In October I talked to Sunny about her job as an art teacher in a new (to her) school and mine as a tour manager. How weird is it, I said, that I didn't study business or music but I've learned how to work in the music business. She said that more than anyone she knows I'm not defined by my work and that I just apply my personality to whatever job I'm doing and figure it out.
I had to think about this because I feel very defined by my work. It's true, though, that while I sometimes think I'd like to take an audio class, I'm far more comfortable with staging, sound, and the geekier financial aspects of music management than I would have ever imagined back when I worked in books; I credit my parents and Montessori for making me so damn flexible. Sunny said it doesn't matter if I'm self-taught, I'm still an expert and should do the Ask an Expert program at her school.
At Sunny's public school in Chicago, seniors are matched up with "experts" to help them with their senior project, the main thesis question and the direction of research they are taking. I stalled for a minute due to doubts as to whether I reeeeeally know enough to call myself an expert but OKAY. If we are talking about research, I'm in. I love research like I love long walks on the beach at sunset. No wait, like soup. I love research like a good bowl of soup. Long walks on the beach at sunset are just okay.
I've learned this about the school, North Lawndale College Prep:
85% of graduates are the first from their families to go to college
Last year the school received over 1200 applications for 240 openings and all of the students, most of them from the West Side, were picked from a blind lottery
NLCP receives about $1,500 less per student from public sources than traditional Chicago public high schools so they still struggle with a funding gap
NLCP has led all charter and traditional Chicago Public high schools in percentage of graduates in college the fall after their graduation for the past two years
70% of graduates have gone on to 4-year colleges and 30% to 2-year colleges since 2005 and 25% of college graduates are in or have completed graduate school
I was matched up with my student, a young woman dancer who asked, "Does performing arts improve student academic success, social skills, and college readiness?"
We were paired because music is a performing art but I still had a moment. I was exposed to every performing art growing up but didn't make them mine. After elementary school, I wasn't in plays, I quit the piano, I sucked at guitar, I sang off key in church, my dancing consisted of flopping around during reggae shows and I chose the academic high school where I could bury my nose in books rather than the School for Creative and Performing Arts. I AM GOING TO FAIL THIS GIRL.
I got out of my fear by pulling from all the examples I have surrounding me of what performing arts does for people's lives and turned to research to check up on the status of the arts in education these days. We ended up having a conversation on the phone since I wasn't in Chicago to go to the school and meet La'Keithia in person. We both explained where we were coming from, asked a lot of questions, and I hope I helped lead her down paths she hadn't considered and supported the direction she had started to take.
I learned a lot too.
American business leaders want an innovative work force yet arts education is not recognized as key to the solution.
Arts education strengthens cognitive development, innovative and creative thinking, critical reflection, communication skills, enhances social adaptability, cultural awareness and enables kids to have tolerance and acceptance, appreciation of others.
Art gives kids who are not book learners a way to express their own intelligence.
Art opens up new opportunities, gives kids something positive to do who may not have a lot of other choices. I'm talking about secretly talented gang bangers here.
Unlike curriculum in which correct answers and rules prevail, in the arts people use judgment over rules. There are many ways to see and interpret the world.
The arts help children learn to say what cannot be said.
Studies show that involvement in the arts helps kids increase test scores and promotes academic achievement.
The arts offer a way for people to tell their stories, use their imagination, become active learners and imagination and expression are at the center of the learning process
The arts in school symbolizes to the young what adults think is important.
Finally, ARTS ARE THE SPARK OF CIVILIZATION. No biggie!
Showing posts with label Chicago. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Chicago. Show all posts
12.29.2010
5.12.2009
Freddie!
There will be no photos here of Sunny before, during, or after the birth process because I know that once the narcotics wear off she would kick my ass and possibly walk away from our 30-year friendship.
But I'll say that there's a new baby in the world, a real looker named Freddie Jane!
And I'll post a photo from the morning we went to the hospital, when we cracked jokes and rolled around on the yoga ball and played hangman, 24 hours before Freddie was born or as Shane put it, back when we were young and naive.
But I'll say that there's a new baby in the world, a real looker named Freddie Jane!
And I'll post a photo from the morning we went to the hospital, when we cracked jokes and rolled around on the yoga ball and played hangman, 24 hours before Freddie was born or as Shane put it, back when we were young and naive.
4.20.2009
This one goes out to Hugo
I used to think I wasn't an animal person but then wrote about how I formed a heartbreaking attachment to Liz's cats in Seattle. Maybe I'm choosy - I like cats mainly when they act like dogs and I'm drawn to dogs with short hair and eccentric, particular habits.
I just thought I wasn't into animals since, as a girl, I didn't live for summer horse camp or go through a veterinarian phase. But I sponsored a chicken in high school! PETA sent me a chicken photo in a cheap frame for me to look at and feel good about saving it from the food factory on the off chance that that wasn't a complete scam.
And there was also that wolf behind bars at a Minnesota zoo. We locked eyes and mine filled with tears because I thought the wolf looked miserable. It was an odd, sad, slightly embarrassing moment.
I guess I just didn't used to consider pets full-on family members. Just as whiny children get on my nerves, I didn't understand relentlessly begging dogs and overindulgent pet owners. You're letting a butt-sniffing terrier tell you what time it is? Are you stupid? Okay, I still feel my uterus roll over and play dead around bratty kids but I've become hugely susceptible to the charms of funny dogs.
Dogs are often, and rightfully so, fiercely loved members of families. I'm not really in the mood to admit this but I recently watched part of Marley & Me on a plane and while it was predictable overall and the opposite of earth shattering, I had to will myself not to choke up during the scene where Owen Wilson takes Marley to the vet and we know it's time for Marley to die.
Even worse, when Owen first finds Marley immobile under a tree in the rain and carries him home, we know that something is really wrong. The scene reminded me of my family's old dog, Bingo, who when she knew she was dying crept beneath a bush in the backyard.
To avoid weeping on the plane, I resumed my silent, vicious, passive aggressive battle for control over the armrest with the space-hogging girl sitting to my right. In the end I don't know who won but at least I didn't cry.
In Chicago last week, I filled Matthew in on Sunny and Shane's dogs. Lulu is the pitbull who slept in bed with me and stretched out like a human with her head on my pillow. Lulu's the one who jumps on you, pushes you off the mattress while you sleep, and steals Hugo's food.
Hugo is a good dog and a matchmaker, too. Shane was walking Hugo in Wicker Park when he met Sunny and I wouldn't be surprised if Hugo quietly pulled Shane in her direction. Sunny was walking her old dog, Zonner Rae, so Hugo didn't know he'd have Lulu to deal with later but that's beside the point.
Two years ago I lived in Sunny and Shane's front room that's about to be the baby's room. This was before Shane put up doors so at night Lulu would slink through the curtains to cuddle/assert her authority. I'd try to give Hugo room to hang out, too; I'd pat the bed and call to him, "C'mon, Hugey," but he was reserved.
Hugo would lick my hand a few times OR obsessively until I'd make him stop, give me a nice long stare and then would go back to chill in the living room or Shane's office.
Every night, though, before Hugo went to sleep, he stuck his head around the curtain to check on me. I felt like I had a babysitter, a babysitter with a very long brown face. He reminded me of a schoolmistress or one of the nuns from the Madeleine books. When my situation checked out AKA I was sitting there reading a book, Hugo would retract his head and I'd hear him settling down in the other room.
The last time I saw Hugo he was moving slowly. He'd stopped eating his dog food and had become partial to expensive sausages from the deli which is kind of awesome because he wasn't a diva before. He had his own prescription card from Walgreen's and though he was still up to go to the beach, Shane had to carry him up and down the stairs.
Last Sunday Sunny told me what a hard time he'd had moving around at the beach that afternoon. She sounded tired, and sad, and she said they were going to talk to the vet the next day. In short, it was Hugo's last luau.
R.I.P Hugo Dubow. We miss you.
I just thought I wasn't into animals since, as a girl, I didn't live for summer horse camp or go through a veterinarian phase. But I sponsored a chicken in high school! PETA sent me a chicken photo in a cheap frame for me to look at and feel good about saving it from the food factory on the off chance that that wasn't a complete scam.
And there was also that wolf behind bars at a Minnesota zoo. We locked eyes and mine filled with tears because I thought the wolf looked miserable. It was an odd, sad, slightly embarrassing moment.
I guess I just didn't used to consider pets full-on family members. Just as whiny children get on my nerves, I didn't understand relentlessly begging dogs and overindulgent pet owners. You're letting a butt-sniffing terrier tell you what time it is? Are you stupid? Okay, I still feel my uterus roll over and play dead around bratty kids but I've become hugely susceptible to the charms of funny dogs.
Dogs are often, and rightfully so, fiercely loved members of families. I'm not really in the mood to admit this but I recently watched part of Marley & Me on a plane and while it was predictable overall and the opposite of earth shattering, I had to will myself not to choke up during the scene where Owen Wilson takes Marley to the vet and we know it's time for Marley to die.
Even worse, when Owen first finds Marley immobile under a tree in the rain and carries him home, we know that something is really wrong. The scene reminded me of my family's old dog, Bingo, who when she knew she was dying crept beneath a bush in the backyard.
To avoid weeping on the plane, I resumed my silent, vicious, passive aggressive battle for control over the armrest with the space-hogging girl sitting to my right. In the end I don't know who won but at least I didn't cry.
In Chicago last week, I filled Matthew in on Sunny and Shane's dogs. Lulu is the pitbull who slept in bed with me and stretched out like a human with her head on my pillow. Lulu's the one who jumps on you, pushes you off the mattress while you sleep, and steals Hugo's food. Hugo is a good dog and a matchmaker, too. Shane was walking Hugo in Wicker Park when he met Sunny and I wouldn't be surprised if Hugo quietly pulled Shane in her direction. Sunny was walking her old dog, Zonner Rae, so Hugo didn't know he'd have Lulu to deal with later but that's beside the point.
Two years ago I lived in Sunny and Shane's front room that's about to be the baby's room. This was before Shane put up doors so at night Lulu would slink through the curtains to cuddle/assert her authority. I'd try to give Hugo room to hang out, too; I'd pat the bed and call to him, "C'mon, Hugey," but he was reserved.Hugo would lick my hand a few times OR obsessively until I'd make him stop, give me a nice long stare and then would go back to chill in the living room or Shane's office.
Every night, though, before Hugo went to sleep, he stuck his head around the curtain to check on me. I felt like I had a babysitter, a babysitter with a very long brown face. He reminded me of a schoolmistress or one of the nuns from the Madeleine books. When my situation checked out AKA I was sitting there reading a book, Hugo would retract his head and I'd hear him settling down in the other room.
The last time I saw Hugo he was moving slowly. He'd stopped eating his dog food and had become partial to expensive sausages from the deli which is kind of awesome because he wasn't a diva before. He had his own prescription card from Walgreen's and though he was still up to go to the beach, Shane had to carry him up and down the stairs. Last Sunday Sunny told me what a hard time he'd had moving around at the beach that afternoon. She sounded tired, and sad, and she said they were going to talk to the vet the next day. In short, it was Hugo's last luau.
R.I.P Hugo Dubow. We miss you.
3.23.2009
Mahdoula
Back in college I spent whatever free time that wasn't sucked up cavorting around bonfires and drum circles researching cultural studies and public health, women's health in particular. I loved the subject of women's health and anything related to the cultural interpretation and treatment of women's bodies. Wanna discuss menstruation? Awesome, I could go on for hours! Abortion? Birth? Party!
I volunteered at Safeplace, a women's shelter for ladies getting out of violent relationships, and was a legal advocate for those who filed protection orders. When I moved to Seattle a few years later, I wanted to help women be in control of whatever decision they made about whether to have babies or not and almost became a volunteer advocate at an abortion clinic. In the end, I trained to be a childbirth assistant, or doula.
I took a class at the Seattle Midwifery School on how to give emotional, physical, and informational support to laboring women and attended births until it became too hard to manage with the rest of my work schedule. Because fetuses don't tend to care if you're scheduled to bartend on the night they decide to make their big debut and the people you work with don't like to keep covering for you at the last minute. It was around this time that Sunny's then-boyfriend/now-husband was out in the Seattle area doing interviews for a freelance article and Sunny said he and I should hang out.
I hadn't yet decided whether Shane was a keeper or, as he put it, THE ONE. Shane came to the pub to drink and play pool during my shift and asked me if I thought he was THE ONE for Sunny. I froze and didn't say a word. Awkward! I have got to learn how to lie better. But, quite honestly, Shane had a lot more proving to do. If not to Sunny, then to me.
We recovered from that overly honest moment and bonded that night to the point that I started saying hi to him when I called their apartment in Chicago and didn't just ask for Sunny immediately. Shane also started to tease me about being a doula, or as he calls it, a mahdoula. Shane cracked mahdoula jokes at my expense for years but guess who's happy I'm a doula now since I'm attending the birth of their kid soon?
In my role as #1 mahdoula, I recently spent some time reading about childbirth and remembering what doulas actually do since it's been so long. Last weekend I took the bus to Chicago to talk to them about the good times ahead and I brought materials, comics that I'd made for the occasion.
Some were more useful than others.
Hopefully their baby comes out so easily that Sunny never gets to this point.
So excited.
xx
I volunteered at Safeplace, a women's shelter for ladies getting out of violent relationships, and was a legal advocate for those who filed protection orders. When I moved to Seattle a few years later, I wanted to help women be in control of whatever decision they made about whether to have babies or not and almost became a volunteer advocate at an abortion clinic. In the end, I trained to be a childbirth assistant, or doula.
I took a class at the Seattle Midwifery School on how to give emotional, physical, and informational support to laboring women and attended births until it became too hard to manage with the rest of my work schedule. Because fetuses don't tend to care if you're scheduled to bartend on the night they decide to make their big debut and the people you work with don't like to keep covering for you at the last minute. It was around this time that Sunny's then-boyfriend/now-husband was out in the Seattle area doing interviews for a freelance article and Sunny said he and I should hang out.
I hadn't yet decided whether Shane was a keeper or, as he put it, THE ONE. Shane came to the pub to drink and play pool during my shift and asked me if I thought he was THE ONE for Sunny. I froze and didn't say a word. Awkward! I have got to learn how to lie better. But, quite honestly, Shane had a lot more proving to do. If not to Sunny, then to me.
We recovered from that overly honest moment and bonded that night to the point that I started saying hi to him when I called their apartment in Chicago and didn't just ask for Sunny immediately. Shane also started to tease me about being a doula, or as he calls it, a mahdoula. Shane cracked mahdoula jokes at my expense for years but guess who's happy I'm a doula now since I'm attending the birth of their kid soon?
In my role as #1 mahdoula, I recently spent some time reading about childbirth and remembering what doulas actually do since it's been so long. Last weekend I took the bus to Chicago to talk to them about the good times ahead and I brought materials, comics that I'd made for the occasion.
Some were more useful than others.
Hopefully their baby comes out so easily that Sunny never gets to this point.
So excited.
xx
2.16.2008
A romantic gesture
On February 15 I woke up and saw a dark smudge on my hotel bed sheet.
SHIT.
Why can't I resist those king-sized Snickers? I must have fallen asleep in the middle of another minibar binge. I thought I'd been doing pretty well lately. I HAD polished off a tin of mixed salted nuts earlier that day but had rearranged the remaining tins in attempts to trick housekeeping into thinking they were all there, taking up space, no need to replace anything, people.
This is not to avoid paying for the old nuts, this is to avoid inhaling the new nuts.
I got out of bed and saw lots of dark smears on the carpet. I AM A PIG! Shame, chagrin, etc. I opened the curtain, ready to shed light on the mortifying scene, and turned around to discover that the smudges were actually ROSE PETALS.
Strewn across the bed, carpeting the floor with stains of red, were roses.
I remembered the night before when Sunny and Shane were in my room and saw the single rose stuck between pillows on my bed.
Romantics that they are, they were like, "What's that? That's gross."
And I explained that the flight attendant gave it to me for Valentine's Day and I thought it was a nice little gesture on his part. Dang.
SHIT.
Why can't I resist those king-sized Snickers? I must have fallen asleep in the middle of another minibar binge. I thought I'd been doing pretty well lately. I HAD polished off a tin of mixed salted nuts earlier that day but had rearranged the remaining tins in attempts to trick housekeeping into thinking they were all there, taking up space, no need to replace anything, people.
This is not to avoid paying for the old nuts, this is to avoid inhaling the new nuts.
I got out of bed and saw lots of dark smears on the carpet. I AM A PIG! Shame, chagrin, etc. I opened the curtain, ready to shed light on the mortifying scene, and turned around to discover that the smudges were actually ROSE PETALS.
Strewn across the bed, carpeting the floor with stains of red, were roses.
I remembered the night before when Sunny and Shane were in my room and saw the single rose stuck between pillows on my bed.
Romantics that they are, they were like, "What's that? That's gross."
And I explained that the flight attendant gave it to me for Valentine's Day and I thought it was a nice little gesture on his part. Dang.
2.14.2008
Zapatistas, mariachis, Homies
Carl needs to see what his inspiration has inspired in others.
I'm speaking about the box of XL beige t-shirts with my 8-year-old face on them that he sent me anonymously last year. I don't know if Carl wanted to make me laugh or if he just wanted to freak me the hell out, but he did both.
My favorite thing about the shirts now is that a lot of people assume they're in homage to a child who's passed away. And in a way, she has. Though she's in me somewhere. Sometimes deep within, sometimes closer to the surface.
I just found out that Dennis and Matthew Eisen took a road trip to Chicago from Cincinnati in November and that Casey Lasso whipped out the shirt for them.
What I like about this is how it combines Casey's fixation on Homies with a mariachi. Plus a Zapatista is aiming his gun at my forehead. I'm still just as pleased and smiley as ever!
And, really, given my ribbons and puffed sleeves and early braces, what could I possibly have to worry about?
I'm speaking about the box of XL beige t-shirts with my 8-year-old face on them that he sent me anonymously last year. I don't know if Carl wanted to make me laugh or if he just wanted to freak me the hell out, but he did both. My favorite thing about the shirts now is that a lot of people assume they're in homage to a child who's passed away. And in a way, she has. Though she's in me somewhere. Sometimes deep within, sometimes closer to the surface.
I just found out that Dennis and Matthew Eisen took a road trip to Chicago from Cincinnati in November and that Casey Lasso whipped out the shirt for them. 
What I like about this is how it combines Casey's fixation on Homies with a mariachi. Plus a Zapatista is aiming his gun at my forehead. I'm still just as pleased and smiley as ever!And, really, given my ribbons and puffed sleeves and early braces, what could I possibly have to worry about?
1.01.2008
12.05.2007
Mary Ann says the MF-word
I recently got an email from my cousin Mary Beth who was reminiscing about the "totally rad" time we saw Last of the Mohicans 15 years ago.
I was a senior in high school and she was a freshman and thought it was super cool that we were hanging out together in downtown Chicago with my mom and my family's exchange student, Joanna.
I remember that night too, mainly because my mom spent most of the film annoying me by pulling her turtleneck up over her entire head and face during any scene involving bows, arrows or violence. She'd pull the turtleneck down after the scene, lean towards me and stage whisper, "WHAT HAPPENED?"
At the time, this was only slightly more galling than her crouching behind the couch during fight scenes and popping up later to whisper the same question. Because I kind of felt like you either had to take it or not watch it or just use your imagination. Not whisper about it. GOD, MOM.
Mary Beth also told me in her email that she was thinking about me because at Thanksgiving dinner she and Jeremy were chatting with my mom who mentioned that she thinks I use the word motherfucker too much. Apparently, though, my mom didn't exactly whisper the word. She straight up said it and my cousins laughed because it was a tiny bit weird to hear aunt Mary Ann throwing "motherfucker" around on the day of giving thanks.
Whereas I knew all along that she had it in her.
I was a senior in high school and she was a freshman and thought it was super cool that we were hanging out together in downtown Chicago with my mom and my family's exchange student, Joanna.
I remember that night too, mainly because my mom spent most of the film annoying me by pulling her turtleneck up over her entire head and face during any scene involving bows, arrows or violence. She'd pull the turtleneck down after the scene, lean towards me and stage whisper, "WHAT HAPPENED?"
At the time, this was only slightly more galling than her crouching behind the couch during fight scenes and popping up later to whisper the same question. Because I kind of felt like you either had to take it or not watch it or just use your imagination. Not whisper about it. GOD, MOM.
Mary Beth also told me in her email that she was thinking about me because at Thanksgiving dinner she and Jeremy were chatting with my mom who mentioned that she thinks I use the word motherfucker too much. Apparently, though, my mom didn't exactly whisper the word. She straight up said it and my cousins laughed because it was a tiny bit weird to hear aunt Mary Ann throwing "motherfucker" around on the day of giving thanks.
Whereas I knew all along that she had it in her.
11.21.2007
Don't want to be a Scientologist
I got reflective today while driving in Los Angeles today. (In between bouts of calling people a-holes, passing two accidents, and swerving around lots of cars doing lots of stupid things.)
A radio DJ said that he didn't know if it was holiday traffic or what but to be careful because people were driving like crackhead lunatics. I agreed. I'd been in my old hood Atwater Village and I'd stopped by its nearby Armenian enclave. I had the radio tuned to Latino 96.3 and was laughing because someone had just given a shout out to their "big cup o' Kool-Aid" and I was thinking that I need to start calling my friends my big cups o' Kool-Aid when the light changed and I stopped.
The light was at L. Ron Hubbard Way and a man crossed the street before heading into the Scientology compound. And this man, in the space of ten seconds, freaked me out.
He was a too-tan and middle-aged and he didn't take his eyes off me the whole time he was in the crosswalk. And he wasn't hitting on me because his eyes weren't friendly. Nope, I'm pretty sure he was trying to latch onto my soul to gauge just how black it is. And imagining how shimmery and translucent his people could make it.
I met his eyes and held the gaze while turning my head to follow as he walked past, but the whole time my head was retracting backwards so that when he reached the other curb, I had nine chins and no neck. My eyebrows were also up around my hairline.
"What the f was that!" I thought. "That guy was NOT my big cup o' Kool-Aid."
This is where I got reflective about how depending on what neighborhood you're in and what kind of work you do and who you end up knowing, your experience of Los Angeles could be tremendously different than someone else's. This might seem obvious - I used to think the same thing all the time about New York when I lived there - but I now realize that these are the only two places I've been where this feels really, really true.
Before New York I thought of it as the place where people walk fast, talk fast, and tell you exactly what they're thinking. All of the images in my head: subways screeching, horns honking, Brooklyn brownstones, museums, Central Park, bike couriers, bagels, all of it was there.
But each block was such a microcosm. I flipped out the day I realized that more people were on my block of 3rd street between B and C than in the entire Minnesotan town where Gail lived. Not to mention the different worlds of arty East Village, Victorian houses of Midwood, and Staten Island, the mystery borough.
Other cities that I've spent real time in - Chicago, Seattle, Minneapolis, Olympia, Cincinnati, Columbus - haven't held this quality. It's partly size, but it's more than that. Three million people live in Chicago and every language is spilling out of every color of face you can think of, yet Chicago IS SO CHICAGO. I wouldn't be surprised if a Laotian immigrant knew how to grill better than me after a year in Chicago and we started bumping into each other at mutual friends' barbeques.
And Los Angeles? Before I got here I thought of it as the epicenter of pollution, superficiality, and celebrity-obsessed, tanning-bed addicts who drive everywhere, dropping names and being fake like it's their job. Oh wait, IT IS.
And I have seen some of that. But I've seen much more, as well. There is a culture of LA and I talk shit about it all the time: "That guy looks like a d-bag with his LA hair", but I now know that there are offshoots of that culture that look nothing like it.
Inglewood and South Central barely qualify for the same universe as Beverly Hills and Bel-Air, but it's all greater LA. And there are even areas in between that feel kind of low key and solid. All I know is a) You just never know and b) I still don't want to be Scientologist.
A radio DJ said that he didn't know if it was holiday traffic or what but to be careful because people were driving like crackhead lunatics. I agreed. I'd been in my old hood Atwater Village and I'd stopped by its nearby Armenian enclave. I had the radio tuned to Latino 96.3 and was laughing because someone had just given a shout out to their "big cup o' Kool-Aid" and I was thinking that I need to start calling my friends my big cups o' Kool-Aid when the light changed and I stopped.
The light was at L. Ron Hubbard Way and a man crossed the street before heading into the Scientology compound. And this man, in the space of ten seconds, freaked me out.
He was a too-tan and middle-aged and he didn't take his eyes off me the whole time he was in the crosswalk. And he wasn't hitting on me because his eyes weren't friendly. Nope, I'm pretty sure he was trying to latch onto my soul to gauge just how black it is. And imagining how shimmery and translucent his people could make it.
I met his eyes and held the gaze while turning my head to follow as he walked past, but the whole time my head was retracting backwards so that when he reached the other curb, I had nine chins and no neck. My eyebrows were also up around my hairline.
"What the f was that!" I thought. "That guy was NOT my big cup o' Kool-Aid."
This is where I got reflective about how depending on what neighborhood you're in and what kind of work you do and who you end up knowing, your experience of Los Angeles could be tremendously different than someone else's. This might seem obvious - I used to think the same thing all the time about New York when I lived there - but I now realize that these are the only two places I've been where this feels really, really true.
Before New York I thought of it as the place where people walk fast, talk fast, and tell you exactly what they're thinking. All of the images in my head: subways screeching, horns honking, Brooklyn brownstones, museums, Central Park, bike couriers, bagels, all of it was there.
But each block was such a microcosm. I flipped out the day I realized that more people were on my block of 3rd street between B and C than in the entire Minnesotan town where Gail lived. Not to mention the different worlds of arty East Village, Victorian houses of Midwood, and Staten Island, the mystery borough.
Other cities that I've spent real time in - Chicago, Seattle, Minneapolis, Olympia, Cincinnati, Columbus - haven't held this quality. It's partly size, but it's more than that. Three million people live in Chicago and every language is spilling out of every color of face you can think of, yet Chicago IS SO CHICAGO. I wouldn't be surprised if a Laotian immigrant knew how to grill better than me after a year in Chicago and we started bumping into each other at mutual friends' barbeques.
And Los Angeles? Before I got here I thought of it as the epicenter of pollution, superficiality, and celebrity-obsessed, tanning-bed addicts who drive everywhere, dropping names and being fake like it's their job. Oh wait, IT IS.
And I have seen some of that. But I've seen much more, as well. There is a culture of LA and I talk shit about it all the time: "That guy looks like a d-bag with his LA hair", but I now know that there are offshoots of that culture that look nothing like it.
Inglewood and South Central barely qualify for the same universe as Beverly Hills and Bel-Air, but it's all greater LA. And there are even areas in between that feel kind of low key and solid. All I know is a) You just never know and b) I still don't want to be Scientologist.
8.08.2007
I didn't know Casey even had shoulders
I was psyched to discover in Chicago that I still had an unexpired CTA public transit card in my wallet. I asked the hotel concierge for directions to the closest blue train and walked three blocks to Clark and Lake, feeling majorly crushed out on Chicago. On the subway platform, my crush intensified.
I loved the punk rock girl with the bullet belt. And the people with suitcases who made their way to O'Hare airport. I liked the thug who stared at the third rail, nodding to the beats in his earphones. Most of all, I felt something special for the guy I overheard talking about the barbeque he was headed to.
Because CHICAGOANS KNOW A BARBEQUE. It's not even seasonal, either. I personally saw Shane throw sausages on the grill during an especially unholy stretch of winter. After shoveling two flights of steps on the back deck in his puffy coat. Shane, being from Chicago, is committed enough to do what it takes to barbeque, whatever that might be: crampons, ice shelter, etc. So now? In the thick heat of August? You know it's out of control.
I got off the train and walked down Damen Avenue to Casey's house. And the entire walk, I felt just as I did in third grade when I got glasses and suddenly saw all this stuff in the world that I hadn't before:
The trees! So green! So blue the sky! Outdoor tables! Full of people smiling, laughing, and wearing sunglasses! All that skin! So tan! Chicago summer, finally! At Casey's apartment building, I rang her doorbell and she buzzed me in.
"Do you like my sandals?" She asked me before I'd fully rounded the corner from the steps to her doorway.
"Wow," I said. "WOW. Where'd you get those? Payless?" Which, looking back, is a pretty bitchy question.
Luckily Casey thought it was funny since the whole reason she'd said anything is because she thinks they are terrible to look at. But comfortable. And she won't wear them outside, even though I told her I think they are totally appropriate for the pool. If you are my grandma.
"Casey," I said. "You look different. It's not just the elderly sandals that you bought online."
The last time I saw her was in Chicago, right before I left for LA. It was March, so she was still wearing the knee-length down jacket that she had on every single other time I saw her last winter. Now she's sporting this Panamanian skin everywhere, on her shoulders and arms and legs. I hardly recognized her.
What I did recognize was the HOMIES collection displayed around Casey's apartment. Here you see not only Homies but the Caucasian types in capes who are representing, I don't know, the Middle Ages of Europe? Maybe they're wizards. I seriously have no idea. Lisa, my former boss at the Feminist Press, gave them to me. They used to sit atop the computer in her office. Now they are holding up the weight of homeboy who appears to be wearing a robe. I passed them on to Casey as a going away present when I left Chicago.
I loved the punk rock girl with the bullet belt. And the people with suitcases who made their way to O'Hare airport. I liked the thug who stared at the third rail, nodding to the beats in his earphones. Most of all, I felt something special for the guy I overheard talking about the barbeque he was headed to.
Because CHICAGOANS KNOW A BARBEQUE. It's not even seasonal, either. I personally saw Shane throw sausages on the grill during an especially unholy stretch of winter. After shoveling two flights of steps on the back deck in his puffy coat. Shane, being from Chicago, is committed enough to do what it takes to barbeque, whatever that might be: crampons, ice shelter, etc. So now? In the thick heat of August? You know it's out of control.
I got off the train and walked down Damen Avenue to Casey's house. And the entire walk, I felt just as I did in third grade when I got glasses and suddenly saw all this stuff in the world that I hadn't before:
The trees! So green! So blue the sky! Outdoor tables! Full of people smiling, laughing, and wearing sunglasses! All that skin! So tan! Chicago summer, finally! At Casey's apartment building, I rang her doorbell and she buzzed me in.
"Do you like my sandals?" She asked me before I'd fully rounded the corner from the steps to her doorway. "Wow," I said. "WOW. Where'd you get those? Payless?" Which, looking back, is a pretty bitchy question.
Luckily Casey thought it was funny since the whole reason she'd said anything is because she thinks they are terrible to look at. But comfortable. And she won't wear them outside, even though I told her I think they are totally appropriate for the pool. If you are my grandma."Casey," I said. "You look different. It's not just the elderly sandals that you bought online."
The last time I saw her was in Chicago, right before I left for LA. It was March, so she was still wearing the knee-length down jacket that she had on every single other time I saw her last winter. Now she's sporting this Panamanian skin everywhere, on her shoulders and arms and legs. I hardly recognized her.
What I did recognize was the HOMIES collection displayed around Casey's apartment. Here you see not only Homies but the Caucasian types in capes who are representing, I don't know, the Middle Ages of Europe? Maybe they're wizards. I seriously have no idea. Lisa, my former boss at the Feminist Press, gave them to me. They used to sit atop the computer in her office. Now they are holding up the weight of homeboy who appears to be wearing a robe. I passed them on to Casey as a going away present when I left Chicago.
4.19.2007
Dog faces
Iska, Ironton, MinnesotaWhat you don't see in this photo is the Alaskan Malamute licking and eating deer carcasses or tearing a mouse's head from its shoulders as I once witnessed. Gail pointed out that the mouse beheading wasn't as "bad" as I shrieked so I stood corrected and agreed that, yes, it's just nature.
But how much did I want to laugh when shortly thereafter, Iska clobbered the baby's face with a huge, wet, mouse-flavored kiss in front of Gail's mom, who didn't know about the rodent breath?
Lulu, Chicago, Illinois
Lulu is very bad.
I don't know if John Cusack would agree but I think it's hilarious that she attacked him when he came to Sunny and Shane's door. He had a scarf on his head so he was unrecognizable to Lulu who otherwise surely would have identified him from Better Off Dead and High Fidelity.
Yogi and Ariel, Jerusalem, Israel
I only met Yogi once when I helped walk him around the East Village but that walk alone gave me no doubt that this is a spirited dog who would enjoy a good Jewish holiday like Purim. Yogi is not the kind of dog to deny feasting and gladness and commemoration of the time when the Jewish people in Persia were saved from extermination.
Whether or not Yogi drank, as the Talmud says, until he couldn't tell the difference between "cursed be Haman" and "blessed be Mordecai" is hard to say but I'm sure he stood by Ariel's side during this joyous time.
3.08.2007
Clear plastic pumps?
This thing happens when I'm planning to move where I'm FINE. I'm calm and I'm FINE. I'm not stressed, at least not any more than usual. Everything's cool. No biggie. How many times have I done this? Whatever!
But one day I might need to go into a room, shut the door behind me, and slide my back down along the door frame. I'll sit crouched on heels, elbows crossed over knees, head hanging, overwhelmed. Normally this would be my bedroom, though bathrooms work really well, too, with their tiled psychiatric unit vibe.
I can't focus on anything EXCEPT INTERNET SHOPPING.
It happened when I left Seattle for New York. I channeled all of my moving anxiety into eBay and found myself profoundly and inexplicably pining for big fake turquoise jewelry and a pair of clear plastic pumps. I shit you not.
I was housesitting at the time and spent several days hovering around the computer, monitoring my bids, and tore myself away only to heat up something from Trader Joe's and to take the three Siberian huskies to the dog park.
Yesterday it took me two hours longer than it should have to leave the house because I first had to search online for the perfect combination of messenger bag or backpack to match every article of clothing I've ever owned.
I thought I'd found two bags I liked on the Zappos website and was poised to enter my credit card information when I remembered something: A teal and chartreuse dragonfly print shirt that I haven't worn in five years.
Both bags clashed with that shirt. Never mind that EVERYTHING, except maybe the backs of closed eyelids, clashes with that shirt and that's why I never wear it. Never mind that I had to make an appointment with a tax accountant, change banks, compare shipping rates for sending all my stuff to California, and research medical insurance. Never mind that I had only slept for four hours.
The point was that my future was wound up tightly with a shirt that hasn't seen daylight since 2002 - that and my ability to take advantage of free overnight shipping.
But one day I might need to go into a room, shut the door behind me, and slide my back down along the door frame. I'll sit crouched on heels, elbows crossed over knees, head hanging, overwhelmed. Normally this would be my bedroom, though bathrooms work really well, too, with their tiled psychiatric unit vibe.
I can't focus on anything EXCEPT INTERNET SHOPPING.
It happened when I left Seattle for New York. I channeled all of my moving anxiety into eBay and found myself profoundly and inexplicably pining for big fake turquoise jewelry and a pair of clear plastic pumps. I shit you not.
I was housesitting at the time and spent several days hovering around the computer, monitoring my bids, and tore myself away only to heat up something from Trader Joe's and to take the three Siberian huskies to the dog park.
Yesterday it took me two hours longer than it should have to leave the house because I first had to search online for the perfect combination of messenger bag or backpack to match every article of clothing I've ever owned.
I thought I'd found two bags I liked on the Zappos website and was poised to enter my credit card information when I remembered something: A teal and chartreuse dragonfly print shirt that I haven't worn in five years.
Both bags clashed with that shirt. Never mind that EVERYTHING, except maybe the backs of closed eyelids, clashes with that shirt and that's why I never wear it. Never mind that I had to make an appointment with a tax accountant, change banks, compare shipping rates for sending all my stuff to California, and research medical insurance. Never mind that I had only slept for four hours.
The point was that my future was wound up tightly with a shirt that hasn't seen daylight since 2002 - that and my ability to take advantage of free overnight shipping.
12.04.2006
On a journey with a siamese cat and a regular cat
The night before I was to leave Chicago, Shane told me we were going to have a celebration. I didn't know if he meant to celebrate the magical world of High School Musical I was about to enter or the fact that I wouldn't be around for a while to cast him dark looks and make fun of the way he shovels, but I was in.
I was starting to feel bittersweet and conflicted about my sudden departure and it wasn't just the fact that I was uprooting myself almost immediately after I'd told myself to lay down some f'in roots and stay put.
It wasn't just the disruption of the local work I'd found and really like doing. It wasn't just the fact that I wouldn't be able to wear the heavy wool-lined winter boots I'd bought, those which look EXCESSIVELY prepared to stomp down icy sidewalks.
It was the little stuff around the house, the funny stuff mixed in with the everyday moods and schedules and frustrations, that makes living with friends different, and in many ways better, than visiting for a weekend.
For eight weeks, I don't get to see Sunny defile the Reddi-Whip and then try to tell me that it's organic, except for maybe the ingredient "propellant".
I'm not going to hear Shane singing "Po-rk Shoul-der" in honor of the pork shoulder given to him in Memphis, checked in his baggage, flown home, carved up, and sung about in tune to the 1984 hit "Sex Shooter" by the Prince-created 80s trio, Apollonia 6.
Pork Shoulder
Shootin love in your direction.
I'm a pork shoulder
Come on play with my affection.
Come on kiss the gun.
The night before we thought I was leaving, before we knew for sure that a blizzard would cancel flights out of O'Hare, Sunny went to bed early since she's a responsible teacher who knows something about waking up at 6am to face a roomful of 15-year-olds. Shane and I stayed up and made drinks. I got on and off the phone with American Airlines and we talked and made more drinks and put on a movie.
Sunny came out for water at one point - not be confused with the point when she stuck her head out from the bedroom door and asked us to keep our voices down - and asked what we were watching.
"Thank You for Not Smoking," I said.
"Is it good?" she asked.
"We're not really paying attention, but we think it is," I said.
A little later Shane said, "This movie is making me feel like I didn't study."
"Filmmakers are the worst," He added.
"Who's the second worse?" I asked.
"Writers," He said. "Well, writers are the best of the worst."
"Who's the most terrible of everyone?" I wanted to know.
"Girls in LA."
"I think they belong on a different list," I said.
So we began making lists and I transcribed. The next day when Sunny came home from school, I read aloud from my notebook what Shane and I talked about the night before. What we found at the top of the page, free of any explanation and with no context whatsoever, and nowhere near any list was ON A JOURNEY WITH A SIAMESE CAT AND A REGULAR CAT.
And neither of us have any idea what THAT'S all about. I'll miss this place.
I was starting to feel bittersweet and conflicted about my sudden departure and it wasn't just the fact that I was uprooting myself almost immediately after I'd told myself to lay down some f'in roots and stay put.
It wasn't just the disruption of the local work I'd found and really like doing. It wasn't just the fact that I wouldn't be able to wear the heavy wool-lined winter boots I'd bought, those which look EXCESSIVELY prepared to stomp down icy sidewalks.
It was the little stuff around the house, the funny stuff mixed in with the everyday moods and schedules and frustrations, that makes living with friends different, and in many ways better, than visiting for a weekend. For eight weeks, I don't get to see Sunny defile the Reddi-Whip and then try to tell me that it's organic, except for maybe the ingredient "propellant".
I'm not going to hear Shane singing "Po-rk Shoul-der" in honor of the pork shoulder given to him in Memphis, checked in his baggage, flown home, carved up, and sung about in tune to the 1984 hit "Sex Shooter" by the Prince-created 80s trio, Apollonia 6.
Pork Shoulder Shootin love in your direction.
I'm a pork shoulder
Come on play with my affection.
Come on kiss the gun.
The night before we thought I was leaving, before we knew for sure that a blizzard would cancel flights out of O'Hare, Sunny went to bed early since she's a responsible teacher who knows something about waking up at 6am to face a roomful of 15-year-olds. Shane and I stayed up and made drinks. I got on and off the phone with American Airlines and we talked and made more drinks and put on a movie.
Sunny came out for water at one point - not be confused with the point when she stuck her head out from the bedroom door and asked us to keep our voices down - and asked what we were watching.
"Thank You for Not Smoking," I said.
"Is it good?" she asked.
"We're not really paying attention, but we think it is," I said.
A little later Shane said, "This movie is making me feel like I didn't study."
"Filmmakers are the worst," He added.
"Who's the second worse?" I asked.
"Writers," He said. "Well, writers are the best of the worst."
"Who's the most terrible of everyone?" I wanted to know.
"Girls in LA."
"I think they belong on a different list," I said.
So we began making lists and I transcribed. The next day when Sunny came home from school, I read aloud from my notebook what Shane and I talked about the night before. What we found at the top of the page, free of any explanation and with no context whatsoever, and nowhere near any list was ON A JOURNEY WITH A SIAMESE CAT AND A REGULAR CAT.
And neither of us have any idea what THAT'S all about. I'll miss this place.
11.24.2006
What doors?
Shane suspects I sit around all day and blog around him. He thinks that if he hasn't read it, it's because I've written about him secretly on my OTHER blog, the top secret blog I keep from him.
When P-nut comes over to the house and doesn't see me right away, he asks, "Where's Jessica? Blogging?" And if we go out to dinner, Q begs me to tell him what I've said about Shane. WHEN I HAVEN'T SAID SHIT ABOUT SHANE. Except that he hates roommates.
I'm going to end that right now. The saying, not the hating.
When Sunny and Shane asked me in August to move in with them, we struck a few deals. One deal was that we'd start by living together for six months. After six months, we'd decide if I should stay or go because either a) I'd need my own space for temperamental reasons and/or b) they'd realize there's a reason married people don't always let the best friend of one of them move in.
The second deal was that I'd pay rent on October 1 for the little room in the front of the house, off the living room.
The third deal was that Shane would put up doors on the room.
It would be untrue to say that we agreed the doors HAD to be up by when I moved in, but that was maybe implied. Sunny and I cracked prescient jokes about how Shane and I were going to have funny fights about the doors. Or lack thereof.
I got to Chicago on October 9 and knew that Shane had to special order the doors since the space wasn't a standard size. I'm not going to speculate about when Shane actually talked to the door people and told them to start cutting because that doesn't matter. What mattered is I knew doors were on their way.
In the meantime I thought it was cute that Hugo, the brown dog, stuck his head around the curtain every night to check and make sure I was there before he went to bed in the other room.
And I was cool with Lulu, the pit bull, bossing me around and growling menacingly in the middle of the night when I tried to wedge my body out from the space between the mattress and the wall that she had squeezed me into.
A part of me has come to accept that it is, if not Lulu's world, Lulu's bed, and she's just letting me in it.
Eventually the doors arrived but stayed in the garage while Sunny painted them silver and let them dry. I covertly took photos of Shane's to-do lists, written on the biggest post-it notes ever. You can see here the giant post-it notes and lists, posted over his desk, carefully categorized and crossed off.
A couple of weeks later Shane built a header because some instructions said the doors weren't the right size. Then some other instructions said the doors were the right size. Then Shane took down the header and called a contractor.
The contractor was supposed to hang the doors on Friday, THE DAY I WAS TO LEAVE CHICAGO for two months. We all thought that was pretty funny. The contractor's truck couldn't drive through the blizzard, however, the same blizzard my plane couldn't fly through, so I was still home on Saturday and getting ready to go to the airport when the contractor said, "Yeah, I'll do it, but I can't do it right now, I don't have time."
And Sunny and Shane and Lulu and I were all like TELL ME ABOUT IT.
When P-nut comes over to the house and doesn't see me right away, he asks, "Where's Jessica? Blogging?" And if we go out to dinner, Q begs me to tell him what I've said about Shane. WHEN I HAVEN'T SAID SHIT ABOUT SHANE. Except that he hates roommates.
I'm going to end that right now. The saying, not the hating.
When Sunny and Shane asked me in August to move in with them, we struck a few deals. One deal was that we'd start by living together for six months. After six months, we'd decide if I should stay or go because either a) I'd need my own space for temperamental reasons and/or b) they'd realize there's a reason married people don't always let the best friend of one of them move in.
The second deal was that I'd pay rent on October 1 for the little room in the front of the house, off the living room.
The third deal was that Shane would put up doors on the room.
It would be untrue to say that we agreed the doors HAD to be up by when I moved in, but that was maybe implied. Sunny and I cracked prescient jokes about how Shane and I were going to have funny fights about the doors. Or lack thereof.
I got to Chicago on October 9 and knew that Shane had to special order the doors since the space wasn't a standard size. I'm not going to speculate about when Shane actually talked to the door people and told them to start cutting because that doesn't matter. What mattered is I knew doors were on their way.
In the meantime I thought it was cute that Hugo, the brown dog, stuck his head around the curtain every night to check and make sure I was there before he went to bed in the other room. And I was cool with Lulu, the pit bull, bossing me around and growling menacingly in the middle of the night when I tried to wedge my body out from the space between the mattress and the wall that she had squeezed me into.
A part of me has come to accept that it is, if not Lulu's world, Lulu's bed, and she's just letting me in it.
Eventually the doors arrived but stayed in the garage while Sunny painted them silver and let them dry. I covertly took photos of Shane's to-do lists, written on the biggest post-it notes ever. You can see here the giant post-it notes and lists, posted over his desk, carefully categorized and crossed off. 
A couple of weeks later Shane built a header because some instructions said the doors weren't the right size. Then some other instructions said the doors were the right size. Then Shane took down the header and called a contractor.
The contractor was supposed to hang the doors on Friday, THE DAY I WAS TO LEAVE CHICAGO for two months. We all thought that was pretty funny. The contractor's truck couldn't drive through the blizzard, however, the same blizzard my plane couldn't fly through, so I was still home on Saturday and getting ready to go to the airport when the contractor said, "Yeah, I'll do it, but I can't do it right now, I don't have time."
And Sunny and Shane and Lulu and I were all like TELL ME ABOUT IT.
Just say NO
If you are walking at night and a little guy slinks out of a parking lot behind you and asks, "Miss? Can you help me?" and you look back and say, "With what?" and he holds out a keyring and huffs like he's EMBARRASSED to even be ASKING but, "My car just broke down..."
And you notice that he's twitching and blinking like a maniacal weasel who mixed up the last batch of crank reeeeaaaal good, you're just gonna want to cut him off right there with "NO" and keep walking.
You might be aggravated for a few blocks and imagine how you'd like to grab his ropey little neck and slam him up against the side of Walgreen's so that his legs are wiggling in the air like a cartoon and say to him, "Seriously. WHO do you think is gonna fall for that? YOU. TWISTED. LITTLE. IDIOT."
And you notice that he's twitching and blinking like a maniacal weasel who mixed up the last batch of crank reeeeaaaal good, you're just gonna want to cut him off right there with "NO" and keep walking.
You might be aggravated for a few blocks and imagine how you'd like to grab his ropey little neck and slam him up against the side of Walgreen's so that his legs are wiggling in the air like a cartoon and say to him, "Seriously. WHO do you think is gonna fall for that? YOU. TWISTED. LITTLE. IDIOT."
11.13.2006
Ruby Red Monday
Eight years ago I worked at a pawnshop and I used to name days with the other employee, Tom. Good days were Martini Monday and Leave Early Friday. Boring days were Six Inch Veggie Sub Wednesday. Mean days were Balding Guys Shouldn't Wear Ponytails and/or Rip Off Your Neighbor Thursday.
Once Tom pulled an antique typewriter off the shelf and wrote a short story about how we were enslaved by the owner of the pawnshop and being forced to wash his windows with newspapers and pretend like it was okay for him to wear moccasins - all for minimum wage.
I thought about Tom today when the sun never really materialized and the grey clouds hung heavy over the city. Every single hour, from daybreak on, looked exactly the same, like dingy dusk. Like you should rush through rush hour just to get to the couch and the entire second season of Lost on DVD.
If you're like me and have already popped in the entire second season of Lost on DVD, you might opt to read a thought-provoking work of literature. Unless you find it's difficult to concentrate on anything more complex than the backstories of a fictional group of strangers surviving on a desert island, their jet having plunged into the ocean some 44 fictional days ago.
That's when I realized what it was: Ruby Red Monday.
As in Absolut Ruby Red. As in why did it take the Swedes so long (June 2006) to get this delicious grapefruit-flavored vodka on the shelf? My goodness.
Sunny and I unloaded groceries while taste-testing little glasses of ice and Absolut Ruby Red and I felt absolutely at least a tiny bit better than I did before and I felt SAFE.
In our house we feel safe when Shane comes home from Costco and restocks the bar with giant bottles of whiskey, gin and vodka. Sunny feels safe when the cabinet above the refrigerator is filled to the ceiling with a half dozen 2-liters of seltzer water and 16 rolls of paper towels.
She doesn't sleep well if there aren't several bricks of extra firm tofu waiting to be fried up somewhere and I get a little pit in my stomach if the soups in the cupboard dip into the single digits. I probably don't need to elaborate on the emotions associated with a case of Bud Light.
Where this sinister dependency and Depression-era mentality sprung from, I'm not sure, but I'm in no shape to deny it.
Once Tom pulled an antique typewriter off the shelf and wrote a short story about how we were enslaved by the owner of the pawnshop and being forced to wash his windows with newspapers and pretend like it was okay for him to wear moccasins - all for minimum wage.
I thought about Tom today when the sun never really materialized and the grey clouds hung heavy over the city. Every single hour, from daybreak on, looked exactly the same, like dingy dusk. Like you should rush through rush hour just to get to the couch and the entire second season of Lost on DVD.
If you're like me and have already popped in the entire second season of Lost on DVD, you might opt to read a thought-provoking work of literature. Unless you find it's difficult to concentrate on anything more complex than the backstories of a fictional group of strangers surviving on a desert island, their jet having plunged into the ocean some 44 fictional days ago.
That's when I realized what it was: Ruby Red Monday.
As in Absolut Ruby Red. As in why did it take the Swedes so long (June 2006) to get this delicious grapefruit-flavored vodka on the shelf? My goodness.
Sunny and I unloaded groceries while taste-testing little glasses of ice and Absolut Ruby Red and I felt absolutely at least a tiny bit better than I did before and I felt SAFE.
In our house we feel safe when Shane comes home from Costco and restocks the bar with giant bottles of whiskey, gin and vodka. Sunny feels safe when the cabinet above the refrigerator is filled to the ceiling with a half dozen 2-liters of seltzer water and 16 rolls of paper towels.
She doesn't sleep well if there aren't several bricks of extra firm tofu waiting to be fried up somewhere and I get a little pit in my stomach if the soups in the cupboard dip into the single digits. I probably don't need to elaborate on the emotions associated with a case of Bud Light.
Where this sinister dependency and Depression-era mentality sprung from, I'm not sure, but I'm in no shape to deny it.
11.06.2006
llamas vs. alpacas
Last weekend Sunny and I drove from Chicago to Cincinnati and spent several hours on the Indiana Interstate.
"Not that Illinois is that much better, Sunny said. "But I'm so glad I don't live in Indiana."
"Yeah," I said. "What's the deal with Illinois? I never think about Illinois. Just Chicago. What's with the rest of Illinois?"
"Who knows? I'm surprised whenever I remember Chicago's in Illinois. I always think Chicago's like DC."
"I'm pretty sure this is the first time I've ever thought about Illinois."
We sped along I-65, quietly considering the mystery of the 21st State, the Land of Lincoln, and thinking uncomplimentary thoughts about the Hoosier State. Until I remembered something nice about Indiana.
"My parents' friends Yasna and Jim have a farm in Sunman, Indiana, I said. "They spend every weekend in the country and swim in a huge pond and have horses and lots of land. AND LLAMAS."
And for some reason this was so funny to us that we almost swerved off the road. We realized that not only are we not sure what llamas are FOR, but we're not even sure what llamas ARE.
We made a list of what we think:
1. Llamas are not camels and llamas are not elephants and llamas do not have feathers.
2. Llamas belong in South America, in the the Andes Mountains.
"And what about ALPACA? What's that?" Sunny asked.
"I think alpaca is what you call the hair after you get it off a llama and make it into a hat."
She didn't believe me, "THAT IS SOME MADE UP SHIT."
"Well, you don't shear wool and go, 'look at my sheep sweater,'" I said.
"Oh. I guess you don't admire silkworm shirts, either," she said.
"No. You don't. DAMMIT. Where is Google when you need it? Maybe we can pick up wireless from one of these barns. Slow down."
Llamas are in the camelid family of the central plains of North America from 40 million years ago. Three million years ago, they left for South America. 25,000 years ago, llamas were common in modern day California, Texas, New Mexico, Utah, Missouri, and Florida, but by the end of the last ice age (10,000-12,000 years ago) they were extinct in North America.
Alpacas are cousins of the llama. The Incas used the llamas for transportation and alpacas for their hair, which is finer and silkier than woolly llama hair.
According to the many llama websites I found, people outside the Andean Range now have pet llamas. Because they're nice. Even though they spit and sometimes wrestle with each other, they're fun to have around. They walk around and hum and don't often jump the fence.
"Not that Illinois is that much better, Sunny said. "But I'm so glad I don't live in Indiana."
"Yeah," I said. "What's the deal with Illinois? I never think about Illinois. Just Chicago. What's with the rest of Illinois?"
"Who knows? I'm surprised whenever I remember Chicago's in Illinois. I always think Chicago's like DC."
"I'm pretty sure this is the first time I've ever thought about Illinois."
We sped along I-65, quietly considering the mystery of the 21st State, the Land of Lincoln, and thinking uncomplimentary thoughts about the Hoosier State. Until I remembered something nice about Indiana.
"My parents' friends Yasna and Jim have a farm in Sunman, Indiana, I said. "They spend every weekend in the country and swim in a huge pond and have horses and lots of land. AND LLAMAS."
And for some reason this was so funny to us that we almost swerved off the road. We realized that not only are we not sure what llamas are FOR, but we're not even sure what llamas ARE.
We made a list of what we think:
1. Llamas are not camels and llamas are not elephants and llamas do not have feathers.
2. Llamas belong in South America, in the the Andes Mountains.
"And what about ALPACA? What's that?" Sunny asked.
"I think alpaca is what you call the hair after you get it off a llama and make it into a hat."
She didn't believe me, "THAT IS SOME MADE UP SHIT."
"Well, you don't shear wool and go, 'look at my sheep sweater,'" I said.
"Oh. I guess you don't admire silkworm shirts, either," she said.
"No. You don't. DAMMIT. Where is Google when you need it? Maybe we can pick up wireless from one of these barns. Slow down."
Llamas are in the camelid family of the central plains of North America from 40 million years ago. Three million years ago, they left for South America. 25,000 years ago, llamas were common in modern day California, Texas, New Mexico, Utah, Missouri, and Florida, but by the end of the last ice age (10,000-12,000 years ago) they were extinct in North America.Alpacas are cousins of the llama. The Incas used the llamas for transportation and alpacas for their hair, which is finer and silkier than woolly llama hair.
According to the many llama websites I found, people outside the Andean Range now have pet llamas. Because they're nice. Even though they spit and sometimes wrestle with each other, they're fun to have around. They walk around and hum and don't often jump the fence.
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