Bridget Callahan is Your Best Friend

Sex in Motion

2012-02-14T01:00:00.000-05:00

I had two things happen in the last 24 hours that had me contemplating sex. No, nothing like that. And if that kind of stuff happened, I don't talk about that here.

The first trigger was I met a guy over the weekend, a friend of a friend, one of those very lucky people who has sexual charisma just glowing from him. I had met him briefly before, in a sort of hi, who are you, how are you, nice to meet you sort of way. And in that first drive by I had seen what my friend had told me about him, saw how he could very well be the kind of guy who could get any girl he chose to. He's cute, but he's not like, super model boy. It's never super models who have this power anyway, it wouldn't work if they looked perfect. This time I got to observe him at a party, and actually talk to him, and the way he did it came through clearly. He made eye contact. He paid attention. He gave everyone attention, he touched your hands, shoulders, back. He stood close to people. He asked them things sincerely. He was quite wonderful, and it was pleasant even to watch him flirting with a girl, because it was so seamless and smooth, it was just how he treated all people around him. I told my friend this guy was the Incarnation of Flirt, a real witch. I meant it in jest, but it's true nonetheless.

I've met a few people who have this Glow, the ones who ARE sexual in every aspect of their being, so that there is no strain or falsity to their interactions. I've dated two of them. I think a long time ago, I had that power myself for a minute, but I let it fall apart during a long relationship, and it's gone for now, I just don't have enough attention to give to others like that, I no longer care enough. I find I only have it with people I've already known for a while. Now I just appreciate watching others practice it. I was going to write you a list of the sexiest people I knew in real life, the people who when you look at them it's impossible to not think of things that are illegal in Missouri, who make you feel that you would be immediately comfortable with them in bed and with anything they did. But I hate the word sexy so much, I couldn't get past it. If you call it mojo, I will stop talking to you immediately, don't do it. Charisma sounds like a word boys came up with to call it when they meant it about another boy but didn't want to seem gay. It's just, this thing, you know when you see it, or when it stands close next to you. It's beautiful, the Pure Flirt.

Anyone who thinks being sexual has anything to do with your actual plain straight of the box attractiveness is an idiot, and you should never sleep with someone who thinks that, they are terrible in bed. Pretend we are all dolls, deactivated and lying still in a showcase. In that scenario, then sure there are the pretty people and ugly people. But once you put in the batteries in, well then it depends on who keeps themselves charged up best.

The second trigger was that I went to go see Pina, a film which is a collection of dance pieces by this choreographer I had never heard of, because I'm not the sort of person who knows choreographers. The film had faults, but the dances were amazing, and I had a revelation about the experience of watching modern dance. I think when I had seen performances prior to this, I was looking at the dancers' bodies as moving sculptures, visual art. But sitting in the theater with my silly 3D glasses on and wrapped up winter clothes, I finally understood that modern dance is supposed to be about physical empathy. That when the dancer stretches their legs, or writhes on the stage, flips and flies and stomps, you are supposed to feel that motion in your own bones. As if it is your own skin against skin, your own muscles pulling and chest heaving with breath, your own toes on that cold floor. I could feel the water splashing, and the smell of the studio's glass and concrete, how that wisp of transparent cloth would feel on my torso. I don't know, maybe this choreographer in particular was just that good, maybe the dance company was that good, but it worked. I get it.

If you're looking for something to do on Valentine's night, I suggest this movie. Because it makes you want to be physical, to really use your body, and you'll come out of that theater into the dark February ice feeling keenly every movement you now make and the textures of your own clothes will feel heavy and burdensome. What could be a better feeling for the end of a date? Certainly not an expensive dinner, or a box of chocolates, or even some half thought out promises. Real romance is this, the connection between bodies, this transcending of judgement and perfection. When you can just be yourSelf, not the self you catalogue in dating profiles or even private diaries. A Self that is your body and mind working together, unaware of fear or expectation. We call it raw, but it isn't some newborn scar of red and pink, it's a whisp of clear elemental, air or water or dirt depending on who you are. I hesitate to call it familiarity, though that would be the easiest way to say it. Maybe familiarity with everything in the universe, yourself, others, things, feelings, that strong comfortable familiarity with the entirety of creation. Imagine how you were in bed with your longest term lover, in the mornings, on your best days, when you stayed in bed for hours just moving your limbs around each other. Now imagine if you felt that way all the time, about everybody. You would be the most powerful person on the planet.

It would figure I would be my most spiritual only when talking about sex.

Other Valentine's Day posts:
Cleveland is my Valentine
Happy Valentine's Day, St. Valentine!

Plastic Wrapped Girl

2012-02-10T11:24:00.001-05:00

"What is that?" his friends asked, pointing towards the large metal box that sat at his side next to the bar. It was strangely not sinister looking, though person sized and being a large person sized metal box at a bar should have been inherently sinister. The metal was a soft burnished gray, rubbed down and kitten colored.

"That's just something I bring with me, in case there aren't any girls at the bar." They all laughed.

"Well there's certainly no one good here," his friend glanced bitterly at a group of young butterfly girls at the other end of the bar, one of whom had decisively shrugged him off by the bathrooms.

"I don't know, it's early. You never know who might show up."

"Whatever dude, just do it."

"Well, okay...give it a minute to warm up," he said as he pressed a button on his key fob. A little red light glowed on the door. They had another beer.

Ten minutes later, the light flicked off, and he unsealed the door. Inside was a figure nested tightly in a cocoon of plastic wrap. He carefully, affectionately, unwrapped her.

She was a nice looking girl, average height, average build. Her shoulder length hair was brown, her clothes were casual, a cardigan and jeans, so average. But when she opened her eyes, they were a deep warm hazel, and when she smiled she suddenly became very pleasant looking. She reminded every boy there of their 1st grade teacher.

She was visibly confused for a minute, her eyes darting over the scene around her in animalistic fright, and then she saw him. She clung to his eye contact like a life preserver. "Hi! How are you? I haven't run into you for a while. How are things?"

"Oh, they're good. Just out with these guys. Worked today. How are you?"

"I'm peachy. Just had dinner with the girls, cause Sarah, you know Sarah who works over at Eastwick? She just got engaged, so we had to do the whole listen to her blab about it thing, look at the ring, ect. I don't know where they all are right now, but they should be back..." and she glanced around again as if unsure where she was exactly.

"Would you like a drink?"

"Oh um yeah, ginger and Jameson. And actually, I'll be right back, I have to make a phone call. But I'll be right back." She walked off towards the bathrooms, stiffly and slowly, peering around at people surprised, remembering how to move her legs.

"DUDE"

"No, c'mon, it's not a big deal."

"But doesn't she get upset?"

"No, she doesn't know. I met her at this other thing, and you know, she's cute and we've got a ton of stuff in common, I really like talking to her. But she's not exactly hot. And she's older than I usually like them. But I figured, what if in 5 years I still haven't found someone better? You know, when I'm ready for something like that. But she would be even older then, or she might have met someone. So this way, she just stays exactly the same. And I manufactured a bunch a memories for her, so it's just like she's been living her life for real. Cause otherwise, you know, she'd be so boring."

"What are you going to do with her if you do meet someone?"

"I don't know. Probably keep her around until I know it's going to work out. And if it does, then I guess I would just let her go."

"You should totally give her to me."

"Dude, don't be a dick. I can't just *give* her to someone."

"No, I know, it would be weird. But you could let me have a chance with her."

"Whatever, you're totally not her type."

She came back from the bathrooms. The brief panicked look was off her face and she had reapplied her lipstick.

"It's so weird, my phone isn't working. Also, did you see Krista over there? She looks so much older, I don't think that new hairstyle is doing her any favors. I...I...I wonder where the girls ran off to..." He handed her the drink and turned away from the boys to talk with her, putting his hand on her shoulder and leaning in, as if they were the best of friends.

It's Hard Out Here For A Pimp

2012-02-07T21:24:00.000-05:00

I don't know, I feel weird pimping stuff on this blog, because everyone I know is trying to sell something or sell themselves or pitching events, and it's like dude, this is not that kind of blog. So I feel like if I mention some of my friends shit, but don't mention others, people are going to have hard feelings. And this is Not That Kind of a Blog. It's not a tame blog. I don't have some sort of plan here folks, or theme, or whatever. I love ending sentences with "whatever". But these are all February-centric things, so maybe that's sort of a theme? This is exhausting already.

Listen, here are some things you should do because I like these people a lot:

1) Donate money to this Kickstarter project: Nightingale by Cath Gulick

Cath is a girl I went to high school with. She was the weird Quaker girl in the army jacket who listened to British bands, and totally got As in everything. She is also one of the smartest people I know when it comes to narrative. She has been literally killing herself in NYC trying to make this movie, so much so that probably someone should have made a movie about her trying to make this movie. No, I'm not joking. Like living in squalor and eating rice to make this film. So if you can send 10 or 15 bucks her way to get this fucking thing done, please do it. Because I'm relying on her to get successful, so I can ride on her coattails.

2) Buy this book The Irish Hungarian Guide to the Domestic Arts by Erin O'Brien

I first met Erin when she won a Lit Award for her blog, and I went up to her all shy and was like "heeey, I'm Bridget, I read your shit, congratulations" and she knew who I was! I can't tell you how much love and support Erin has given me for my blog. She wrote an article about me. She even wrote me a goddamn letter of reference for colleges. So I owe her. Also the book is really good, and really funny, and SWEET in a way that is very particularly Cleveland Sweet. ALSO her publishing company is a local start up Red Giant Books, so hey Support them and Maybe Someday they will Publish Me. Below is a quote from the book. I'm not gonna lie, I took it from her site because with no context at all, it's even better and also I didn't have to retype anything.

"Any consenting adult is duly encouraged to use any vegetable matter as a marital aid. Please carefully consider the following guidelines for a safe, convenient and enjoyable experience. Choose firm, high quality organically grown products. Wash vegetable matter first. Carving/peeling vegetable matter into realistic shapes can make the experience whimsical and more satisfying. Any person who has used the vegetable matter as a marital aid is welcome to consume the vegetable matter after a thorough washing (of vegetable matter). DO NOT, however, serve the vegetable matter in question to parties who are unaware of the vegetable matter's previous employ, no matter how thoroughly they have been washed. Said practice is considered uncool. "

Since I pimped out those two (they deserve it, give them money), I might as well mention all this other stuff happening this month too.

3) Come to Brite Winter 2012

You should already know about it, but I feel like too many people have been asking me when it is, SO HERE YOU GO Not this Saturday but the NEXT. Plan on it. Buy a mug from their website and get some free liquids.

BRITE WINTER: Saturday, February 18, 2012, 5-10pm Ohio City (W26th and Bridge Ave)
Cleveland’s Third Annual Winter, Art, and Music Celebration:
The community-organized BRITE WINTER festival takes place at West 26th and Bridge Avenue, in Ohio City, on Saturday February 18th from 5-10pm. Entrance is free and open to the public.

4) Come to Pechakucha this Friday

There are two reasons to come to this event: 1) Almost every single new person I've met in the past year has been to one of these, which is to say all the coolest most interesting people in town show up. 2) You never know what you're going to learn about, or who, or if you're just going to see me and my friends doing shots (that happened at the Higbee one). Oh and 3) It's free.

WHAT: PechaKucha Night Cleveland - Volume 14
WHO: Public (anyone interested in any variety of the topics listed above)
WHERE: House of Blues Cleveland, Main Music Hall
WHEN: February 10th, 2012
7:00pm - Doors Open (and of course the bars open)
8:20pm - Presentations Begin
9:10pm-9:30pm - Beverage Break
9:30pm-10:30pm - Presentations
10:30pm-?? - Music and Beverages
HOW MUCH: FREE (cash/credit bar)

Other Things Happening in Town You Can Check Out:

Cash Mobs - an ongoing event put together by my friend Andrew, who has been getting a ridiculous amount of press for it.

Love Lounge - This girl Elana pretty much knows every decent single person in town by now. Also my sister will be there, since she made some list of Sexiest Cleveland Singles. So I can promise, if you come, Carrie will hit on you.

Fundraiser and Film Screening for my friend Erin's organization Drink Local Drink Tap. The film is about their recent trip to Uganda designing a project to bring clean drinking water to a local school there. That's cooler than anything you've done in your life ever. Hey guess what? She did a Pechakucha presentation at one of the events I did. Also I met her through Cash Mobs Andrew. ALL THESE THINGS CONNECT.

5 Rules for Living

2012-02-06T14:44:00.001-05:00

1. Never get into a fight with a Brazilian who is at least a foot taller than you.

Sure you are tough. I'm sure you're really tough. Tough like a fucking horse made of nails. You asshole, you probably get drunk and then secretly talk to your girlfriend about how you could have totally taken that guy. Hey, maybe you could have, maybe among your social circles you are actually the biggest and strongest and if so good for you cause that's hot.

A 7ft tall Brazilian is not to be fucked with though. I don't care if he spits on your girlfriend. No wait, actually I do, you should totally fight him then. But with the knowledge you will lose. Because his knees will come up to your waist, and he'll just kick you over and over again until your pancreas explodes and you fall to the ground spitting blood. I could lie to you and tell you that girls will still love you if you don't get back up, and just lie there submitting. That there's another kind of nobility in admitting you can't win and getting out early. Maybe there are some much smarter more rational more evolved girl creatures out there who would still respect you. I am not one of them. If you start the goddamn fight, you better keep going until you win or you get knocked out and lie there in a pool of your own blood tinged spittle. I will respect you for trying and losing horribly. I will respect you sussing out a situation and retreating before things come to blows. I won't respect you for getting involved and then trying to back out of it once you realize you are bleeding and you might get hurt.

Which is why you shouldn't get in the fight in the first place. Or pick them very very carefully. Because people like me are horrible, but we're watching.

2. Remember the Rule of Numbers before you curse out that car who didn't use it's turn signal.

The Rule of Numbers is that there are so many people on this planet, a very large portion of them must be pretty similar to you.

Sure, we like to complain that everyone in the world has lead poisoning, and should not be able to have children or a drivers license or vote. And yes, there are some incredibly stupid people out there. You may have met one or two of them. But they do not constitute everyone at the grocery store or everyone at your workplace. You are not smarter than everyone else. You are not in the top fifth percentile of having your shit together mentally.

I've never had a car accident. Do you know how many times I've almost had an accident though? A LOT. So when I was driving down 65th today, and this SUV braked suddenly and then turned without signaling, I had zero right to say "mother fucker" out loud. Maybe it didn't hurt anyone cause no one heard it, but maybe also I was passing through some sort of Curse Sensitive Zone in Time and Space, and my cursing unnecessarily caused an orphanage in India to collapse. WE DO NOT KNOW. What I do know is it's extremely unlikely that poor woman fucks her mother. She might be a totally fine driver every other day. Most people are, which is why we aren't all being killed in car accidents all the time and traffic is basically predictable. The majority of people are decent drivers.

There are also like 17 million cars on the road at any given time. So with that many drivers, it is almost a given that .25 of them are having bad driving days. And are going to make a small mistake, like almost passing the road they meant to turn down and having to make the turn super quickly without using their signal. Like you yourself have done twenty thousand times.

So chill out, relax, stop being so quick to completely condemn a stranger because they do one stupid thing in front of you.

But if they do it twice, kill them.

3. Do not use words that are not verbs as verbs.

For instance, the word Bone.

"But Bridget, doesn't it become a verb as soon as I decide to use it that way, and don't you agree with total creative freedom to shape language, something you are guilty of at least three times a day?"

No. I don't care if I fucking do it too, it's horrible.

Also not a verb: Workout.

4. Keep the age limits on your dating life to within 7 years of your own age.

I don't know why 7, but it works. In my case, it would mean I shouldn't date anyone younger than 25 or older than 39. That's totally true.

Obviously you all want to argue exceptions, people who have gotten together with a guy 20 years their senior or 10 years younger than them. Whatever, I don't know those people, I don't know what's wrong with them. It's a pretty safe bet for me to say something is, because every couple is basically super fucked up in at least one way. So if I wanted to be a real dick, I could just start listing off what must be wrong with them, and like any good roadside psychic, something I throw out there will be right and correct. I'm not gonna cop out like that though. I just think if you are dating with an extreme age gap, then there is a very big separate issue happening. Rescuing, escaping, ect. Doesn't mean you don't love each other I guess, doesn't mean you can't be happy. But exceptions only work once a situation has actually happened. In the meantime, we need to speak in generalities to help ourselves out. And in general, you are not going to be happy dating someone who doesn't remember the same Saturday morning cartoons as you, or has yet to have a heating bill in their name, or whose daughter was only a year behind you in high school.

Also, the Rule of Numbers does not apply to people below 23. They are all emotional morons. It's like we were all little blind kittens until 24, 25, and then we were finally able to open our eyes to the existence of other people not just as things which feed us but actual empathetic individuals. Which means for you Oh Intrepid Philanderer, first of all, you are just sleeping with them to make yourself feel better, and second, if you really want to keep them around (sucker. SUCKER.), you are going to have to put up with at least three years of frustrating selfish stupidity before anything changes, and even then it's a crap shoot, because lots of people just suck for a long time. Sucker.

I guess this is just a very good rule for filling out an online dating profile.

5. Do not refer to the Energy of the Universe.

When people talk about the Universe's Plan for them, or tapping into the wisdom of the Universe, of becoming one with the flow of the Universe, I want to slap them. The Universe is not some soft happy ample hippie mother's bosom, which will make you tea and listen to you cry about your ex boyfriend. If that were the case, cows would be the dominant species on this planet. But they're not. We are. Because we were the best predators. The Universe prefers predators. In fact, if you wanna think of this whole God thing as the Universe, or the Universe as God or WHATEVER, and you're going with that whole Made Man in His/Her Image ect, then the Universe is the most bloodthirsty horrible leering tooth and claw creature ever and that's what we're modeled after. The Universe eats it's young, and not just cause they are sick, but because it WANTS to. It licks it's lips and tastes murder. So yeah sure, go ahead, call on the Universe for guidance. Just pray the Universe doesn't hear you, or see any sudden movements, because if it notices you it will rend you from head to toe, without even thinking about it. The Universe doesn't think, it just kills and eats. It is a monster hurtling through existence and you should just stay very very still and for heaven sakes don't TRY to get it's attention unless you have a very big gun.

Looking at Factories Does Weird Things to Me

2012-02-02T15:09:00.000-05:00

This is how I know I am a great girlfriend, but would make a terrible mom. The old cat went on a piss rampage last night, pissed in every single spot that Young Cat likes to hang out in. As I was stuffing ammonia soaked workout pants and childhood blankets into garbage bags, I was furious. When I was done, and settled on the couch to watch Sherlock, Old Cat came over looking for love, and I had very little in my heart for her at the moment, but I cuddled her anyway. Because she's a cat. She acted out because she was angry, like a 2 yr old bites. If I were to yell at her or try and punish her? She's not going to get it, the two events won't be connected in her mind at all, she'll just be more upset. So I just loved her. But also, see she doesn't know this part, I'm making plans to give her away to a home where she'll be happier. So the lesson is, I won't yell at you, I'll put up with you until an opportune moment to give you away. You can give boys away, but you can't give children away.

The no yelling part is a development for me. I used to yell all the time. Now I understand that if you're doing something that warrants me yelling at you, you are actually just distracting me from paying attention to things that aren't you.

The other day some friends and I went by the Ford complex, to look at the demolition of one of the plants. Whenever I go peeking around someplace I'm not really supposed to be, I like to have a cover story in my pocket. I've never had to use one, but the most convincing lie is the one you've already thought up. There were big signs all over the fence about not taking photos, so I imagined a scenario where I told the cops that my boyfriend's grandfather used to work at the plant, and he's in a nursing home now, so I was just taking photos to show him because we try to keep him interested in things, or encourage him to talk about his life. I don't have a boyfriend, and there is no mythical grandfather (I say mythic, because I've never had a grandfather and I can't even imagine what THAT whole thing is like), and also I don't know that showing an old dying man pictures of the place where he worked for forty years being torn down is exactly an altruistic maneuver.

But, as it happens with stories I make up, I thought a lot about what this fake grandfather's life might have been like. Working in the Ford plant is a pretty awesome job to get, particularly in Cleveland. The entire city of Brookpark was built up by guys working at the Ford plant, and the Tank plant, and their families who would save up for above ground pools in the backyard, and send their kids to Kent State or OSU or Tri-C. Then all their kids would be like, FUCK working in factories, let's go be marketing majors or teach preschool. So then new people would come in to work at the plant, and later move into the now old ranch homes and shotgun two bedroom houses, and all the old people would retire and work on their show cars in their backyards and complain about the neighborhood going downhill. Suburbs are crazy like that. My experience with Brookpark is basically only when I was a young girl dating David, and used to hang out on his parent's wooden back patio singing Wilco songs with him, and that one time I went with his Mom, Dad, and Grandfather to Olive Garden for Sunday dinner.

I think there's something special about the old American post war suburb. It's got a beige and blonde beauty of it's own. It isn't poor and falling down (though they are getting there), but it's also not tree-lined and intellectual. It's the vague place in between where neilsen boxes go and car dealerships clone themselves and everyone's daughter is healthy, leggy like a colt, and squirrel cheeked. I love Brookpark Rd, which is a stretch of cheap bars, cheaper restaurants, cemeteries, auto repair shops, strip clubs, roller skating rinks, and manufacturing. Manufacturing is the thing that built the South Side. It's all so very normal and American Dream Potholed. Us city kids, we don't pay enough attention to the South Side. Probably cause it's more interesting if you don't let the people who live there start talking about what they hate.

That's true of all of America though. Stop telling me what you hate America, tell me what you love. Cause I hate your hate, and I don't see how we're ever going to be friends if you don't let it go.

The other thing I thought about, looking through the barbed wire at the rubble of a foundry, is the College Dream. I don't think everyone should go to college. I think it's unrealistic. Not everyone is going to get a great job because they put themselves in debt. If you don't want a 4 year degree specifically for a particular career, then why not trade schools? Why not certifications? My friend and I disagreed on this, she thinks everyone should go even if it's just for a general liberal arts degree because it makes them more cultured. Oh man, that gets me rankled more than anything. I say, look, I don't have a degree, I'm cultured. I'm arguably more cultured than a lot of people with degrees that I've met. It's because my childhood made me love learning, so I'm capable of doing it independently, I seek it out. If you want everyone to be more cultured, then focus on the kids, teach them how to want to be curious and smart. That way even if they can't afford college, they can enjoy being interested in life, they can have PERSPECTIVE. Teach them to love to read, that's basically the key to everything. Three of the most financially successful people I know don't have degrees. How you do in life depends on what kind of person you are, qualities defined and settled when you are very young. People who want to go to college will. Don't assume everyone should. There are a million ways to have a happy life. If you are a shitty unimaginative person, getting a degree just makes you a shitty unimaginative person in debt.

What I'm saying is that there is a set of general qualities it's assumed you get from college no matter your major, and I think we should be teaching these qualities a lot earlier. How to network. How to focus. Time management. Goal setting. Listening. Rational, logical thought. Why spend 80,000 dollars on a communications B.A. you don't really care about, just so you can end up working the same mid range white collar job with health benefits I do now? That's stupid if you don't have 80,000 to spend. That insurance company didn't hire you and your degree because they think your knowledge of Early American history is useful to them. So let's define those qualities they did assume your degree meant, and give those to everyone without selling our young people into slavery to the banks.

I'm not arguing that college isn't great, I think all learning is great. I wish every single person in this country could afford to go college. That is never going to happen. I just spent a lot of time and effort myself applying to go back to school, because what I want to do is be a better writer. That's something you can go to school for. But we can't afford to get a college degree in just anything at all, because we're supposed to. Wait till you know what it is you want it for, till you have a purpose for it. Or make it a hell of a lot cheaper, one of the two.

I feel that we spend too much money on expectations of life. College. Weddings. Cars. Houses. The expectation that everyone can be the same kind of middle class. That is a dying thing, a short lived post war fantasy. The creation of the label of middle class is an inherent acknowledgement that there will always be a lower class. There are not that many openings in the middle class, folks. It's a lifestyle that has an occupancy limit. And here's where I might go on a rant about socialism, but let's leave that be. Point is, look where it's gotten us, the tv dream. Look how unhappy and stressed out everyone is, how depressed and desperate and struggling. Look at the black hole of credit we live in.

I mean, really what's happening here (emotionally I mean, to me, why I'm on about this) is when you find out I don't have a degree, and you're surprised? And I see that judgement enter your eyes, your expectations of my intelligence lowering? It's insulting and it makes me sad. Because intelligence and credentials are not the same thing, you should know that. I want to go to school because I have a specific skill I want to learn, not because it's going to make me a superior person. I am already a superior person, because my parents took pains to make me that way. Doing that for every child when they are young is the next step to be a better society, not because it will get them all to college but because it will make them better people.

This post did not end up where I thought it would. Also, now probably an admissions person will read this and think "she thinks college is not necessary!?". Oh Admissions Person, you have no idea how necessary college is for me, right now, promise. Do you see the sentence structuring in this post? Horrid. I'm just saying, I don't regret the fact that I waited until I had a clearly defined endgame. Because now I understand how the world works, a little better anyways. PERSPECTIVE.

Winter Skin Issues

2012-01-30T02:23:00.000-05:00

My Brightest Diamond, "High Low Middle" by asthmatickitty

Working late at night, cooped up in the second bedroom of my apartment hunched over my computer, thinking what an archaic term "computer" was, I dreamed of being outside in the sunshine. The next day I had to work as well, but on actually work stuff, not the really important work. It was dark all day anyway, also snowing thick and sticky. I still went out, had to get out and get my blood moving again. The problem with living by yourself for a long time is it gets easier and easier to slip into the deep murky vapors of your own head. What used to take months to induce a state of desperate boredom now happens in days. I need to see my thoughts reflected off of other people. So whatever, the fucking point is I really really really wanted to be outside during the day, even if it was the dead dog end of January.

So I made plans with two people I didn't know very well but have wanted to get to know better, which is the most entertaining way to do brunch, I like that in-between stage. Where you know each well enough to be pretty comfortable, but there's still an element of mild surprise sometimes. I was feeling pretty good, dehydrated and sleepwalking as I was, because it turns out that Saturday's desperate drinking had worked. I felt the emotional poison draining out of me the minute I stepped outside on my porch to meet them. It's important when you feel a bubble of hate and bitterness swelling inside you to lance it, drain out the black fluid, before it gets established enough to grow a shell. The blackness was clear though, gone, and it was wonderful outside, to feel the sunny winter air and smell the snow. This whole weekend the weather was swinging back and forth, making out with itself in between styrofoam snow, horrible knife cold rain, and beautiful blue sunny skies with crispy cold 60 mph winds. The weather was proud of itself. I was pretty proud of it too.

We were leaving the diner, and the coffee was starting to enter my veins like a slow drip, when the temperature suddenly dropped. The shock of it was sharp, and my skin jumped, detached all at one in a piece, and ran away. It looked like a ghost, sort of there but with no substance, as it disappeared down the street. The sun in front of it (her?) shown through like I used to hold a pen light against the bottom of my thumb to see the nails light up.

If you think you get nervous hanging out with new people when wrapped up in nice warm skin, try entirely universally naked. I still had my dress on of course, only wicked girls let their clothes get away from them. But it's not attractive to see the arteries and muscles in your forearms either, or and especially the large beating one on your neck just underneath your ear. It certainly doesn't help with convincing new people you're not a weirdo. Plus now I was super cold. The small hard pellets of snow were falling faster now, and the wind stung every inch of me. I felt more exposed than I had ever been before, save that one weekend.

We tracked my runaway skin, easy enough since it had no real muscle and there were little drops of residual blood left on the snow, though no actual footprints so we had to look closely and squint as the afternoon light dimmed and disappeared in the whitening sky. It led us through the closed up storefronts and bare tree boulevards, till finally the trail brought us to a low dark building. The boys helped pry open the door, which my skin had thoughtfully stuck shut with a large metal shred under the bottom. It's my skin after all, it understands tricks. I stood there as they fought with the door, shivering so hard I expected at any moment to vibrate at exactly the wrong sequence, causing me to fall out of the universe completely. When they got it open, I jumped right inside just to get out of the wind. It took my eyes a minute to adjust to the darkness. One of the boys closed the doors against the storm, and there we were.

The floor was covered with rotting ceiling wood and melted carpet mold. We stumbled through the dark hallways, sunshine spilling from the holes in the roof, falling on the floor in concentrated spots. A pile of cinderblocks in the corner. Monitors disintegrating on wet wooden desks. So many things run away. And at the end of the longest hallway, in a cavernous rotunda with the sunshine coming through the peaked broken roof glass in a bright circle at the middle of the room. It felt like church. And there was my skin. It was paler than I remembered it, and obviously tired. It looked at us in panic, and I saw the rest of the objects sitting all around us. All the things left behind in the winters - gloves and spare times, sidewalk rubble and shopping carts. They surrounded us menacingly, defensive, attacking. I moved closer, and gave a quick call. My skin ran over just as fast, and hopped right back on me. We stood there a moment, the two of us, feeling the elation at being connected again.

The boys and I left immediately. I could feel the calculators and bath towels, the running shoes and air conditioners pressing in the darkness against our retreat. If I am in the backseat of a car, I cannot stop looking at my self in the rearview mirror. It's terrible but true, and oh so much more true this particular ride home, as I stared at the color of my eyes, and the tone of my cheeks, and ran my fingers over my ears over and over again, to seal it up again tight.

In Which I Tell You What Is Wrong With that Missed Connection You Posted on Craigslist

2012-01-27T11:37:00.000-05:00

parma mcdonalds - m4w - 43 (pearl rd)Hi...you-cute blonde girl with two younger girls...we connected eyes when u walked in...i was with my young daughter. not bold enough to have walked up and introduce myself...

No one should ever hit on anyone in a McDonalds ever. Aside from the fact that you were both bringing small children in there, which you should never do because its kinda the moral equivalent of taking them to a bar and feeding them Schnapps, ASIDE from that, there is absolutely nothing sexy about a McDonalds. Groceries stores - okay sure, there's this whole pursuit thing, a meandering eye contact thing. But nobody makes eye contact at McDonalds unless they are a serial killer. The shame of being there should push any self confidence you have in your own sexy time abilities out in the street to be run over repeatedly by people you know driving by and seeing your car in the McDonalds parking lot. The shame is so overwhelming, I actually blushed the last time I went through the drive-thru to get a sausage biscuit. Which was yesterday. Because I had to wake up early to go to the office and I was starving and also I was mad I had to drive anywhere. See, McDonalds is like smoking or drinking, it's a vice. But no one is ever going to look down the counter at you and think "I really respect that he ordered a 10 piece instead of a 20 piece and it makes me want to fuck him."

Monsters Game "Waitress" Thursday Night - m4w - 26 (The Q)You were the beverage girl and were amazingly beautiful. I think you caught me looking at you and I gave a smile as you turned away. Hope you see this and what section were we in so I know if's not a fake.

The first part of this is fine. You identify where, when, and you compliment her. Fine. The problem starts in that second line there "I gave a smile as you turned away". No mention of holding eye contact, her smiling back. As far as we can tell, basically what happened is this girl didn't notice you at all. But then you set the expectation that this girl who works at this huge sports Arena, and probably served "beverages" to at least 2,000 drunk leering men, she is supposed to remember what section you were in. Or who you were. I sort of get it, you're assuming it's the only section she worked, so you'll know it's her, and not one of the other hot 23 yr old bartenders working there. Cause lord forbid one of those OTHER girls contacts you.

Parking Garage - m4w - 25 (Downtown )I saw you in the parking garage. You had blonde hair, and looked like you wrote something in the back windshield from all the steam that was inside the car. You were parked on the 7th floor and just had this look in your eye like you wanted it. I should have made my move then, but I wanted to wait for Thursday. I hope you find me

....before I find you. I find this one horrible and creepy and wonder if possibly I should call the police to prevent a rape? No, I'm serious.

Just don't ever write anything like this ever.

Young sample woman Heinens Lander Circle - m4w - 53 (Pepper Pike)You gave me a sample of a special kind of orange at Heinen's this afternoon...do you remember me?

You are 53 years old. I would have thought that would be enough times to grow some balls. But I'm guessing you weren't at liberty to speak to Young Sample Woman at the time, because you were with your wife, or daughter who was actually older than YSW, or girlfriend that you cheated on your second wife with. My out of town readers are not going to be able to properly conjure up the right image from the word combinations of Heinens and Pepper Pike, but have you ever had to deal with a small to mid sized business owner who an ex-salesman and owns 2 Audis and a Tahoe? Remember how he was the most ego driven paranoid insecure blowhard prick you ever met? That's who I picture this guy to be.

What the hell is a "special" kind of orange? Valencia? Clementine? Tangerine? I thought we had most of the orange categories set.

Marc's Kamms Corner - m4w - 38 (Cleveland)Hope you read these! You were in Marc's at Kamms corner today and we kept running into each other in every aisle. You were in pink pants and had a gentleman with you(I think maybe your dad). We exchanged smiles and eye contact, and even a few words, including talking of alcohol abuse...lol. I thought you were really cute and should have asked you for your number, but wasn't sure if the guy with you was WITH you. If you see this and are interested, send me an email and tell me what I was wearing.

A bunny suit? I don't know how else you would expect some random girl in a low budget grocery store to remember what you were wearing. Don't guys realize that most of their clothes look exactly the same?This is coincidentally the same grocery store I use, so believe me when I tell you that finding yourself talking about alcohol abuse with a complete stranger is not that far fetched.

I wonder if she were to write back, and it said "hey, I don't remember what you were wearing exactly, but you seemed nice. Let's talk!", he would reply "nope sorry, that can't be you. The girl I met would remember my shirt."

Stephanie - Ride Home Early Rainy May Morning - m4w - 29 (Middleburg Heights - Holland Road)Looking for Stephanie, the girl I gave a ride home back at the end of May. It was late night / early morning and she was walking home during one of those few major downpours we had. You kept worrying about getting my car wet. Don't worry it dried out just fine.You were tall, slim and athletic with long slightly curly or wavy brunette hair. You were wearing red Ohio State shorts or possibly cut off sweat pants and black high heel sandals. Your legs looked amazing and you had a beautiful smile.I was brave enough to offer you a ride, but still too shy to make much conversation with you. Wish I could have got your number or email address or something.I am not sure where you were coming from, but I assumed maybe a bar or a party. You said you were walking because you didn't want to get a ride from some drunk guy.I was driving home from work and still think about you sometimes on my way home. I have been hoping to maybe run into you again some day, but obviously that hasn't happened yet.If by some miracle you do see this you should know my name, what I was driving and where I work. I know it was a while ago and I probably didn't make much of an impression on you so I'll settle for 1 of the 3 :)

I just want to recap this scenario here. It's early morning, let's say 3 or 4 or 5am. It's raining and dark. This girl is walking down Holland Rd in Middleburg Heights (which if I remember correctly is mostly residential, but if I'm wrong, either way picture the most suburban street you can think of), wearing red jersey cut offs with the OSU logo on her ass, and black high heels. She stops and accepts a ride from a complete stranger in the middle of the night, because she is drunk and didn't want to go home with one of the other drunk guys whose company she just left.

Let me tell you dude, in that scenario, you did exactly the right thing not asking for her information or giving her yours. Her father would be really happy about both those things. But otherwise, I hope this works out for you.

The 5 Most Appropriate Ways for Gossip Girl to End

2012-01-25T09:55:00.001-05:00

Listen, if you don't know what Gossip Girl is, I can't help you. I don't know why or how, but this season is either the last or second to last one. I think it's the baby/wedding story arc that's throwing it into the final maneuvers. When you start marrying main characters off to the Prince of Monaco, what else is left really? Well, here's what I suggest.

1) I've argued for a while that what's going on in Gossip Girl is that Leighton Meester's character is actually stuck in a sensory dep tank deep within occupied territory, where the rebels are forcing her to live through manufactured nightmares in which she thinks she is Blair Waldorf. I don't know why they are doing this - maybe she is a new hybrid being and they are mining her adrenalin and tears for the recreational drugs of the new Manhattan's Elite.

2) Blair is actually a planted sleeper agent for an unknown dark force trying to assassinate the Prince of Monaco. On their wedding night, she plants a biological weapon in their suite, and flies out of the country as zombie apocalypse breaks out. Later, in the spin off, she redeems herself as a hostile but warmhearted leader of the Survivors.

3) In this season, Nate (who for no good reason just became the editor of a paper, at like 22) decided to start a war with Veronica Mars/Gossip Girl (I just learned today that Kristen Bell is the voiceover, XOXO wrongdoers), but then got immediately manipulated back into place by her. So obviously the next step is that with Gossip Girl is under attack, she turns out to be a serial killer and starts quietly killing off all the main characters, episode by episode, as Blair and Chuck race to stop her before their numbers are up. Nate should be first, and it should involve a sex scandal with Drake (erotic asphyxiation I think) This would be great especially because nobody knows more about these dolls than the person who's been stalking them for 10 years. Maybe they could bring in the Mentalist to help catch her, thus giving me such a trash tv orgasm, I can never ever watch tv again.

4) Serena is a killer robot, planted by Cylons to infiltrate Earth's defense systems. No, not really. But she does become a tennis superstar, and then gets accidentally sold into the Ukrainian sex slave market. The end. Everybody hates Serena and when she's gone, they all live happily ever after. Last episode, we see the show end from the perspective of a small teen blonde girl in Louisana who is just crying and crying and crying in her shabby small bedroom plastered with posters of the cast members. She has 12 hairbows in her hair.

5) Jenny comes permanently back to town after being banished by Blair to Hudson (that actually happened), and becomes a reality show star. She spends every episode walking in some point in the middle of the show and randomly cursing or fighting or freaking out with whoever is available. These temper tantrums should have nothing to do with the actual show, it will be like a recurring joke we're all in on. But then at the season finale, she commits suicide, and everyone else has a revelation about the wanton wastefulness of their own lives. We then get an epilogue where we find out that each character has gone off to do something really awesome - like building schools in Africa, or studying global warming. Blair becomes a Doctor of Feminism, and writes a best selling book that changes how the country sees preteen girls. Chuck moves to Cleveland revitalizes the Slavic Village neighborhood. Serena gets fat and joins a knitting circle, where she finally finds happiness with a bearded bikester. The entire last episode is soundtracked by Fleet Foxes.

Update - #6 Jenny is often referred to as Raccoon Eyes, because of her generous use of eyeliner. In the last episode, she is played by an actual raccoon. Nobody notices. Turns out she's been a real raccoon this whole time. Plus, urban wildlife awareness!

In Defense of Craigslist Missed Connections and Not Having Enough to Say About Anything Else

2012-01-24T11:21:00.000-05:00

Sometimes when I'm stuck for having anything to say, and updating this blog that really I love a lot but don't pay enough attention to (like every important relationship in my life) sometimes the best thing is to resort to diary mode. Just list off everything, and see what's left, I guess. I'm feeling very uninspired, like I blew my load last week. Friday night I went to the Cleveland Heights library, and did a little reading, that last post. When I got out of the library, it was a full blown snowstorm. My plan had been to next go to the Cinematheque to see Tarkovsky's The Mirror. But the snow was really building up fast, and I hate being on the East Side during bad weather, it makes me feel extra vulnerable all far away from home. So I skipped the movie and drove back West to my friend's birthday party. Frank was turning 30, and having an "adult" party, which is the kind where everyone looks sorta nice, and we all drink wine and there is calm pretty Grateful Dead on in the background, and there is a cupcake tower that someone at the party worked really hard on. I did not have a cupcake, but I did cheat and have a glass of wine, since it was a wine party after all. I saw a few people that I already knew but hadn't really had a chance to talk to for any length of time. One guy told me about how he had met this girl he was dating through a Craigslist Missed Connection she had posted about him six months ago. That's the first time I've heard that, but it made Slightly Tipsy From One Glass Me extra happy. I've been playing with this new twitter account where I make fun of OK Cupid, and the side effect of this is I've been working myself deeper and deeper into the dating bitterness hole, because you know that's where the funny lives. But it's also where the "oh god I'm going to be alone forever because everyone is a dick" cloud lives.

I love Missed Connections, it's so rampant with Regret and Misogyny, and Sleaziness. All the ones posted by guys are either "you were so hot I didn't have the guts to talk to you, I'm a soft little man who probably doesn't have a shot with you at all which is why I knew better than to talk to you and get rejected in the first place but maybe the fates will bring us together cause I totally believe in fate." OR it's "I HATE YOU, YOU FUCKING BITCH, BUT ALSO PLEASE COME BACK TO ME CAUSE I'M LOST WITHOUT YOU, ALSO FUCK YOU BITCH." Then, buried in between this ever burning tire fire of poison, are the actual missed connections. By like, normal sane people. Who don't sound like they've been on a Miller High Life bender for two months.In general I feel pretty conflicted about Missed Connections. I don't really respect you for not having the guts and confidence to talk to someone right there in the situation (and the guys who are just begging and cursing for their women back are probably the worst kind of men) but I also think the idea of seeing a complete stranger and having them stuck in your mind is romantic. I used to always tell myself that if I thought of a way things might work out, like I imagined an outcome for any night or date or situation, for sure whatever I conceived of would not happen (it's the opposite of Visualize Your Result. If I Visualize a Result, I have just killed it dead). So when I fantasize about having someone ask me out on Missed Connections, I already know it will never happen, because I've just jinxed myself. But I still read them every day because I think the number of people who find soulmates at gas stations and grocery stores is extraordinary.

Saturday I worked, and that sucked because my computer was being an asshole. After work, Austin and I went to Luna Bakery, to pick up something to bring to a potluck, and I bought a lot of expensive cookies. We picked up Jere who I hadn't seen in so long, so many fucking weeks and it's all my fault but seriously Fuck You Cleveland Heights for Everything. All of us went to the monthly Whiskey and Cigars night, which this month was Bitters and Snuff. I wasn't drinking, so I bought two Starbucks coffees, three shots each, and drank those all night. I met two new very nice girls, one of whom was wearing a large silver locket that she decided she needed to fill with something, and I wanted to cut out a bunch of single words on paper squares, and make it something like Refrigerator Poetry, only Locket Poetry. It all got somehow derailed in the party flow, but I hope she does that anyway. By the time I was supposed to drive my drunk friends home, I was so caffeinated I might as well have been drunk. There was Bohemian Rhapsody singing in the car.

Sunday I woke up and tried to do some work, but my work computer hated me even more so that was a bust. I met Austin, Jay, and Denise at the coffeeshop, and then we went down to Edgewater to snow paint. The dollar spray bottles I bought were crappy, so the results weren't the prettiest, but it just needs more planning. Heavier stencils that won't blow away in the wind, and order some food dyes online, because the grocery store only had food coloring in gel form, which is some bullshit. I want the tiny little plastic bottles of my youth. I was supposed to have a photography lesson afterwards, but the guy canceled cause it was cold? Instead I went home and took seven bags of trash out to the curb. I have no idea how I ended up with seven fucking bags. I mean, okay, two were cat litter, one was christmas packaging I still hadn't thrown out, two were me cleaning out my fridge and kitchen cabinets, one was just Dunkin Donuts cups. I'm only barely exaggerating about that last one. I've been drinking a LOT of coffee. I think I may start inventorying my trash, to see where it all comes from. Like, keep a list by the bin, and write down what I'm throwing out. After lugging out all that proof of my wasteful degenerate lifestyle, I met up with Corrigan for dinner at XYZ, which was slightly weird because we were at a bar but both of us had quit drinking for the moment, and I was eating fruit and he was eating broccoli and if you know either of us you know that's weird. Later we went to see Perren in Texas Chainsaw Musical at Blank Canvas Theater, in the large and always kind of intimidating W. 78th street studios building. The play itself was the thing, there was lots of arterial splattering and mugging for the audience, and Perren is awesome as the extremely sympathetic Leatherface. Corrigan and I wandered around during intermission, and he accidentally wandered where he shouldn't have, and got yelled at by the backstage manager. He is always getting yelled at for something.

Monday morning I met Haley at the coffeeshop, with the intention of a workdate, but it ended up with us playing Sorry. Haley had to go to work, and Amy showed up, and we played some more Sorry. Then I left and went to a matinee showing of The Artist. I love seeing movies by myself, just sitting there waiting and then being alone and private and wrapped up the whole time. That film was amazing, it was witty and cute and moving and beautiful. I would watch it again and again. The way they used sound was perfect, and John Goodman SHOULD have been a silent film star, it's what his face was MADE for. After the movie, I met up with a lot of very cute successful girls at Velvet Tango Room, and we had a Girl Table. I drank fragrant and complex things. We left and went to Johnny Mangos for chicken fried rice, then Genna and I tried to have our own little adventure, and finally after leaving her I ended up at the corner store in Tremont buying cigarettes. Adam showed up, so we drove to Edison's and sang more Bohemian Rhapsody. Saw Nate and Tara again at Edison's, found a new favorite song, drank some gingerale and grenadine, then meandered home. When I got home there was a package of cognac filled chocolates from somewhere in Europe waiting for me. They were much better than the absinthe ones she had sent me before. I heated up my leftover rice, tried to read some more of this very scholarly book about Perspective, and fell asleep not angry, not sad, not anything at all but tired. And happy. Always happy. How did I become such a happy person?

I Hate Every Title I Come Up With For This

2012-01-21T09:43:00.000-05:00

I read this last night at an event. Or rather, I made everyone else read it out loud, paragraph by paragraph, and that was fantastic. I might make that my thing, making audience members read for me, I'm terrible at reading my own stuff and it's pretty fantastic to hear your words in other people's mouths.

I am incapable of change.
I long for it. I look around at my house, my car, my job, at my body in the bathroom mirror getting out of the shower and I want it all to be different. But when I concentrate hard, when I try to gather up motivations, to suction out the fog in my head and replace it with cold hard strategy, those motivations and strategies and plans are slowly eaten away by my brain’s naturally produced poison of staying put. They are eroded until there is nothing left but a lacey shadow on my brain of what I intended to do. An xray memory. A blot on an otherwise smooth surface.

I live in a city that is as poisoned as my brain.
I drive to work in the early morning hours, when the molecules of the City are still and quiet, and the only movements are the sparse cars gliding along grey empty highways, and the buzzing from street lamps and gas station signs. I drive past monstrous hunks of architecture that have been killed in the battle between industry and flight, the remains of wealth and power. These rotting buildings are the physical incarnations of my shadows, proof positive that no willpower can exist for very long in the Wasteland. Nobody knocks them down. Nobody fixes them. Nobody remembers what they used to be for. We hardly see them anymore, they lay invisible in the background of our lives, full of power but cold and dead.

This is what I think about as I’m at the gas station, the sun rising behind the Citgo sign, (listening to the man on his cellphone at the pump next to me who apparently doesn’t care if we blow up) - Before we had horizons and linear perspective, art had hierachy, an aristocracy. A character’s size was based on his or her’s importance to the story of the painting. This was called vertical perspective. It was left behind in the dust of the modern centuries, because it was illogical, and the concept of abstract art wasn’t due to be reborn on the scene for another hundred thousand million light years. The Horizon was invented and stabilized and everyone started using it, not just sailors on their little toy wooden boats, but writers and artists and soldiers. Like when people who weren’t lawyers first started using cell phones. The Horizon was at one point a modern technological miracle. A shining beacon of what humanity could accomplish - the Horizon!

It comes first from the Horizon. I am driving to work one morning, listening to the same CD I’ve had in the car for a year, when on the edge of my vision I catch a light. Not a flickering street light, or rushing lights of another car, but a gleaming glow coming from the mouth of the river, on the horizon of the large cold block of grey that is the Lake. It is pulsing a silent gold, which reflects on my windshield and shines against the concrete walls of the old City. This light, coming from an unknown awe inspiring enigmatic far far away point on the Horizon, gets stronger and stronger throughout the day. It turns the winter sky pink and silver. It transforms the dirty windows of the warehouses to twinkling prisms.

By the time we are all driving home, during what would normally be a pitch black rush hour, the entire City is lit up like a spotlight. But this light does not just reflect, it sticks, like gold dust settling on the streets. Our car tires turn up storms of sparkles like snow. It settles on our hair and eyelashes and clothes as glitter. It absorbs into the asphalt and turns the soot covered bricks, black with a century of manufacturing coughs, into jewels and shingles into irridescent shells. Those old dinosaur buildings, they become living breathing animals, snuggled in their nests.

The best part though is what happens when you breathe in the gold light. First you choke a little, with the tingling of it down your throat. Then you feel a warmth settle in your chest, as if you had just sipped a glass of bronzed whiskey. Next you feel it spreading through your veins, and up into your head. You want to lie down in grass and stare spinning at the sky, only it’s January in Cleveland so there is no grass. Instead you sit in your car with the heat blasting, and close your eyes, feel the light reaching up your spine behind your eyeballs, and into your corneas, and out through your lashes. I hadn’t realized how slow my heart was beating before, but I notice now in retrospect, as my heart beats faster and faster.

I am dizzy with a kind of universal caffeine. I open my eyes, and everything seems cleaner. The snow is whiter and the brown sludgey ice around the edges is gone. The sky is no longer grey, but shades of mauve and cream and violet. The siding on the houses is newer, the cars nicer, the people better dressed. The City has been gilded through and through. Everyone is happier. I am happier. All my memories are scrubbed clean. I barely remember my disgust with the never ending sameness, instead that familiarity seems to be a power, something that makes me strong, knowing where everything comes from and everything goes. Being “stuck here” is suddenly “ideal cost of living” “affordable amenities” “friends and family.”

There are lots of words thrown around the next few months, and I hear them all the time, online and on the radio, from the mouths of my friends. Revitilization. Civic Rebirth. Renaissance. There are not more jobs suddenly, people are no less poor and miserable, everyone is still bored. But now that the light has made everything seem prettier, nobody seems to mind those other things as much. The mysterious dust is gone, has absorbed into the groundwater and steel, but the euphoria remains. I know deep inside my head, beyond the reach of the Light, that this is not a Golden Age. This is the last huzzah before the end. This is the revenge of all those rotting brick husk buildings, the forgotten schools and masonic temples, the sprawling abandoned factories, they are gasping out their last boomtown breaths. But I just can’t bring myself to protest.

Why Are We Such Big Fans of Children Having to Kill Each Other?

2012-01-12T21:18:00.000-05:00

Yes, I know all the Christmas lights are supposed to be down by now, but for some reason, I feel like this giant mansion done up for the holidays as a reindeer nursery/prison is appropriate for this topic.

I finally started reading Hunger Games. For those of you who aren't 30 yr old librarians or friends with said librarians, Hunger Games is a very popular YA book which takes place in a dystopian future. The United States has been replaced with 12 Quarantined Districts and a Capitol City. Every year, the Capitol exacts a tribute from each District of one girl and one boy, who are shipped off to participate in a survivalist game where they must hunt each other in the wilderness, last one standing wins. It's a trilogy, and I've only read the first one so far, but there's lots of starvation, sickness, arrows, pus, ect. It's bloody and sad, and it's exactly the sort of book I would have loved in middle school.

As soon as the trailer for the upcoming HG movie came out, which every single one of my librarian friends posted and reposted enthusiastically, it begged comparison to another (sort of) well known movie about kids killing each other - Battle Royale. This movie is also based off a book, but I haven't read it yet. As soon as I'm done with HG, I will. It's long overdue in fact, because I am a huge fan of Battle Royale the movie. Huge. I keep a copy of the DVD in my car so if I'm ever over a friend's house and we want to watch a movie, I can volunteer it. It is one of my favorite movies ever, if not THE favorite. The plot of BR is that in an effort to quell school uprisings, the Japanese government randomly picks a class by lottery every year, and the entire class is shipped to an evacuated abandoned island, where they are fitted with explosive collars and also told to slaughter each other mercilessly until only one is left, or they all die. They are extremely similar plots, if not precisely the same. Even the way the Games are run, with broadcast announcements of daily death counts and random backpacks full of unknown supplies, is the same (except in Hunger Games the kids don't know most of the other kids, but in Battle Royale they are all fellow students, which in my mind makes it superior). In both worlds, the rest of the populations watches gleefully and celebrates the Games. It turns out I don't care about any copying, I'm thrilled in fact by details I run across that are identical.

I'm just going to throw in this fun fact: Two of my other favorite books are Lord of the Flies and Enders Game.

So question that I face is this - Why am I so entertained by kids hunting each other down like prey?

There are two possibilities:

1) I Love Kids

There are lots of other movies that explore the Reality Death Match idea - Mad Max and Running Man for instance. But not with children. I don't connect to those movies the same way, turns out I care very little about adults having to kill each other ( they do it all the time anyway). One of the main differences is that it's harder to forgive adults. In both Games, the villains, the really bad kids who are bullies and actually good at killing, are older children. They are the larger ones physically, sure, but they are also the ones closest to being real grown ups. They have lost their innocence and are well on their way to being the enemy. Adults are always the enemy. An adult who is not the enemy is an exception to the rule. So they have to die horrible deaths because they must be punished for being old.

In YA books, the runt is always the best one. Think Boxcar Children and 5 Little Peppers, Little Women. Smallest means sweetest, nicest, kindest, bravest. Unfortunately, it also means you are probably going to get sick or die, depends when the book was written, but whatever. When we read over and over again as kids that we the children, we the littlest, were better people than all those nasty warmongering perverted greedy uncaring adults? That was absolutely true. That doesn't change. Children are always much more flexible, curious, resourceful, and unthinkingly loving....

2) I Hate Kids

....because they haven't had to do anything their whole lives but absorb. The minute they get any real power ,like a weapon or a conch shell, they reveal themselves to be just a petty, vicious and selfish as any adult. Worse even, because they haven't got any concept of the world besides Self , they are incapable of empathy. Children as villains and murderers just helps confirm what we suspect about all the adults around us too, that they would totally eat us before the rescue dogs got there, assholes. Children are the most simplified purest version of the human spirit, and that very essence of humanity it turns out is blood and psychopathy. Yes, all of you fuckers kill each other off please. Interestingly enough, in both of these death matches, neither of the heroines really has to kill that many of the other kids, because the rest of them are all so busy immediately massacring each other from the get go. While that's a good narrative device to keep the list of supporting characters low, it's also a very direct illustration of survival of the fittest. And the message in both Hunger Games and Battle Royale is Fittest = Most Compassionate (Because Everyone Else is a Monster).

And then maybe also here is the real answer. Most of the literature I read as a child was full of blood, hunting and survival. Kids getting smallpox on the prairie, kids running away from evil wizards and witches, kids being locked in attics and bedrooms by old ladies, kids dying from horrible diseases, kids being trapped on other planets with giant alien brains, kids having to live in a fucking boxcar where they beg for scraps from strangers. Everything was trying to kill you, and if it wasn't actively trying to put an enchanted spear through you, it was manipulating you and starving you. I feel like that kind of visceral life or death desperation is really absent in a lot of adult fiction. Probably cause we all started having sex, and then immediately love mattered more. Also, you know, we're supposed to be smarter as adults, more thoughtful, more tolerant, and therefore "understand" the villains. When you grow up, it's not supposed to be all primal fear, it's supposed to be intellectual and civilized. Which as adults we learn pretty quickly is the ultimate farce. A shell which hides real evil and obscures real truth.

So it's good we still write books for kids that teach them how to defend themselves when Civilized Intellectualism tries to round them all up and kill them.

Edit: So German Shepherd puppies have two "fear" stages, one when they are a couple weeks old, and one later at a couple months old. During these times, they are naturally more skittish, sensitive to sounds, cowardly basically. It's supposed to imprint them with bravery, make them chemically face up to exaggerated fear so they will be used to it when they are older. THAT's what childrens books do.

My thoughts on this whole Boosterism Debacle I Just Witnessed

2012-01-11T01:58:00.000-05:00

I just came from a thing at the hipster hot dog bar set up by Ohio City Writers, a new group that I'm excited to see start holding events in town. Mostly because I've never been in a room with so many writers before, and I even got a card from someone offering some freelance work, and it's nice to get that sense of community without having to subject myself to an open mic in Willoughby. Tonight was a panel pitched as a discussion of the prickly topic of writing about Cleveland, which is another way to say "hey, let's get some pro-Booster people versus some anti-Booster people in the same room and have them duke it out." There are plenty of vocal Cleveland cheerleaders out there, and plenty of people who get annoyed by the cheerleaders. This is situation that lots of small to mid-size cities face, a turf war of social media. I even talked to people in Huntington WV once who had Booster- Anti Booster opinions, they exist even there Folks, in a town that is mostly known for a mediocre college and the time their entire football team died on a bus.

The discussion itself was too loose, it quickly devolved into a back and forth between those who wanted to scream how great Cleveland is to everyone and those who want everyone to calm the fuck down and look at the facts and stop being so happy. Because here's the thing about trying to argue with people who are bristling with enthusiastic emotion, you can't. They want you to yell back, they want to get into a fight about it. Like an avid sports fan, all they want is a chance to beat you up over the very wrongness of your own emotion which is contrary to theirs.

It turns out that I feel the same way about the Boosters that I do about God. As in, maybe they exist, maybe they don't, it doesn't affect my life one way or the other, so who cares? That's oversimplifying it, but I wonder if maybe the better discussion should have been, why do we care if Cleveland Cheerleaders exist or what they do? The whole thing is too personal, too entrenched in individual insults and negative experiences. The Boosters are mad because they think everyone should agree with them, and the anti-Boosters are mad because they feel like anytime they try to say anything realistic about Cleveland, they are subjected to very over the top criticism for their negativity. They are told if they don't like it, they should move. In fact I heard "Leave, get out, move" shouted several times at panelists tonight. Which, no matter what it was in response to, was ridiculous and stupid. All the panelists, without exception, were people who contribute positively to Cleveland culture, and if that's who you are looking to run out of town just because they want you to acknowledge the actual poverty level in your city, your idea of how to help Cleveland grow is fucked.

The kernel of the problem here, I think, is perception. Ohio City, Tremont, Downtown, they all have these tightly knit communities of social media savvy 30 yr olds with expendable income and iphones, and what that has led to is a type of civic blindness. In fact, I'm going to go ahead and contribute all the fault for this rift to Facebook. We are overexposed to each other. Before FB and twitter and everyone in the world having a blog, there were still people who worked hard on making Cleveland a better place, and some of them were annoyingly positive at parties when you ran into them there, but like any social circle, you picked and chose who you were going to interact with and the serious people kept to themselves and their projects, and the Boosters worked for their marketing firms or CDCs, and people talked about each other individually behind their backs like always, but that was it. Now we, but especially nonprofit or social networkers, we are all over each other. We are friends with all the same people. When any one positive or negative press item comes out about Cleveland, we get to see it retweeted and reposted a thousand times in front of us, replete with every person in the world's comment about it. Events, outrages, opinions are all spouted off like second nature, having an opinion is like breathing to us.

On one hand, the Boosters have understood this better than the rest of us. In their social media based world, it is important to stay on message, that's how all good and effective propaganda works. You pick the message, in this case how awesome Cleveland is, and you pound it into people's brains ad nauseum until it becomes unacceptable to believe anything else. The Boosters, by and large, are marketing people. They have a product, and they are pushing it. It's not frank intellectual discussion, it's not nuanced civic strategy. It is just straight up emotional reaction, and they want you to have it. The world has over and over again proved the effectiveness of propaganda. Most recently, let's all think back to a certain recent Presidential election that had those Hope posters plastered on every rusty bridge and alley from coast to coast. Hope is not the way you run a government, but it is a way to get people emotionally involved. It breeds a feeling of us versus them, of camaraderie. It is true that lots of Clevelanders feel stupid telling people out of town where they are from. It can't hurt to seed some civic pride. We're a fucked up city, but lots of cities are, and the Boosters' main mission is to convince other young people with expendable income to either move here or stay here because really it isn't so bad. And for that particular population, it really isn't so bad. Speaking from that class level, it's pretty okay here.

( However, when you decide to bully people on their own blogs about their suspected lack of devotion to your message because they point out other people live here too, or when you yell at someone to leave town? That's trolling. )

Which brings us to the anti-Boosters. Most of the people I know who are staunchly against the Boosters are very smart educated individuals, who sincerely want to make Cleveland a better place. None of these people have given up, because the ones who have really given up don't go to panel discussions about this sort of thing. They just feel that the best way to improve our city is to face the facts, and acknowledge that the population of the city is much more than a select minority of middle class single folk. Cleveland is a very poor town with a horrible school system. It is known across the country for being ground zero of the national foreclosure crisis. Environmentally, decades of industry and a fear of more jobs leaving has left us dirty and gross. Lots of people who live here devote their careers to trying to fix these problems. They deal with the disturbing reality of what living in the Rustbelt means every day, that it is an ongoing struggle to provide education and paychecks and housing to a population which has been steadily leaving for greener pastures or staying put and getting poorer and poorer. So when they face these realities every day in addition to their own personal struggle to pay their bills and be happy, and then are bombarded online with "Cleveland is Amazing and Awesome and Wonderful" sentiments, there is bound to be bitterness. It makes them feel that everyone else is out of touch, that if all these Boosters were really aware of how fucked up everything was, if they had to be on food stamps and couldn't get a job without a car because the bus lines don't run out regularly to the suburbs, then their enthusiasm would wane immediately. In other words, covering a beat up Chevy Van with pretty paint isn't going to make it a Rolls Royce. You can't reinvent a city just by making a very small middle class population believe it's going to be okay.

That is a little bit of a killjoy attitude, but I share it. Cause yeah, I'm tired of seeing all this Cleveland fluff on my facebook wall too.

I wonder if the real problem the Anti-Boosters have with the Boosters is that they see all this energy and enthusiasm, and they want to direct it towards another purpose? In which case, don't you understand that all that energy and enthusiasm self-perpetuates BECAUSE they aren't dealing with the rest of Cleveland's issues? You can't redirect that, it only exists because it is centered around a very simple and easily followed concept. You bring heating bills and taxes into the mix, that souffle is going to fall flat. To write a blog post about heating costs rising requires more research than regurgitating the press release for a new restaurant. That's mostly why I don't write those kind of posts myself. It is much easier and way more fun to be a cheerleader than it is to be an activist.

The whole thing reminds me very much of the fighting words that came out between the Detroit Boosters and the Ruin Porn photographers. Boosters in Detroit were claiming that photographers were only showing the bad decaying side of Detroit, and photographers were shrugging and responding with "But it IS there. We didn't PUT it there. If you don't like it, get RID of it." Honestly, that should probably be the response of the Anti-Boosters. "Hey, we didn't create these problems, if you don't like us talking about them, then fix them." And then to promptly ignore them. Take them off your facebook list. Take them off your twitter. Because this isn't a "we have to win them over" disagreement. It doesn't matter. At all. If the Boosters convince a couple people to move here, or stay here, good, that's more tax money. You don't have to be friends with them. And if it is all a waste of their time, then it was their time wasted. Who cares? If a few of them are going to be rude and pushy and leave insulting stupid comments on the internet, well, it's not like we're strangers to that. Don't you have tea party relatives that you've blocked on FB? They don't have the market cornered on internet bullying. But we need to stop treating this like an actual civic issue, cause it's not. It is, at it's very root, just cheerleaders versus nerds, and it's about hurt feelings and being shouted over when you are trying to make a point, or being insulted by being told your way is wrong. Also, the rest of the school is wondering what the big deal is.

Here are my conclusions:

1) If you don't like the Boosters, stay away from them. They are not actually preventing you from doing anything, or affecting your life in any meaningful way unless you let them. Just because the people who agree with you don't use Facebook as much doesn't mean you are alone.

2) If you are a Booster, stop trying to get validation of your own righteousness. Yours is not a movement that is going to convert anyone already entrenched in this fight, you should only focus on new converts. Unless you really want to just battle.

3) If Boosters or Anti-Boosters won't stay away from you, ignore them. There are not as many of them out there as Facebook would have you believe, and the majority of this city (the majority which doesn't have the kind of money to go out drinking every other night on the W.25th strip or even own a smartphone) well, they don't even know that this discussion exists at all. If you care about people listening to you, make your focus the people who aren't involved at all.

4) Working on trying to import a solid middle class to certain urban neighborhoods is not a bad thing. It's good to have people live here who are happy. Happiness and optimism, sense of community, these are important necessary things. But good luck trying to get any of them to stay once they start popping out kids, is all I'm saying.

5) For god sakes, everyone stop taking this personally. It is so meaningless to actual change, the real pity is we waste our time talking about this rather than actual development issues. Don't let the other faction (who is still on your general side) control the conversation. They aren't the law. They can't stop you from talking about things just because they disapprove of them. You just keep doing what you're doing, and they will keep doing their thing, and we will all continue to go to different parties.

January in Cleveland

2012-01-10T00:44:00.001-05:00

There is, or there was, or there will be a full moon, I can't keep track, but the moon has been huge and sitting heavy on the clouds. The lake tides have been unnaturally high all week. That's not actual, that's a metaphor. People have been tapping on the glass. Also a metaphor.

So of course we tapped back, and they tapped back, and it became a game, and then a code, and then we all went outside. I'm not good with codes. I need things spelled out, in black and white large clear font, with footnotes. I have just started wandering around blissfully self involved, ignoring the tapping, letting others figure it all out. There are all sorts of emotions swimming behind my eyes, and I don't give a crap. I spend my mornings wishing for bread to dip into tea, that's how weird things have been lately. It's probably because I've started reading again, it makes me a weirdo.

In celebration, January became a month of sobriety and sunshine. It's not January I'm worried about, it's all those other months waiting in the wings. February. March. They are using January to soften us up. We melted like margarine at first but I want to be wrapped up and protected now, I want to sleep in warm places, with warm things. This weather sets off sprinkled pricklings in my spine of storms to come. It is beautiful and calm and threatening. How unprepared I am, to be put away for winter.

Between the sunshine and the deadlines and the full moon, I feel like this year is going to take forever and a week. We were all quiet that day, and I think we were all tired.

I'm too old for multiple choice

2012-01-09T15:17:00.005-05:00

Please indicate your topic by checking the appropriate button below.

Evaluate a significant experience, achievement, risk you have taken, or ethical dilemma you have faced and its impact on you.
Discuss some issue of personal, local, national, or international concern and its importance to you.
Indicate a person who has had a significant influence on you, and describe that influence.
Describe a character in fiction, a historical figure, or a creative work (as in art, music, science, etc.) that has had an influence on you, and explain that influence.
A range of academic interests, personal perspectives, and life experiences adds much to the educational mix. Given your personal background, describe an experience that illustrates what you would bring to the diversity in a college community, or an encounter that demonstrated the importance of diversity to you.
Topic of your choice.

I wonder if I can write about how the Internet is our new God, and how we must all respect the growing power of the Digital Squid, which seeks to integrate all of our spirits into one Great Loving Open Community of Electronic Identity. We will only be Electrons! Resist the Protons! Or maybe I'll write about the last person to disappoint me, which led to me desperately trying to get out of town before I have to start plucking grey hairs from my eyebrows and therefore applying to school like a goddamn 19 yr old. Surprise Twist! It was me!

I should probably just write about Gabrielle Gifford. I want to marry an astronaut too. Also write a book. Dear school, how will you assist me with writing a book and marrying an astronaut and also being a pretty smart blonde?

What if I've never been inspired by anything ever?

Open Letter to Newly Born Ivy Blue Carter

2012-01-08T02:27:00.002-05:00

First of all, you should realize that your birth is the first time I have legitimately been interested in a celebrity baby story. I mean, I haven't been collecting pictures of your pregnant mom or anything, but if there were any two people on the planet I feel should breed extensively, it's your very talented very smart very hot parents. 2nd choice would be Alison Brie and Ryan Gosling. I already have a comeback planned for when people start griping tomorrow about all the internet chatter about you. It's not so much a verbal comeback as it is me just plastering their FB page with pictures of the fucking royal wedding.

I'm sorry, I shouldn't swear in front of five minute year olds.
But I assume you won't be reading this till you're 2 or 3, when you development the fine motor controls to use your 17 iPads.

You are going to find that it's easy to make friends, but hard to make friends who aren't just using you to meet your parents. I'd like to point out now that I would never be a faker like that.

For instance
Two important things to remember:

1) You will find as you enter puberty, 12 or 13, that you will begin to develop special powers. You will be able to run a little faster, see a little farther, learn ninja skills within a few months, control the weather with your thoughts. These are normal changes, but your Canadian schoolmates may not see it that way, so try to be discreet (did you know that your parents were secretly Canadians? I don't have any hard proof of this, yet. But it seems pretty obvious now that I've thought of it.) Unfortunately, there is a strong possibility you will not be able to touch boys without sucking their lifeforce from them. Though this will seem for a long time to be a terrible curse, rest assured you will a)be way hotter than them, b) be able to have them killed, and c) have a greater destiny.

2) Which is world saving. Dear Ivy Blue, it's pretty obvious to everyone that you are the Next Messiah, and while that will be cool for a minute when you're Princess of New York and all surrounding states, it's going to require some serious sacrifice on behalf of the world, because without you, we are doomed. There are prophecies alluding to this buried in your father's early lyrics, and it will be important to memorize these early, perhaps giving impromptu public performances, just to make sure it really sticks. No one knows what form this coming apocalypse will take (I personally think Korean Dubstep), but when it does come, you will feel the pricking in your bones and ready or not, our fate will be in your hands.

If it is lizards, you will probably have to marry one, just to, you know, secure the alliance.

3) Your archnemesis is Willow Smith. Be aware of her hair, and what it is doing at all times.

Gary Indiana Part 2: Blood and Magnets

2012-01-06T17:18:00.000-05:00

It's so important to feel safely enclosed when you are expressing private thoughts. Isn't that why we all want our own bedrooms? Our own offices and cars too. Maybe our aversion to communal living and this insecurity, that people around us might read our thoughts if they can see our face, is what led to capitalism? It's almost certainly what led to churches, right? Rather than ceremonies in open fields. A church is simultaneously the least private and most private place you can go. It exudes this very specific feeling of personal awe, the design of it's rooms and alcoves is meant to calm the eyes with the sedative of respect.

While we're talking about Gary hate (oh Gary least beloved of all and subjected to the kind of bullying and intimidation that even Cleveland has trouble conceiving of), Gary just got a new mayor. And there's lots of talk, very resigned and condescending talk, about how it's a hopeless cause, Gary the city. That may be true. Gary may never again be a viable and healthy city. It may have just lost too much, bled out, and there's not enough left to support any kind of growth. So why does it have to grow? Why can't it just shrink? Who says it's required that you somehow maintain the same importance always? Nothing can maintain a peak forever, and so maybe Gary should shrink to a village, a township, a suburb. Sadly, this new mayor will probably knock this church down, since it's right in the middle of downtown. She should, I suppose. What, you ask me, would you want them to do with it? Well, I don't know. I guess if it was an ideal world and everyone had large civic budgets and unlimited land use, I would say turn these places into parks. Clean them up, knock down the dangerous sections, and make it a public place people could wander through, maybe sit down at a table and hang out.

Driving back home, Amanda said something to me about how it used to be a human body started decaying 3-4 days after dying, but now thanks to all the preservatives we eat, our bodies start decaying somewhere around Day 100. I have no idea if that's true and I don't feel like googling it to find out, I'll leave that to you Internet, to fact check that before you start throwing it around willie nillie. But for buildings, the opposite has been true, they decay faster and faster now. So maybe we eat too many preservatives and it causes us to feel a squirrelly cracked out need to tear down and build new new new things. We itch with the desire for change. I guess what I'm saying is we live too long and so things around us die quicker.

We don't always need to be cities ourselves. Sometimes we have to admit defeat and build ourselves up again as villages. If we do it right, then someday we might be small cities again, medium cities, the places in between coasts. If we're really smart, we might even be able to peak again, and people will write about our comebacks. But the important thing is recognizing exactly what size we are capable of being at this moment.

Blood is on my mind. I'm going to tell you right now, this is gross what I'm going to say here. But it's true and it sticks in my gullet. Periods are of course very important to all girls, they are a very spiritual thing, even if you only believe in your own spirit. So I have this cat who goes nuts for the smell of my blood. That sounds creepier than it is, probably cause actually it's pretty creepy. Anytime I am on my period, this cat tries to get at my used pads in the trash. This is also the cat who earlier this year wanted to eat the peeled skin from my sunburn. I promise she is a very sweet animal, but it's true, we are living with tiny little monsters who would eat us if only they had ended up being the larger creatures. We try so hard to forget that, feeding them dry nuggets of cereal and turning them into surrogate children, but the truth remains, they have teeth and claws and they like the smell of blood. So then the question is, what kind of creature does that make us, the owners and masters of these millions of little monsters, but also the people who built churches?

Perhaps my cat is trying to ingest me in order to get some power back from me, an ancient predator magic? We used to do that, eat lion hearts ect. I guess then we built churches and started only symbolically eating the flesh of the unknown.

This place reminded me very much of my cat's blood thirst, and of my own. I wanted to eat meat immediately after being here. I wanted to bleed and ingest and fuck and kill and love, all in a very quiet calm determined way. We weren't even here that long, it was too cold and the light was fading fast into the lake. But the emotional jolt still hit me like a powerful drug. I can feel it even more looking at the photos. I guess in the end if we made a park of this place, it might be dangerous. A lot of people prayed against evil things here.

What was it Jere said once, about how totemic caves were to women? Women and churches are caves. They provide shelter and mystery and darkness and emergence.

There is a certain guy who every time I see him, my period starts. This is entirely coincidental, just timing. It's a funny thing to think about though, that my body might recognize a powerful hormonal want, and respond accordingly. But I wonder also if maybe this place did it to me. To test this theory, I would need someone to pay for me to travel around the world, visiting all the most powerful holy places, temples and caves and ley line convergences. If we did this right, I might bleed forever, my body in shock from the deluge of universal energy, the Body and the Blood of the Magnet.

Gary, Indiana Part 1: Good Lord, Why Would You Go There?

2012-01-03T18:15:00.000-05:00

Gary, Indiana is unloved. I couldn't find anyone who wanted to go with me, even photographers who had never been. I made plans with three different people, they all canceled on me, and in the end my generous sister went out in the cold with me, because the number one rule is never ever ever go in someplace alone. It was especially nice of her, because she had been the one with me the first time I went to Gary, two years ago. And because she doesn't give a shit about this sort of stuff.

I have never felt more like my hobby was weird. In Cleveland, it's almost passe to take pictures of urban decay. They are hanging in every coffeeshop. When I tell people I like to go urban exploring, it's almost like admitting I take pictures of graffiti for art class. In Chicago though, it was more like telling people I masturbated to feet. Their reaction was mostly "well okay sure I know this exists, after all I know everything that exists, but really you ought to keep that shit to yourself and not ask people to participate."

Like every enthusiast ever, it boggles my mind that it's so hard to find people who don't care about walking in mud and rotted carpeting in the freezing cold.

"But Gary's so EASY," I would tell them, "You just WALK in, and its is beautiful!"
"I'm going to go to SAIC instead."
"I'm too hungover, let's get brunch instead"
"Gary smells."
"Nobody should ever go to Gary."

Carey made a good point about asking Chicago people to ogle Gary's decay. She said people from Cleveland, these ruins were all around us, it was part of our daily landscape and therefore belonged to us. But these Chicago kids, they didn't live around ruin. They lived around little one way streets with old money town houses, H&M ads, and starbucks on every corner. Most of them came from solidly middle class families, with solidly middle class money. Gary was the poor side of Chicago, and if you came from the upper middle class predominantly white North side, it must feel very much like coming down from the tower to see how the poor people live. The sense of white privilege must hurt them like an inconvenient bee sting.

I don't really think that's why my friends wouldn't come, but it's a good point. Also, maybe it's true. I'm probably one of 5 people in the world that sincerely loves Gary, Indiana, for all it's parts. I like the ugly old convention center, and the fact that the KFC is the place to be downtown, that the highway exit is right at the entrance to the steel mill because there's no reason to go anywhere else. If cities were cats, I would be the girl who takes in every three legged one eyed stray that comes her way. These places, the church, the train station, the abandoned water front and the punched in brick tenement houses, these are places of history, actual touristy ruins, but we don't keep ruins in America, we let them fall and then bury them. We will never have permanent Coliseums, only certain periods when you could maybe see an old Church before they knocked it down for condos, so take pictures while you can because everyone will forget it ever existed in 10 years. Gary is about as Italian countryside as you can get in this country, in that no one ever knocks anything down because no one has the money for it and people have more pressing issues. Also, though, I guess in the same way, there are dorks who go to visit the Coliseum and then the rest of the people who would rather go hang out in the rest of the city with pretty people.

I'm sentimental about this right now because I just drove by the White Elephant building on W. 65th by the K-Mart, and it was knocked down.

The other point Carey made was that I couldn't force people to have a good time doing what I like, especially when it's peculiar. I feel like I collect bugs now. Really large awesome bugs. I guess both hobbies celebrate death and preservation, huh?

New Years Eve, 2011/12 Chicago

2012-01-03T15:29:00.000-05:00

"This is how time and space work, you assholes" - Carey

I think the very point of New Years Weekend, the day before, the day of, and the day after, is sentimentality and selfishness and selfish self awareness. Everybody, every body, should be allowed to be as crazy as it chooses on those days. That means actual crazy too, not just long running jags of mixed drinks and fried food. If you need to have a public breakdown, if you need to cry for reasons known only to you, or get irrationally angry, or never leave the house, all those things are cool. Get it all out. Puncture your wounds, and let the anxieties bleed into carpet or your friend's couch. If we all give each other this freedom, then we are all forgiven too. Because the flip side of this agreement is that once you are done, you spend the rest of your time understanding and tolerating the crazies of everyone who had to deal with you too. And these things are set off like a chain reaction, one head exploding causes another causes another. So kindness, absolute generosity of spirit is required right after or right before you plummet to the depths, and that is strenuous, like a kind of exercising, a workout of your sanity. People who are like this all year round, they are the easiest to deal with on New Years, because they have been working out, they are elastic and flexible and strong. People think that having a breakdown is a sign of weakness, but in fact everyone has breakdowns, having a quick recovery time is the strength. The kind of people who keep that shit bottled up are the ones who cause the worst fires on nostalgic holidays, because asking them to look into their past is forcing them back through a nightmare land of evils they never bothered to deal with. They haven't named them and memorized their details, and said their names over and over again like a chanting old woman on the bus, an hour just tasting the consonants until you can repeat the catalog of your personal failings and regrets as well as the alphabet. That's how you accumulate power, you make spells out of your problems, you say them and make them exist, then the sunshine reduces them to drippy little rain puddles, maybe leaving a stain or watermark but certainly drying out the main infestation, the meat of the mold.

"I forgot I *liked* people." - Amanda

Having said this, I prefer also to run away for the holiday. New Years is my 2nd most important most favorite holiday, after of course my birthday, and it's convenient that they happen half a year away from each other, it evens out nicely in terms of breaks. It's best, for me at least, to go out of town to a brand new place and hang out with people I don't know well or at all. I love my friends back home very much (no, not at all), but don't you think it just sounds lucky? To welcome a new year with new things? Someone might point out there's an inherent risk your holiday may suck, but I think experiences sucking, excepting bodily harm or crime against, is mostly up to your own frame of mind. I don't like what's happening to my skin or hair, but the very best part of getting old has certainly turned out to be a greater control of my own enjoyment. That may have just been a fancy way of saying I'm getting more delusional. But how would I know?

If you stay home for New Years, you know what happens? There are twenty parties, 14 events, 5 personal crises, and no matter what you choose or even if you try to fit more than one appearance in, you are either driving when you shouldn't be or someone feels put out. When you go out of town, you can just be like, hey, there are no dramatic considerations here, let's do whatever you my host want to do. Even if you just stay in their living room the whole time, you still went out for New Years. Think about that.

"Chicago, where good men come to do bad things" - me

This weekend I went to Chicago with a bunch of girls. There was some drama in the beginning, from various quarters. Everyone gets forgiven for their craziness though, remember, so people survived mostly intact and ended up where they wanted to be. The weekend blew it's crazy wad early, it was pretty and clear the rest of the time. I stayed with my sister's friend, who was as delightful as Elly had been when I met her last year, and Nellie had really nice friends (maybe I should only stay with people with similar names on NYE too? Like the next year I'll stay with someone named Adele). New Years Eve itself is a blur of costume clothing, bright pink rum punch, muppets, and an awkward dance hour. I felt at the time I was pretty sober, but later found out I had actually been so drunk, I just felt sober. I threw up at 5am in her bathroom, and worried about waking her up, but the next morning we had all vomited except Carey, which is the opposite of how it usually is. My own friends who stayed with different people, were gone for a little while and then we connected the last night and went to a good comedy show (Entertaining Julia, every Sunday, recommended), and I discovered ginger bourbon the weekend of my vowing to not drink so much anymore. Jason and Judie met me for brunch one day, since they were also visiting other people. I drove around a lot on my own and even got lost but managed to work the city grid and get home without calling anyone. Walking on the street, I fell down, but you know, the way I always fall which is on both knees like I'm being forced into prayer position by the Inquisition, and I skinned the fuck out of both my knees but luckily my leggings were black so no one could see the blood until I went to bed and peeled the scabbed fabric and skin apart. Carey and I took an unintentional day trip, first to Gary and then to find Pullman, and I accidentally got a tour of Chicago's entire South Side, which meant we had some good time to talk, if maybe a bit more than we needed. The trip home was full of blizzards, so my friends and I stress ate at every rest stop and made each other laugh, so that even though the trip took an extra two hours because of snow it was a good trip home. Then a little bit of car tire drama when we got home, but it all worked out and people got back to their respective lives.

So right? A calm collected relaxed safe weekend where I did new things and met new people. How blessed would I be if just all of 2012 could be like that?

New Years Retrospective: My Favorite Photos from 2011

2011-12-29T10:47:00.000-05:00

Last year's favorite photos

Cinema Park

2011-12-26T17:15:00.001-05:00

The other day, some boys and I went to the batting cages on the far east side. We go to that one, even though it's a drive, because the high school boys who work the counter don't care when we show up in civvies, and hog the cages, then duck out to the bar for a bit, and come back. Also, I always get a free token from the guy. You can tell he does not really care about his job, except that it's an easy after school job where he just has to pass helmets and bats, and spend the rest of the time watching sports. I was wearing a sequin dress, and a sweater that was cut low on my shoulders which always stretches out the more hours I wear it, and by the time we got there it was pretty much falling off. I must have looked a little bit like a mess, and this time there was a little girls' little league practicing on the courts next to the cages. All the preteens were hanging out in front of the softball cage, which is the one I use because I don't like blisters, and they stared at me hitting balls for 30 minutes, stopping after every throw to hitch my sweater up so my boobs didn't fall out. I'm pretty sure their parents were less than pleased. Messy thirty year old women showing up with hipster boys in t-shirts, playing around, with bad stances.

Afterwards, we went to Fairmount to eat burgers, and on the tv was 60 Minutes. We sipped mildly fancy drinks. My dad used to watch that show religiously growing up, and because of the nostalgia factor I still enjoy it, but it's very old now. The story that came on was about the foreclosure crisis, the one big claim to fame Cleveland has now in the national news, and they interviewed people in a neighborhood who were refusing to give up their houses, despite being really underwater on the values. They showed footage from a place called Cinema Park, which was a housing development started and then abandoned when the company went bankrupt. The pictures were stark, half finished houses and acres of gas line caps. We immediately decided to go the next day. Later we went to our friends house, where an American Apparel employee christmas party was happening. All the people were incredibly weirdly thin and small, and wearing very nice clothes. We left there and went to the hipster bar, to watch Japanese skate videos and I bought 23 yr old girls shots for someone's birthday ( I was all about being the role model that day), and tried to parse out the correct french terms for military tactics used by Napoleon and then later in the Civil War. It turned out, later on FB, that everyone else had seen that foreclosure segment too, which is sort of nice, that people still watch 60 Minutes.

The next day though, we did go, found the place on google maps and went in the middle of the afternoon. This is the kind of stuff you do in Cleveland. You listen to Drake and drive around spying for things the news told you about in the place where you live. The land used to be a drive in theater, thus the name. There were a dozen houses, and people living in six of them, and the rest all empty plots. It was very gray and cold, and the sky looked like a down comforter spinning in an industrial dryer. One woman called out to us from her bedroom window, in a pink bathrobe. I could only catch half of what she was saying, but it made me feel weird, being there only to take photos of how tragic her street looked like. She was fine with it, presumably having dealt with reporters already for a while. Just don't break into any of them, she said. No problem. We understood each other, that this was just a reality of living in this city. They were boarded up tight anyways, Playmobil houses that just weren't ready to be shipped yet. The sidewalks started and ended in odd places, and there were several missing driveways. At the end of the street was a very nice large park with lots of benches, more benches than there were actual people living there. It was a park with expectations.

Malls are useless for everything, especially apocalypses and zombie attacks

2011-12-23T13:01:00.001-05:00

It's hard sometimes, I know, to understand how anyone could be against Christmas. It's so sparkly and lit up, with bows and shiny paper and pretty dresses. Everyone goes around telling people how much they love them. Even if you don't believe in god or America, how can you be against people having a good time, right?

But listen, Randall Park Mall is how. This is the dark aftermath of Christmas, like the morning after a coke binge where even though you haven't slept at all, something in your brain clears and you wake up and realize you can't feel anything in the middle of your face but you feel the rest of your body with intensity, and you have no cigarettes left, and check out time in this hotel is in 5 minutes so you don't even have time to take a very hot shower and try to rehydrate the channels of dried snot in your sinuses. This is what consumerism has done to us, left us hollowed out wrecks of past booms sitting in the nonexistent sun, the Ohio December afternoon gloom.

Also, and I can't stress this enough, malls are the worst places to go if there is a zombie attack. There are too many entrances to defend.

Of course, the other annoying thing is if you are a white middle aged girl named Bridget, every stranger you talk to assumes you are a christian with their constant Merry Christmases, and it just reminds you over and over how racist we all are, how if you were a Turkish girl, or an Indian Girl no one would feel comfortably making that assumption. Then they ask you if you have kids, and there's a whole nother stereotype/expectation/disappointment to slam against, rubbing like onion skin against your already raw "I don't believe in god thanks" nerves.

Usually this rolls off my back like water, but this year I've had two customers at work so far get audibly mad at me for saying Happy Holidays to them instead of Merry Christmas, and seriously, fuck off then. As John Stewart said, if you want a War on Christmas, fine, it's War. You've planted the seed of bitterness in my chest, and the roots push up into my eyes every time someone says anything Christmas related to me now.

I wonder if people who aren't white but are christian get upset because people assume they can't say Merry Christmas to them?

I know if I was more militant about it to my own friends, if I actively railed against it to them, they would try to remember and keep it non-christian. But I love them more than strangers, so I forgive them their trespasses.

The Mayans came up a lot yesterday. There was some half truth internet based story about a pyramid in Georgia being identified as Mayan. It probably wasn't. But it probably is a pyramid, or something. It is lodged against the side of hill, a 1000 yr old pile of broken rubble underneath centuries of earth. Or course, it came out right around the pre-anniversary of the expected date of the end of the world, which is 12/21/2012. I feel like they could have done better with the symmetry of that number. 12/20/2012 for instance, or if you want to keep it simple, 12/12/12. Mayans are the new Y2K, or the new Leprechauns, the new Bigfoots. Someday we will hear rumours about hidden leftover Mayan tribes, somewhere in the wilds of Montana, with the secret to everlasting life hidden in a cave. Not that the Mayans didn't actually exist at some point, but not these Mayans. These Mayans are citizens of Atlantis. They invented the telephone. They could turn dirt to gold. Their women were better at head. They were the first punk rockers. And now they are coming to destroy us all, out of revenge. Or because God told them to.

If I allow the side of me inclined to spiritual belief, the side that used to be obsessed with how Saints died, and who knew all the astrological personalities my particular Sign should have sex with, then here is what I think about the Mayan Calendar, bearing in mind no actual knowledge about the calendar other than what I've gleaned from numerous New Age crap over the past 20 years (the calendar, like the pyramid, does exist, but only as a scientific object, a relic, like an abacus or macbook). If the world resets on that date, then it will be a metaphorically End of the World, because it will be the Beginning of a New One, only in the sense that how time is measured will be different. If the very thing that creates our structured universe is how we quantify that imaginary force Time, then the end of the known calendar will be a New Universe. I like that idea, mostly because I think we could all use being reminded of the arbitrary nature of our laws every few hundred years.

Of course, if you all want to live like the world is going to burn in one year, I really encourage that. Do it. I want to see what happens. I think even if the End of the World was a government sanctioned event, verified and plotted and expected by the entire population as a thing as real as the Superbowl, I suspect most people would do nothing different. I suspect, in fact and for real, most people are already living like they assume it doesn't matter. They are still ringing up bills they can't pay for pleasures same day, and they still sleep with people they shouldn't. We tell ourselves all the time how much we are holding back because of convention, but frankly, I don't think you are. Humans are selfish and hedonistic, and inclined to getting what we want regardless. But we are also cowards, afraid of things touching our very fragile skins. So I think modern society has basically balanced out our desire versus our fear to exactly what limit we are willing to take our irresponsibilities. Which, the world is really really fucked up, right? Don't we talk about that all the time, how fucked up everything is? So why are we so loathe to believe we are at rock bottom now? We cling to the idea there is still time to stop the train before it gets there. Some people see that as "still time to save us", but with my perspective, it's more like "only way to go is up". Both ways are wrong. There is no more time left to save us, and there are plenty of other directions to go in that aren't up. Some of those directions are more fun than others though.

Which is pretty much how you can tell the people who are really into New Years.

In Honor of National Consumer Week, I Have Found KFC's new recipe

2011-12-21T09:33:00.002-05:00

This is a chicken and waffles popover. I got the recipe from Jolie Kerr at The Awl, and my friend Melinda helped me make them last night. By help, I mean Melinda basically made them and I was her sous, because she loves to bake and will step right in and do everything for you. Which I am going to keep in mind next time I need to contribute anything for a bake sale. I imagine that will probably be never.

Basically it's a popover made with hot sauce, coated in honey frosting and topped with fried chicken. It looks messy and weird, but it tastes transcendental. There were exactly 12 of us last night, which corresponded with the muffin tin spaces, and everyone had one, and everyone but especially me wished there had been another batch. The last few we ate right out of the oven, and the frosting, which is basically butter and honey and sugar, melted into this sticky awesome glaze. We substituted corn meal for 1/3rd of the flour, and used twice the hot sauce. For the chicken, I just used KFC popcorn chicken, because I didn't want to really fuck up my friends kitchen by making my own. I suppose if you are a immoral being driven only by pleasure with no sense of social responsibility, you could use Chik Fil A nuggets instead (I was particularly bitter about not being able to use them last night. Particularly).

This is my Christmas present for all of you. Make these. It takes about 40 minutes, you can make them while you're a little tipsy with no issues, and everyone will think you are a)a culinary god b)exactly what's wrong with America. In fact, we should just name these American Cakes.

The Winter Antsiness only takes a week to kick in.

2011-12-18T17:17:00.000-05:00

It's weird to look outside and really feel like it's winter. The ground actually has snow on it for the first time, for real. I have to be careful again with walking, I fell down the other day and ordered new boots the next day but they aren't here yet. I woke up way too early this morning, the noise is muffled and the light is brighter when there is snow everywhere, and I can never sleep in unless I'm really zonked the night before. I am sitting in a coffee shop, at a bench facing the window and the street. Across the street is a tax shop. I don't know, do you call them shops? A tax place. The lights are on, and there is a stout boy in a grey t-shirt applying white touchup paint to the window moldings, on a short silver ladder. There is a very large American Flag on a post amid the jumble of chairs and cubicles walls that have not been put together yet. Their name is on the awning, so I assume they are always there, always open, just today on a Sunday, they are repainting. I bet it is that boy's father's business. The boy has thick muppet hair that is too long, but he is painting very carefully. I really hope it is a tall fat teenage boy, and not a woman, I would feel terrible.

One thing I like about this dark cold time of the year is that the window (and yes I hate to use that word here, you will see in a second why) the window during the day in which you can see into other people's houses (in through their windows see?) because they are all lit up and no one closes their curtains is longer, it starts at like three instead of six. I'm not some sort of creeper, but when I am driving through neighborhood streets, I like being able to glance into living rooms and see how people actually decorate their houses. Most people are horrible at it, meaning it's not really decorated at all but just filled with lots and lots of mismatched stuff they've gathered up. There is probably at least one chair they've gotten from their parents, even if they are in their late forties, I think people are very loathe to give up furniture they grew up with even though it's so much cheaper and more disposable now. There is a rocking chair at my parents house that I took with me around homes for a while, because it was the rocking chair that Dad used to sing to us in. When I was little, I used to pretend it was the very large chair from that Lily Tomlin Sesame Street sketch. I am surprised instead sometimes at how conservative the nicer houses look, as if their owners read a magazine and picked out a living room, then just bought everything in the photo. But never a photo I would choose. It help keeps down homeowners guilt, that sneaking feeling that people over 30 shouldn't be living month to month in apartments still, when you look at other houses and you don't want to live there. The exception to this is my friend Camilla's house, it's so very close to how it would look if I lived there, that I feel a weird sense of ambition to actually clean and decorate, to prove I would pick cool colors too. But my apartment walls are still cream colored like they were when I moved in years ago. And I'm so done with that place, cleaning is actually too much to ask at this point.

Do you remember how tricked out cars used to be underlit with bright neon greens and blues, reds and purple. I love that. I miss that. I would also, if I believed in my car enough, love to have flashy spinners. I am destined to be a weirdly dressed old lady. I suspect my entire wardrobe this winter is going to be sweater dresses and sequin dresses. Wearing sequins during the day is the best time, because it shines so much in the sunshine. I feel the same way about my tiara, but its harder to pull that off without looking infantile, so I don't wear it as much as I would like. I wanted to snow paint today, but it melted too much, so that will have to be saved for a harder snow. Instead I tried to write for a few hours here, but you see how loose my thoughts are today? It's next to impossible to concentrate. I drank too much coffee. So I guess we're off to the batting cages now. I wish there was somewhere to see fireworks tonight.

All I Want for Christmas

2011-12-14T00:37:00.000-05:00

- a Higgs field of my very own, to cuddle and squeeze and force into a condensed quantum liquid which will bestow mass upon all the fundamental particles in the universe- to have all Christmas songs replaced by that one Mariah Carey Christmas song, which is the very best Christmas song of all (except O Come O Come Emmanuel, which I feel guilty about singing cause I don't believe in God, but I do believe that watching Love Actually 15 times in a row will lead to mental and spiritual enlightenment.)- to start playing racquetball on Mondays- a nail polish that never chips ever, so I can stop feeling like a weird hobo girl every time I spontaneously go out without remembering to repaint my nails. Also I would like my toenails just dyed permanently.- World Peace, as long as that still means I can get all the things I love from other hemispheres, like coffee and oranges and birth control.- 17,000 cameras- a rose daffodil hybrid that grows in January- an albino Australian shepherd (dog)(I would probably accept an actual shepherd too)- the first human contact with alien life forms, also please I would like them to have already figured out English.- A really really really good story from New Years Eve.- 3 dozen lavender meringue drops and a very expensive imported absinthe and... those flavor changing pills that every one seems to have forgotten about, I assume because they aren't that great, but I didn't get to try them so c'mon now.- bluer eyes- a house made of stained glass, way up somewhere in the mountains but also in the South and also very nearby an ocean not a lake (lakes that aren't actually inland seas like the Great Lakes never seem to clean to me, I think because the waves and wind never get high enough)- Belgium. The Country.- one week in Texas with this one particular guy - fake eyelashes made of mink fur- full body heating pad- to see the Northern lights. Preferably with the full body heating pad. Or in Texas, that would be pretty amazing too.

Across the Field

2011-12-12T17:32:00.000-05:00

When they were little, on the last day before the fall semester of school started, Abby's mother used to take them to the state park with the glacier rocks. At the top of the park was a huge large beyond her little kid mind grass field. She thought it must have been at least several miles around. They would take the family dog, a black shepherd that used to be a show dog before they adopted her. Pepper was the dog's name, and she would round up all the kids like ducks, because it was how she had been taught to be useful. Mother would pack a picnic lunch, nothing involving charcoal or grilling, but sandwiches and chips and pop, all the things they were not allowed to have at home. Later after lunch, they would walk down the path to the canyons of dark moss colored boulders stacked on top of each other, pushed and shoved out of the earth by prehistoric ice and they would climb like goats through the tight little spaces and slip and slide on the perpetually moist canyon walls. There was a cave, they called it Icebox Cave, and if you stood at the entrance on a hot August day, the frozen breath of god would cool you down. She was a fat little kid, so she liked this part of the walk best, standing in the cold cave wind, daring herself to go back as far as she could without a flashlight. She was also a wussy little kid, so that wasn't very far.

She took her boyfriend here because it was the prettiest spot she knew of, far enough out to feel like the middle of nowhere even though it was only forty minutes from the city. It felt odd coming there without a dog, so they took her mother's dog. He was not a brave dog. She wondered why all the small things her mother raised were so timid when they were younger. Her mother was not intimidating, was certainly loving and attentive. But every dog she had was kind of a lame dog. The one right now was a German shepherd, and she had read somewhere that all German shepherd puppies went through two stages of fear imprinting, one at 8 weeks and one at 8 months. During this time they were easily spooked or startled, because it was supposed to teach them that things which were sudden were not to be feared. It was supposed to make them brave dogs who did not easily frighten on the battlefield or the city street. She thought if she was a puppy, she would go nuts in on these rocks, all these crazy rotting forest smells, all the yummy wetness and crevices and new things around every corner. This puppy was not having it. He refused to go down the steep steps carved into the rock by the park service, she had to pick him up and carry him down, which was not easy . A 7 month old German shepherd is the size of a small child. And really, it just convinced her yet again she should never have kids, if she couldn't muster up empathy for this poor frightened child who didn't want to risk breaking legs or go into the scary unknown things, when all she wanted to do was push him mercilessly into it and force him to have fun. Worst maternal instincts ever.

They went into the Icebox Cave, which never got warm never ran out always stayed cold, and here the puppy relaxed and even got excited for a moment, snuffling his nose into all the pooled cave water on the floor, overthrowing entire protozoan civilizations with his tongue. Every animal is calmed down, sedated by the kind of cold air that only comes from really deep down unknown rocks. It's being held against something bigger than you. Her boyfriend went all the way into the back of the cave, until even he couldn't squeeze between the slimy walls. She wasn't wearing the right kind of shoes to wade through the muddy pools. He said he saw a snake back there in the water, and she got her socks wet trying to see it too, but it was too dark or the snake was gone by then.

It was on the next trail, the one heading back up to the field, that the dog got loose. Abby was holding his leash, but suddenly he wriggled out of it, and ran off into the woods. Billie immediately went off after him, but a puppy is a puppy, and a grown man is not. Within minutes he was gone. They chased him until they lost sight of him, and Abby sat down on a log crying. Mom was going to kill her. He didn't even bother to reassure her. They set off in different direction, both calling his name. It took her away from the canyons into flat Ohio forest - all the deciduous leaves lying flat and colorless in the afternoon heat. She strained her eyes trying to pick out his brown and black fur from all the branches and trees and it was like a magic eye puzzle where if you just focused and unfocused, hopefully you saw a mermaid riding a gingerbread train, or a dolphin doing math, only all she wanted to see was a little puppy, and if she did find him, goddamnit they were putting a bright construction yellow collar on him.

Maybe she was walking for an hour or two before she noticed that the sun was going down. She tried calling Billie on her cell, but there was no reception. Probably she should head back, but she didn't want to. Couldn't stand the idea of that poor dog alone out there at night, eaten by coyotes, shot by hunters, hungry and wussy. Probably whimpering. He always fell asleep at 9pm, was upset if Mom went to bed any later than that. She had to stop crying, it was making it hard to see in the dusk. She came upon an open clearing as the last bit of sun was setting, and in the distance across the field were the lights of a house. She figured her best bet was to call Billie from the house and have him pick her up on the road. She started to pick her way across the muddy clumps of wild grass and groundhog divots, filled with failure.

Nobody was answering the doorbell, but all the lights were on. She tried her cell again, and this time it rang through, and oh thank god he had the dog, the stupid thing had run back to the cave. She walked to the mailbox and looked at a piece of their mail to get the address so he could GPS it. The Hunters on Peasley Rd.

Whoever lived here had put up their Christmas lights, but instead of glowing santas and strands of blinking white lights, there were instead four giant stained glass birds. They were positioned across the front yard like soldiers, and were beautiful, radiating jeweled shadows across the yard, their blank black eyes benignly watching her.

20 minutes later, still no Billie. She tried him again, but kept being put straight to voice mail.
When she looked back at the house, all the lights still on, the birds seemed closer to her. She decided no one was home anyway, and sat down next to the blue one, putting her hand on the paper and glass sides. The bird was warm, and she could see from his perspective that he had a very good view of the surrounding road and landscape. You are a guard bird, she said out loud to him, and it seemed like his side got noticeably warmer. I will sit here all night next to you and be safe, right? You will protect me from the trolls and coyotes and giant catfish and 17 yr old homophobic football players, and crazy christian republicans and weird meth head hippies and most importantly keep me safe from serial killers, because I'm sure there are serial killers just roaming the rural country spaces. It seems like the best place to practice murdering people, where the houses are far apart and no one will hear you scream or expect you to already be in their house. I could never live out there, surrounded by just dark field and trees, it's too exposed, it's scary, it's dangerous. And I know, that seems stupid, people think it's safer because it's less people, and supposedly better people right? But I bet, Bird, if they did studies on small places like this, the murder percentage over say, like, a hundred years is higher. I bet more people get away with it too. I feel like in the city at least I have someplace to run to if I get attacked. And there are lights and businesses and cars. I haven't seen a single car go by at all. It is cold too. Cold and dark, and I wonder why no one is answering in the house but they have all their lights on, I wonder if they left them on when they went on vacation, I remember Mom used to do that and she got so much shit from Dad about it, but I'm with her, I think it's better to make people think you are home, they are less inclined to notice you are not.

Still no Billie almost an hour later. Abby looked back at the house, which she had been sitting with her back towards. The porch was so inviting, it would be so much nicer to sit in the light and on the cement steps instead of out here with the lawn decorations in the cold mud, invisible. But something held her back. There was just, what, an invisible tug at her legs to stay put. That's stupid, she thought, this is stupid. If they were home and they find me, good, that's what I want. Also maybe Billie won't be able to see me when he finally shows up, and what the hell Bill, where are you? So she stood shakily, the pins and needles in her calves being sort of a relief after sitting still so long and cold and actually in a state of fear which she didn't even recognize yet but her heart was racing and her muscles preternaturally tensed. The calf which was asleep was terribly painful and awesome. She walked on it hard over to the porch, curling and uncurling her toes in her sneakers. She tried to look in the upper part of the downstairs windows, but she was too short and the windows too high. She listened. It was quiet and still. The curtains were bright yellow with red polka dots in sort of an abstract pattern, which made sense because it would probably be some retired art teacher or graphic designer, to have put out such weird lawn decorations.

Billie did finally show up. The puppy was asleep in the backseat, innocent and fuzzy and dirty. He said the road had been impossible to find on his GPS, so he had resorted to just driving around looking for the birds. He told her that the street name she had given him from the mail was not in fact the street they were on now, was actually Elmira street. That's weird, he said, why would they have a different address on their mail? And why are all their lights on? I don't know she said, there isn't anyone home I don't think. He walked up to the door and tried to knock loudly, peered through the tops of the windows. Shit, Abby, call 911, he said panicked. Why? What? She tugged at his arm, but he was trying to break open the door, so she called 911, and waited in his car like he insisted. Apparently the owners were home.

Sirens

2011-12-11T15:28:00.001-05:00

When the sirens went off in the neighborhood, blaring from the loudspeakers in the school parking lot, but loud enough to reach a 7 block radius at least, enough to overlap with the next school's territories, all the schools sitting in their low beige ranch squats like stoic and old watchdogs ( had indeed been watching over us since childhood and now as adults we hovered around them unable to separate from the cord, bought our houses around them, searched them out as signs of a "good neighborhood"), when the sirens went off, it was at first more of an inconvenience. Having to get up out of bed and put clothes on with that noise in your ears, not knowing what was happening or being awake enough to have the adrenalin of panic, that was just such a pain. Then there was the matter of heading out into the cold and being surrounded by your neighbors who you took such care to not get to know every day. Now we had to interact with them, were being made to by necessity. It sucked.

Everyone met up in Gerard's backyard, because we just instinctively guessed that probably he would be the one in charge. His natural reticence and demeanor of perpetual annoyance, the way his lips only barely moved when he talked, and how he insisted on eye contact, glared at you when you checked your phone in front of him, which is frankly ridiculous in this day and age. It must have reminded all of us of a natural childhood source of authority, like a teacher or priest or parent. So we turned our tired bare faces towards him, and let him take charge. If he minded at all, he never let on.

It did however take him a minute to understand the reason we were all on our phones was not that we were being rude, but that we were desperately checking the nets and the boards for information on why the sirens might be going off. That part didn't seem to concern him, he took it as a matter of fact that the sirens would be going off for a while, and that the reason didn't matter, but the action did. He insisted on head counts, and sent off people to go door to door looking for stragglers. It was generally agreed upon that we should head as a group to the school, where Gerard presumed there would be some sort of military or at least police presence waiting. Several of the rest of us thought this seemed doubtful, but we were not in charge, and we accepted this, like we accepted waiting for cable companies or overdraft fees, two year cell phones contracts. So after rounding up everyone, we started en masse for the school, which was only a few blocks away, but, as Gerard argued, there might be dangers on the way, we should stay together.

There was no one at the school. We could hear faintly in the distance the sirens going off from another school, so we knew it wasn't a mistake, but they must have been on an automatic system. Nobody had a key to get into the school, so we stood there exposed in the parking lot, waiting for Gerard to make a decision. Several of us, the phone people were now a separate party from the other older people, we stood off by ourselves and discussed what his decision might be. We thought probably the best thing to do might be to get back inside somewhere, sheltered and hidden, stock up on water and food in one place. Whatever was happening, it wasn't as immediate as bombs, we hadn't seen or heard anything to suggest bombs. If it was poisoned gas or something biochemical, then we were all fucked anyway, but maybe less fucked if we were inside and sealed up, but probably fucked cause if you seal up all the windows then eventually you lose air but also how would you know it was a biochemical agent until you all started dying? What we needed was news, and one by one we were losing reception on our phone carriers. The thing to do was assume this was a danger that was far away and wouldn't touch us for a while, and take advantage of this time to prepare and gather up supplies.

Gerard disagreed. Very quietly, very stoically, with that emotionless presence of eyebrows, he stated we should stay put and wait for someone. So we did.

We waited for hours. Someone went home and got lanterns and some blankets, against Gerard's wishes, but it was Claire who had her kids with her and she wasn't about to listen to anyone tell her that her kids had to freeze in the cold for no discernible reason. But then, she came right back, because Claire was a responsible person who believed in the inherent rightness of authority. Which was starting to seem weird to me, but then again, sometimes the swirls in my caramel latte seem weird to me, so its best to not say much until I've really thought something through completely. We sat against the brick walls of the building in the shadows as the sun started to come up over the tops of our vinyl sided bungalows, and glint off the peaks of our black glittering fake slate roofs. The neighborhood seemed so peaceful and calm, and I remembered how I used to run in the morning sometimes in college, before Pete and I had bought this house because he got the IT job a suburb over. I used to live in the city then, not a large city but more asphalt and brick stories than you ever saw out here in the middle of suburbia. When I lived with two other girls in a third floor walkup, and I would sometimes wake up really early on a Saturday, take a very hot shower and tie my hair back without drying it, dress warmly in yoga pants I never used for yoga and large heavy sweaters, lace up my favorite pair of blue and white Pumas I had bought on a trip with my mom to the outlet mall, and then run leisurely, without purpose, around the deserted city streets. Even the pigeons still seemed asleep, and I would count the number of bikes still chained up from the night before around the only college bar in town, and speculate about who had ended up where. I wanted very much to take off running now. I was only wearing regular sneakers now, and I hadn't done any action that even approximated running in years and years. But I could feel all the old muscles itching for it.

It was around 8am, sun up almost all the way now, that the first grumblings of mutiny towards our fearless leader could be heard. I was surprised it hadn't started in our group, but instead in the parents group, led by Claire's husband, whose kids were the loudest and most persistent in their complaints about no Saturday morning cartoons and no waffles and no warmth. If I had been that kind of kid, my mother would have insisted in the status quo even harder, and I wonder when that exact shift takes place in our heads, when I learned how to get what I wanted by not asking for it. For me I think it may have been in my late 20s, but I'm sure my sister learned it when she was 6. The two of them, Gerard and Mr. Claire, could be seen arguing in the corner of the yard, or rather Mr. Claire could be seen getting very heated and Gerard's expression never changed, only he stood square on both his legs, as if subconsciously bracing for an oncoming wind. Eventually Mr. Claire saw he was getting nowhere, and walked back to his family, then without a word to the rest of us, just left.

It was if a tiny hole had been poked in a balloon, and we all started leaking out one by one. The ones with kids went back first. Then Karl and his girlfriend left. One by one all the non family people - old people last, but following their younger neighbors, till it was just me and Pete and Gerard left, standing in the bright mid morning parking lot, the sky sunny and dotted with happy clouds, the temperature rising up to the 60s. The sirens were still blaring, though at this point I had to focus my ears to pick them out, our brains had naturally muted them over the exposure of going on 8 hours we had been standing out here. Or, more likely, we had damaged our eardrums permanently. The weather was so nice, it conflicted with the tension and sense of failure sitting in our chests, which I squarely blamed on the government. We had done exactly as they had told us to, during so many school assemblies and town meetings. When you hear the sirens, gather up your community and head for the safe space. But here we were, we had been here half frozen and brains scrambled by noise for the whole night, and we still knew nothing more and no one had come to help, and now the only sensible thing left to do was to go home surely even Gerard could see that now Pete argued. But no, he was determined. He would do exactly what he had been told to. So Pete and I we left. We went home. Everything was the way we had left it, lights on and water running. Claire waved at us from across the street where she was taking advantage of the sunny day to rake leaves. We didn't speak about what had happened. The tv and news and internet all seemed to suggest nothing at all in fact had happened.

The sirens continued for another two days. We wore earplugs and treated it like a vacation, no one went to work, Ms. Hunter had a potluck and I made my oatmeal raisin cookies that I always made for the bake sales. It was sort of a treat to make them just to enjoy and eat. The mood in the whole neighborhood seemed happier and more united, as if we had survived some sort of obstacle together. The thorn in this was obstinate Gerard who refused to leave the school parking lot. We brought him our tent from the Yellowstone trip, and food. We started to laugh about how stupid he was being.

On the third day the swarm came. It darkened the skies like a thunderstorm, and then like never ending night. We were all stuck inside our houses, frantically taping up our windows and vents, while the creatures devoured everything everything everything outside. When they had eaten all the plants, they went after the wildlife. I saw a possum being chased into a corner, and then eaten alive, until all that was left were bones, broken and white against the garage door. The phone lines worked for a little bit, but it turned out we didn't have any of our neighbor's numbers, and eventually those went out as well. I saw someone, I think Mr. Claire, try to drive out, their cars were kept in a garage adjacent to the house. But the creatures got into the engine almost immediately, flew up through the air vents, and devoured him trapped in the car. They were at once the smallest and the biggest things I had ever seen. They were not locusts, it was impossible to trap one long enough to examine it, they immediately starting eating themselves if there was nothing else organic to chew on, it was soul less, automatic, and terrifying to watch. The street outside, which had been so pretty and treelined, was now dust and asphalt. And now that almost everything was gone, I thought it would only be a day or two before they learned to chew through the window frames. If we didn't run out of air before that. We weren't scientists, we had no idea when that would happen, after the second day we became vaguely aware that it would for sure happen, and without discussing it, both started watching our breathing, trying to keep it short and shallow and economical. One day we did nothing but fuck for hours, in a grip of fear and panic and anger. Afterwards we lay there, guiltily aware we had traded that action for probably hours of one of our lives. I secretly hoped Pete would go first, so I would have a few minutes longer to live.

Pete remembered that you could put lime in water, and it would absorb CO2 from the air, which was the thing that really got you, the CO2 you produced in breathing out building up until the concentration killed you. But we didn't have any lime, and I hated him for it.

Day 6, they left. We waited to be sure. Then Claire sent out their dog, to test it out. Nothing happened, nothing chased it. It seemed clear. We walked outside, and even though it was gutted and filled with the dust of everything dead, it seemed wonderful to breathe fresh air. We checked on everyone. Ms. Hunter was gone, they had gotten in somehow. But she seemed to be the only casualty, she and Mr. Claire. Until we remembered Gerard. Three, we said to ourselves, as we walked to the school yard to look for his bones.

He was dehydrated, but fine. Apparently the point of gathering at the schoolyard was a force field around the whole thing. No one had told us. Pete immediately knocked him out, which everyone was fine with, cause frankly, he was going to be insufferable from now on. We didn't kill him, but it took a while before we could convince Claire to let him out of her basement.

Since I Can't Actually Talk Right Now, I'm Just Going to Post a Lot Today

2011-12-10T10:52:00.005-05:00

Story from Gawker

Renderings from Talkitect

One of my friends posted this to facebook, and so now you can go read the Gawker story, and then read the Talkitect story, and then we can talk about this. But we're going to talk about it here and not on facebook, cause facebook acts like a prism. It catches the immense complexity that is your personality, and breaks it down into easily digestible and simplistic singular features. Like, you're a misogynist at this moment. Or you're a illogical patriot. Or you are a sentimental fool who is overly attached to pets he doesn't actually own. Facebook is like being drunk and 12 all the time.

Now, there are two ways we can have this argument. The first way is you can tell me that you just don't like this design, by itself, for no other reason, and I will probably try to tie in the idea of saving ground space, mention a nostalgic association with Tetris, you'll call it trite and probably know more about architecture than me, we'll agree to disagree.

The second way is you tell me this design is offensive because it looks like 9/11...

After my head explodes, and I take a moment to compose myself, so I don't start ranting to you about my own personal political beliefs about global warfare, after I bite my tongue straight through to resist screaming to you about how offended I am by what you assholes did to my country in the name of Homeland Security, which is by the way The Most Creepy Name for Anything Besides The Cloud, then here's what I have to say about this building.

First of all, I think it's pretty. I think it's the kind of building that I would go and eat my lunch under, and stare up at the pixel windows and the little cube corners. It looks like it could fall on me at any moment, and all the splinters of the corners would slice like falling icicles but shatter and then melt, sort of like ice bullets? and I love that. The inside renderings look amazing too. I would want to live in this building. Maybe, since it's gonna be in Korea, someday I can.

Second, here is what I don't understand about 9/11. I get why it's a big deal for the people who lived in NYC, and the people who had family and friends involved, or people they loved in the military. It was a terrible tragic thing that happened. But it was not the first, the last, or the worst terrible tragic thing, and it doesn't really affect me that much. Maybe this is a generational thing, but I don't feel a difference between hearing about a bombing in NYC versus a bombing in Dubai or London. I have the same number of friends in London currently that I do in NYC. If I don't actually think about it, the distance from me feels the same. I think that since we are all human beings, we should feel just as affected by mass death in another country as we are in our own, and then also the corresponding consequence of that is if I'm hearing about mass death all around the world constantly, then I guess I just take it in a little more stride, even when it's in my own country. Someone on FB said this design would have been great, BEFORE 9/11, and this is my first thought to that "But there were buildings blown up before?"

So if this was being built in NYC, I would totally understand the offense. But since it's not...I don't understand the problem. It doesn't occur to me at all. Like, if Gawker hadn't pointed it out to me, I don't know that I would have ever looked at it and thought 9/11.

I mean, so I guess, are you offended by any design that references bombs or war or violence at all? Cause, you know, okay cool, valid preference. But I'm not. I accept violence in my world, because it exists, explosions exist, also clouds that gather around really tall buildings exist,and so you argue that this building looks like a bomb blast or a pollution cloud, and you know what both of those things look like real clouds, so do real clouds offend your sensibilities as well?

So maybe the worst thing that 9/11 did to you, assuming like me you knew no one personally involved, is that when you look at this you think of that, instead of just regular water clouds. And if does indeed do that to you, wouldn't it be great to reclaim that image as something peaceful and beautiful?

Also I feel really bad for people in America who have that birthday. That's totally unfair.

Alright, let's get back into the swing of things here by being really sick

2011-12-10T10:02:00.004-05:00

So after this, my 1800th time getting strep throat and my second time having that strep make a run for the border of scarlet fever paradise, I'm tired of having this conversation with the doctor:

Me: I have strep throat, I need antibiotics

Doctor: Well...have you been exposed to anyone with strep?

Me: No

Doctor: So it's pretty unlikely you have it. Let me now lecture you for ten minutes on how colds and nasal drip can affect your throat, and ask you a bunch of dumb questions like is it worse in the morning...have you had a cold lately...are you blowing your nose a lot?

Me: No.

Doctor: alright, let's go see if that test is done... *leaves the room practically shaking her head*

Comes back with a worried look on her face and another doctor with her.

2nd Doctor: "okay, so you have scarlet fever. I'm going to give you an antibiotic and it's really important you take it right away and if this get's worse even a little you need to go to the emergency room."

Me: "Can I please just have a renewable lifetime prescription?"

It's time to get my tonsils taken out, since they are just a nefarious strep farm now. I feel pretty confident I can get a doctor referral on it, and I should get it done now while I still have health insurance. It's a pretty terrifying thought for me though, I've never had anything cut out of me before. Well, I had a cervical biopsy once, but that was nothing, like a pinch, certainly no general anesthesia. Can you wake up while they are cutting out your tonsils? My friend woke up during her c-section, and that's pretty much the most nightmarish thing I can think of, except me waking up while they are sawing my throat in half. Like, how do you breathe when they are doing throat surgery? Wouldn't all the blood and goop clog up your nose too? I wonder if they could remove my wisdom teeth at the same time? Last time I took Eddy to the vet, they did all sorts of extra stuff to her when they had her sedated for her teeth cleaning. Can't it just be a package deal like that? And why does it all have to be mouth centric? I have a really small mouth. It's really difficult and painful to go to the dentist, cause it's basically like being made to swallow my fist for an hour. Two surgeries both having to do with the back of my mouth? I don't know how they are even going to begin to start without cutting out my tongue first.

The rest of the week before this was great. There was a cookie exchange party, and then Brandy night, and Sunday started with brunch in Ohio City, included a very long time hanging out at Mango's with pitchers of mojitos, and ended at 2am in Akron watching a band at Annabelle's. Monday Carrie and I drove to Pittsburgh to see Yacht, which was an amazing show and I danced a lot, a lot a lot, like more so than usual probably cause I was drunk. Then everyone else passed out and I ended up around the corner at the bar manager's ghetto apartment watching Freddy Got Fingered with his judo dummy till 3am. So of course my mom, and probably you too, is reading this going "well yeah, this is how you got sick", but you know what, if that was true, I would be sick all the time.....oh wait.....

Fuck these tonsils, their days are numbered.

I Seriously At This Moment Couldn't Give Less of a Fuck

2011-12-02T10:29:00.004-05:00

Right now the sky has a weird yellowish tint to it, like the normal blue/gray got dirty or pissed itself. Even creepier, there is no wind at all, the air is just sitting there completely still. I feel like a house may fall on me at any moment.

This blog follows a cycle. Sometimes I'll look at my last couple posts and feel awesome about them. Other times, like now, I see a lot of lists, lazy writing, a lot of overemotional crazy talk, and I really really want to be on a beach somewhere in a world where blogs, first dates, applications, references, and facebook no longer exist. I know this world is real, I think it's called Uruguay.

I've been writing other things besides this blog for two weeks straight, but it's mostly over now, at least for a week until the next round of deadlines, and I'm burned out. This weekend I'm going to bake some cookies, drink some brandy, go to Pittsburgh and see a band, and I'm going to forget this site exists at all till next week. When hopefully I have something more than hormones, stress, and hemingway complexes to talk about. Happy fucking ice cold December.

Go read this old post instead : The Circus has Left the Building but the Russian Bear is Missing

My Confirmation Name is Procrastination

2011-11-27T11:46:00.008-05:00

If you want to know what it's like to be me today...

1) wake up - tear off your fake eyelashes and let them fall on the floor next to your bed. Spend 15 minutes thinking about the most convenient boy that isn't your ex.

2) Take a shower. Spend most of it trying to form a list in your head of how to write a story and what a fucking horrible person you are with no work ethic ever and you are destined to die alone and in your own filth with no one knowing who you are or giving a shit.

3) clean off your desk completely and take out two bags of trash to the curb. Promise yourself you will take out more trash every time you leave the house today, which should be never again.

4) get five large black coffees from Dunkin Donuts. Save one for later in the fridge. Drink the rest as fast as you can. Add a caffeine supplement to one of them.

5) Listen to Yacht and fall in love a lot with them. Vow to go to the concert next week, even though technically you will be a dead failure by then.

6) realize you have surpassed 10,000 tweets. Say something pithy about it, but really actually feel a little weird about the fact that is a 140,000 characters you have sent into outer space. FOR FREE.

7) Tear apart this post and this post and try to map them according to Joseph Campbell and Dan Harmon. Worry that the places you are sending these stories to will think they are too scifi. Secretly agree with Margaret Atwood that you don't write science fiction, you write speculative fiction, even though the way she said it was asinine. Also secretly worry that nobody cares about the difference, if you write about robots and sentient machines and fake gods, you don't get to be taken seriously, also because you are a terrible writer and everyone knows it except you, and if you were any good wouldn't you be more popular?

8) Drink more coffee, wear a bra, try not to think about facebook or sex, even though the very act of writing creates this sludge of sexual frustration, a build up in your engine, and the more you write the sluttier you get, like an old car that needs more frequent oil changes because of the high mileage. Start to understand why the famous writers you admired never stayed in love and had penchants for prostitutes and one night stands. Cause boyfriends take up too much time, and god someday you're going to be too old for saturday nights like that and if only you were a guy it wouldn't matter that you were old and crazy you would still get laid but no you're a girl so your breasts are gonna get floppy and your skin is gonna look bad and it won't matter if you win a goddamn pulitzer. Also this is entirely your ex's fault for taking up all of your 20s, which you should have been using to find someone who would be stuck with you old too.

9) Strangle your fucking cat because she won't leave you the fuck alone. FUCK. Put her limp little body outside in the garage so the possums can eat it.

PS I love my bear. I forgot about this picture. This is from when I had to go to Austin for work during the last presidential election, and I was SO mad I couldn't be with my friends and I had to be in Texas of all fucking places. But I forgot I brought Sarah my bear with me, which is not normal for me, I can't remember why I did.

Things I am Grateful For

2011-11-23T10:17:00.003-05:00

-coffee (always and forever coffee and lets face it, at least its not cocaine, I feel like coffee stops a lot of people from being coke heads)

-my car not breaking down as we have all been waiting for it to do all year (go South Korea!)

-living by myself

- all the concerts I went to this year, which were mostly amazing

- Other Places and Hotel Rooms and State Parks

-the secret beach (the secret to my sanity)

-getting over my Ex and being able to talk to him and be around him socially without it destroying me. (I recently had to watch a run in where someone who had only been with a friend of mine for 2 years still hates anyone who's had any contact with them 2 years after, and I'll be honest, for a while I was worried that my breakup had made me actually crazy, but apparently I don't even know what that is yet, and I'm grateful for being able to see I'm in a better place than some people)

-my very awesome friends, who are prettier and smarter and more motivated than me every day

-my very awesome fans whose gratuitous and undeserved affection reminds me to try to be prettier and smarter and more motivated

- returning to my old job and a better quality of life

-being good at something that makes me happy even when it makes me miserable, and even when it makes me miserable it still gets me laid

- the internet, especially satellite images (I get to use pictures FROM A SATELLITE IN SPACE to help me find stuff! And I'm not the military! That's amazing)

- my boobs

- my creative and supportive family (especially my sister moving back to town and becoming one of my best friends, which I don't think anyone ever thought was going to happen, least of all us)

- reading comprehension!

- historical perspective!

- not being pregnant or sick!

- being able to travel across the continent without paperwork!

- being born in the time that I was (I hate when people ask the question what time period should you have been born in. This one, motherfuckers. I like being able to vote, and date black guys, and go out publicly with my gay friends, and have birth control, and never having to get married, and email people in England ect...)

- everyone who has emailed me or told me how much they like this blog. It means a lot. Thank you. (I had a nightmare last night that I didn't get accepted to school next year because they told me my blog didn't make any money. I don't have a lot in terms of accomplishment, but thanks for reading, people)

- not being blown up for one more year.

- not being part of a native population subjected to systematic genocide or being burned alive for not believing in god.

- all the pretty trappings of my middle class 1st world life - makeup and bars and music and not getting beaten for speaking in public or hooking up with strangers.

- the existence of the Aurora Borealis and radioactive wolves.

Facebook Ads (no pithy subtitle except I'd like to note that I drank an entire glass of St. Germain straight last night and it was kinda gross)

2011-11-21T15:47:00.009-05:00

Ad title: Free Coupons for Women!

This is the most dead on marketing for most of my female friends over 27 that I could ever think of. Target and Diet Coke. You all need to drink more water.

Ad Title: Allied Business Network, "Like" our new mascot!

I don't know what ABN does, but from their mascot I would guess they specialize in genetically crossbreeding kittens and frogs to create a Super Fuzzy Frog with the power to suck your soul out in your sleep and permanently ruin your living conditions. The important thing is that someone spent a really long time crafting a hat for a kitten.

Ad Title: Give a Pet a New Home!

That dog is obviously a Nazi, right?

Ad Title: Become a Substance Abuse Counselor!

Once upon a time, in a candy factory far far away, a baby girl was born to a young Oompa Loompa couple. The other oompa loompas could tell she was different, because of the constant judgement in her eyes and the cutting edge of her voice when she warned the other children of the dangers of eating too much sugar.

I seriously cannot figure out if that's supposed to BE the counselor in that picture, or the addict, but I assume the addict because I don't know any counselors who make enough money to afford that awesome of a dye job. Become a counselor and all the drug addicts will be really hot young slave girls who really like candy and creepy old men!

Ad Title: Become an Addiction Counselor!

All the addicts on facebook are really hot. And Rainbow Brite here is obviously addicted to being awesome. Or addicted to the taste of metal. Or addicted to hair dye fumes. I am really uncomfortable with the idea of using sex to sell counseling careers. Those are some very false expectations.

Ad Title: 5 New Things to Do in Cleveland!

1. Look for non-existent whales and/or whale boats! Name them Lawrence (done).

Ad Title: 5 New Things to Do in Cleveland!

2. Become a Demon Eagle Lady, and disembowel your enemies! Never learn how to type or fingerpaint. Be very bad at climbing over fences or caressing your loved one.

Ad Title: 5 New Things to Do in Cleveland!

Stay away from open sewers where the giant alien cat monsters lay in wait, and your Eagle Demon talons will be useless against their hypnotic Thrall Stare of Doom. Also stay away from blonde women who wear white. That is never ever a sign that they are healthy sane individuals. I was going to say except for nurses, but...no.

Before and After Shots of St. Joseph's

2011-11-18T09:52:00.008-05:00

Hymn of the Cherumbim (Ize Cheruvimy)

I was at a party over Halloween weekend when a guy came up to me who had seen my Pechakucha Cleveland Monsters presentation, and recognized one of the Monsters as the church his family had attended, my beloved St. Joseph's. So beloved in fact that I've been mistakenly calling it St. John's this whole time, oops, thanks Internet research. He said there were some old photos of the church in it's heyday that I might want to see. I said "might" is an understatement. And so I figured you might want to see them too. The audio file above is from an album of hymns by the choir that was actually recorded in St. Joseph's.

I was at a party last night and had a conversation with a girl about family holidays. She identified herself as coming from a large Italian family, second generation, but when I said I thought that holidays in families that still had a lot of ties back to the old country were best, she got defensive and quickly pointed out that her family didn't really do anything ethnic. They instead got very dressed up for the holiday dinners, with formal place settings and pretty clothes. She said they had stopped doing all that kind of Italian stuff when her grandfather died. What I meant though was not that we all necessarily performed the old rituals, but that a certain kind of family mental structure was passed down, a pattern of thinking about holidays. Even if your grandparents were long dead and your mom no longer remembered how to speak Polish, there was a general feeling of specialness that got passed on, especially in ethnically religious families. As Catholics, we were taught that every day was some saint's holy day, and the high holy days - Christmas and Easter and Ascensions of various personages - you were supposed to behave, because you were in mass. Maybe that's it, a slight genetic memory of holidays being religious, that causes families not far removed from those days to treat them with more deference. Sure, we're all atheists now, but your mother and father remember being little and put through the motions, so their way of thinking about it is unconsciously passed down to you their child, a way of proper behavior. That's what I like the most about the ethnic holiday celebrations, the desire to act like a saint. I don't know, I was drunk when I was trying to explain this to her, and even now I don't think I'm articulating the concept quite right.

From a letter I wrote back to the guy who gave me the photos....

"The reason I like exploring and writing about places like this in the
Rust Belt is that they need new identities now that they've been
abandoned by people. It's the idea that a building is born, put
together piece by piece, and then matures and soaks in all the stories
and experiences of the people that use it. Then when it's abandoned,
it grows up into another creature, something living in the environment
like a mountain or a river, even more permanent than a tree or people,
a natural organic new landscape. So building a city is like breeding
new mountains. In the same way that we value looking at a cliff face
or a rhinoceros, we should value looking at what these places become
after we leave them. Actually, even more so, because of the people
they came from, like they are our children sort of. I had this
discussion with A. the other day, about how I don't like buildings
that are all glass because they are fragile, and won't last the way
the stone and brick ones will. He felt it was okay for a building to
be temporary and only around for it's use. I think we should build
things that last for centuries, and you know, KEEP using them, or if
they get abandoned, use them again. You would never breed children to
be pretty but breakable, you want them to be survivors."

You want them to have experience is maybe what I mean. You want them to have that slight quiet whisper of "this is how you behave on holidays." But like so many things with experience, people dogs cars, most of the time they just get thrown away. I just made you think of that Sarah McLachlan ad didn't I? Sorry. That one makes me cry every time.

This is Important and I Mean It

2011-11-18T01:34:00.003-05:00

Click Here If You Think Censoring the Internet is the End of the Evolution of Human Culture As We Know It, or Just Really Offensive to Our Right of Free Speech
It takes 1 minute and it's easy, and frankly it's the very least you can do since I don't ask you for much very often and you read this site free all the time, right?

So Much Guilt

2011-11-16T09:54:00.005-05:00

I know when I'm listening to a mediocre album on repeat I shouldn't go anywhere near this blog. Particularly this album and particularly track #4 which is like the worst song ever. It's the Nickelback of this album. It should be cut out roughly with a very dull butter knife and sent back to the northern wastes to die by hypothermia or polar bear snack. But you have no idea what blog guilt feels like. It's like knowing you're lying to your best friend about sleeping with her ex. Sure you can forget about it while you're in his arms (the ex in this case being, I don't know, DOING stuff), but the minute you leave that happy warmth, you get hit with a cold icy semi-truck of Unattached Floating Unfocused Guilt. That's the kind of guilt that can get into all the little crevices, cause it isn't heavy like a weight, you know you're not doing anything REALLY wrong. It's just mildly awful and makes you a little nauseous all the time. The Carbon Monoxide of guilt.

There is so much stuff coming up these next two months though. For one, I have a shitload of stuff to get done in the next fourteen days. November 30th is officially my deadline from hell. By all rights I shouldn't be going anywhere at all for the rest of the month. But of course, it's also holiday season, so everyone and their alcoholic mother is having a party, and it's always the people who never have parties except once a year, so you sort of have to go. And since there are only 3.5 weekends in the holiday season, everyone's shit is right on top of each other. I am forced to pick and choose between friends and acquaintances ruthlessly, weighing the crowds and venues and themes against each other. Cookies and liquor always win, but then fuck, the cookie party and the liquor night are the same night. Karaoke versus Hipster Thanksgiving. Kegger versus Grilling of Lots of Meats. And I'd like to point out, I should be eating none of these things, liquor, cookies, or meats. I should be living on salad greens and very bland chicken breast. I should be living on paper and ink and nothing else. Instead I get stressed out about all these applications I have due, and I go out with Julie to Lilly's Chocolates and have that yummy marshmallow looking thing below, which is the Southern Comfort Tart and is indeed extremely comforting. Now I've got Bad Friend Guilt and Fat Girl Guilt in addition to Blogger Guilt. But wait, there's more...

Yeah, SOCIAL ACTIVISM GUILT. As in, I'm sitting over here living the pretty cozy life of the comfortably right above the poverty level single girl, which is a tenuous existence that could slip away at any moment, thrusting me back into my parents' house. And I'm actively planning to try and live a life where I will have no money, and no healthcare for the next 6 years at least, in exchange for an education and shitload of debt. So I, of all people, should be protesting with the Occupy people. But man, I got a job, I have to not get fired until I'm ready to quit. And even though I am totally behind the movement, I get confused by it as well. For instance, I actually think the nebulousness of the movement's demands are perfect, because it allows for the government to do something, anything, and they could still declare it a win. But I don't understand why they had a library. It's a protest, not a refugee camp. The protesters here in Cleveland sent out a list of stuff they needed, and it was things like peanut butter and tampons. I mean, I get why you're camping out, but you can't organize enough to send someone out for this shit? You can't leave for 15 minutes to walk to Tower City and buy tampons? There are actual homeless people in Cleveland who, if I'm going to be giving out free peanut butter and toiletries, are definitely getting first dibs on them, people. I'm all for bringing them cookies and coffee, if I had the money to do that, which I don't because I do things like buy sequined dresses. <----worst citizen ever.

When the raid happened on the Occupy Wall Street NY site, I had a weird experience that I spent all yesterday trying to tell people about. What happened is this: I usually sleep with my phone next to me, because I'm really praying to get a brain tumor by the time I'm fifty. That night, the raid happened around 1am, and my twitter feed blew up with updates from all the people I know in New York, and all the people they knew that they were passing along. My stupid cat kept waking me up all night crawling across my head. Apparently she's decided the only way to cross from one side of the bed to the other is on my pillow. So I would wake up and check my phone, read the updates about OWS, and then fall back asleep, only to have vivid third person dreams about whatever I had just read happened. The library being torn apart and thrown out. The doormen of buildings in the area being told to lock the occupants inside. The tear gassed protesters rushing to strangers homes nearby to shower. I spent the night in a half awake dreaming state of reading and then visualizing the news. When I woke up in the morning, I told Twitter about it, and it turned out several other people had the exact same experience, which feels monumental to me, feels like a real sign of the times to come when we have a chip in our heads that is streaming real time updates to us about everything all the time and even during our sleep cycles the subconscious is staying on top of Feed, so we dream the same things at the same time. Maybe that's awful and apocalyptic, but also a deep part of me, the insect part of me probably, the ant and bee and centipede part, is excited by the Prospect of the Grid. The Age of InterConnectivity. It's as if Twitter is a telegraph, and the phone is yet to be invented but we can see the shadow of it on the horizon.

So lastly, I've got Individualism versus the Comfort of the Collective Guilt. Ours is an Age of fighting against the Comfort.

No wait, lastly, I've got Tom Wolfe guilt, where I desperately want to write snarky things about organizations and projects and social media stuff that I can't shouldn't won't because I have friends involved in most of them, and maybe when I move out of town I'll get enough distance between us to kill that guilt and write some real and true stuff, but right now its all tempered by friendship, which sucks. Friendships are really killing me right now.

And let's not even talk about the upcoming avalanche of Guilt when I know I have to get rid of my cats by this Spring. I can't even begin to handle that right now.

Mirror Mirror

2011-11-11T00:48:00.010-05:00

Mirror Mirror on the Wall, Who's the first person to take an apple down off a tree and eat it, so that the rest of the tribe could see it wasn't poisonous? And by tribe, I mean loose collection of individuals who had yet to formulate a hierarchy or belief system, except belief in finding things to eat that wouldn't kill them. So maybe there was one adventurous ancestor, let's call her the original foodie, who picked an apple fallen off its tree, lying on the ground small and wizen and brown and just at the point of rotting because everything in that world was either not ripe or rotting, a world without fridges or ice or salt or root cellars. Apples weren't as pretty back then, or as sweet. They were tart tiny almost inedible seed carriers, but our ancestors spent 90% of their daylight searching for things to eat and apples tasted way better than bark. We were like chipmunks, or squirrels. Humans, the largest squirrel. Burying things, hiding things from animals, stocking up for winter months. We needed so much fuel to run the massive computers growing in our heads, like computers that took up entire rooms of college campuses and sucked down enough electricity to power all of Minneapolis now. Minneapolis and degrees being an entire light year away, but anticipated all foreshadowed by food.

And our heroine, because the women would be the gatherers, roaming around close to home base/home cave/shelter, she found the apple, saw the bears eating it, and ate it too, and it was okay. She gestured and pointed, and everyone else started eating them too. She became an expert on finding things on the ground to eat. A leader among the tribe, because the most valuable skill was feeding people. They spread the news of eating the strange new thing to other more far away tribes over time - the banished son who couldn't find a mate traveling in the wilderness to other families buying his acceptance and life to strangers by offering them the fruit he came with, the kidnapped and bought daughter turning to the familiar foods of the home territory. The Woman was given a name, a certain grunt or moan or click that referred to her, the famous finder of food, and language was born. Eeeeeevvvvv. She gave directions to the other women, to find the trees and how to pick the good ones, and matriarchy was born. The image of her, a round fat apple woman well fed and all knowing, became a marker, and when they learned that apple trees could also grow out of trash heaps where cores had been thrown, that spot became a place to come back to Spring after Spring, Fall after Fall. Agriculture was born, staying put, cooking, villages, order and harvest and spoiled alcoholic juice.

The apple trees became a dark hidden place for young people to meet, or old people to cheat, to get tipsy on the fermented ground fruit. The heroine grew old and respected, her breasts sagging and her teeth almost gone, and one day found her mate fucking a younger girl in the orchard, in the branches and roots of her precious trees, at the very foot of the wrinkled gnarled original tree which had changed her life centuries ago and given her power, now old and ugly like her but growing the best and biggest and reddest fruit. If he left her, old and dying as she was now, she would be alone and ashamed, meatless and protectionless which is the original definition of heartbroken, when your heart actually breaks when you actually die.

Thus the Poison Apple was born and fed to pretty young things. A power born out of knowing the properties of what to eat and what not to eat, the original magic, and a hatred created from the disintegration of relevance. The Mother, who showed us the way up from the Garden, and The Witch, who knew how to kill without you being able to defend yourself. It was the Woman who created a world where food wasn't the most important thing, and opened the door to a time where she no longer was either.

The very ugliest and also best most complicated applesauce I've ever made:

one 1/2 bushel of apples. Whatever. Ida Roma. Matsu. Red Delicious.
peel, quarter
a section of ginger root about the size of the middle joint of your index finger, peeled and chopped
2 cups dark brown sugar
2 lemons worth of juice squeezed to death
several long and drunk throws of cinnamon
more salt than you really think necessary
1 package fruit pectin, thrown in at the last minute
1 package dried cranberries and 1 package dried apricots soaked in peach brandy for two hours
1 bottle cheap riesling
combine all in the largest largest stockpot your mom has in her kitchen
pour in enough water to cover the apples if there's any room left
simmer for three fucking hours

Bingo. Breakfast for days. 3 fucking quarts of it, honest. Breakfast for everyone for days. The whole stinking ungrateful tribe.

Slightly More Realistic Roleplaying Scenarios

2011-11-09T09:04:00.004-05:00

1) Let's pretend I'm in love with someone else, and want nothing to do with you in the morning, because I hate myself for being rejected, and I just want to be fucked into mute comatose exhausted silence by someone who only sees me as an object? Let's pretend you paid for my drinks, and I drank a lot. Later I will tell the boy I have a crush on about you, not the one I'm in love with but someone else, to make it clear I'm easy.

2) Let's pretend I'm old enough to be your dad, and you have issues with all male authority figures in your life, and I really don't want to talk to you about what you're into because I think you're pretty immature and foolish and would really prefer that you don't talk at all but just be exuberantly grateful for the attention. Later you can use me as a story to turn on your much more age appropriate boyfriend.

3) Let's pretend I'm a nurse, you're a patient. You are lying in the hospital sick and weak and sort of disgusting looking, and have some sort of pain killer induced crush on me, but really I'm just going to get drunk with my girlfriends later and talk about how gross and weird your head wound is.

4) Let's pretend we're online, and in two different cities, and it's 3am and we're both mildly drunk and bored with looking at facebook, so we exchange lame generic quips about dicks and boobs, and then maybe if this happens a lot we can pretend we have crushes on each other even though you have a girlfriend and I think your updates are inarticulate and lame. Later, when I've ignored you on chat a few times, you can start "liking" everything I post but never commenting, because you want to get my attention, but aren't smart enough to think of something good to say.

5) Let's pretend we met at a party and talked about the fleeting historical era of nuclear power, what will someday be a footnotes in our history books of when we stupidly used poison as an alternate energy source, wised up to how expensive and not worth it the whole thing was about a 100 years later, but the footprints of the damage will remain for centuries to remind us how dumb we were once. Let's pretend I gave you my number afterwards, but I was drunk and not that cute, so you never called.

6) Let's pretend we only really want to fuck because I used to go out with your best friend, who you have always had a massive inferiority complex towards, or maybe you just want to know how all those particular sounds happened late at night, and we will hook up because you are selfish and I am bitter and turned on by betraying people horribly. Then afterwards we can amuse ourselves by pretending to feel guilty.

7) Let's pretend you like to think of yourself as a the main character in Bonfire of the Vanities, rich and handsome and with a genetic imperative to fuck everyone and spread your perfect seed around. And since I have a Tom Wolfe complex and like having guys spend money on me, I'll just go along with it, even though you insufferably won't stop talking about yourself, and yes I saw you swallow that pill right before dinner, and it's either heart medication or viagra and either way at least hanging out with you makes me feel young and like maybe my life isn't on the worst kind of path because at least I can pretend to be superior to you because I'm artsy and not cheating on my wife. You will have to wear a suit all the time, cause the minute I see you in a polo shirt it will create a false sense of intimacy.

8) Let's pretend I think your band is good, even though you are spectacularly mediocre, and you can pretend to read my blog, even though you only did once. We won't sleep together, we'll just hang out a lot in some sort of maybe we're flirting maybe we're not ego feeding haze, until we make out one night in the car and it gets awkward and we stop texting each other 15 times a day and maybe start hanging out with some other people.

9) Let's pretend we really honestly like each other, but have no idea how to get a functional relationship started, because we both just usually go along with whoever is persistent enough.

10) Let's pretend we're both actually on OKCupid to just make friends.

These Are the Things I Dream About When There is Someone In My Bed

2011-11-05T08:34:00.003-04:00

The party had quickly not gone anywhere and she had spent the last half hour frantically texting her sister to figure out what she was doing. She felt bad leaving Emily behind, but it was becoming impossible to get two seconds with her before her idiot cousin or uncle was horning in on the conversation for the sole purpose of the bottle of bourbon Beth had brought with her, a pretty dark brown bottle that was getting lighter and lighter in direct proportion to how fucking annoyed she was she had even agreed to drive this far east to hang out with Emily. She knew she should just abandoned the bottle to the greedy little grabby hands of these trashy morons, but it was specifically because of the rude and doggish way they had made sure Emily didn't have a chance to visit with her alone that she wanted to spite them, made sure that when she left, that pathetic three shots maybe was left in the bottle and the bottle was securely tucked in her coat pocket, even as the baleful alcoholic country eyes of the messy men followed her city ass out of the door. Beth knew she was a snob. She didn't care. If some men wanted to act like apes, she would treat them the same. It didn't take much to learn manners, and really all you needed was some innate feeling of self awareness and compassion, an ability to feel empathy. People who were empathetic were almost never rude on purpose. Trying to emote to these lugs would be like throwing emotional gravel at a stone wall. A stone wall that was too busy trying to get drunk and laid to even turn around until they heard a bottle open.

She said her weird uncomfortable goodbyes to Emily and walked out of their split level, stumbling over the uneven sidewalk. The air was warm for January. It wasn't only warm, it was humid. It wrapped around you like a giant hot sleepy breathy sigh, and clung to her arms. She took off her cardigan in the car and turned down the heat, the car windows fogging up and she felt like swimming? Like rolling around in solid room temperature water balloons. Like being wrapped in the outside shiny part of a sleeping bag naked, by yourself, waking up on a spring morning after it rained. It smelled like plant sex. She was grossly aware however of the open container she was now driving with, and the clock showing after midnight rather than before. Of being stuck all the way in Chesterland which was pretty much a place that didn't even exist except to get you pulled over when leaving high school friends' houses stoned at 3am, trying to navigate around deer and cops and drunk oncoming SUVS on steep needlessly picturesque turns. The possibility of cops everywhere sat on her spine hypertense and pricking. The roads were all way too dark.

She had been driving for ten minutes, very successfully she thought and oh thank god she was back with some streetlights finally (streetlights being the main sign you are back in civilization), when a large animal scampered into the road. She gasped and jerked the wheel, tried to stay on the road but the asphalt was slick with cloud sweat, and the car slid down the embankment into a field of tall grass. She was fine. The car seemed fine too, didn't hit anything at least. She got out shaken, and looked back at the road to see if she had hit the thing.

She hadn't, and the animal had paused in the pool of yellow municipal light to look back at her. It was a koala bear. No it's not, she thought, and squinted to make out if it was a dog maybe, or a raccoon. It was definitely a koala bear. It didn't even run, so she could maybe pretend she had seen something wrong later. It just sat there, being a koala bear, with fuzzy round ears, and was it snarling at her? Shit, it looked like it was snarling, there was the glinting of tiny little koala bear teeth. She had zero desire to approach it, and stood her ground until the thing that was a koala bear but could not possibly be a koala bear loped off into the dark.

The car was stuck in field mud, and she didn't want to call the cops for obvious class warfare reasons, so she called Roadside instead, and then decided to walk down the street until she saw a light on somewhere. It was nice being a girl sometimes, especially when knocking on strangers' doors at 12:45 in the morning. She started to pick her way through the broken dead grass, when she felt a different kind of pricking. The sensation that something much larger is behind you. She turned around quickly and saw a tall lean creature, something between a horse and an antelope? Maybe an elk? But with stripes like a zebra on part of it? It was standing less than five feet away from her in the grass, and looked rank dirty unkempt, as wild animals do when you finally see them in person. Insinuating worms and parasites in their breath. The air was filled with the smell of animal urine. As her eyes focused in the darkness, she saw that not only was it staring directly at her, but an entire herd of the creatures was staring at her, camouflaged in the grass, sniffing at the car snuffling around her tracks, but never losing eye contact. They were huge, monumental.

She tried to remember what Zoobooks had taught her. Looking in their eyes was a challenge and she shouldn't? But also she shouldn't show fear and stand her ground? What were you supposed to do with big dogs? Weird antelope creatures couldn't be much different from dogs, it was all pack or herd domination right? She tried to catch her breath and stand very very still. Maybe they could only see you when you moved, like a T Rex?

The leader started to moan, a low guttural mooo that very clearly meant Get the Fuck Away.

So she ran.

It was a mistake, or maybe it would have all been a mistake. Several of the antelope immediately started chasing her, and since they were goddamn mutant antelope, caught up to her fat little human worm legs easily. The large one bit her on the shoulder, and another swung its huge head like a wrecking ball into her side. She was knocked into the mud, searing pain shooting up from her lungs. The forest around her tittered with parrots, what the fuck parrots? She froze on the ground, unaware of the tears and snot that were flowing silently down her face. The antelope stood around her, the Leader pawing the ground next to her and staring down the others as if he had won her. His mouth was like a horse's, with large grumbling crumbling flat molars, thick curled lips and nostrils. She felt warm sticky blood mixing with warm sticky air on her back, and the ground was wet and sinking underneath her, it smelled like manure. She lay there for what seemed like hours days the rest of her life, mud soaking through her tights, fingers clenched into the earth, holding her breath not only to stay completely still, but because taking a breath meant that fiery unbearable pain. She felt sure she had a broken rib, and she had never broken any bones before ever, had no idea if she should move, if she was supposed to. It was so much more terrifying than she had anticipated, having a bone, a piece of your skeleton and the very thing holding you together the only thing really tying your wet sloppy mess of innards together be shattered and torn like tissue paper. She tried to remind herself, lying there in the wretched stinking mud in the dark surrounded by creatures that looked like they belonged in the Congo, not in Northeast Ohio ever for any reason but especially not in January, she tried to remember that other people had gone through worse, like being eaten alive by antelope, no..wait. She tried to remember that antelope did not usually eat people. But also koala bears do not usually snarl, and it was usually cold in winter, and where the fuck were the cops now? She tried to be reasonable, do not panic Beth, but what her brain was telling her over and over was Stay Still. You Are Dead. Stay Still. You Are Not Dead. But Stay Still. Nothing is Ever Going to Happen Again. This Is Your New Existence. She pissed herself, and the warmth running down her thighs and spreading into her tights like a sponge was a relief, to feel something new besides pain and wet mud and fear. The antelopes' noses twitched, and one nudged her thigh and licked it. The tongue was unbelievably big, an actual muscle. She cringed at the sight of those teeth. The mouths of animals were horrible.

The herd eventually lost interest, and started grazing around her, but the Leader never took his hard little eyes off her. If she even shifted her foot, he was ready to attack again, his ears twitching and that horrible ghost moan gathering in his barrel chest. Hours and hours and hours and hours later, somehow she fell asleep, or passed out. When she woke up, they were gone, and the tow truck driver was standing over her, on the phone, holding the broken brown glass remnants of the bourbon bottle that had shattered into her chest through her coat pocket.

Everything You Look At is Unfinished

2011-11-03T23:58:00.006-04:00

She had a Little Sister the first generation they came out. Everyone who was cool had one. It kept your numbers and your pictures and told you how to get places. When she asked Little Sister a question, it gave you the simplest most factual answer possible. Where should I go for lunch Little Sister, she would speak to it. "This is the closest Mexican place." "This is the closest Cambodian place." "This is the most popular place among your social network." "This is the place your ex boyfriend is most likely to be based on charted dating habits from the last six months." "You should wear the red."

She woke up coughing blood. It was thick and dark, like it had dried and been rehydrated by the sheer exertion of coughing it up. Her head was also thick and dark, her hair felt heavy with lead and her skin glowed with raw material sweat. She had dreamed that night of being back in Phoenix, in the heat that lay on your skin like a sick and dying matted cat, and the lightning up above her in the common pool, sitting in the tepid water watching the apartment complex lights blink on and off and waiting for the lightning to hit her and set everything on fire in a short sustained chain reaction that incinerated her and all the water and all the weeds and gravel and every other identical colony of under employed over educated 21 yr olds populating that horrible dry desert outpost. When she woke up, cold and sweating underneath winter blankets, she was dying.

"Little Sister, what should I do, am I sick?"

"Your symptoms suggest the best course of action is to seek immediate treatment."

So Little Sister gave her directions to the hospital. But her car was broken, someone had stolen her alternator, wires running everywhere, and the buses never came, though she waited and Little Sister gave her the bus schedule. She tried to call a taxi, but the phone lines were dead. She went outside and looked around weakly, but there was no one on the street. She started walking. It was colder than it should have been for November, or perhaps she just always forgot what cold was like in winter.

"Little Sister, where are all the people?"

"Population of Cleveland is currently 245, 371"

"But where is everybody?"

And she coughed, and a little bit of blood landed on Little Sister, who scanned it immediately and efficiently for all known toxins, agents, poisons, bacteria, viruses, pregnancy, STDS, antibiotics, contagions.

"Big Sister, you should go to the hospital."

"I am at the hospital Little Sister, there is no one here. There are no lights on."

"You should go to the other hospital."

"Where is the other hospital, Little Sister?"

"Next closest healthcare facility is Mercy Riverside of Toledo, 116 miles, estimated travel time 1 hour, 56 minutes."

There were no dogs in the road, but she wished at that moment she had thought to get one earlier, and trained it to love and protect her.

Clarion: The Scrap Heap at the End of the Universe

2011-11-01T13:10:00.009-04:00

It's possible we imagined it, in a mass hallucination brought on by fumes from the oil refinery. The fact that all the streets were named the same as the ones back home, and that they all looked the same, Broadway leading you into industrial areas always rusty old heaps of factories and corner stores, the rest of them named after the great tribes of the Lakes who had traded their existence to the French for beads and guns. Never assume they are going to give you the good guns. Why would they want you to have better guns than them? I'm sorry the exploration of the New World happened before mass communication, if there had been the internet maybe you all would still be alive. Maybe not.

So it's possible at some point on our drive there, the long autumn colored mid morning light falling across the highway and the corn fields, air rushing past our slightly cracked windows, it's possible that at some point we fell asleep in the sunlight and died. It's possible we were kidnapped, fed hallucinogens, reset, and released. I've often thought that a lot more of us are actually stuck in laboratories than we want to admit. Not all us. But probably a fair number. At least 30. I keep waiting for my life to turn into a story where numbers really matter, where the same set of significant amounts keep showing up again and again, a sign that there's an overriding narrative. Like, maybe there are 32 of us in sense dep tanks, and maybe we are all dreaming we are ourselves 32, and some research student somewhere picked that number because his apartment number was 32, the one he lived in with his now-ex, and the place he wishes more than anything to be back at. Whatever the reason, the city was beautiful that day, not gray and dirty as we had anticipated, but clean and bright and diversified. Poor sure, but not as poor. It wasn't a bad place, and we fell under the city's spell. Each city having a particular and unique spell, created out of rocks and raw earth from where it was born, designed by snowflake and fingerprint population mixes. Cities are playgrounds, they are boiling pots and scrap heaps and collages. They collect everything washing up in the gullies of the country, reservoirs of our lowest points and greatest activity. Marshes.

When we found the building, I drove into the wrong driveway three times, and finally just jumped a curb to park the car somewhere inconspicuous. We climbed carefully over the broken glass sticking out of window frames, and through the soon to be overgrown pool, into the dimmed recessed hallways of offices and kitchens, through the mirrored lobby and pitch black lounges. A series of conference rooms named after presidents held every bit of furniture scavenged; desks, mattresses, light poles, pastel prints of cottages, racks of white porcelain coffee cups. He found a corner stocked with blankets, saltines and mayonnaise laid out across stacked chairs, the vapid smiles of a Barely Legal laying open. I wonder sometimes if my male friends understand what alien places our individual fears come from, how girls naturally have a completely different reaction to the possibility there is a strange man hiding in the shadows of rooms, and frankly I have no idea what kind of fear hides in my friends chest. He is 9 ft tall, I wonder sometimes how he fears anything. Then again, being of a strange shape myself, I know how that alone can make you feel vulnerable over time.

The ground floor was the most interesting, full of objects and surprises. As we went further and further up, the rooms themselves were very similar. There was usually only one point of interest in each room, a pool of water, a conflagration of curtains, a spare bible. We got careless, he would wander ahead, I would lag behind in a room, we lost eye contact. Normally when that happens, I get nervous, I call out just to be sure, but it didn't seem to matter. We were lulled by the repeating pattern of the hallways and doorways, the sameness of every room. The warmth and sunniness of October's Indian Summer drifted into us from beyond the shadows.

And then suddenly, a door slammed in the stairway several floors below us.

Neither of us said anything about it, but we walked up a couple more floors and stopped. He picked up a large plastic pipe from inside one of the bathrooms and carried it with him. We walked down to the next staircase and up again. I stopped and looked down the dark shaft of the stairs, looked down just a minute, just to be sure. I felt that he had stopped above me, in sync as we were after all this time. So we stood there, together, separate, each looking for a long stare. Just as that spell was about to be broken, I saw it, a glint in one of the shadows of something moving reflective. It was 2 floors down, and could be barely made out from the bend of the stairs. I waited for it to happen again, but I felt him moving above me, and so I went too, quickly but not too quickly, into the next door the next empty hallway looking exactly the same as all the rest, where he carefully shut the door behind us and then quickly into another room, where we waited in silence, peeking through the peephole at the still quiet hallway. Minutes passed. We started to feel silly, making faces at each other, and just as I started breathing again, we heard the stairway door open. A creak like the building was cracking its knuckle in a movie theater.

It came slowly down the hallway, but it didn't stop to look in any rooms, giving each doorway only a cursory glance, as if it had assumed we had switched staircases again. We watched it walking down the hallway away from us. The thing was in the shape of man, and had the smooth practiced gait of one, but it had been living in the rot so long, patches of the fleshy shell had worn away, been eaten by moss or rusted by rain. You could see where once it had skin and clothes, and then the gleam of a lighting fixture it had used to replace a forearm, or the innards of a poached air conditioner sewn into it back. A metal scrap man. Junk Man. A walking trash bin. The rags it was wearing looked like they used to be a blue uniform, a polyester pants suit, a waiter maybe or a cook. It was a relic from a time we were both too young to remember, when mechanical men had been legal, which meant it had been a fugitive for at least 60 years, twice as long as either of us had been alive. In it's left hand, it carried a wrench. My panicked frozen mind saved itself by thinking "robots can be left handed?" and crunch crack we were both on track again, our muscles bursting into motion as soon as the Wreck went into the furthest staircase.

We ran up the rest of the stairs to the 12th floor, and from there to the roof, where we shut the trap door as securely as we could. Technically I guess, the roof was the 13th floor, the non-existent floor. We waited for it to find us and start banging on the door, braced ourselves for confrontation, but it never came. We stood there in the sky, as time ticked by, and waited. The light was warm and bright, the air crisp and cold. The colors of the trees far below us became vivid with the rich afternoon sun, and the city lay on the horizon so far away, on the other side of the forest, shining like silver, emerald and quartz.

What Your Sexy Animal Halloween Costume Says About You

2011-10-27T00:59:00.009-04:00

Sexy Raccoon: You are most likely to be killed in a hunting or traffic accident. You are not able to run or jump great distances because of your short legs. At a party, you can probably be found in the bathroom, washing saltines in the sink. Most likely, you have rabies, or at the very least, worms.

Sexy Skunk: Otherwise known as a "Polecat" (you have to get your communications degree somehow), you love to scavenge for garbage, or dig for fat juicy grubs. You are pretty much blind. There are two glands located by your anus which spray out a thick musk of sulphur to protect you from predators. Oftentimes, people smell you and assume there is weed nearby.

Sexy Red Fox: You love to use urine to mark your territory, which is everywhere since you are an invasive and unwelcome species. You are seemingly capable of complicated communication, but it is all barking. People are constantly trying to kill you and cut off your hair for souvenirs, or at least thinking about it. Sometimes, even though you aren't hungry, you kill as much prey as you can, just for fun. Other predators find you extremely annoying, especially in packs. You get mange, a lot. At the party, you will most likely be outside the bathroom, stopping other foxes from using it.

Sexy Bumblebee: Lots of people like to use you for cross pollination, and you are easily confused by radio and cell phone signals. You will most likely die from bacterial infection or ingestion of industrial grade pesticides. People use you as a sign of oncoming environmental apocalypse. When you finally die, the party's over. You throw up in your mouth a lot.

Sexy Clownfish: You love to live in hostile environments, and are a hermaphrodite. At the party, you will most likely be found in the bedroom, trying to coat various surfaces with your sticky eggs. You are a very common pet, thanks to your very popular "children's" movie, in which you are a cripple.

Sexy Turtle: You are an ancient reptile, descended from the Late Triassic period. You were most likely sold off at a young age to an aging raver kid, and are capable of biting off a man's entire thumb from the joint. Lots of people think you would make a very good soup. You are able to retract your head entirely into your bone-like shell. At the party, you will be crawling around on the floor, searching for warmth and trying not to get stepped on.

Edit: Per one of the site's request: here's a link where you can buy the Sexy Sea turtle, which besides the raccoon, is easily the best one.

The Story of Christmas Ale

2011-10-25T17:41:00.003-04:00

I originally posted this last year, but since today IS the first pour of Christmas Ale for the season, and because I AM super busy with other stuff and have been a terrible blogger, this seems about right.

Once upon a time, on a unshoveled stretch of dirty snow called W. 54th, between the Animal Feed Store and the bodega, there lived a very little girl and her smaller less articulate sister. They lived with their mom and dad, who were both very sincere young people in their 30s with hipster glasses and nonprofit aspirations. But underneath her J.Crew sweaters, the mom was very much a third generation polish girl, and so Christmas was a big deal to her. There were traditions, and pierogis, and making cranberry chains to put on the tree. There were huge boxes of Christmas ornaments, new ones that the little girl and her sister had made in school, old ones from grandmother’s house with pretty painted angels and white bearded men.

The little girl and her sister got up very early on December 25th 1991, and ran downstairs. The only lights on were the ones on the tree, and the little girl deliberately took off her glasses, so she could look at the colors blended together in blurry stained glass window spots. But what was this crap! There were no presents under the tree! They searched high and low around the living room, but nothing! No boxes, no wrapping, no weird awkward shaped forms to rattle and bounce. They ran crying to their mom and dad, standing in the dark doorway of their bedroom sobbing. Mom and Dad got up, looked all around, called the police even. But the presents were gone. Zipped Zoomed Znatched.

All across Cleveland that morning, it was the same tragic mystery. All the presents were gone, stolen! evaporated! and no one knew how. Little Jimmy Casterelli in Cleveland Heights didn’t get his Legos sets, and therefore never became an engineer. Patricia Kowalski from Fairview Park never found out that in that very large box her boyfriend had put under the tree was a very small ring, and she ended up dumping him after New Years for not being serious enough. In the snowbound suburb of Berea, the Christmas lights sparkled on the ranch houses, but inside it was nothing but tears, disappointment, and fathers escaping to the garage to drink. The news stations deployed their sparkling vans and sculpey faced reporters to the farthest ends of Cuyahoga County, and the police sent all their available men around to interview “Witnesses”, but other than drunks and schizophrenics, no one had seen anything.

It was the saddest day in Cleveland history.

So the next week, when a local brewery announced they would be a releasing a new craft beer, a holiday seasoned ale, something with a little punch, it was barely noticed. Soon though, the little brewery was regularly packed, with people humming about this strange new beer. They sat at the long wooden counter, enrapt in their work thoughts and unhappiness. But after taking a sip, a change would start to steal over their faces, brows magically unfurrowed, mouths relaxed, shoulders sagged down. The bar was surprisingly quiet the first hour, as everyone focused on the gold brown liquid, and you could almost hear the contemplation, it was thick in the air. But after 1 or 2, the drinker started to become louder just a little, more excited. And by the end of the night, even the most sober faced of adults would be laughing with glee. It was instantly addicting, exactly what anyone could want in a beer, not taste or smell, but effectiveness. It made you feel full of holiday cheer, even though your kids were crying and your wife spent all her time thinking about the credit card debt. They called it Christmas Ale.

The little girl’s parents went there too, having heard about it from friends. They sat in a booth, tired and worried about money and work tomorrow and the babysitter who was a slovenly fat teenage blonde from down the street. The Dad ordered a burger, and the Mom ordered a wrap, they both ordered two Christmas Ales. When they came to the table, the Mom took a drink first. “It tastes like legos. I think. New legos.”

Dad took a drink. “No honey, you’re wrong, it tastes like that time Little Girl put watercolors in my coffee to make it pretty. And it smells like that set of coloring pencils we got her for….”

“It tastes like happiness, is what it is.” Mom said dreamily, drinking and thinking of that set of plastic horses she had got when when she was 11, how shiny and new the painted colors were.

Of course, you can’t steal a city’s Christmas presents every year, and though they had stolen enough joy to last a few batches if they were careful, it soon ran out. Which is why they have a warehouse now, underneath St. Ignatius, where forgotten and stolen children toil year around making shining amazing presents to give each other, each little worker getting excited just thinking of how much work he’s put into the gifts, which are then gathered up and taken away as they sleep. No child there ever gets a present. After all, Christmas Ale is very popular.

2012 Edit: Historians often cite Oct.30th 2011 as the first major viral urban outbreak of Christmas Cannibalism. The virus was thought to have been administered to large holiday weekend crowds starting in a near west side neighborhood. The deadly mutation was triggered by a dangerous combination of Christmas Ale, organic lip gloss, and strenuous drunken biking. Though there are some experts that contend the stage had already been set for Cleveland as the "reanimated dead" epicenter a month before, when a new species of beverage, Yeungling, was introduced to a virgin population whose immune systems were dangerously weakened by the foreign substance. Thus making the victims that much more susceptible to the Christmas Ale infection

Red

2011-10-21T00:25:00.004-04:00

I should probably talk a little about these lectures I've seen recently. I kind of don't want to, but I keep putting it off, so it's time to start articulating some of it, because otherwise more of it will slip away. That makes this sound like it's going to be more grandiose than it is, promise.

Last week, I saw Vito Acconci speak at University of Youngstown. I had only like a less than rudimentary knowledge of him. And the whole lecture was fantastic - his history and his past stuff and his modern stuff. But the Q&A should always be the best part, and this one was pretty good. One of my friends asked a question about how this guy felt about the shift to rendering everything on computers, if he thought it took away from the creation of it. I was hoping his answer was on the tape, but it wasn't. I remember it being a very sad answer. There was something about the way he looked while answering, as if all of a sudden he had gotten really old. The timbre of his voice was strong but maybe defeated. I say maybe because the way he talked about the history of technology and the tech guys at his own firm wasn't anything but mildly positive, word wise. It just looked very much like he wanted to say a lot more, but was so used to biting his tongue it took almost no effort now, was an automatic response, like putting yourself to sleep. This didn't match with the rest of the man you had seen throughout the night, so by default it seemed like the truest moment. Who knows if it was? He might have just been tired.

Later in the week I went to Jay's for dinner and we talked about the effect of computers on art. Jay stands by the idea that visual art on the computer hasn't got the soul of creating with other materials. He's a painter though, and that is definitely true for his form. As to mine, I know some people swear by typewriters but frankly I don't like them. They are slow and loud. Writing on a computer is just faster, and the faster I can type, the faster I can get my thoughts out, so better. Andrew and I had briefly discussed handwriting a while ago, there was some article about how kids not learning handwriting in school was detrimental to their development, because the very act of repetitively make the same actions with your hands while having to think about it on another simultaneous level was essential in creating certain neural pathways. But like an ill fated reptile, our hands were losing those particular strengths. I'm so used to typing everything that my handwriting has gotten weak and just a bit more illegible. I was lucky though, it was pretty legible from the beginning. Other people I know are not as fortunate. I don't know about the superiority of one set of neuron patterns to the other though. I'm not convinced that's true.

Computer renderings versus physical painting or drawing. It can be technically as good, but it's always just missing something. That memory of tactile sensation. Photography is a weird thing like that too. I'm starting to see the difference with film, and I've been trying pretty hard to avoid that, but you know, there it is. Ugh. Subtlety.

Tonight I saw Chuck Klosterman at Akron. When we got there a little late, he was reading from a portion of his new book. I didn't like Downtown Owl all that much, even though I like his nonfiction writing a lot, and it took a while for him to win me over, because as he was talking about writing the new one I kept comparing them. But once again, the Q&A was really good, and he answered questions for an hour. I had two favorite answers. The first was the guy who asked about how he felt about all media being changed to digital, if he thought it was taking something away from the experience for future generations. Klosterman answered that he thought our relationship with physical objects were overrated, and talked about how he and wife had recently gotten rid of all their CDs. That's a big thing. I haven't even done that yet frankly, I still have a bunch of them upstairs, and bunch in the car. But he talked about how hard it had been, how he thought he would miss them terribly, and then hadn't missed them at all. Because the value of the art was not in it's tangible form, and if it was, then it wasn't very valuable in the first place.

I asked him, since in the new book his character is searching for someone to tell him he's not guilty or bad for habitually and secretly observing people, then what was it he felt guiltiest about in his career? At first he told the story of mistakenly believing a high school kid about information for a story when he was young. Then he talked about Killing Yourself to Live. He had written about three exes in the book who he sent copies of it to. The first two had negative reactions, and the third had made him realize that by rewriting down memories, he had irrevocably changed her memory of how things had happened. That her mind had sucked down his version, imagination being as violatile as it is, and now she couldn't quite remember the way she had originally felt about it. And he felt terrible about that. Which is a really powerful recognition. When you are intentionally putting out your ideas about what has happened in your life, in a form that you want other people to consume, even if you try hard to accurate there are going to be words you pick and choose to use. It is just like how if you watch a movie before you read the book, that visual image is stuck with you while you read it, no matter what. That was a whole nother answer to something else, but also worthwhile. It does rob you of an extremely important relationship with the written characters. If you've watched Watership Down the movie first, and then read the book, you have no idea what you're missing and will never get, which makes me sad to think about.

Later at the bar I hadn't been to in a long time, it was nothing but old 90s songs playing, Tori Amos, Green Day, Collective Soul, No Doubt or just Gwen Stefani, I can't remember any more.

Let Me Tell You How Fucking Awesome My Night Was

2011-10-19T01:42:00.011-04:00

Brown Bird - Fingers to the Bone by supplyanddemand

Halfway through the day I decided I need to drink tonight, I'd had a bad couple of days if you couldn't tell from my last couple of faux zen bullshit posts. So I convinced Jason on gchat, easily, to have food with me at ABC. Tara then texted me, so she came up too. We talked about ageism, and Todd laughed at us. We decided to go to Happy Dog, and Jason said he needed to wrap his girlfriend's birthday present since he was headed to Judie's afterwards, so somehow in between him getting up out of his chair and him leaving, an executive decision was made that Judie's present, which was an 8x10 print, had to be wrapped in a foil swan like they do at fancy restaurants. Jason was instructed to bring the foil to the Happy Dog.

We get to the Happy Dog, and it was classical music night, so like I walked in to a violinist, which let's be honest, is the best way to enter a hipster hot dog bar ever. We immediately devoted the next hour to making the Swan. Brandon came up, and he even knew HOW to make a foil swan, so that was sort of USEFUL. It turned out amazing, here it is.

WE MADE THAT.

Then this group of guys was playing this amazing gypsy jam music, with clarinets and oboes, and Jason left to take the swan to Judie, but we had this cardboard roll left from the wrapping paper we stuffed the entrails with, so Oliver the Centipede was born.

And Jonah the amazingly nice bartender who didn't scold me for using all his bar straws emailed me a picture of Oliver titled "cool thing". Tara and I had a minute talking about boys, oh so much talk about boys always boys boys are so amazing sometimes and cute and jeez, and then this other amazingly awesome band came on, that was this deep down folk blues chill down your spine making sound, and we moved closer to the staqe and I yelled in the Happy Dog, which let me tell you NEVER HAPPENS. It was this duo Brown Bird, which if you hit that little button above, you are listening to now. When they were over, we bought CDs immediately, me once again thanks to Jonah, god Jonah whoever is sleeping with you tonight should be extra nice to you, and when they came over to the bar they told us the story of their crappy introduction to Cleveland through a crappy booking at Wilberts, and then Brian Straw bringing them there to this bar randomly, and MorganEve was SO nice and beautiful and the guy David had the best beard ever, I wanted to marry him right then and there, the way he stomped that drum. Then when the music was over someone put on a shitload of ABBA, and I sat there dancing finishing my drink, fishing around for the cherry at the bottom, and I was so happy, I thought to myself this is what life is, going out just to forget awful stuff, and then ending up on a trip that is full of bar straws and foil and super smart people and really good music, and driving home listening to a bluegrass band from Rhode Island you never knew existed before that night. And I'm so thankful my parents raised children who could appreciate magic in bars, actual real tangible conjured by cellos and boys with beautiful eyes magic.

Oh, and happy birthday Judie! We sent a shitload of love your way tonight.
Now I'm going to listen to Roy Orbison until I fall asleep, and try not to think about the boy I like.

Edit: I wrote this while pretty drunk. You can tell because I used the word amazing 5 times. And honestly, there wasn't a single cherubim present that whole night.

Just pretend this is 1999 and also this is a white plastic bag

2011-10-17T19:32:00.005-04:00

If it weren't for light, I would be so bored. Today I sat on my parents' back porch, drinking apple cider with whiskey, and trying to read a book. I found it hard to concentrate on the novel, even though I had read it before and liked it. The words were dry and still. I could not stop thinking about making out with someone in the sunlight. I was suddenly very scared that perhaps I had ruined my attention span with facebook and twitter and gchat. This is still a real possibility, but I refuse to think about it further. The implications of everything aren't necessary. So I put my phone and my book down and tried to just watch. I made it 20 minutes of being still and silent. That is not very long. I am out of practice with focusing. But also I saw that nothing else in the universe is still or silent either. It is always moving. So I think instead of practicing being still, I will try and practice moving all the time. Being still is too much like being dead. Though I guess I won't be very good at being dead either, since that's a lot longer than twenty minutes.

Monday morning reminder:
There is no such thing as a dull sky. There never has been. The sky is always beautiful.
There is no such thing as a dull ocean. There never has been. The ocean is always beautiful.
There is no such thing as a dull mountain. There never has been. The mountain is always beautiful.
There is no such thing as a dull person. There never has been, but... The skies and oceans and mountains are always beautiful regardless. The road is always beautiful. Animals are always beautiful. People must then always be beautiful too. You know. Find it.

I thought at first that was a moon rainbow, but it was just a trick of the sunset, creating moons everywhere, echoing Jupiter, maybe auditioning? C'mon apocalypse, give me carbon dioxide moon rainbows everywhere. Kill me with rainbows.

Stepping over Black Cats

2011-10-16T15:17:00.004-04:00

Hotel Victoria

At some point, the focus of justice stopped being land use and became human use. Because our idea of what treating ourselves fairly meant changed. Instead of dowries and duels, now there were personal injury suits and love. And maybe also because, numerically not rationally, there are just so many more poor people now. In a fair world order, numbers don't lie. It's hardwired into our brain, into all brains animal and pumped up with blood, we instinctively feel what is fair and what is not. We let others cover that up with words and money and complicated systems of guilt. But no matter how much soot covered gold we gild it with, the raw reaction remains. It gets sleepy, it gets lazy, and worse it gets hopeless. But it remains. It is there to be played with, diluted, extracted, but never wiped out.

So what should we use to symbolize justice now? Is it the blind woman with the scales, images of money and worth? Or is it an apathetic universe, letting the yarn roll out of his hands and end up where it wants? Instead of two equal weights, two equal bodies both climbing, struggling to get to the top first. It depends on if you think it exists or not, I guess, and if you believe in god. Lots of emotions live in our genetic material, we certainly don't act on most of them (oh but don't you want to?), so is fairness any different? We try hard not to be animals, and how many times does the animal instinct prove true anyway, and in this case the animal instinct being the angelic instinct. Will this one win? More importantly, if this raw reaction didn't exist, if we had no innate concept of fairness, would god exist? No wait, that's the least important thing.

The symbol of justice now is an image of pain, of the way our neurons flash and shake when confronted with personal discomfort.

The seasons are a reflection of natural justice, if justice should mean harmony and predictability. The way the world rotates and tilts, the equanimity of equators and equinoxes. I never understood why hell was the hot one and heaven the cold one. Is it because the notions were born out of desert people, where the mild winter months were a relief, and northern climates were a place of fertility, trees, growth, massive herds of food? If so, how quickly we chose hell as the vacation destinations once we had a little freedom from need.

Chemical Aftertastes

2011-10-13T00:28:00.002-04:00

She sat against the arm of the couch, and picked at the cut edge of her jersey dress. She always cut her clothes like that, so that the jagged edges curled up and hems hung limp and unfinished.

"I don't know, I'm just exhausted," she said, her eyes looking across the room and twitching, like she was trying to find something to focus on. "I feel like the whole weight of inevitability is on me, but I can't figure out what it is that's inevitable."

"You know, people feel that way when they're depressed," he said from the other couch.

"I'm not depressed though. I don't feel depressed, and I mean, I've been depressed. I'm excited to see people tomorrow, and I'm excited about the show, and I had a pretty good weekend. But I just feel so tired of trying to think about how we feel about this, about anything. I remember I felt this way when I decided I was an atheist. Like, I was just tired of listening to people talk about God, like it mattered one way or the other, and I just gave up caring. That's how I feel right now about something very specific, I just can't tell what."

"There was a special I watched the other night, and it was about the breeding of dogs, how the Victorians with their easy money spent all this time refining dogs into more and more different kinds of dogs, and how that era was the turning point for how we saw dogs. Like before, they were work dogs, and that was it, dogs worked with us. Then all of a sudden they were status symbols and people no longer cared about them being strong and athletic, but instead wanted weird mutated unique looking pretty dogs. So now dogs and humans are in a kind of crisis, where we need to figure out the role they play in our society, toys or partners. And then they talked about how scientists were training dogs to smell out cancer, like bladder cancer in urine, and the smell of biological stress that your body puts out when it's sick. They talked about this kid who had diabetic seizures, and his parents had trained this german shepherd to come and get them wake them up whatever any time she smelled this kid's blood sugar getting too low. It was amazing." He snubbed out his cigarette and she hugged the couch pillow a little tighter.

"So that's what I need huh? A service dog to smell out what's wrong with me. Like, a dog that can smell where the poison is, in what cell of my body its starting, in what little strand of genetic jewels is the black fog coming from? Or get me a glass of wine when it smells the level of zeitgeist getting too heavy. Or message someone to take me somewhere great when I need my quasi intellectual cataracts cut out of my eyes."

He just kept going. "Well, so then I thought about how we call them government watchdog groups, but why watchdogs? Watchdogs are only trained to bark and be scary and a little crazy and way overprotective. Watchdogs are blunt instruments. They should want to be service dog groups."

"See, there's the problem. I want to care about your funny political thoughts, but I care way more about dogs sniffing out cancer. And maybe that's just because science is a fact, and it's usually amazing and distracting and having nothing as immediate as politics to do with my life. But everything is so insane, all the time, it's just people talking and snarking and arguing in circles, and I'm old and all I want to do is make out and have fun and make stuff people like, and not think about things that only make it clear how fucking crazy people are. But you can't escape the crazy. Even if you think you can just hang out with your friends and lovers and have fun, they're crazy too. So at some point I just want to embrace it and only be entertained by it so I don't get crushed to death by it, and I feel like maybe that's what happened with the Romans. Any layer of rich middle class. You've got just enough money to be aware and bored enough to be interested and not exhausted by manual labor all day so you find time to look around, and suddenly you realize our brains just don't work. That they never worked. That they weren't just programmed to be lap dogs, but are supposed to run and bite. "

Rich People Are Crazy

2011-10-07T03:38:00.004-04:00

Last night the moon was this swollen burnt orange, like a pumpkin pie left in the oven too long, little spots of char on the thick custard surface, with a chunk scooped out of the top of it, and it hung 7 times it's size on the edge of the city. The closer I got to it, driving on the empty shoreway towards home, the bigger it got, until I thought just as I entered the downtown highway bends that my chest might burst with the weight of it.

I stopped by the 24 hour grocery store to buy cat food. I had been gone all day, and left the cats the very dregs of the last bag 14 hours ago. It just seemed cruel to say I was too tired and fucked up and I just wanted to fall asleep, and therefore they had to wait until late the next morning when I finally dragged myself out of bed. The grocery store at 3am was completely empty. My feet were sore in my boots, and my toes burned at the hard linoleum floors. The cat food was on the complete far end of the store, which is a huge one. I walked through aisles and aisles of junk food and cans and freezers, a million loafs of bread sitting there waiting in the darkness, having come hundreds of miles to sit sterile in their plastic wrappers. I thought to myself that one thing I should do is start going into 24 hour stores at 3am and taking photos. I think I might.

I felt an incredible swell of power as I walked out of the store, towards my car, the only car in the parking lot right in the middle of the vast asphalt space. The wind was 70 degrees and blew up my skirt, the plastic bag with cat food and body wash heaving and swinging against my leg, and it feels really good to be an adult sometimes alive in this time and in this place.

I stopped to get coffee, and introduced myself finally to the woman Kathy who always makes my coffee at dunkin donuts at 3am. I figured after a year of this, it was finally time to try and be a good customer. After all, that woman has seen me in every possible conceivable state of decrepitude - glowing and pretty after dates, crying and mascara streaked after fights, tired and serious after long days, blasting a hundred different kinds of things after shows. Always alone, always at 3am, always on my phone waiting at the window. Sometimes paying with credit cards, sometimes 50s, sometimes a bunch of nickels and dimes. Kathy knows me better than all of you.

Sarah and I went to the famous cemetery Monday. It rained lightly on us, which was appropriate, and we walked around in the mud, drove thru the far away sections listening to Leonard Cohen, because we had to, its a cemetery after all. We looked at the giant groves of obelisks, the massive stone urns folded and draped, the mausoleums standing almost humble in rows. Rich people are crazy, cemeteries prove that. All the founding father names of Cleveland, batshit insane. Who thinks to spend thousands of dollars on sculptures just to memorialize themselves? I mean, rich people, they always do. It's the thing you can count on, since the beginning of civilization. I'm frankly just waiting for the day some billionaire builds himself a pyramid in Utah. I'm frankly just a little ashamed it hasn't happened yet. I'm disappointed in modern billionaires.

We saw them just as we had decided to leave. I spotted them out of the corner of my eye off the main road. She thought they were gravestones at first, there were a lot of carved animals stones, they were sitting so impossibly still. I thought they would run as soon as the car came towards them, but they just lay there in the drizzle watching us. The smaller ones in the back looked a little nervous, but the big one, the leader, didn't twitch, or even move his head to follow the motion of us. They were so huge. Huge and solid with muscle and fast, you could see the fastness in them even completely still, it vibrated in the air around them.

What the Fox is Thinking

2011-10-01T17:52:00.002-04:00

Battles - Futura

(Photo: Mircea Costina / Caters News/ Yahoo News)

What the fox is thinking:
This morning I woke up and it was cold. Not just chilly end of summer cold, but the taste of ice in the air that means winter is coming. Suddenly I was grateful for my thick undercoat which had anticipated this, and had been growing in thick and hot for a few weeks. Terrible and annoying when it's still hitting 75 in the afternoons, those days I spent hours trying to scratch it off, rubbing against walls, trees, rocks, my tongue hanging loose and swollen like a dog's (no offense). But this morning I smelled the snow and tasted that burning cold in my mouth, and my pups were snuggled close against my belly, and I was thankful for the fact that Nature provides.

Time is so slow and dreamlike in fox time, in autumn, with the pups halfway mostly grown up and at the very least they wouldn't die if I were to disappear tomorrow. Any more likely than any regular fox that is. But the surreal death of the forest around me, of things turning dark and silver, yellow and red, is punctured by dozens of sharp gut wrenching terror. Every predator is out there trying to get plump and well fed before the world washes out, and there are still some hawks willing to try for a thin adolescent pup. So that sucks. It really sucks having your stress and adrenalin levels jacked up with no warning, over and over, randomly. It takes a toll on every system in your body. You don't know if you're tired or speedy, hungry or glutted, you can never be sure that you are actually relaxed even when you lay down in the dark on your bed and tell yourself deliberately and purposefully to fucking relax already. But just when it seems like it might be working, when you feel that maybe all the hairs on your arm aren't sticking up, here comes another barely there footstep or the far off cry and rush of wings, and boom you're up again and ready for attack and counting heads frantically.

Then come the hunting parties. Foppish stupid rich people on horses, with packs of you slavering hounds baying up and down the treelines. And it's bad enough to get killed, but to know you've been killed not for food, not because someone else was hungry, but because someone wants a new pair of gloves? That my wonderful thick oily undercoat, or the thick bushy tails of my children, are slaughtered just for fun, and then to have you, a distant cousin, a family relative, a brother of the sniff and dig and grab and bite, be the one assisting them! And you come sniffing all around my nest, and you're looking for my children or me or anything to kill to make your masters happy. I've tried talking to you lot before. I've tried having a nice drink of water and discussing where you and I fundamentally disagree about the natural order of power, appealing to the role of forest citizens we both have, and the responsibility to make sure things are balanced. That just enough dogs are killing just enough foxes, and just enough bears are killing just enough dogs, which is usually right around where talks break down. You've drunk the koolaid, or in this case I suspect, the whiskey. There is no reasoning with you. I refuse to waste another breath trying to convince you of the betrayal you've heaped upon your whole species, working with the rightful mortal enemy of free creatures everywhere, to brutally destroy your kin. You are a error, you should be put down.
So just walk the fuck away Dog.

Did you know Jimmy Buffet wrote books?

2011-09-29T00:57:00.007-04:00

tUnE-yArDs - Gangsta

I was at my friend's house at the end of the night, sitting in a group with three other people drinking wine in a low lit kitchen. I made some comment about my usual Wednesday drinking habits having illustrated that in a group like this, the majority of people around me will have smart phones. So we polled our group, and we were split 50/50, the other two having flip phones.

"Oh well, so this is the exception" I shrugged off. I give up theories easily, like loose change.

"No, but I think A. doesn't have a smart phone, so she swings it in their favor" he said, referring to the girl who had just gone to sleep.

So we went back through everyone that had stopped by. "C. and J. both had smart phones" I pointed out.

"And C. and L. didn't," he countered.

And one by one, we counted them, he having been there before me, since I predictably show up an hour after I said I would be somewhere always. In the end, the final tally, all guests and visitors included, the score was still 50/50.

"So isn't it cool how even after the group is gone, the ratio remains the same in the smallest leftover sample? Like, it just shrunk but retained it's balance." I said, and suddenly I was very aware of the position of my ankles.

"This whole thing is lesson in fractals," A. pointed out.

"You should draw the whole equation on that wall," I said to him, maybe in reference to something else later, I don't remember. "The next people to move in here would love it. It would be great. Or really creepy."

Later I drove home, still singing to Weakerthans, because that happens every couple months I remember how much I love them and become 22 again , and I stopped to get coffee for tomorrow morning. Driving home down the small neighborhood streets, quiet and dark after midnight, I saw cops passing through far away intersections. They were silent deadly gliding sharks in the shadows.

Several Tweets I Had More I Wanted To Say About This Week

2011-09-26T11:46:00.008-04:00

"So for Leonard Cohen's birthday, he asked R.E.M to break up?"

Jesus, R.E.M. broke up. I don't normally care about shit like that, but I guess I'm old enough that instead of my parent's youth disintegrating, it's starting to become mine. So yes, I may have spent two days listening to the same three songs on repeat. I think two days is an appropriate amount of grieving. It was their time. I can't believe that companies think three days funeral time is enough if your family member dies, when I mourn a band for two days? Man, someday Vampire Weekend is going to break up and I'm just going to freak.
"I just teared up thinking about the day Michael Stipe dies. & Thom Yorke. What if it was them on a plane together flying it into a mountain?"

"I have to wonder where everyone that is always at Deagans went before there was Deagans."

Deagans is this bar in Lakewood. I like it well enough. The servers are always on happy pills and no matter how crowded it is, they always find me a hightop twotop. The food is pretty reliably good. They have a vegan night. So yeah, Deagans is good. But every time I go I get thrown off by the crowd. I didn't think any place in Lakewood got crowded like that. But then I sat and thought through that statement and decided that was false, lots of places get crowded by that exact same crowd. I just don't know ANY of them. My whole experience in Lakewood has been at high school friends' houses and the Cllifton Ave Mile of Apartments with goth kids and record store co workers. This, coupled with the R.E.M. thing, really threw me off that day.

"Its as if everyone in the country under 50 just realized that the death penalty exists."
"I want people to be educated, I want them to get upset, but then I want them to REMEMBER it three days later."

This was about the Troy Davis execution. Just now, instead of execution, I accidentally typed education, which would be appropriate. I learned a lot from this particular thing. I mean, not about the death penalty, I don't believe in that. I won't argue it with anyone though, because logically if I go too far down the rabbit hole of my personal morals in regards to the Empire and How To Run a Populace, I get disturbingly conflicted about it. But the fact that I get that disturbed, and that I know in my heart it's wrong as sure as I know it's wrong to be anti-choice and anti-queer, I think that's enough. It's just one of those things.

I also learned that it comes to human rights issues, I care more about the ones that affect massive amounts of people instead of a relatively few number, like healthcare and education. I realize that you should not forgive or ignore even the smallest cruelty, but in this world of constant dramatic inundation, of one atrocity after another after another (the way the world always worked but now just so more visible as a whole global dark cloud, a poisonous black fog covering our countries) a person has to actually choose which terrible thing is going to break their heart that day week month. Or, if you're going to acknowledge all of it all at once, you have to shut down a part of your soul and get colder. I guess I hop back and forth across that line. I think it's driving us all crazy but I'm not saying I'm sure that shouldn't happen.
The last thing I realized was that I like twitter just fine for funny little bon mots and making plans, but when it comes to getting your news? It is the scariest fucking thing I have ever seen. It is tapping in the the terrifying power of a collective "OMGWTF" reaction, a feeling that the human race has apparently been storing up for centuries, waiting to be unleashed on the Electric Brain, so much so that it spills into their trips to the morning coffeeshops and opinions about office supplies. The Human Race is so stressed out, we have the same reaction to terrible service in a restaurant or a football player as we do to a man being executed without justice, one of panicked outrage. And worse, this panic is so manic, we jump from topic to topic, "news addict" now also maybe meaning "looking for that outrage high". Otherwise, why not stop every once in a while? I fear our heads will someday explode all at once, or our hearts, but probably those particular organs will be withered and black with gerbil-like worry by then. Listen, I can agree that people should worry, have reason to worry greatly, while also acknowledging the mental and physical small deaths that worry causes.

"HEY #Twitter! The fact that you banned #TroyDavis from trending, but #OnlyFatPeople is okay? IS OFFENSIVE AND HORRIBLE YOU ASSHOLES."
"Look, I realize this is not a #twitter democracy, but when you pick and choose trending topics, and leave offensive ones in while..."
"...taking out important relevant ones, then what is the fucking point? It isn't an actual picture of what's trending at all."

So an aspect of Twitter is that there is a sidebar which shows you topics that are trending in your city, what people are talking the most about. A nasty little thing that happened during the Troy Davis shitstorm is that Twitter "removed" the topic #TroyDavis from that list. You could still see it if you actually manually searched for the tag, but it was not shown to anyone else who might see it and just wonder what it was about. Twitter does that, they edit. Apparently #JustinBieber was also removed, I imagine because it had been trending for what seemed like a fucking year.
Now I'm not claiming a Twitter conspiracy and I'm not even calling Twitter racist. I think they probably removed it for reasons they didn't think through enough. But you know what? If you are going to edit topics that are trending, could we please also maybe take out the Constant misogyny and racism that occurs on a daily basis? Like, you want to keep things civil and PC? Fine, you're a free private service, do whatever you like, but if you want to try, put more effort into actually being PC then and don't take out the stuff that is actual relevant news.

To top it off, if your "trending topics" aren't actually the most popular topics, than what is the point of that feature? It takes all the coolness out of it.

And of course my personal issue is with that Fat People tag. It is NOT okay to make fun of fat people guys, anymore than you would make fun of ugly people or single moms. It is ignorant and mean. If your version of humor is based on exerting your own superiority, you aren't funny. I don't need to win anyone over to fat acceptance, I don't particularly like it and yes it's unhealthy and it's my own private business what I do about it. Humor about fat people reminds me of gay bashing, its heavily focused on being disgusted about sex. And you know what, if you're not physically attracted to me, fine. Guess what, I don't want to sleep with you either. I probably didn't before you even opened your mouth. But if you are going to write me off as a person because you don't want to sleep with me? You are a terrible shallow awful human being. And you are probably pretty stupid. There are other nicer complex smart wonderful people who I would much rather fuck, and frankly, I get quite enough action without your approval. Also, if you yourself are fat, it doesn't give you license to make fun of anyone but yourself. I had this boyfriend who was also fat, and he loved to watch Biggest Loser and make fun of the fatties, and I argued a lot with him about it because you know, if you're black, it doesn't mean you get to go around calling every black person n----. It's a point of decency and correct behavior. I don't care what you think about it, keep it to yourself. Show me some respect.

Of course after I write this, I am chastised by a moment where I think about stealing the pics of the visitors to my okcupid profile and using them on a post about serial killers. But the point is, I won't do it. Cause that would be mean.

"Please let me be hit by molten satellite debris."
Exciting science stuff happened this week, like a satellite falling to earth, and a new dinosaur was discovered, and something about translating brain waves into visual images which I can't even bring myself to read yet. I'm saving it for a day when I need reassurance that wonderful things still exist in the world.

"Let's all pledge to try and find a way to reanimate and elect Jim Henson as president by his 85th birthday."
Cause I'll be honest, I think that may be our only hope some days.

How to Believe in Love Ever After: Or is there a link between Dejavu and Dehydration?

2011-09-22T12:47:00.007-04:00

My friend recently went to Prague. He told me he had a dream the night before he left, a nightmare, in which he had been a witness to the creation of the golem. Later, wandering around the Jewish quarter after Octoberfest, he and his friends found themselves by accident at the very synagogue of Rabbi Loew, who purportedly created the infamous Golem of Prague, molded to protect the ghetto from the Holy Roman Emperor in the 16th century. When the golem became violently out of control, the rabbi scratched out the first letter of the word for truth written on its forehead, changing the word from "truth" to "death", and the clay robot switched off.

So maybe that's what our third eyes are actually, off switches.

Sometimes it's very hard to remember these are coincidences. Our minds so badly want to make every experience into a meaningful narrative, we naturally turn our lives into stories, write in the guiding structures and themes where none exist. Listen, sometimes it's harder being an atheist than you think. I could say that I fight to keep someone from scratching out the first letter on my forehead, but a religious person could argue that it has already been, truth is what we want it be always and so this is terrible metaphor.

I have coincidences happen to me all the time that I hold precious and also hate, like little drops of water in a great big lake of things just existing cause, betraying the existence of a coming irrational storm. This is a side effect of trying to be imaginative, you become a terrible romantic against your will. Even worse, something in the programming of my poor little brain is naturally and viciously inclined to moments of dejavu. Which I believe is a genetic chemical reaction, mean little neurons firing away, but when you are trying to suck every story possible out of your life, that's like a fucking affliction. Its crack for the creative, a false momentary sense of meaning and hope and predestination. Then I shake it off and remind myself not to get carried away. Oh but geez do I love being carried away.

I spent a lot of the week drinking, it was just one of those weeks. I'm going dry for the next two weeks, just to clear myself a little and work on some projects I keep thinking about, but am doing nothing towards. I needed it though, Fall was speeding too fast towards me, time was just slipping away, and the thing to do when you feel that way is have a lot of really good times, do some weird thing and rash unwise things, so that every day has it's own adventure and the week feels that it's going on forever. This summer lasted fresh a whole year almost, and I'm not ready to let that go.

The point is, drunk in so many different situations, I had a lot of conversations. With Tara, with Carrie and Sarah, bartenders, acquaintances that became friends. That conversation with Nate walking across the bridge last Sunday set the tone for the week, I hungrily sought out tipsiness and intimate talk. I'm not rude when I'm drunk, or loud, or mean. But I am willing to talk about anything with anyone. That doesn't sound like it would be a bad thing, but the social convention of how to interact with strangers exists for a reason, so people don't realize what a fucking weirdo you are. At a party, I was talking to a guy I had only met that night, and it was very civilized, careers and places lives and stuff, but then suddenly I found myself telling him this story of what happened to me Tuesday, which I find to be a crazy but funny and maybe a little poignant story, but if you're just listening to some drunk girl tell it on a patio as she smokes over the railing with dance music blaring, then it comes off extremely degenerate and slutty and maybe trashy? I've heard such good stories from strangers, stories of redemption and moments of humility when they found their calling or received thanks from the universe and stories about falling in love or escaping religious fallacies or getting out of small towns or small marriages. These people don't realize how momentous their stories are when they are telling them, usually you have to wring this stuff from people because they have no sense of the importance of their own lives. They think they are uninteresting. Then there are people like me and Buddy who think everything that happens to us is interesting, and everyone else is interesting too, and we are the kind of people who tell inappropriate stories to strangers when we are drunk expecting the same in return. It's something I love about Buddy, he understands my inclination to talk to everyone the same way, that it doesn't matter if he's known you ten years or ten minutes, we're going to be honest in the conversation and say exactly what we are thinking about. Let the conversation live in the way its going, don't force it to stay in the confines of polite society. Be yourself. Live under the assumption that everyone is coming to this conversation on the same level.

I personally think that's the best justification for being a talky drunk I can come up with.

Anyway, Buddy and I were driving home from that party, and I told him about how I think I had freaked that guy out. He responded "why would you tell him that story? You can't just tell everyone that story."

"But it's a good story! It's a great story. Also it's what happened." I protested.

"Yeah, I know, but you can't tell that story to guys you might want to sleep with."

" But I wasn't trying to do that. And anyway, that's a great story, and I don't want to sleep with anyone who doesn't get why it's so great."

So possibly I will use this story, which I'm sorry, I'm not telling you here, to vet new people I meet. Do they hear the ringing behind it, the thin line of sad beauty I see in it, or do they just think I'm a drunk slut? Which is sort of the same as me writing about dereliction in Cleveland, and either you see why it's beautiful, or you think I have Stockholm syndrome. Or maybe I will never tell that story again.

I also danced a lot this week. It's nice that Fall is for dancing and talking. Lots and lots of shows. I almost forget that every October. Lots of "oh yay sweater weather!" and "pumpkins!", but the best part of the weather getting cold is the city collectively tries to suck every tiny taste of life out of the day, like bears getting fat for hibernation.

I know I've been terrible about writing posts this past month. But it is important for me to work on writing things that aren't just blog posts you know. You can't have everything for free. Eventually you're going to have to pay for it.

I will change my last name to Jameson and inherit millions!

2011-09-19T09:57:00.003-04:00

Friday night I got off work and painted myself up in unicorn spit, fake diamonds, and the scales from a Mongolian Ice Lizard. I had to make myself look as little like a virgin as possible, because that night was the Annual Sacrifice to The Gods of the Coal Elevators and Cargo Ships, and at midnight they always throw a virgin hipster off the bridge, so the trick is to stay in the shadows and be old. I filled up two flasks and sparkled my way into the crowds. All the citizens were there, and I think I said hi to all of them, all ten million dark faces coming into focus, one after another. I needed to be drunk to smile that long, to say hi for five hours straight, to walk back and forth over the bridge, over and over again, hitching along to different wandering groups like a small fish trying to ride the wake behind a shark so big it can only be seen in focus from a distance. The entire social scene of one midsized midwest city gathered in one long parade. By hour three, I was trying to explain to people how exhausting it was to not be able to walk 200 feet without having to stop and talk to someone else, to do that shallow quick come up with conversation quick remember their name quick say hi to everyone they are with. It wasn't bragging, it was me trying to drunkenly express how overwhelming it can be to try and hang out with everyone all at once, how I wanted to sit and have real conversations with 58 of you but not all at once, the pressure to know how much small talk has been required and when to let flow of traffic take over again, how to not ignore anyone, how to not be rude or clingy or aloof. It was a lot of fun to glisten, but when it stopped being fun I happily left with my friend from Chicago to go outside to the rest of Cleveland.

We stumbled a few blocks to the bar, and thankfully ordered coffee and a hookah, watching a middle eastern quinceanera, 17 yr old girls in tight club dresses, their mothers looking on in tight club dresses, their boyfriends all in bright colored polo shirts their hair dripping with grease. The dj playing all top 40 until every once in a while he played something foreign and Eastern, and all the boys would dance wildly in a circle with themselves, stomping and throwing hands and feet everywhere, being the first children of immigrants and knowing how to do the folk dances from weddings and birthdays. We drank our coffee gratefully and watched the dancers in half mocking half admiring awe. Then I followed the group of stand up comedians I had thrown my lot in with, because of the one I knew from out of town, and we went to the Hot Dog bar for close, and later to another guys house to hang out. I don't know if you've ever hung out with 9 stand up comedians at once? It's fucked up. They know it's fucked up too, the way they are constantly trying to riff on something and throw out one liners and sacrifice each other one by one to the quick laugh. Someone told me once stand up comedians are the most broken kind of people, because they have to take all their issues and throw them out to the public for consumption, are basically in the process of being eaten alive all the time. Striving to be a funny Prometheus. They are odd nice people to be around at 4am. It is like being wasted around 9 little brothers who are also perverts and also actually teddy bears.

Saturday night I was pretty broken, physically and emotionally from things not related to here, so I stayed home and drank more whiskey and watched a lot of tv scifi. I do that sometimes. My cats appreciate it. Saturday pretty much did not exist.

Sunday I woke up with absolutely nothing to do, nothing at all. That means I could have been cleaning, there is always cleaning, there is always writing and filling out applications and a bunch of responsible things, but that kind of stuff doesn't count on the first day you wake up and don't have to work. I met my sister on the east side for brunch, and headed back to the bridge to watch some free music. I called no one. I made plans with no one. I wore something shadowy. I wanted to see no one I knew and just walk around and sit and be there. Nate was there, also doing the same thing, so we sat together and watched the bands. I never go to local bands, because my tolerance for mediocrity is old like me, and finally I saw a local band I love and would go see again, and that was nice. That was hopeful and inclusive, like this winter would be good too, which I was worried about, that my lovely awesome amazing summer would fade out to Cleveland bitterness again. It was lovely to be able to walk along the length of the bridge now cleared of people, and have a total and complete and ongoing conversation with a friend. We left when they kicked us out, and went back to his house, and finished the whiskey. His girlfriend showed us photos she had taken for her sister's Save the Date, a hip pretty couple I didn't know at all in fields and on fences and with flowers in their hair, and then we all talked about bands, and it was reassuringly normal and nice and not fake or hustled at all. So I left there and drove around the highways and some old neighborhoods I like to see every once in a while, and the sun was setting beautiful and gold, as if the whole weekend had been one long sparkling night and now it was the morning when you hadn't slept at all and it was rising as you headed home.

Quick Catch Up Call

2011-09-15T23:31:00.005-04:00

So let's see. Yesterday I saw a lecture at the Natural History Museum that was part of the Archeology series. It was by a Greek professor, about the excavation of a city called Sikyon. It was technical, the guy went into the geology of the area just like a guy talking to a room full of people he assumes know what he's talking about - conglomerate rocks and Pliocene layers, the shape of the coastal terraces. It wasn't that hard to follow though, there were lots of maps, and what really stuck with me was one satellite map he showed with an image of the old city grid. Old meaning oh my god old, not just sort of old. Streets six meters across, 20 feet, in big square blocks across the whole of the plateau stretching before the acropolis, and all oriented north south. What was interesting about this was that the streets were not laid out following the natural walls of the landscape, which would have not been the cardinal points but would have been easier certainly and made more sense space wise. They had pulled meteorological data for the area, consulted with experts who study ancient weather (I KNOW what the hell are we doing with our lives?), and it didn't look like it was done for any weather related reasons. So this professor is talking about their theories about the city grid, rectangular blocks versus square ones, and how there was no zoning because houses were right on top of the industrial quarter, and in my head like silly putty there poured in a sudden awareness of the real and true and tangible existence of ancient urban planning theory. Ancient so close to prehistoric it practically hurts men daydreaming up perfect civic centers, how to best shelter a populace, how to arrange the parade routes so they don't go straight through the kilns. Then the engineers! They dug up all this bedrock and threw it up against the natural slope to make amphitheater seating and stadium walls. It gave me a whole new appreciation for those of you I know who have careers in this stuff, a long hallowed classical legacy and what not, like doctors and farmers. Working in insurance does not have that same tradition, obviously. I mean, someday it will probably will. How depressing is that thought?

Afterwards it rained, and I met my sister up at a bar where I had a bourbon and she had a burger and we talked about shit. Then a friend who went to school for urban planning showed up, and the conversation turned pretty much how that last paragraph went. So that was Wednesday.

Tomorrow (Today) is Ingenuity. You're an idiot if you don't go to that. Seriously, I'm not being glib. If you live in this area and you do not go underneath the Detroit Superior bridge either tomorrow night (tonight) or Saturday night when it's all lit up and the most gorgeous place in the whole city to be, then I don't even know why you know me. A friend of mine from Chicago is coming into town to do the standup showcase Friday, and then Pechakucha is before that. Saturday and Sunday there are some bands I want to see. It's a highlight guys, a genuine highlight.

But Sunday I hope will be warm enough to go to the beach. I feel the beach slipping away from us. Today for instance I had to put on my fake Ugg slippers for the day because my feet were freezing. Oh Fall, when a young woman's thoughts turn from how long she can afford to keep the air conditioner on to how long she can afford to keep the space heater running. I came out of Labor Day weekend kinda tan, and I'm just getting attached to this new color of skin and now Ohio is gonna go mess all that up.

I finally watched Downton Abbey for the first time tonight. It was pretty much just another British serial, I don't understand why everyone is so gung ho about it, but I like those things, so I enjoyed it. Afterwards, there was a show about the history of India, and it was the episode about the reign of the Moguls, the legacy of Akbar the Great who believed in the Unified Theory of One God Many Religions, the beginning and quick end of an attempted Hindu-Muslim civilization of enlightenment and tolerance and reason. I turned it off before the British invaded, because I couldn't take much more English Imperialism at the moment.