I went into the starbucks and ordered a grande caramel machiatto. The girl took my order and turned to the new guy at the coffee machines and started giving him instructions. It took a little while for my drink to be made. As I had placed the order, I had taken out my wallet and my credit card and was still standing with them out in my hand while they made the drink. I had spent the previous evening and night and morning drinking and gambling, and my stomach was a little rotten, my mind slow.
They finished the drink and announced it at the little serving spot at the end of the counter. I walked over and took the drink and said, "thank you." The girl told me to have a nice day. My wallet was still in my hand, but now I'd retracted it a little bit under the coat that I had hanging off of one shoulder.
They both turned away from me to do something else. It was not busy. I walked out to my friends and we left, as I put my wallet away.
Thursday, April 27, 2006
Monday, April 24, 2006
Working at Whole foods as a cashier
I began talking to a customer on Sunday as I rang up his order. He looked to be about 36 years old, and seemed happy, though a little tense.He came around the side and started bagging for himself.
"I worked hard for a long time to be able to afford this for myself," he said to me.
The customers that come into my store are commonly upper class and primarily wealthy. I see a lot of young people that have obviously not had to worry about money in their lives so far.
"What do you do?" I asked him, expecting to hear that he was a lawyer or a financial adviser. I often hear people talking on their little ear phones to invisible partners about buying and selling homes and stock while I work. This has become quite standard to me, right along with the women with their Prada and Louis Vuitton and Chanel bags and wallets and belts and glasses.
"I'm a waiter, " he said to me.
I honestly thought he was joking.
I looked up at him, prepared to accept and join in on whatever humor he wanted to share with me.
He was serious.
It was close. I was one slight muscle movement away from joining in on his joke, and making an ass of myself. My robotic self was humbled.
I said nothing for a moment, but continued to ring his order as he bagged.
"Where do you work?" I asked.
He mentioned a restaurant that I've never noticed, but is on my way home in a very affluent stretch of restaurants and boutiques. I told him I probably knew of it, and we didn't say much else. He paid and left, and I continued to work.
"I worked hard for a long time to be able to afford this for myself," he said to me.
The customers that come into my store are commonly upper class and primarily wealthy. I see a lot of young people that have obviously not had to worry about money in their lives so far.
"What do you do?" I asked him, expecting to hear that he was a lawyer or a financial adviser. I often hear people talking on their little ear phones to invisible partners about buying and selling homes and stock while I work. This has become quite standard to me, right along with the women with their Prada and Louis Vuitton and Chanel bags and wallets and belts and glasses.
"I'm a waiter, " he said to me.
I honestly thought he was joking.
I looked up at him, prepared to accept and join in on whatever humor he wanted to share with me.
He was serious.
It was close. I was one slight muscle movement away from joining in on his joke, and making an ass of myself. My robotic self was humbled.
I said nothing for a moment, but continued to ring his order as he bagged.
"Where do you work?" I asked.
He mentioned a restaurant that I've never noticed, but is on my way home in a very affluent stretch of restaurants and boutiques. I told him I probably knew of it, and we didn't say much else. He paid and left, and I continued to work.
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Sakura no hana.
The first time I can remember noticing a cherry blossom was a year ago this April, in 2005. Near my 25th birthday. I saw a tree a few blocks from my house covered in the most awesome blossoms (apologies for the fatuous alliteration (I just wanted an excuse to use "fatuous")) that I'd ever noticed in quantity. Orchids impress me more, but they do not give the sheer visual onslaught that a large cherry tree does.
The flowers are fat and beautiful like a voluptuous belly dancer. They are in your face and showering all around.
I had to ask my girlfriend at the time (a floral worker) if they were what I suspected they were, and had my first mental recognition of cherry blossoms confirmed.
So strange that I could live 25 years without noticing such an awesome event.
It's not because I'd never seen them before. I clearly remember picking cherries from a tree in my friend's backyard when I was 10 years old, and seeing all the rotting cherries laying in the grass. It's the blossoms that did not enter my memory.
Strange to wonder to about all the things that I cannot remember, that I've no idea I've forgotten, or never noticed; all of the dark spots that surround my memory like the night sky surrounds the earth.
So many things to forget each day!
I just microwaved a tiny pizza.
I could forget that too,
but I won't. In fact, I'm going to surround it with the emptiness of my stomach.
Forget that!
The flowers are fat and beautiful like a voluptuous belly dancer. They are in your face and showering all around.
I had to ask my girlfriend at the time (a floral worker) if they were what I suspected they were, and had my first mental recognition of cherry blossoms confirmed.
So strange that I could live 25 years without noticing such an awesome event.
It's not because I'd never seen them before. I clearly remember picking cherries from a tree in my friend's backyard when I was 10 years old, and seeing all the rotting cherries laying in the grass. It's the blossoms that did not enter my memory.
Strange to wonder to about all the things that I cannot remember, that I've no idea I've forgotten, or never noticed; all of the dark spots that surround my memory like the night sky surrounds the earth.
So many things to forget each day!
I just microwaved a tiny pizza.
I could forget that too,
but I won't. In fact, I'm going to surround it with the emptiness of my stomach.
Forget that!
Friday, April 21, 2006
Flowers blooming like cackling hyenas
From the side walk I heard a sound from the street; that of a small dog barking viciously. Curious, I turned my head to the right and looked around. I saw a man on the sidewalk with his bike, stuffing something into his yellow backpack. The sound ceased. I saw cars stopped in a line, waiting for traffic to start moving again.
The barking started once more as the cars began to crawl forward, and it was coming from a white SUV with it's windows open. I looked inside for the dog, but all I saw was a woman in the passenger seat, her mouth open very wide, her head shaking in violent little jerks with each bark of the dog. She was the dog. I watched her for a moment, just long enough for it to register in her or her friends thoughts that someone was staring. I'm sure I'm not the first. Maybe it kept her laughing.
The barking started once more as the cars began to crawl forward, and it was coming from a white SUV with it's windows open. I looked inside for the dog, but all I saw was a woman in the passenger seat, her mouth open very wide, her head shaking in violent little jerks with each bark of the dog. She was the dog. I watched her for a moment, just long enough for it to register in her or her friends thoughts that someone was staring. I'm sure I'm not the first. Maybe it kept her laughing.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
walking home
The weather was nice and warm on my walk home from work tonight. Many people were out, and I chose to take a more populated route along a busy street; perhaps because I was planning to spend my evening alone in my room, writing. The juxtaposition appealed to me.
I found myself walking behind a couple holding hands. I settled into the rhythm of their footsteps, about 20 feet behind them, rather than keeping my pace and passing them. They held the sidewalk between them, walking widely and then closely, varying their distance. The man had the collar of his polo shirt turned up, a current sign of a cavalier attitude among those that own many polo shirts. They were both young, twenty at the oldest, and they seemed carefree and worriless to me. They appeared perfectly comfortable in the affluent neighborhood, as though it matched them perfectly.
As we walked, I noticed that I passed a home on my right that seemed to house the elderly. A large complex, I often saw old folks watering a garden or lounging on portable chair-frames with wheels on the far side of it, when walking through the adjacent park.
It was dark out, but the long walk leading up to the front entrance of the building was lit from below by lights lining the walkway. At the far end from me, I noticed a figure in shadow, sitting. I saw wheels underneath the sitting figure, but it did not seem to be a wheelchair; likely one of the chair-frames that double as walkers that I've seen before. The figure sat there alone, far from the street, but with a clear view of it. I noticed no movement.
I passed, and the figure passed, and I hastened my gait and passed the couple in front of me, surprising them briefly as I walked around from the street side.
It was strange to me to think that I felt more in common with the lone figure sitting on that walk than I felt with the two young lovers I saw on the street.
I found myself walking behind a couple holding hands. I settled into the rhythm of their footsteps, about 20 feet behind them, rather than keeping my pace and passing them. They held the sidewalk between them, walking widely and then closely, varying their distance. The man had the collar of his polo shirt turned up, a current sign of a cavalier attitude among those that own many polo shirts. They were both young, twenty at the oldest, and they seemed carefree and worriless to me. They appeared perfectly comfortable in the affluent neighborhood, as though it matched them perfectly.
As we walked, I noticed that I passed a home on my right that seemed to house the elderly. A large complex, I often saw old folks watering a garden or lounging on portable chair-frames with wheels on the far side of it, when walking through the adjacent park.
It was dark out, but the long walk leading up to the front entrance of the building was lit from below by lights lining the walkway. At the far end from me, I noticed a figure in shadow, sitting. I saw wheels underneath the sitting figure, but it did not seem to be a wheelchair; likely one of the chair-frames that double as walkers that I've seen before. The figure sat there alone, far from the street, but with a clear view of it. I noticed no movement.
I passed, and the figure passed, and I hastened my gait and passed the couple in front of me, surprising them briefly as I walked around from the street side.
It was strange to me to think that I felt more in common with the lone figure sitting on that walk than I felt with the two young lovers I saw on the street.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Getting Older
"Sunrise Assisted Living of Lincoln Park
with a community for the memory impaired"
These are the words on a sign that I frequently walk beneath when leaving my apartment. I look into the building attached to the sign as I walk past, and see soft yellow lighting and lots of browns and yellows and pastels. Flowers sit in vases, always fresh (or fake) and big thick drapes are held back in the day time to let light into the communal areas that I can see into on the ground floor.
If I walk past at dinnertime, I see many of the elderly gathered around tables in the dining area, silver ware and silver drink containers and silver wheelchairs and the people all moving so slowly, their faces like old weathered stone, mostly immobile. It's a rich neighborhood, and this must be an expensive home to live in. A place where the upper middle class come to die, when they can't remember what to do anymore.
When I walk past at night, there is often an ambulance parked outside. People that I see attending the ambulance and it's activities rarely look very worried. They do not move very quickly. They are not in a place of urgency, but a place to forget things.
A place to finally forget to live, after such a long time of remembering.
with a community for the memory impaired"
These are the words on a sign that I frequently walk beneath when leaving my apartment. I look into the building attached to the sign as I walk past, and see soft yellow lighting and lots of browns and yellows and pastels. Flowers sit in vases, always fresh (or fake) and big thick drapes are held back in the day time to let light into the communal areas that I can see into on the ground floor.
If I walk past at dinnertime, I see many of the elderly gathered around tables in the dining area, silver ware and silver drink containers and silver wheelchairs and the people all moving so slowly, their faces like old weathered stone, mostly immobile. It's a rich neighborhood, and this must be an expensive home to live in. A place where the upper middle class come to die, when they can't remember what to do anymore.
When I walk past at night, there is often an ambulance parked outside. People that I see attending the ambulance and it's activities rarely look very worried. They do not move very quickly. They are not in a place of urgency, but a place to forget things.
A place to finally forget to live, after such a long time of remembering.
Monday, April 17, 2006
Sam
Sam was tired. Sam was bored.
He got home from work and set his suitcase on the floor. It was an old case, and he knew that the other sales reps looked down upon him for having such a beat up old case. He'd patched a hole in it with black electrical tape. He sat down in front of his computer and stared at it for a little while. A picture of a sunset, somewhere tropical, was frozen on the screen. He lit a cigarette.
He'd spent most of that day learning to compile spreadsheets with Excel to conform to the companies database records, typing numbers and staring at grids for hours; it was numbing, and his fingers felt like dull pencils.
"Fuck," he mumbled. He looked down at his suitcase, next to the computer, fallen over onto it's side where he'd set it. The tape over the hole was peeling up at the edges, little gummy bits of stickiness holding onto bits of dirt. It looked grimy.
He turned off the computer monitor and got up, leaving his small apartment to walk to the corner store. Bought a bottle of vodka from the mustachioed man behind the counter.
Went back to his apartment and poured a shot. Drank it and felt it burn down to his stomach. Spreadsheets, sales figures, client names, profit margins.
He poured another shot right after the first and drank that one too.
Neckties, starched shirts, ironed pants, patched up holes.
He drank two more shots and laid down on his old couch. He closed his eyes and watched the redness behind his eyelids fade and dull to a darker color as the sun slowly set beyond his window, beyond his darkened computer screen. The alcohol settled into his stomach and along his spine and into his brain, cuddling up with an unsettled crunch of tension coming closer to view. Things left undone.
He opened his eyes, turned his head and looked out the window. Darkness outside. Street lights on, shining and bouncing light in. He sat up, got up, took off his tie and dropped it on the floor.
He left his apartment again. He walked back to the corner and turned and followed that street up to the next one, a wider one.
Cars raced past, making the green light. He walked down that street, stopping on the sidewalk, halfway between the stoplights at either end of the block.
He watched the headlights coming from both directions for a time, the closer ones zooming by from left to right, and the cars flying past on the far side from right to left, the vodka warming his limbs, his fingers; thinking of dull pencils.
He picked a lone pair of lights coming fast from the far right, bracing himself and tensing his legs. He waited for it to get to the green light and come through the intersection. Breathing deep and fast, he waited for it to come towards where he stood, nearer, nearer, and when he wasn't quite sure about it anymore, he lunged forward, running across the street.
The car came at him as a bright leviathan of swiftness. He ran as hard and as fast as he could strain himself to do, directly into it's path. The car's brakes screeched as it tried to stop and the lights swerved erratically. He felt the heat of it as it came on him and jumped forward; felt it's mass moving under and behind him, just missing.
He landed on the sidewalk and kept running, his blood flushing his face, and his lungs bellowing. The screech of brakes ended in a metal crunching crash and thump. He ran into an alley and kept going to the next block over. He slowed down, and noticed a bar. Went inside, sat at the bar and ordered a shot of vodka. The bartender looked at him strangely, but didn't say anything. Sam's hands were shaking and he was red and sweating. He paid for the shot with cash, drank it, and left the bar. Outside he hailed a cab. Sirens wailed in the distance, coming closer, as he got into the car.
Sam told the cabbie to take him downtown. He'd find a bar down there, further away. He thought that he'd probably call into work the next day.
He got home from work and set his suitcase on the floor. It was an old case, and he knew that the other sales reps looked down upon him for having such a beat up old case. He'd patched a hole in it with black electrical tape. He sat down in front of his computer and stared at it for a little while. A picture of a sunset, somewhere tropical, was frozen on the screen. He lit a cigarette.
He'd spent most of that day learning to compile spreadsheets with Excel to conform to the companies database records, typing numbers and staring at grids for hours; it was numbing, and his fingers felt like dull pencils.
"Fuck," he mumbled. He looked down at his suitcase, next to the computer, fallen over onto it's side where he'd set it. The tape over the hole was peeling up at the edges, little gummy bits of stickiness holding onto bits of dirt. It looked grimy.
He turned off the computer monitor and got up, leaving his small apartment to walk to the corner store. Bought a bottle of vodka from the mustachioed man behind the counter.
Went back to his apartment and poured a shot. Drank it and felt it burn down to his stomach. Spreadsheets, sales figures, client names, profit margins.
He poured another shot right after the first and drank that one too.
Neckties, starched shirts, ironed pants, patched up holes.
He drank two more shots and laid down on his old couch. He closed his eyes and watched the redness behind his eyelids fade and dull to a darker color as the sun slowly set beyond his window, beyond his darkened computer screen. The alcohol settled into his stomach and along his spine and into his brain, cuddling up with an unsettled crunch of tension coming closer to view. Things left undone.
He opened his eyes, turned his head and looked out the window. Darkness outside. Street lights on, shining and bouncing light in. He sat up, got up, took off his tie and dropped it on the floor.
He left his apartment again. He walked back to the corner and turned and followed that street up to the next one, a wider one.
Cars raced past, making the green light. He walked down that street, stopping on the sidewalk, halfway between the stoplights at either end of the block.
He watched the headlights coming from both directions for a time, the closer ones zooming by from left to right, and the cars flying past on the far side from right to left, the vodka warming his limbs, his fingers; thinking of dull pencils.
He picked a lone pair of lights coming fast from the far right, bracing himself and tensing his legs. He waited for it to get to the green light and come through the intersection. Breathing deep and fast, he waited for it to come towards where he stood, nearer, nearer, and when he wasn't quite sure about it anymore, he lunged forward, running across the street.
The car came at him as a bright leviathan of swiftness. He ran as hard and as fast as he could strain himself to do, directly into it's path. The car's brakes screeched as it tried to stop and the lights swerved erratically. He felt the heat of it as it came on him and jumped forward; felt it's mass moving under and behind him, just missing.
He landed on the sidewalk and kept running, his blood flushing his face, and his lungs bellowing. The screech of brakes ended in a metal crunching crash and thump. He ran into an alley and kept going to the next block over. He slowed down, and noticed a bar. Went inside, sat at the bar and ordered a shot of vodka. The bartender looked at him strangely, but didn't say anything. Sam's hands were shaking and he was red and sweating. He paid for the shot with cash, drank it, and left the bar. Outside he hailed a cab. Sirens wailed in the distance, coming closer, as he got into the car.
Sam told the cabbie to take him downtown. He'd find a bar down there, further away. He thought that he'd probably call into work the next day.
Friday, April 14, 2006
parking lot
My connection to the internet has been experiencing datum interruptus, which leaves me with a larger hole than I'd really like in my chronicling. So it goes.
-------------------------------------------
A large busy parking lot.
A sunny day in winter, chilly but just a little warmer any place the sun hit, easing zippers and buttons on coats just a bit.
Five security guards monitor the parking lot all day. They drink coffee, chat with people and each other, and watch to make sure noone parks their car and leaves the lot to go somewhere else. It's a free lot, but high volume, so it has to be monitored to protect against abuse. Most of the guards will try to warn someone if they are seen leaving the lot, but sometimes there's no option other than to tow the car away; that is the threat and the occasional reality.
A small of group of people dressed affluently walked out of the lot. A wife and husband, a kid, and a friend, prepared for an afternoon of shopping at the neighboring stores. Their car was parked in the lot that the security guards monitor.
One of the guards stood in the shade of the building at the edge of the lot, watching all the cars. A young woman was jogging away from where he stood, moving towards the family that was then on the sidewalk.
"Hey, " she yelled to the them. "I gave him $10 bucks, so we should be fine!"
The parking guy moved a little further back against the building as the family walked to the corner.
-------------------------------------------
A large busy parking lot.
A sunny day in winter, chilly but just a little warmer any place the sun hit, easing zippers and buttons on coats just a bit.
Five security guards monitor the parking lot all day. They drink coffee, chat with people and each other, and watch to make sure noone parks their car and leaves the lot to go somewhere else. It's a free lot, but high volume, so it has to be monitored to protect against abuse. Most of the guards will try to warn someone if they are seen leaving the lot, but sometimes there's no option other than to tow the car away; that is the threat and the occasional reality.
A small of group of people dressed affluently walked out of the lot. A wife and husband, a kid, and a friend, prepared for an afternoon of shopping at the neighboring stores. Their car was parked in the lot that the security guards monitor.
One of the guards stood in the shade of the building at the edge of the lot, watching all the cars. A young woman was jogging away from where he stood, moving towards the family that was then on the sidewalk.
"Hey, " she yelled to the them. "I gave him $10 bucks, so we should be fine!"
The parking guy moved a little further back against the building as the family walked to the corner.
Friday, April 07, 2006
My teeth
During most of my adolescence and early 20's, I hated my teeth. I liked the bottom row, but my top two front teeth, and most notably, the space between, bothered me.It's taken a long time, but I am comfortable with my teeth now. I like them. They are distinctive and large. When I smile, people notice. My teeth draw attention.
There are some practical aspects to the gap though, that I've had to learn to deal with.
It causes me to have a slight problem with "th" sounds and an occasional whistle with "s"'s. Flecks of spit are more likely to escape through the gap when I speak. Most of the time I can control it well, but I have to be careful when I've been drinking or when I get excited.
One aspect of my toothy separation that I didn't notice till more recently, is the effect it has upon my bite. When I pick up a sandwich and bite into it, a small portion of the sandwich does not get severed, and the sandwich retains a small bridge to the bite that is in my mouth. To fully separate a bite from a sandwich, I need to take several quick bites from side to side, or I need to take one bite and tear away to the left or right with my head.
Bacon is the worst. I seem to never be able to bite all the way through a piece of it. Pepperonis on pizza are almost always eaten whole by me. Strands of fresh onion are also a problem, as they tend to fit nicely into the gap. I'll pull away from the sandwich with my mouthful, and find an onion ring dangling from my lips.
Today, whilst eating a delicious sandwich I made for myself, I discovered a new tactic for sandwich eating which may be a valuable tool in my arsenal of survival techniques.
I pick up the sandwich and squish it pretty flat. Not forcefully, but just enough to compact it a bit.
Then, to bite, I open my jaws, insert the sandwich and bite down, fast! Then pull away just as quickly.
I surprise the sandwich.
It worked!
Thursday, April 06, 2006
American money gets uglier
I am jealous of the currency in other countries; not because of the value of it, but because of the color in it.I started seeing the new $10 bill at my work a week or two ago. The first one I saw, a neurotic woman was about to use to pay for her purchase.
"Is this real?" she asked me.
"That's odd," I said, looking at the bill.
I marked it with the counterfeit-detector pen, and it looked good, then I held it up to the light, and it had a watermark in it.
"It seems real, but I've never seen it before, " I told her. "Maybe it's fake."
"Well then I want to pay with it," she said, appearing anxious about the possibility that her money might be counterfeit.
"I'll take it," I told her. "It's probably a limited edition. Look, it says 2004 on it. It's two years old, but it looks new."
She quickly changed her mind and took the bill back from me. "Good," I thought, "it was probably a fake."
The next day, I saw a few more, and now they're everywhere. I don't like the redesign. I do not appreciate it's aesthetic feel.
The bill looks like a dehydrated person pissed all over it, and then left it in the sun for a week. Then a conservatively prudish and retarded art school graduate was given a red highlighter that was almost out of ink, and told to: "go wild!"; which the graduate did with it's typical lack of gusto.
A Google Image Search for "currency" yields a whole page of links to money that is prettier and more colorful than ours. I'm not including coins in my jealousy; our coins are satisfactory to me. It is our bills that I would like to see really improved.
I believe that Australia has the best example of why our money seems deficient to me.
Their money has depictions of famous Australian artists and prominent members of the culture. Here, you have to be the president to get on a bill. The bills are vibrantly multicolored and shiny and made of plastic. If I were to make space money from the future, I would make it look a little like this.
Our bills are drab and mostly of the same color palette; the few attempts to add color that have been made so far appear to be the work of a printer dying of leukemia; it's soul leaking out with the marrow of it's fading ink.
We are security obsessed, and are ignoring the face we show to the world. The lack of aesthetic appeal of our money is just one more example of the sad state that America is grasping at in it's current decline.
Monday, April 03, 2006
what i did today
I shampooed my hair today.
I picked up the small shampoo bottle that I keep in the shower caddy, and found that it was empty. I reached around the outer shower curtain liner to grab the large bottle of shampoo that I keep on the window sill for refilling of the small bottle. (I prefer to use the small bottle because it opens from the bottom.)
When the small one was full, I squeezed a large amount into my palm and lathered my hair with it. I rinsed. I repeated with a smaller amount of shampoo.
I grabbed my bottle of conditioner and squeezed a large amount of that into my palm. I lathered and lathered and lathered and then rinsed that out.
My hair clean, I reached for the bottle of face wash (also a bottom opener) that I keep in the shower caddy next to the shampoo. I squeezed a small amount of the goop into my left palm, closed the lid, replaced the bottle back into the caddy with my right hand, and brought my left hand up and smeared the goo into my hair, in the same spot I'd put the conditioner.
I realized that I had just smeared daily wash facial cleanser in my hair at the same moment my hand smushed it in. I removed my hand and squinted at it stupidly. I felt the cleansing goo sting a little on my scalp; I washed it out and tried again, remembering to put the goo on my face that time.
I picked up the small shampoo bottle that I keep in the shower caddy, and found that it was empty. I reached around the outer shower curtain liner to grab the large bottle of shampoo that I keep on the window sill for refilling of the small bottle. (I prefer to use the small bottle because it opens from the bottom.)
When the small one was full, I squeezed a large amount into my palm and lathered my hair with it. I rinsed. I repeated with a smaller amount of shampoo.
I grabbed my bottle of conditioner and squeezed a large amount of that into my palm. I lathered and lathered and lathered and then rinsed that out.
My hair clean, I reached for the bottle of face wash (also a bottom opener) that I keep in the shower caddy next to the shampoo. I squeezed a small amount of the goop into my left palm, closed the lid, replaced the bottle back into the caddy with my right hand, and brought my left hand up and smeared the goo into my hair, in the same spot I'd put the conditioner.
I realized that I had just smeared daily wash facial cleanser in my hair at the same moment my hand smushed it in. I removed my hand and squinted at it stupidly. I felt the cleansing goo sting a little on my scalp; I washed it out and tried again, remembering to put the goo on my face that time.
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