"My brothers name is Nathan," she said to me.
"Oh," I said.
"...," I paused.
"Is his name Nathan, or Nathaniel," I asked.
"I have two brothers," she said. "One name Nathan, one named Nathaniel. And my name is Nathalia."
"Oh wow." "Nathalia."
"Yes, not Natalia, but Nathalia."
"I bet that happens to you all the time."
"Uh huh."
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Saturday, March 10, 2007
indulgence
At one a.m. this morning, with one beer, two cigarettes and an irritatingly expanding bladder in me, I decided that I wanted nachos.
Since I became avegetarian non-mammal eater about three weeks ago, I hadn't visited my favorite Mexican restaurant. I decided that it was time to test them out with my new limitations.
I entered and noticed their veggie menu, something I previously ignored. Good omens. My choices were settling between a veggie burrito, and veggie nachos. I chose the nachos and paid my five bucks.
I sat down to wait for my food, understanding that it sometimes takes them awhile to prepare it. They get very busy at night as the drunken crowd wanders in. I picked up a reader and read the cover story while I waited.
It was about a man opening the first USDA certified organic restaurant in Chicago, and the fourth in the nation, and the difficulty that exists in getting certified and remaining so. It's going to be a pizza place in Wicker Park, and I doubt I'll ever go there.
While I was waiting, a woman and three men came in. I heard the woman say, "we're getting it to go." They were dressed tightly, fresh from a bar, and the men were drunker than she. She helped them place their orders, asking each of them what they wanted, and then paying for all of it. The story on the pizza place segued into an organic bakery by way of a shared wholesaler. The pressure in my bladder grew painful.
As I read, I noticed that two of the men had already received their food. What? Hmmm... I continued waiting, eyeing the counter. Then the last man and the woman got theirs and left. I left the paper and went up to the counter. I really had to pee.
The order taker looked at me blankly. I told him that I ordered a veggie nachos about twenty minutes ago.
He looked at me and said, "veggie nachos?" I nodded. He turned around and grabbed a Styrofoam container from a pile. A man next to him stirred beans, nonchalantly. I felt like grabbing my crotch and jumping up and down. The place did not appear to have a bathroom. They must not eat or drink anything while they work.
The order taker prepared my nachos in less than a minute, put it in a bag, and handed it to me.
I stared at him.
I felt like asking for a free drink or something. Extra avocado please?
I didn't. I left, thinking about a toilet, or a dark, out of the way, place. I thought about an article I read recently, citing that 95% of all Londoners have peed, shat, or vomited in public, due to an extreme lack of public toilets in London.
The pressure in my abdomen was awful, and it made me very aware of each step, and my surroundings, like a suddenly turned on spider sense, with an emphasis on urine.
I thought, "I should try to enjoy this extra awareness, and forget about the pain.
I didn't enjoy it.
I got home, and couldn't pee fast enough. I felt that my urethra might tear.
Relieved, I turned on a movie and opened my nachos.
Although they were made in under a minute, they looked good. Cheese, sour cream, guacamole, beans and jalapenos.
I munched through them.
They were much better with chorizo.
Since I became a
I entered and noticed their veggie menu, something I previously ignored. Good omens. My choices were settling between a veggie burrito, and veggie nachos. I chose the nachos and paid my five bucks.
I sat down to wait for my food, understanding that it sometimes takes them awhile to prepare it. They get very busy at night as the drunken crowd wanders in. I picked up a reader and read the cover story while I waited.
It was about a man opening the first USDA certified organic restaurant in Chicago, and the fourth in the nation, and the difficulty that exists in getting certified and remaining so. It's going to be a pizza place in Wicker Park, and I doubt I'll ever go there.
While I was waiting, a woman and three men came in. I heard the woman say, "we're getting it to go." They were dressed tightly, fresh from a bar, and the men were drunker than she. She helped them place their orders, asking each of them what they wanted, and then paying for all of it. The story on the pizza place segued into an organic bakery by way of a shared wholesaler. The pressure in my bladder grew painful.
As I read, I noticed that two of the men had already received their food. What? Hmmm... I continued waiting, eyeing the counter. Then the last man and the woman got theirs and left. I left the paper and went up to the counter. I really had to pee.
The order taker looked at me blankly. I told him that I ordered a veggie nachos about twenty minutes ago.
He looked at me and said, "veggie nachos?" I nodded. He turned around and grabbed a Styrofoam container from a pile. A man next to him stirred beans, nonchalantly. I felt like grabbing my crotch and jumping up and down. The place did not appear to have a bathroom. They must not eat or drink anything while they work.
The order taker prepared my nachos in less than a minute, put it in a bag, and handed it to me.
I stared at him.
I felt like asking for a free drink or something. Extra avocado please?
I didn't. I left, thinking about a toilet, or a dark, out of the way, place. I thought about an article I read recently, citing that 95% of all Londoners have peed, shat, or vomited in public, due to an extreme lack of public toilets in London.
The pressure in my abdomen was awful, and it made me very aware of each step, and my surroundings, like a suddenly turned on spider sense, with an emphasis on urine.
I thought, "I should try to enjoy this extra awareness, and forget about the pain.
I didn't enjoy it.
I got home, and couldn't pee fast enough. I felt that my urethra might tear.
Relieved, I turned on a movie and opened my nachos.
Although they were made in under a minute, they looked good. Cheese, sour cream, guacamole, beans and jalapenos.
I munched through them.
They were much better with chorizo.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
peskitaryan?
I've had internet service back in my home now for about three weeks, following a seven month stint of zero home connectivity. I had anticipated my return to easy internet use, and had been preparing myself for it for months, as I contemplated connecting the service. During this blackout period, I decided that I would become a better net user. I would be more productive with it, and, especially, having the ability to blog again would be great for my writing. I felt that I was ready to blog everyday, regardless of the content.
Well, that hasn't happened. Habits are strong, and I've found that my daily internet activities consist mostly of checking the weather and reading boingboing.net.
So it goes.
About a month ago, I became a selective vegetarian. A pescatarian? A peskatarian; only eats pesks? What's a pesk? I stopped eating mammals, but I'm willing to eat their eggs.
Three weeks ago, I had a dream that I was walking around and waiting for something with some friends from high school. I had a bag of cheeseburgers, and had already eaten one. I reached into the bag and pulled one out-- and remembered that I was a vegetarian. "Oh shit! I can't eat these!" I offered the bag to someone else. Later on I woke up. End.
Well, that hasn't happened. Habits are strong, and I've found that my daily internet activities consist mostly of checking the weather and reading boingboing.net.
So it goes.
About a month ago, I became a selective vegetarian. A pescatarian? A peskatarian; only eats pesks? What's a pesk? I stopped eating mammals, but I'm willing to eat their eggs.
Three weeks ago, I had a dream that I was walking around and waiting for something with some friends from high school. I had a bag of cheeseburgers, and had already eaten one. I reached into the bag and pulled one out-- and remembered that I was a vegetarian. "Oh shit! I can't eat these!" I offered the bag to someone else. Later on I woke up. End.
Saturday, March 03, 2007
meaning
I had a conversation about meaning last week.
Where does meaning come from?
If I make something with a very specific meaning in mind, and give it to someone else, they'll find their own meaning in that thing. The meaning they impart to the thing will be different from mine, even if I do my best to explain what my meaning for it is.
Is my meaning more important because I was the creator?
Is the meaning that Picasso put into one of his paintings more important than the meaning I derive from looking at it?
Where does meaning come from?
If I make something with a very specific meaning in mind, and give it to someone else, they'll find their own meaning in that thing. The meaning they impart to the thing will be different from mine, even if I do my best to explain what my meaning for it is.
Is my meaning more important because I was the creator?
Is the meaning that Picasso put into one of his paintings more important than the meaning I derive from looking at it?
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