits from Ted, who asks, "How are things going in here?"always walking away before ticket-holder can answer.
Length of ride: 8 hours

Los Angeles County Traffic Jam
Ticket-holders are ushered into Go-Kart like area where they have their choice of vehicles ranging from Now That's Just Unnecessary, What Does a Schlep Like Me Have to Do To Get a Beauty Like This, and This One Looks Like My Friend Steve's Car Actually. Once seated, riders delight in noting the lifelike smog emitting heavily from surrounding concrete barriers. Riders are not permitted to drive these vehicles, but are encouraged to honk their horns and call whomever they wish on their cell phones. Only one rider per car, please.
Length of ride: 2 1/2 hours

The Sum of All Lines
Patrons stand in half-mile long line whilst being occasionally shoved and mocked by sullen teenagers. Heat lamps surround the formation, as to simulate the feeling of waiting in a really hot line. Disney employees comprise a shorter line nearby, which moves much more rapidly in appearance of "going somewhere," but patrons are assured their line is the right line. At the end, patrons are given a second ticket and told to "go stand in that other line."
Length of ride: One hour

Chicago's Navy Pier
A reproduction.
Length of ride: Endless

Day 19: Disappearing Acts

I know something undesirable is going to happen every time I put on a suit.

Today, I put on a suit. I should clarify this, however. I refuse to buy an actual suit. My foolish getup consists of a pair of black pants from JCPenney's preteen section and a tiny Ann Taylor jacket I haggled for midwinter at a consignment shop on Halsted Street. Who haggles at a consignment shop? This is my brother's store, the man behind the counter had said. I am not sure the price of these things. Twenty dollars later, this lady's got her first power piece. 

I wear the cheap imitation ensemble with an awkward scarf of abalone, forced upon me by a Rotarian of local chapter 6440. I dislike suits for many reasons, one of which is I feel they say, "Today, I am going to broker a sweet power deal, then chug a Red Bull. Chug-a-chug, son!"

Day 17, Part II: On Bicycles and Hacksaws

Armed this evening with a gigantic hacksaw fit with a 12" carbide grit rod, I venture west, ready to free the remains of my bicycle from the clutches of a broken Kyptonite lock at the corner of Dickens and Damen. It grows dark as I carve into the steel, reminiscing about the drunken strangers who tried to help me fix this problem nights earlier, breaking the lock further upon attempting to kick-jam it loose with the pole-end of my bike seat, running away after realizing what they'd done. 

Twenty minutes into sawing, I reach a deep, deep point of weakness. It's taking a long time to cut through this steel, and besides, maybe I should just get a man with a strong arm to help me. As this regrettable thought fashioned out of time-related desperation scrolls across my brain, a man comes up and asks me what I'm doing. "I am stealing my bike," I say. Maybe, I think, this dude is good with a hacksaw.

Day 17: Cheerleaders and Concrete

One is witness to peculiar behavior during the week, things I imagine are nonexistent to the average working denizen. My runs, now at midday, have actually amassed a cheering section of  boisterous and presumably homeless gentlemen who hang out at the corner of Catalpa and Broadway. This group of gloved, hat-bearing, unshaven chaps yell things as I pass such as “YAY!” “YAHOO, GO! GO!” and “WOOO HOO, HELLOOOO LADY!” all while pumping their fists and waving their arms. This fills me with joy. Cheered by their enthusiasm, I started thinking about other things in life that need a cheering section:

• My seventh-grade math teacher, particularly during Valentine's Day breakdowns
• That friend who will not stop listening to the Red House Painters on repeat whilst lying on the floor, weeping, drinking too much vodka, refusing to shower or speak in comprehensible sentences, all while keeping vise-like grip on cell phone, in case she ever calls again
• Patrons perusing films that don't have a Criterion Collection release at Select Video on Clark Street while that terrifying, angry girl with the lasers for eyes is working, judging you, oh, god, she's narrowing her eyes ... not again! Run! Run away! Oh no, you forgot your umbrella! Enter store again sheepishly. 
• The moment you realize you missed your certification call-in for unemployment benefits because you were ... wait, what were you even doing yesterday? What time did you put on your pants? Unacceptable. 
• Holiday turtlenecks tucked into sweatpants 
• Wives of politicians who don't stand by the dude during press conferences when he says things like, "Sorry for wasting a bunch of taxpayer money and draining social services while I was on that 'hiking trip' with my 'brother'."
• Cats, who always have to deal with the fact that it's kind of  funny when they barf
• Stepping in cat barf
• Cleaning up cat barf
• Finding old cat barf behind couch
• Putting cat up for adoption
• Crying, because you don't know why you did that.