The Tie-In that Binds.

There are a few intersections in Chicago that present a geometrical nightmare to someone who spent his sophomore year in high school math pining after a POE-crazed, Kool-Aid hair dyed, near drop-out, Geo driving, pot smoking skinny girl who was in love with a bad boy named Billy. Billy was so bad he vomited on the carpeted floor that year. Twice.

I'm always reminded of the time I wasted skipping class to get high and go to Denny's with a girl I knew I could never attain when I'm on the verge of being hopelessly lost. The correlation my brain makes between my usually trustworthy sense of direction and my occasional poor choice in women is a palpable example of my mind's penchant for torturing me with cruel analogies at the most inopportune moments.

Spinning in concentric circles looking for a familiar Burger King or Taco Bell at the most obtuse of triangular intersections is not the best time to begin ruminating on the theorem (the reader will note my rudimentary use of geometrical terms in this essay) that had I been only a year older, that misguided 17 year old, late 90's burnout in a 16 year old's class (for the second time) could've been mine. No, that would be the time to buckle down and find out where the fuck you're supposed to be going.

Although, I suppose this action, this diversionary tactic, that my brain presented to me at this particular moment was not completely irrational, and my brain should be given some credit for trying to take itself off the slew of information and experience it had running through itself at this particular moment. I mean, I had just walked nearly 15 minutes out of my way only to realize that I was heading in the opposite direction of my house, after exiting the train station at an unfamiliar location in the hopes of saving time, after having to leave my bike locked up to a bike rack, since my lock decided to stop working, forbidding me from riding home, which occurred directly after having a meeting at the place of employment I was fired from five days ago for a karaoke performance the night before.

And, while the above statement may appear ludicrous, were one to know my history, one might not be so surprised at the eventualities that led me to the situation I found myself in on this quickly cooling Chicago winter's day. (I hasten to add that the glossed over nature of the above paragraph will not stand for long. You have all asked, and I will be reporting on it fully, as soon as certain obligations permit me to do so. Wait for it..)

A light snow had begun to fall, but was no match in the race it and the temperature were having. Watching the breath float out of my nose and into the noisy din of the rush hour bustle, I thought momentarily that it might be in my best interest to cross the street, to walk, somewhere, anywhere, rather than stand on the curb for another five minutes. I knew I'd find my way eventually, even if a 20 minute walk took two hours. Who gives a shit- it's not like I have a job to get to, I thought.

Having resolved to let the genius of The Frogs, which was blaring through my headphones, carry me wherever it deemed necessary, I stepped into the street. Where I was headed didn't matter at this point. I had already let pride win out over basic survival by deciding not to ask anyone for directions. I slushed through the first puddle of my sojourn into the unknown when I heard a muffled "Hey!" through the lyrical gold on the "It's Only Right and Natural" record (Lotta cute guys in the club tonight. Lotta juicy asses hangin' out!). I continued walking, and only briefly turned to see where all the yelling was coming from when I heard "HEY, MAN!" again.

Shooting a sidelong glance over my right shoulder, I saw a rather large dude in an even larger red windbreaker staring at me. And, though I've never seen a fat kite before, I feel like I have a better grasp on what one might look like now. He wore clear sunglasses. I assumed that these were safety goggles for the fashion-savvy construction worker, but who knows, maybe he had a deathly allergy to UV rays that only dumb looking, wrap-around, clear shades could prevent. Having never seen this strange man, and fearing the worst, I gave him the universal "Whaddup." nod to allay any doubts he may have had about my downness.

"What's up dude?," he exlcaimed. "How you doin'?"

Shaking my head slightly, pulling my headphones off, I said, "Hey... man. What's goin' on?"

"Ah man, shit! You remember me from the other night at the bar? Fuck, when was that, Tuesday? Yeah! Tuesday! Remember me? Holy shit!"

"Uh, what?," I asked. "Where?" I knew my short term memory was terrible.

"The other night, dude! At the, at the fuckin'... bar! Down the street!"

"OH, yeah! What's up, man?" I hadn't been to a bar since Saturday, and it certainly wasn't down the street from where I presently found myself.

"Damn, dog, I knew I recognized you! That shit was CRAZY the other night, huh?"

"Yeah, man.. yeah! I was wasted. I was all, Who the fuck is this guy talkin' to me, then I remembered that crazy night at the bar! Haha! Sorry, dude," I lied. "So what're you up to, just coming home from work?"

"Fuuuck yeah, man- I'm working down at Shedd Aquarium, replacing all the tile in the new exhi-"

Who is this person, and why are we friends?, I wondered, as the Kite told me about his day.

"So, what're you up to, man?," he asked, snapping me out of my inner dialogue.

"Oh, man, I'm just walking." Wait- benevolence! Why stop a stranger to ask for directions when you can just ask your good friend from the bar?

"You know where Fullerton is?"

After beautifully detailed instructions and the benefits of taking said beautiful directions over much less convenient ways, I gave the Kite daps and turned to walk towards home.

As I thought to myself, The City, she does provide, I heard a bellowing "See you Tuesday, homie?"

"Oh, hell yeah, man!," I returned, walking backwards and waving. "See you there!"

Thanks, City, I thought, and made my way home, beating the severe cold front by mere minutes.

I retired to my apartment and decided to make a bowl of chili with corn and potatoes- a perfect, if not wholly cliched, end to my icy walk. I gathered the necessary cans out of the pantry, wondering, momentarily, why it was that these cans were wet. Perhaps some condensation from the cold, I thought. Wait, why.. what.. what the fuck is that smell?

"Oh, goddamnit. Awesome."

Clearly, the city does giveth, but she also taketh. Pantry Cat, also referred to as Gordie, whose theme song is "Can I Play with Madness," by Iron Maiden, decided that this would be the perfect day to piss all over my food. Hanging my head in acquiescence to the City's fickle finger, I switched off the pantry light, and just laughed.

Terrible PUNditry: Poetically Correct.

It is no great epiphany to say that Governor Sarah Palin is clearly a master of the spoken word. But here, through the ancient wisdom and mystical nature of Japan's finest export, the haiku, we are able to extract even deeper, more meaningful connections to this brilliant orator, one carved in the stalwart traditions of such titans as Lincoln, Churchill, and Kennedy.

Unless otherwise noted, all references to the following material may be viewed at your leisure here.

On Experience

"Now, what I've done as
Governor and as Mayor
Is (inaudible)."

On Tax Reform

"Still on the tax thing
Because I want to correct
You on that again."

On Domestic Drilling

"Senator McCain
Does support this, yes. The chant
Is 'drill, baby, drill.'"

On Iraq

"Your plan is a white
Flag of surrender and that's
Not what our troops need."

On Nuclear Armament

"Nuclear weaponry
Here in the U.S. is used
As a deterrent."

On Leadership

"John McCain tapped me
And said, 'That's where I want you,
I want you to lead.'"

On McCain

"Who has been there and
He's faced challenges and he
Knows what evil is."

On Foreign Policy

"A comment like that
Was made to char- I don't know.
You know, reporters."

Viewable here.

On Personal Media Choices

"I've read most of them,
A great appreciation
For the media."

"All of 'em, any
That have been in front of me
Over all these years."

Viewable here.

My bicycle and Dave, the friendly, if not grossly misinformed, homeless man.

Today, my bike got caught in one of these:



See, I've read the rules(#2, second paragraph). I know what's up. I knew better, seriously. I definitely knew better than to try to put an awkwardly shaped piece of metal and rubber through a labyrinthine, even more awkwardly shaped gate constructed of hundreds of metal poles and flaking paint.

But, you need to understand the circumstances surrounding that which, at first, appeared to be a comical snafu, but which quickly deteriorated into the kind of human traffic jam you only read about (here), the disgusted eyes of the carless rabble heaping shame and humiliation onto me as they trudged back up two flights of stairs to find alternate exits.

Also, you need to stop judging me.

If I preface this story by saying I was in a not-so-great part of town when this tragic mishap occurred, would that do anything to quell your heartless cackles? I doubt it. You cruel fuckers.
Well, I was. And now, I'm not even going to tell you exactly where I was, because you don't deserve to know. Also, I don't need any more heartless cackles added to the mêlée when you call me a pussy for thinking the Green Line at California and Lake is a bad part of town. Heartless cackles. Heartless cackles. I'm really into that phrase right now. Heartless cackles.

Thing is, I'd never been to this particular stop before today. When I tell you that the reason I found myself at this particular place in the universe is that I had just finished walking a pair of dogs downtown- one that was in its third year of remission from lymphoma, and one that had IBS and incontinence, and was required to wear what amounts to a doggie diaper (affectionately referred to as a belly band) on its way from the apartment to the outside- and was on my way back to a saw blade factory to wash and dry over 1,500 wine glasses, well, you'll just have to trust me. Because that is what I was doing. And also scoring a shitload of crack.

So, where I might normally know the access points of bicycle friendly exits at any number of my regular, more gentrified stops, today I did not. I merely hustled off the train with the lunchtime herd and headed to the nearest exit, where I was being corralled. It wasn't until I reached the halfway point of the trip down that I espied the forbidden gate ahead, but by then it was too late. Not too late to turn around and find the correct exit, mind you, but too late to avoid being seen by Dave, a streetwise tough that looked as bright and sharp as the pile of broken glass he stood in, but not nearly as shattered.

"C'mon man! We can get that shit through here! I done it befo'!," he hollered at me as I faltered in step on the platform, eyeing the gate nervously.

"Nah, I don't think so, dude. It looks pretty narr-"

"It's cool, man! C'mon! Fuck it!"

Yeah, I thought, yeah! It is cool! AND fuck it! This guy knows the score!
________________________

Minutes later, my bike now punishingly wedged in CTA purgatory, neither in the train station, nor out, Dave, safely outside the train station, looks at me, safely inside the train station, and says, "Shit, man. I fucked up."

"I don't know, man. I thought it would go, too. How're we suppposed to get it out?!"

"Fuck.. man I don't know! A damn saw? Shit," Dave mused.

By now, the initial crowd of onlookers and angry passengers had diminished, and we found ourselves quite alone in this predicament. I fully expected at any moment that Dave would grow weary of this absurd task, this extraction of a fucking bicycle from a fucking turnstile, and wander away, leaving me to my own devices and fulfillment of so many existential nightmares.

But Dave stayed. Whether it was pride, boredom, or maybe just working off a buzz before returning to the halfway house (I will note my own unfair characterization of the homeless, thank you.), Dave stayed. And we solved our problem together. And it did not include the destruction of any city or personal property, I can proudly say.

Did we alter any chemical properties, perhaps? There is no way to know for sure (except for any number of blood and DNA tests, MRI's, etc., but must we bog ourselves down with such minutae?), but I can safely say that we were different men when we met on the outside of that gate, bike intact, shaking hands heartily in acknowledgment of our shared triumph. Could there be a more apt physical manifestation of not being kept down by The Man, not letting The City win yet again?

As we stood there exchanging accolades, reminiscing about the experience we literally just had, and smoking drugs, Dave said, "We all fuck shit up sometime, man." He's right, you know.

Then he said, "Got any change, man?"

A heartless cackle* flew past my lips as I handed him a dollar and rode down the street, onward to all points wine and saw.

*Heartless cackle, in this context, can also be taken to mean "Here ya go, man."

On Sending Job Inquiries Via Email, Misspelling 'ASAP,' Pressing Send Before Completion, & Mouse Touchpads are Sensitive Pieces of Shit.

"Hello Rick,
I am still interested in the job. Where is your business located? I can start ASS"

I was looking for a job, and then I (didn't) found (find) a job.

I'm in a restaurant on the northwest side of Chicago. I say that, but I can't be sure. I haven't lived in the city long enough to say anything with much confidence as far as geography is concerned. I do know that the unopened Italian restaurant's kitchen, in which I am standing, alone, frantically shoving a three pound ball of unusable flour, salt, brown sugar, and water into a giant black trashbag hanging from the side of a storage shelf, is a good three miles north of my apartment. But it's also a good three miles east. But, I'll still stick with saying it's in the northwest sector of the city, because my house is "way west," as it's described by my friends that live here.

It wasn't supposed to happen this way. The ruse had been set up perfectly, and the plan was fully laid out, even written out in pen on an old sheet of notebook paper folded neatly in my back pocket. I would come in, make some dough, make a pizza, shove it down the owners' throats, then sit back and collect my paycheck for a month before having to quit and leave for tour. And at a job that was slated to pay 50K/year, that would've been one hefty check. I don't know how much, but the word hefty keeps springing to mind.

The problem is that the interview went too well. Sometimes, in situations of dire awkwardness, rather than clamming up and shutting down, I turn on the charm, extra charmy. There's no rhyme or reason to this peculiar trait of mine, and I cannot control when it may show itself. Of course, there have been many occasions that I have wished for it to come to my aid, to no avail. For instance. In this particular situation, though, I can only attribute it to the fact that I am new to the city, desperate for a job, and willing to do almost anything to achieve what seems to be, at this point, a week and a half into my search, a nearly insurmountable task.

I showed up to this address in response to an ad on Craig's List. The ad mentioned ever so casually that this Italian restaurant was looking for pizza cooks who had experience with hand tossed dough. "No problem," I thought, seeing as how every pizza place I've ever worked at (which admittedly is only two) used hand tossed dough exclusively. There is no doubt that I have tossed more than my share of pizza dough into the air with my hands. This was a shoo-in, a no brainer; it was any number of bad cliches about the ease of doing something. This was a slam-dunk-sure-thing-hole-in-one-lonely-50-year-old-woman-at-the-bar. What?

It wasn't easy finding the place. When I finally did locate the building, directly across the street from an aging cemetary that I learned had been there since this area was still considered the suburbs, I realized that the reason it was so hard to locate was because there were two giant mounds of dirt and a bulldozer right in front of the building. I used this as my excuse for being late as I walked in the door to meet the owner, though that wasn't true at all. I was just late. Instead of being met with the low chatter and clinking forks and glasses of a lunchtime bustle, I saw dust hanging lazily in the rays of sun that barely penetrated plate glass windows that were butcher papered over, protecting them from the layer of fresh maroon paint that had just been applied, if smell was any indication.

This was not a good sign. I was looking for a job that I could start immediately. However, I'd driven all the way over, and the owner, whose name I'll change here- let's call him... Jum- was extremely affable, and, as Digable Planets said, the vibe here was very pleasant, so I decided to see this situation to its ultimate conclusion, whatever that could be.

Jum and I were alone in this fairly sizable restaurant, and we sat at a small table in the middle of the room. He explained to me that they were putting the finishing touches on the place, and hoped to be open sometime in October. The bulldozer outside, he said, was in the process of fixing their water line, which had been damaged and never repaired by the building's owner. He also "explained a little bit about the job," you know, like every hiring manager says.

In addition to bartenders and servers, I realized all too quickly that the job I was applying for was not "pizza cook," but instead, "Master Pizza Chef." My foot tapped out code on the tile floor while I filled out the application(Get. The. Fuck. Out. Of. Here. -stop- Now. -stop- ). Jum sat across from me in silence while I hurriedly scribbled out the banal information that no one ever looks at. He must have sensed the strangeness of the situation, too, because at some point he told me not to worry about the question and answer part of the application ("What is Customer Service?).

We then began a fairly lengthy discussion about pizza that really should never happen anywhere. It's moments 15 minutes into a tangent on the crispiness of pizza dough that put your life into perspective. But, like I said, it went too well. If there's one thing I can do really well, apparently it's convincing a new restaurant owner that I know way more about the craft of pizza making than I really do. This is why at the end of the interview he asked me to come in next week to cook for him and the other owners. "Shit," I thought. "Sure!," I said.

_____________________

The thing is, I do know the difference between ounces and fluid ounces. One measures volume and one measures weight. Today, one hour into my very own two hour, special dough recipe that I did not retrieve from the internet at 2:30 a.m. last night, drunk, I become terrifyingly aware that I do not know the difference between ounces and fluid ounces. I realize one hour into my very own two hour, special dough recipe that I did not retrieve from the internet at 2:30 a.m. last night, drunk, that the reason my dough is so sticky and grossly unmanageable is that, instead of measuring out 29.5 ounces of high quality, more expensive than necessary flour, I only measured out 29.5 fluid ounces of the stupid shit. In actuality, I'm the stupid shit.

An audible "Fuck!" passes my lips, and though we are separated by a giant kitchen door with a plexiglass window and about thirty yards, I can sense the owners, Jum and... Noncy (a late arrival, the full blooded Italian of the bunch- I know she can smell floundering) turning to look in my direction. Determined to waste as many expensive, fresh ingredients as possible, and to satisfy my own mind, which keeps telling me, somewhere back there, that this project can still be salvaged ("Nothing's fucked here, dude."), I furiously measure out the additional 3 1/2 cups of flour I initially shorted my amazing recipe and add it in to the stainless steel mixing bowl, and begin the process of suffocating the already gasping dough. When that doesn't fix it immediately, I rush to the sink and dump scalding water into the bowl, and start kneading the doomed mixture like a kitten on a head full of coke, burning my hands in the process.

Were there a military man behind me to gently rest his hand on my shoulder and say, "He's already dead, son," I may not have tried for as long as I did to resuscitate my dreams for a high paying job, but no such apparition appears, so it isn't until five minutes later, when hard chunks of the original dough began to flake off and mix with the milky mess of the "new" dough that I realize I am finished. I briefly toy with the idea of bolting out of the restaurant with the expensive fresh mozzerella and this really nice knife they've provided me with until I realize I put my real address on the application.

I have just scooped out the gory mess into the trashbag and am washing the bowl which gave birth to the hellish creation when Jum comes into the kitchen, and, as if sensing something wrong, asks, "How's it going? Is the dough coming along alright?"

As I turn to face him, a piece of dough, at once both hard as glass and runny as phlegm, falls from its perch on my now ruined shirt and plops onto the floor. Our eyes fix there, just for a moment, then meet.

Your eyes. Chapter One.

"You don't want to see this," your eyes say. This is the reason your eyes give for not allowing you to roll them back into the cavernous recesses of your skull. "You wouldn't want to see what's back here."

Your eyes have become quite presumptuous of late.

Your eyes say, "Look over here," and so you do. They ask if you would like to see something unimaginable, and you nod in affirmation. You realize the question is merely a courtesy, since you have no control over where they direct your vision, anyhow.

Presently, they are showing you a dusty keyboard covered in a thin layer of dog hair (likely a short-haired breed), red clay dirt, and old rice. You assume the keyboard is attached to an ancient computer from days past and an overweight, yawning monitor, bearing forgotten images of spreadsheets and outdated resumes forever on its unlit screen, together with a ceaselessly blinking rectangle of lime green light in the top left corner. But, it is impossible to be sure at this moment, since your eyes are insistent on keenly noting every detail of the keyboard.

Your eyes ask if you remember the password, but, before even waiting for an answer, quickly rattle back and forth from left to right, as if shrugging off a dumb question, sighing. This unexpected motion leaves you momentarily dizzy as the keyboard swims back into focus.

"I'll just do it," your eyes say.

Sometimes at night you are awoken by your eyes' movement inside your head, their chaotic rustling and shuffling jarring you from peaceful rest. You attempt to look in on them- not to reprimand, but simply to get an idea of just what it is they are doing. This never works. Your eyes force the lids back down over themselves and wait, still and silent, until the rest of your body falls instinctually back to sleep.

Other nights, you awake to an inky darkness unlike any you have ever experienced. Your eyes are immeasurably quiet, and, although you know what has happened, it takes your reaching up with tired hands to touch the gaping sockets before you are roused out of slumber enough to realize that your eyes are gone again. Each time this occurs you are at once frightened and furious, and you bound out of bed with vast intent, until you realize the futility of beginning a frenzied manhunt for your eyes without the aid of the eyes themselves. It is a delicate, confusing situation that causes much angst.

Defeated, you sink back into bed and either stare at the ceiling or close your eyelids over that which is not there. You are not sure. You clutch a sweaty pillow and wait for sleep, for your eyes.

NOW you see what happens when nothing happens.

I'm back. I'm back. I will start posting blogs again. No longer will I be checking statcounter.com to see who's viewing my blog, nor will I be responding to comments left on this fucking blog. Furthermore, I will not speak to you about blog postings at the bar, at dinner, or at work. I do not want to talk to you about my blog postings. I do not want to know that you are reading this. I want only to know that you are reading this. Please do not speak or write to me about this blog. I cannot talk about it, or recognize any inference that you are aware of it.

I mean no offense to anyone, especially as the only people that are reading it are people that I truly care about, but I cannot write honestly and with my normal devil-may-care attitude if I know that I might have to explain myself, laugh about something, or reiterate a point about a previous post at a later date. I just can't do it.

Ever since my aunt gave me an article to read over Christmas that had something to do with Time or People awarding 'Person of the Year' to YOU, the blogger (complete with a mirror on the cover of the magazine), I have been utterly disgusted by whatever it is that calls itself the blogosphere. I mean, I haven't even been able to read my sister's blog. And I love that blog, you assholes! I want nothing to do with it, and yet, here I am.

I have many things, DAILY, I mean, are you kidding, HOURLY, that I want to talk shit about, but I just don't want to literally talk about them. That's why I write about it here. Please, PLEASE, just don't ask me about anything you see here. If I go on a press junket to promote this blog, then, please, by all means, ask away. Until then, just read it and take it for what it is. I don't mean to be a dick, but seriously, I'm a dick.

This is all I'll say about this. Obviously, I wouldn't have a blog if I didn't want a lot of people to read and appreciate it- that's the narcissist's mission. But, do I really have to recap it with you at the bar two days later? I don't want that. Let's just let it be what it is: A filling of time until each of our inevitable deaths. So, with that being said, until next time, you poor fools,

Sorry so sloppy!,

Glummy McGlib.

LYLAS!