:: I wrecked my life partner at scrabble yesterday. Like I wasn’t even playing defense for the second half of the game and finished with a Z and two other tiles on my rack and still won by almost 60 pts. here’s the catch though: the only reason(s) I managed to win by that much were because i threw a tantrum and threatened to quit if she used the space i was planning to spell “quota” (with triple word score in) and then later i insisted that the british spelling of “realised” was a legit move. what’s the lesson here? is it, don’t cheat? or is it don’t be a sucker? i think we all know the answer to that. never mind.
:: I like the Smiths more and more every day?
:: an white-label preview from forthcoming, still-untitled, no-longer-about-dennis-haysbert short story:
prior to that he had spent 30 minutes sitting on the toilet waiting to eliminate waste. after the initial time commitment, and a hasty conclusion that results were not attainable under the present conditions, dennis had made and consumed a large pot of black coffee and returned to the bathroom, where he obtained the demanded satisfaction but found it hollow, particularly after his toilet, of the variety that responds not to a pulled lever but to a small motion-detector, flushed the visceral proof of his coffee-led victory before he had a chance to tour the battlefield.
dennis’ bathroom was equipped with a great number of modernities. not modern conveniences so much as just modernities. the automatic flush, for instance, was a source of little satisfaction or convenience, although if dennis had lost the use of his arms, ask him then what he thought of handless flushing. certainly it was rewarding to not have to use your hands when flushing, or wrench your back (just stand up first, mr. too-busy), but, well, there was a certain reward of its own in deciding whether or not to flush at all, and whatever germs he was avoiding in the handless, pivotless flush weren’t really in play, in a political sense, as dennis was the only human being to have used this restroom, at least permissably, in several months, and any germs left behind by the football-watching guests of the previous autumn had likely died, although who knows.
The theater of embarassment in the restroom had faded to another afternoon on the couch in front of the window, looking out on a sidewalk not that far from a college campus. As a result, or a symptom, or side affect of that campus was a proliferation of these fearful 6-foot tall girls with no hips, but very closely managed, clean, show-dog hair – not a spot of dirt on them. On the surface they seemed at least, in ahem, marital physics or whatever, very desireable. great lawns of flat stomach, round, sloping unmuscled shoulders, these titanic legs that were notably not naked, covered by either a too-big skirt on account of the lack of hips, or by whorish hillbilly blue jeans. but something about their continual interference with his attempt to stare at nothing made Dennis desperately uncomfortable, in a way that was probably 60% sexual, and 20% having to do with their lack of fashion sense, or rather, their lack of knowing without asking what dennis would rather have them wear.
enough of them had unlikely, and Dennis suspected often, falsie, chests that their weird turkey struts down the street were impossible to ignore; even a Dennis who could physicallly restrain himself from eyeballing pretty girls in public (the prevent defense only prevents you from winning, as they say). it was an inescapable, interminable problem, all this bouncing, demo-targeted flesh wobbling by as he heroically struggled, for a second time wrangling with his own digestive tract, to make it through a large bowl of unseasoned boiled baby carrots. now and them one of these lanky women would swoop down and perch on a stoop or planter or bench and sit down, telephone lashed to face, or digging into a purse-satchel-something for energy bars or makeup.
the faces of the girls: the problem or at least a problem that Dennis was having, was the overoccurence of something cruel and vulgar in their facial contours. the overemphasis wasn’t inhuman or even detectably weird. Martian or ape-mouth would represent a jerky misstatement of facts on his part; nor does ugly or violently unappealing or manface adequately address what was tripping Dennis up. It was their anger, a ferocity, competitiveness, staring across an invisible, eternal line of scrimmage across at some fictional, hunted running back, about to steered from his lane into their gangly arms to certain spinal-column malfeasance. Maybe the running guy was Dennis’ masculinity, or his possession of a destructive gaze, or another girl, the true, or false, competition; maybe to the eyes of the lanky girls Republican motherhood was crouched behind center, hands poised to toss some kind of cryptoreversemisogyny down their throasts. that he doubted; but these women were mad, and Dennis, from his window perch, felt pretty certain that he had better find another part of the house to eat his carrots in.
Things i was relieved of when that guy robbed me at gunpoint last night at 54th pl. & Harper:
:: wallet that had Mexican 10-peso note printed on outside
:: $1 and $2 with sentimental/monetary value
:: $10 and $1 bills with monetary value
:: budding affinity for new deal liberalism (suspected, not confirmed)
:: invalid subway sub club sandwich-welfare card (suspected, not confirmed)
:: debit cards, two
:: valid ohio driver’s license
:: expired university of chicago ID card
:: U of C library access card with someone else’s name on it
:: radio shack receipt(s) for a dub cable that didn’t really work
:: a newspaper clipping that said “U.S. divided, but analysts don’t expect culture war”
:: chicago public library card
:: copico card with like $0.45 on it
:: like eight or nine CTA cards with a balance of $0.00
:: at least one 7-day NYC metrocard (expired)
:: any confusion i had about whether or not cops are racist maniacs
Updates, relevant:
:: the subway sub club card (the program has been discontinued) has been located safe and sound in the envelope where i keep my birth certificate and movie ticket stubs. ain’t no viet cong going to destroy the only proof that i ate lunch at least six times last fall at the subway on church ave in borough heights.
I went ahead and bought a copy of Indecision, not out of the expectation that it will be so good or bad as to alter the landscape of my face but that maybe I could try to write something about it and sell it to someone. Also, for fans, I no longer work at a liquor store. I got summarily fired as a response to giving my two weeks’ notice in response to being yelled towards or at in response to a bottle of rèserve perrin côtes du rhone 2001 with a spoiled cork that i failed to properly memorandize/dispose of. I was on a kick, in the end times of working at a liquor store, of being civil, which is not one of my more prominent traits, and i maintained this civility almost all the way to the end of the line, although i did drop a few f-bombs in my um, exit interview, which i, miss lonelyhearts of miss lonelyhearts, feel bad about and wish i could retract. and you can close the book on kelder (thank god). more on Indecision and my pressing need to go to the bathroom after this interruption.
almost forgot: the main point of this post was to let everyone know that I am Going Corporate. further definition of this now-murky process and what it entails, planning-wise, for me, in days to come.
The alluded-to Hyde Park renaissance, as of three days in, hasn’t been terrifically dignified, but dignity, at least producing dignity at a positive deficit, isn’t really what i do, so well, prepare to hear about some undignified things. I half expected that the third, prophesied return to hyde park would run more like arriving in the provincial capital, but since i don’t have the internet and i keep leaving my phone at home, i have no idea if i’ve been summoned to the tax collector’s house for dinner, pear brandy, whist, &c.
:: The unquestioned first-quarter highlight was yesterday afternoon. I insinuated myself into having $15, went to jimmy’s, watched 30 minutes of browns-packers, excused myself minus the $15, and then went to the point, where i swam to the buoy drunk and then sat on a rock for a while feeling less than grand. i spent the next six hours napping in an extremely hot apartment with several pots of coffee and spot applications of scotch where i saw a need developing.
:: hyde park has apparently been invaded, or incursed, by mod rockers. except they seem to be wearing polo shirts and khakis (dress slacks!) where i would have gone with a skinny suit and or those giant royal navy coats with the fake fur hood trim. or anoraks or something. you know what kind of coat i am talking about, don’t use small quibbles to destroy my larger point. which was that i saw two people riding scooters and a third scooter parked, in a marketing capacity, outside of what appears to be a mod-themed business in the space underneath the 57th st. IC traxz. “once is a pattern,” as we have learned from our BQA readings.
:: i bought an electric typewriter that works extremely well for $1, in addition to a towel rack for $3. i predict one of these two things could be instrumental in me actually writing works of fiction, and then having to transcribe them from typed non-internet paper to internet paper.
:: talking about feelings is a Special Treat that i like to avoid, or have liked to try to avoid recently, but i will wallow in it here for a moment with you all. i don’t know who to credit with this analytic tool i am about to introduce, but i think it was andy martin; anyway, we’re all familiar with the idea of a formative nervous breakdown that provides direction for the rest of your life; i feel like i am waiting around for my nervous breakdown and it’s not coming, which means i can’t even get spots on my lungs that result in my magic mountain, i’m just waiting for my spots to be awarded, so i can worry about getting rid of them. also, i thought i already had my formative nervous breakdown? certainly i could have seen that there could be non-formative breakdowns out there.
:: Aesthetic triumph of baseball
Can’t really bring myself to give a shit about football anymore; you might try to blame that on some kind of obligation to root for a Trent Dilfer-centric team, but I think I am going to blame it on anomie or creeping terror. There’s an aesthetic side too though. I specifically hate people who try to say that baseball is a lasting and poignant expression of american poetic cliches because of its visual aspect. there’s nothing cosmically correct about a 45 degree wedge with irregular edging that has goateed men mincing around the narrow point of, nor does the visual action of baseball even remotely function as a metaphor for manifest destiny or white flight (well, maybe that) or the destruction of native peoples, or capitalism eating a wild mustang with hoisin sauce or something. What that was building towards was that baseball uniforms and players, despite being largely unattractive, are much less unattractive that a lot of things, including the other professional sports, and I have started wearing my shirts with the top button undone.
What i realized, when running through the practice-steps logic for my argument about baseball, is that i really just like the Indians and i vicariously receive religious ecstacies through their manhandling of Kansas City and other lesser gentlemen. I’m pretty clearly out to waste time here, so I have to go, but know the following things pilgrims:
:: I still work at a liquor store, where I do something like racial profiling to determine whether or not I should waste the energy/altivez/triforce involved in gross, undisguised retail warfare.
:: I don’t mind the retail warfare part that much, it’s mopping that gets me down in the mouth
:: Read hofrat hagen on how good books TV your shit up. I have been experiencing roughly what he speaks of with Nathanael West, and the first 30 pages of The Confidence-Man, the self-apparent goodness of which somehow took 95 years to actually, um, get noticed by anyone.
i have to move all my shit to hyde park today, back to hyde park, which represents like the 093284234th time i’ve moved in my life; i’m very excited about this, actually, as i will now be living above the pot and pan company on 53rd street (not to mention a check cashing place, a Subway, a jackson hewitt tax agent, and an elementary school) anyway i don’t have to time to explain, i just came to get you out of here. you got my diary? and i used it. and the tomb of sir anselm? found it. did you see him?
i will promise that soon i will have science-based infotainment regarding:
:: that cover story in the reader about the little kid who will probably never stop getting beat up, because of the cover story in question
:: shaquille o’neal and his crusade against intolerance
:: why terry bradshaw and abraham lincoln are both bad people
:: your 2005 cleveland indians and their aesthetic proximity to god
:: working at a liquor store
:: the hyde park renaissance of 05
:: fake alcoholics on the N22 bus
Dumb things I tried recently:
:: Riding a bike about six blocks with left hand steering while holding a takeout cup of scalding coffee in right hand. Amazingly, not one drop of coffee hit me in the hand, though about 1/3 of the cup hit the ground. As soon as my destination was reached and I chained up my bike, I immediately turned and hipchecked a redeye honor box and burned most of my right forearm with coffee.
:: Opening a package of jewel-osco store brand moisturizing soap with my teeth. this did not result in any first-degree burns, but it did involve cutting my gums on the pointy corner of the box and then almost gashing open my whole hand after i switched to scissors.
:: winning $4 in instant lotto tickets, and immediately running back to jewel-osco and spending that $4 on one “Monster Cash” and one “Panda-Money-Um” both of which were 100% losers and I could have spent that $4 on falafel or another two cups of coffee to pour on my arms or drink.
:: trying to promote a cardboard 12pk of corona beer using one hand, cardboard handle rips, beer box smashes into ground. spend next 15 minutes soaking up beer with paper towels; then bleach-spraying beer spill, then getting lightheaded bc i used a lot of bleach in a walk-in cooler, which doesn’t have the best air-exchange rate in the world.
Sports hipster fashion watch, vol. 95:
Still can’t bring self to purchase 1995 Panthers Kerry Collins jersey for $3.50.’
will return forthwith with thoughts on the short fiction of Richard Stern, my own attempts to write short fiction, quaker oats reduced sugar granola bars and dog ownership as a rite of passage for non-dog-owners. and something about human reproductive politics. and some other shit about baby carrots and how much I don’t want to go to work in 86 minutes.
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