The Safety of Objects, Interrupted

Even when I had a job, I couldn't afford to shop at Porte Rouge, yet it never stopped me from wandering inside of it. I liked its ambiance, and imagined it to be the kind of place I'd support if I had the means, in the same way that guys who like cars return again, and again to auto showrooms, a dreamy look on their faces, a sense of calm if only by promixity.

On a few occasions I purchased tea, which came in a bag that I used to tote my lunch in, so in some ways I felt "branded" by the quaint shop full of French countryside inspired furnishings, and housewares.

Today there was a closing sign, advertising up to 75% off.

I held the fake fruit, put it back, almost left, then returned to the fruit again. It was a debate played inside my head, as well as aloud. Amy, the shop owner, was probably more interested in selling a $1,000 table than $4 worth of faux fruit to an indecisive, unemployed fruit bat, but I left Porte Rouge toting a boutique-y baggie with four pieces of fruit, two pears, and two apples, priced to sell at $1 each.

A few minutes later, at the post office, I ran into YA. I gave him a pen because the ones there were out of ink. Then, I gave him my print copy of this week's Reader because he was eyeing it. Finally, I showed him my fruit, which I was really excited by.

"Those don't look real at all," he said.

Shut. Up. I replied in my head. You have no idea what this fruit means! Where it came from!

"Yes, they do look real," is what I think I replied to YA.

Real, or not real, the fruit was part of something that was real, and it will be missed.

Sssshhhhh

There's a place in my neighborhood that looks like a laundromat, but it isn't anything, actually. I was once fooled, and landed in front of this secret place with a heavy basket full of laundry on a very cold, below zero winter evening.

I had just moved, alone, into my then new apartment, and my ex-husband had dropped me off in front of the not laundromat, and sped away. Seconds later I realized that it was not a fully functioning, or even open for business establishment.

I've been asked over the past four years if this place is a laundromat, and the memory of carting the laundry basket in the skin stinging cold back to my new, empty, apartment comes back too quickly. Its sign is a cruel joke. I'd say what's on the sign, but I told the owner I'd keep it on the down-low until the coffee shop opens, though T. gave me permission today to take, and share photos, which I accidentally deleted from my camera (and I'm taking that as some sort of other sign.)

As early as next month this secret spot will be an actual coffee shop. T. said it's okay to say it'll be on North Avenue, but not to reveal its address. Today I toured the inside, and saw antique brick, a custom mural depicting what I am assuming to be a historical Puerto Rican scene, and Tiffany lamps hanging over each table.

It's going to be so cool, and I am so excited. I can't recall being this excited about something in my hood opening. Though it was totally bare, I got a chill looking at the tiled counters, and bar area, because it had a lot of character, rare for a new venture, and I can imagine it being the perfect coffee shop, and much needed, especially now that Filter, Sweet Thang, Blend, and Half and Half have all disappeared.

T. told me that the coffee shop has been a dream of his for the past two years, and that he's been quietly working on it with the help of a few friends. T. is a true local, and he's ran a bodega that's been a neighborhood staple for over two decades. The bodega is adjacent to the coffee shop, and the cans of wet cat food he sells are about 50% less than the same ones at the now closed Always Open, or W. Crossings, so I also have a feeling that the Unnamed Coffee Shop will be priced to attract everyone, like those mortgage officers that can probably no longer afford to eat sushi lunches on North Ave, and people like myself that just can't do the cups of fancy java anymore, or go to places like Earwax where it's easy to feel guilty for not ordering food, too.

Front Vs. Rear

An advantage of moving from the back of my building to the front involves the view, which is more interesting when people are being busted outside my window, as was the case in these photos, taken on Saturday night after leaving a bbq at a "ridiculously" (what's with this word? why is everyone using it? why did i?) early hour, and settling in to "sleep like a baby" (do babies actually sleep well?) in my new room, which is not also an office, too. Yay. As Will said, though, next time leave the lights off when I take pictures of busts. Good point.

Can You Feel It?

Often I go to shows without knowing much about the band, as was the case last night, when J. asked me at the last minute if I'd be up for joining him at Double Door.

I hate to overuse "magical," but the energy in the club bordered on magical, and when Dick Valentine of Electric Six asked, "Can you feel it?" it was obvious that despite his one or two big hits, the erratic touring, and the broke life he kept referring to ("No big light shows! No budget!" was a constant refrain) he was "feeling it," whatever it was, and it showed on his face, which looked happy, alert, and pumped from what I'm guessing was a natural, happy-to-be-here-high.

Valentine wore a pin-stripe suit, and with his boyish face, and small frame he kind of looked like a devious Micheal J. Fox. Within the first couple sets Valentine tore off his suit jacket, and waved it around as the twenty-somethings swooned, holding hands high. He twirled the jacket a few more times, and then kind of hesitated, and held onto it.

He reminded me of Linus from Peanuts, and his blanket, or more likely of a rock star too broke to give away the clothing off his back, though I have a feeling if Electric Six were headlining big shows or selling more music he'd have parted with his jacket in a heartbeat.

I was pleasantly surprised that I ended up knowing Electric Six's music. Both their "Gay Bar," and "Danger! High Voltage" hits were introduced to me by my ex maybe five or six years ago, and initially I thought Electric Six was covering the songs, since I can never remember band names. Post-show research confirmed the hits belong to Electric Six, which made the show more special, as I'd seen their hilarious High Voltage video a bunch of times, and love it. In fact, "Fire in the disco!" was a song lyric tic I could not get out of my head a few years back, and now, for better or worse, it's back. Fire in the disco! Fire in the Taco Bell!

Bang Camero opened for Electric Six, and initially I told J. that I loosely knew of the group, and that the lead singer of Bang Camero would be this guy that works at at shoe store in the neighborhood, and wears weird, jagged ties that he designs himself.

I was wrong. It turns out that both band names share the word "bang," but that's where the similarities end. Bang Camero consists of 14 guys that seem like they descended from the same Boston basement. I wondered how they can survive on the road, with their gig money, which I can't imagine is much, much less after broken down 14 ways.

Yeah, that's 14 guys, all crammed onto Double Door's small stage. All 14 looked like they were having a blast. The riffs were comically long, screechingly loud. There was a lot of long hair between them, of varying degrees of thickness, along with no shortage of head banging.

I found myself unconsciously banging my head along with Bang Camero, too. J. seemed bemused. I didn't expect to enjoy the show as much as I did, and I think it was because both bands seemed genuinely happy to be there. I've been to a Death Cab show where Ben Gibbard spent most of his time between sets bitching on stage about how tired he is from touring. Calling for an encore from Gibbard had felt like pulling teeth, whereas Electric Six kept the magic going for three songs past the show's end. The crowd returned the favor by staying almost entirely put, swaying, and fist pumping until the lights that weren't the big light shows Valentine envisioned went out.

Illustrated Guide to A**holes, Douches & Tools

Determining whether a man is an asshole, douche, or tool is an important skill.

Why? Well, the world is not pretty, nor are the men populating it… A gal needs a field guide to make sense of the myriad of personalities swarming within virtual, and real dating cesspools.

Before I get into detail, and scant at that, please note that not all men are assholes, douches, and tools, it’s just that I've encountered enough of them that it makes sense to get it down on paper, if only to try and make sense of them all. As if!

Following are a few examples, not based on anyone in particular, so stop assuming, please. Some men, the truly elite, are a combination of asshole, douche, and tool *all* the time, while others exhibit certain ADT characteristics based on influencing factors like job and life stress, and having not eaten all day, though those are never excuses for behavior, just mitigating factors. 


An asshole…… is a man that won't wipe the snow off your car, but will sit calmly in the passenger seat as it warms up, and as you strain your back to wipe his vision clear so he can scout out other chicks snot will freeze to your chin. An asshole will also exhibit pronoun changing behaviors, as in “I live in the West Loop,” and not “We,” as in “we,” my girlfriend of 17 years and I just bought a place in the West Loop. An asshole, of course, will prefer text messaging as his primary source of communication, and he will screen calls from his mother.

A douche* ….. Is a man that will tell you only after he's kissed you that he has a wife. A douche would never do anything as conventional as wear a wedding ring, and when you ask him why he did not tell you he was married, he will tell you that you never asked. A douche will also join online dating sites with a fake name, and tell you that he does not want anyone he knows to see his photo, without mentioning that the anyone he knows might be someone he stood in front of 175 family, friends, and acquaintances, and pledged to love forever, and ever, or at least until he opened up an anonymous dating account.

A Tool….. is a former nerd from high school. He's gifted with words and conversation, and when it comes to online dating he is like a kid in a candy store. He's never felt so popular, and at the age of 30 experiences a renaissance where he can finally be the player he never thought he had it in himself to be. He will use his ladies like therapists a la Woody Allen, and beat them down with hours of conversation mainly about himself. He will playfully, and wittily IM into the early hours of the morning with women he has reconnected with via stalker-ish searches on Classmates, Facebook, and Myspace, and once within the throes of a relationship his smaller than average 'tool kit' will require much verbal coaxing, all of which will be reversed the moment you accidentally, foolishly, and regrettably inquire, “Is it in?”


** In regards to the word "douche." I've personally never been a fan of this word, especially when followed by its companion, "bag," yet numerous studies have shown women that douching is *not* good for the body. It messes up natural chemistry and causes infections, thus douching truly is a toxic process, and well, just like Oprah says there are toxic people in everyone's life. Like guys that are douche bags. 


And then there's Idiots!!! These are women that forgo all the nice guys because they just aren’t attracted to them like they are to the assholes of the world. Though, with age, and experience, even an idiot can learn that she deserves much more than an asshole, douche, or tool. An idiot is also a woman that will ask the man painting the apartment she just moved out of if he'd mind posing, and pretending to be a machismo, dork, and meanie because illustrations would be nice to include on a "writing project."

Blond with a Cause, Where Are You Now?

In the summer of 1992 this Personal's Ad was in the Buffalo Grove Countryside newspaper.

In an old notebook I had turned the ad into into a "found poem," and added line breaks. Today, the blond with a cause is now 47, or 48 years old.

Blond with a Cause
Single white female,
35,
5'6,
Attractive, athletic, principaled,
Skeptical, romantic.
Loves kids, and pooches.
HATES PHONIES.
Eclectic interests.
Fan of Clapton, Letterman, Bill Moyers,
and Abe Lincoln.
Want something real.

Something Old is Something New

Despite the economy, I've been shopping again... inside my apartment. The bags from the high shelves in my old place are full of things I haven't looked at in a long time, like this Wenjilli dress that belonged to my grandmother, and is from the 1970s.

It was too big six or seven years ago, the last time I tried it on, but now it seems to fit. The material isn't the coziest, though. The dress is 22% metallic, 66% acrylic, and 12% polyester. It was made in Hong Kong, and is hand wash only.