A Salute to Years on this New Year's

Tonight, New Years Eve 2008, I will bartend at Whiskey Blue in the W hotel on W Adams St. That bar is closing its doors after at least (I'm unsure of the exact open date) seven years of thrills, booze-filled laughter, chaos, quiet moments, and then clanging of registers. For over five of those years, I worked as a bartender there (full time during periods), and rather enjoyed each of the aforementioned realities contained within its (once dark brown, now turned blue) walls. 

And on this last day of the year, it makes me think of the significance of change; of eras left behind, sounds and sights fading into air to be transformed to dusty memories. Some months ago, I left Whiskey Blue as a regular employee in pursuit of careers closer to my heart (teaching and writing). Since then, I have occasionally filled in for the occasional help with holes in schedules, not to mention lifting of spirits to my pocketbook; but make no mistake: the change brought about by such a move, was initially not easy. 

When I say the change was not easy, I don't mean just financially; for if you have heard that bartending can be a lucrative career, you have heard right, but emotionally as well. Yes it's true: change, while inevitable, is difficult. And the patrons, who after years of frequenting Whiskey Blue, searching for friendly, attractive bartenders clad in scant yet classy fare wear, no doubt feel this difficulty in facing these days gone, in the pressing need to find a new, pardon my casual term, 'watering hole' to lift their spirits (particularly in such an ugly economy as this). 

But press on we must. Change need not be sad and sad only. Change, in fact, is quite beautiful. As far as I say, it's the eye of art. It's only through change that we can measure ourselves, that we can choose to trust others. And so, as we bring in the New Year, I choose to feel sad for saying farewell to a friendly period of my life--my years at Whiskey Blue--but beyond that, I opt to feel happy. Happy that it was a part of me; that it will always be a part of me. My years as an intense, and also gracious (mostly, don't get me wrong: working in Service can really ride on your soul) bartender, shaped who I am today. Such variety in conversations, such seeing through gazing at countless pairs of eyes, such listening to tales originating from all walks of the world; all ages, all experiences, all temperatures on the thermometer of love for life. An exquisite encounter, no doubt: the life of a bartender in a reputable, respectable lounge nestled in a reputable, respectable boutique hotel.

But alas, change sets in and we move on. People move on. Bars become different titles. Eras become other eras. There's no day that we feel this reality more intensely, perhaps, than on the last day of the year: the eve of the new year--New Year's Eve. To this year, and to those that preceded it at Whiskey Blue, on my behalf, and on behalf of the evolving staff, and ever-changing patrons, I say farewell; with warm feelings in my heart, and maybe, at the stroke of midnight, a tear in my eye...

The All American Novel

Be forewarned, for those of you who have thought about doing it, or are trying to gear yourself up to do it, or think you might like to try it--at least once--before you die: writing The All American Novel is not that easy. 

I think if a cute little Jeanie in a bottle appeared to me in my dreams and said, "Masteresse, what wish can I grant you?" I'd say, "for starters, you can morph yourself into a strapping man and make sweet sweet love to me; and then, after we've done that and smoked a cigarette (this is a world where smoking is healthy, and so not forbidden), you can 'presto-chango' a seven inches-by-nine inches plot of erstwhile empty matter into a great American Novel; one that's replete with funny, loving, flawed characters, adventure, brilliant plot threads, love, history, intensity enough for crying, and a satisfying, cherry-on-top ending. 

Though I have to admit: I'm not sure what I'd say if she looked downcast, and sighed, and replied, "Oh," as she climbed back into her bottle. Then with only her head poking out, her little Jeannie hands gripping bottle's edge, "I said wish, masteresse. I don't perform miracles." 

So fuck me, it's all good. Guess I'll just have to keep writing. Sigh. 

There's a Time to Move On...

No doubt this title brings about several intended meanings. But when considering my most recent post, entitled 'Pesky Little Smokes,' I'll say this: smoking is a filthy habit, and I'm pleased to say that I've since moved on from the partaking in such rubbish. As a result, I feel more aware of my surroundings, am more positive, hopeful for the future, and healthy (I no longer struggle through my workouts at the gym, and engage in exercise even more often than before). 

Of course, this reality comes as no surprise to me, seeing as how I've quit smoking several times in my life. But this time, the situation, for some reason that even as a writer I cannot circumvent by words, is different. I like to believe that as we mature, we become more aware of our futures, and our ever-so-slowly weakening bodies, causing us to take more active roles in controlling our health; thus creating better habits, etc.

But yes I'm still an idealist. I realize that some of us are drawn to darker realities. Some of us don't care that we are killing ourselves little by little. I get it. I mean we are all dying, after all. Even my adorable two-year-old  niece is dying. Every day we get closer to death. So fine, whatever you want. All I'm saying is, that man in the corner store was right: smoking is just no good. And like my most recent short lived 'romantic,' or what really should be called 'sexual,' relationship: I'm not sad it's over. 

Pesky Little Smokes

This afternoon, I go to a corner store in my neighborhood. I often go there for small provisions-gum, bananas, the occasional bag of chips, and, more than I'd like to admit lately, packs of cigarettes. I've been trying to steer away from buying those damn things the last few weeks, and have gone long periods of time without smoking, but inevitably I am always sucked back into the nasty habit. My latest excuse: I'm going through a transition period. I'll quit when I need to.

And it's true, I can quit when I want to. My will power is that good. But usually it takes an internal argument, or several hundred of them, to convince myself that, like a boyfriend who is not good for me but who I refuse to let go of, I just don't need this shit in my life.

On this particular sunny Tuesday when I visit the "pantry," the nice Indian man who I see from time to time, asks me, what do you do? You're not a nurse are you? Puzzled why he would infer that, I ask him to justify this question. He smiles as he surveys me harmlessly behind his fluorescent tortoise-shelled glasses and replies, lots of nurses smoke. And maybe it's true, one of my dearest friends is a midwife, and she smokes. 

He goes on to tell me that for a time when he lived in London and was young-in his twenties or thirties I suppose, he smoked for several years, but one day just gave it up. He says that he was reading a magazine, ready to have a relaxing day and smoke some cigarettes, when it dawned on him: he has nobody, and who will take care of him when he is old and sick from lung cancer? Secretly, I shutter, but I smile back and casually ask, so it was just like that? You never looked back? Never, he says. 

We talk of his wife, and how she smokes and he hates it, but he loves her, what can he do? I tell him I am a college teacher and a writer. What do I write, he asks me. I write about...let's see, well I write about fitness (I've recently taken a gig for an activities website, whereby I account on my extensive background in high endurance activities, dancing, triathlons, etc.). But then, suddenly I feel like a fool. Who writes about fitness, and smokes? But then, who goes to nursing school and smokes, apparently lots of people.

Eventually, I thank him for this chat, tell him to have a nice day, and walk home. Then I light up a cigarette on my landing. It's refreshing, as I haven't smoked in a while (meaning since last night), but it also comes with a price: guilt. And I think of the old pantry man. Do I have anyone who will take care of me if I get sick from tarred lungs? Who knows, my family loves me, but maybe they will be gone by the time I'm suffering. 

Times like this in life, when we come up against pleasure versus health, perplex me. I have no answers. I know that I like smoking. For whatever reason that I began as a teenager years ago, I've always been drawn to it. Does it make me edgy? Does it genuinely relax me? Maybe I do it because I'm bored. I work in the bar industry. I'm a writer. That makes it okay. As long as I have other people around me who are killing themselves too, it's okay. Right? 

I guess the problem is that life presents us with no guarantees. We just have to make the best decisions that we can as we bump along. Smoking does help me relax if I am stressed at times, but it does come with a price. I guess everything that feels good comes with a price. I'd love to be that person who lives by an affirmation I once read on my desktop calendar: why put off until tomorrow what could be accomplished today? It's true, why. But I'm not god. Today, I like smoking. 

I'll quit...maybe tomorrow I'll put that on my list of things to do. 

A Book Review, Supposed Big-Tittied Fans, and Moral Codes

The truth is, no matter how many times a writer comes up to the 'it's go time' line, moral crossroads, decision alarm, whatever the fuck you want to call it, he or she is always faced with the same question: Do I stay true to my ethical best (I like to call this good, old-fashioned Integrity, which yes does deserve to be capitalized, seeing as how it's the most important concept on the planet), or do I toss my dignity in with the dirty linens because I sense a future of mass-acknowledgment and mountains of shimmery, glimmery, may-it-make-me-a-god cash?

If you're me, you choose the former. If you're Tucker Max, author of 2006 published NY Times best-selling book, genre: humor, I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell, you might recognize, without apology, that you'll take an amalgam of big-tittied fans in your face, loads of pub money and royalty checks, and a fat helping of the latter (be reminded: the latter just means the sell-out road) any day of the week, and twice on Masturbation Day (for me, most days are Masturbation Day, but you get the picture). 

Side note: I'm making assumptions here, let it be stated. Who knows how many big-tittied fans Max had or has, or how many of those big-tittied fans actually thrust them (the titties) into his face. I mean for fuck sake, the dude is a writer. Dumb girls don't read enough to recognize his wit. And in all honesty, I haven't a damn clue what his signing check looked like, or the caliber of his negotiated royalties for that matter. I'm assuming people, yes it's what us generalizing idiots do. Why the titty references? Read the book. 

But back to the case at hand. To bring you up to speed: This book is comprised of vignettes whereby Max accounts several years of his youth (early twenties), primarily during his stint as a law student at Duke, which were replete with (I'm in denial that it might be typical) outrageous young-man fare: casual sexathons involving degradation of women, drinking in excess until vomiting out the stomach lining that no longer exists, staying out all hours of evenings, heckling policemen, shouting out hurtful obscenities to innocent strangers, and the list goes on, but perhaps by now you feel me. 

So who cares right? This guy is just a writer (jesus, as a writer, writing 'just a writer' makes my stomach churn, but I'm trying to think in the eyes of the world) right? Whatever works to sell a book, hey? Sure. Who cares about integrity and dignity and all that horse shit? We want to sell a book! 

The answer is: I care. Don't get me wrong, I thought his book was fantastic. So much so that I sent him an email to tell him such; that I appreciated his willingness to put himself on the line. That I identified with his voice, that he reminded me that there were writers who were writing shit as crass and sexual as my mind tends to take me, and doing it well. Bravo, was the essential thrust. And then I signed off, telling him that because I have small breasts and I am intelligent, I'm probably not his type. Presumption Capital, that's where I live, baby. 

What did Max reply with? Send me your pic, I'll tell you if you're my type. Turns out I did, in one of which I was with a greasy, French ex-boyfriend. Max apparently finds everything within a thousand-mile radius of anything French horrifying and useless to say the least, and so his reply: You were right--not my type (though I'm sure my girl-next-door, every day 'look' didn't appeal to his 'where's the dumbest, most saline-breasted, sluttiest, commonly clueless-looking chick to fuck?' sensibilities). And there I go judging him again. Shit I don't even know the guy, he's probably a changed man. If it's true, good for you, Max. I hope you find intimate bliss with a woman whose sense of humor is as sharp as yours. 

I guess in actuality, I have no point. You read all of my bullshit for me to tell you that I have no point. I don't mean it. The point is, while reading Max's book, it was the voice that I identified with. The truth of history veritably dripping all over his words. The candid, witty dialogue. The honest telling of sheer cruelty, both to women and to people in general, and let's face it everyone: we love to see people being cruel as much as we love looking at car wrecks--that we're not involved in. 

I only say that Max is a sell-out because he has gained public recognition for exposing himself as a heartless individual; one who tells outrageous stories to be recognized by the media, one who lacks compassion, a strong sense of remorse or spiritual awareness. 

But on the other hand, I'm not too naive to think I even know what I'm talking about, enough to call his shit out. The truth is, it takes all types to make this world go 'round. When we come up to the decision line as artists, we don't think 'shit I am ratting out on my integrity by putting myself out there,' what we are thinking, even someone as wounded as Max, is, 'I have a story to tell, I'm willing to tell the unabashed truth...and the world deserves to hear it.' 

At least, that's what I'd like to think. I have about a sliver of idealism left in my jaded spirit; and I'll fight tooth and nail to hold onto it.

Check out this book. The voice is good...and it will make you laugh. 

Oh Yes Baby, That's the Spot

Before I set out to make any type of point, I must lay forth this disclaimer: I do not consider myself an intellectual. While in graduate school pursuing creative nonfiction at DePaul University here in Chicago, I engaged in all sorts of writing workshops, whereby handfuls of students sat around and dove into the process of tearing apart manuscripts; sometimes seemingly as if by way of machete. We tore, but did we then edit our own work? Or did we think of how we would talk and tear more, and put off personal writing and editing?

Because during this process, a big part of what we were missing out on was this: With any artistic pursuit, the key to focus must be directed at listening to what happens inside of the soul. I've heard about--and seen--all sorts of manuscripts involving writers who tried to cram into stylistic boxes that were simply the wrong size. In a recent conversation I had with a dear, filmmaker friend, I told him, regarding forcing my work to be something that it wasn't meant to be, 'It's like trying to shove a dick inside of me that just isn't gonna fit!' Ouch.

But the references I make to boxes, including those of the vaginal variety, however, are somewhat poor--forgive the bad pun here--'fits' for this little chat we're having. Because writing, or producing anything of creative merit, isn't about trying to fit into a box at all, or any space that contains boundaries. What we must establish for ourselves, is the ability to live without limits; to exercise our personal liberties and authentic senses of self potential.

The unfortunate truth is that many writers want to be recognized by the world. As a result, they scour the markets for what's 'working' these days, they 'mimic' stylistic devices set forth by renown authors, they consume politics, hoping that if others will understand references to popular culture, these writers will in turn be accepted into popular society, and--with the goal in mind, the big time, the lottery ticket--ultimately become rich, loved, and famous. But what's horribly wrong with this picture?

The problem is that to try to get yourself into a market where you just don't belong could become analogous to marrying a man or woman who you wouldn't fuck with your best friend's equipment. It will not bring about self-fulfillment. For instance, earlier in this piece, I made references to dicks and vaginas. But for some of you, this may have been shocking, since I began the article by talking about the intellectualism of many, pardon my french, 'fucking haughty' intellectuals who think there is one way to go about pursuing art and one way only: to talk about it and then never produce!

But I've found, after over twenty years of personal writing, that it fits for me to do this; to not only talk, but to write about dicks, pussies, sex, and sweaty passion. That's what gets me going. That's what will get my ass into the chair to make shit happen. It's not about wondering if anyone will even read this, or trying to consider what market it will fit into. To be honest, if we could imagine ourselves fitting perfectly into one market, might we be doing something wrong? Because to say that we belong perfectly somewhere, is also to say that others might be exactly like us. And sorry to burst your bubble, but that's simply not possible. If you haven't explored your magnificent uniqueness, then you probably have some excavating to do. You are unique, you just might not yet know it. But get out there and realize it!

I guess what it all comes down to is a question: Are you interested in finding your c-for-creative c-spot? If you're okay with jumping on the train of 'they say' and 'this has to work because I saw it work for Betty or Joe,' then I support you. I do. I hope you find glimmer and glitz and fame and superficial, insignificant prosperity. Was that my inside voice? I personally will stay on track with my own racket: Doing whatever it is I do; cooking up sexual metaphors, daydreaming about sex, putting off for one more day researching the publishing industry, and writing as much as my hands and brain will allow each day, praying that eventually, I'll find the way to break my voice into the world, and go to bed each night with a nice purrrr...not because my sexual partner is going down on me, but because I know that after searching and talking and masturbating and crying, I finally found a spot that fits for my work...the spot where people realize that I am not an intellectual, and nobody else is like me...and I like it like that.

Happy c-spot hunting...

The Girl's Frozen Lover

There once was a girl who fell deeply in love with a man. Trouble was, this man's heart was partially frozen over. Now after the girl and the man met, they were in love with each other for a short time. Fireworks, oral sex, nights on the town, whatever you imagine. But eventually, the ice in the man's chest began to spread; misunderstandings commenced, emotions ran rampant, and the girl found herself plummeting into a pit for people who had lost their self control.

In this pit, a decrepit old lady approached the girl and asked, How did you fall down here, little miss? The girl, bleary eyed from heartbreak, said, My lover's heart froze over... And then the girl's words trailed off, as she surveyed the dimensions of the pit, craning her neck in each direction. As her gaze landed on the pit's rocky floor, the girl continued...I couldn't love him enough.

Oh no, little miss. I'm sure that's a trailer park full of horsewash, the old lady said. Everyone knows that up there, love melts ice anywhere on a man. But the girl shook her head feverishly and said, Nuh uh, not true. I served him love every chance I found. Here, here's some love. Tell me how I can help you, I would say. Or, Do you want me to go down on you? Here's more love. How is your sick grandfather, Ernie  doing? Do you want to go see that new Batman movie that's coming out? Can we hang out? I'd like to know how you're doing.

The girl's eyes glistened, but she would not give into her tears. After all, her integrity had taken a big hit by falling into this dirty pit in the first place. But he wasn't having it, the girl continued. Go away! He would storm. No! I'm busy with work, and I don't care to be tempted by you! Just...let me be, he would say to me. Time and time again, he said the same thing: Let me be.

The old lady furled her brow and asked, So was your boyfriend's sick pops a looker? No, sorry what I meant was, twisted sister, why wouldn't you leave the poor fella alone? I did, the girl replied. But my love for him continued to grow, despite his freezing heart. And so I would go back and try again, thinking love would have to win. He would have to care eventually. Love wins every race, right? I mean, you're an old ba--the girl started, and then stopped herself. You've lived for a long time, the girl said. Maybe you know what I'm doing wrong?

Little sister, why in the hell do you think I'm in here? I married a snowman! The girl was aghast. She began to panic. But then she looked around at all of the zombies that surrounded her in the pit. If she did flip out, at least she'd be among good, sympathetic company. Does love really not beat out an iced-over heart? Is there no way to reign if love is on your side? And then, the girl lost her cool entirely. She shook the old lady's arms and said, WILL I EVER BE LOVED THE WAY I DESERVE TO BE LOVED!!??

The old lady calmly freed herself from the girl's white-knuckled grip, stroked the girl's long, dark locks, offered a soothing, shhhh, and said in the girl's ear, flatly and quietly: Probably not during your pit-dwelling lifetime, little miss. But don't despair; there's a helluva bar down here, and most of the time, the drink specials are good enough to knock your ice-man's balls off!

Isn't it Funny...

It's baffling how diversified this world is. With all the creative choices we have in the way of living our lives, it's a surprise we can understand each other at all; what with each individual's personality as unique as an about-to-orgasm expression.

But there's another hand, which is that we live in a cooperating and collaborative democratic society. So there are several truths in life; codes for operating that we've come to accept. One of the most commonly encountered looks something like this...

Imagine you're trying to get a creative (part time) job. You submit some piece of a portfolio to represent your style, e.g. photos, graphics, writing, design blueprints, whatever you like. You spend all day trying to polish this shit. By the way, two things: 1) They say this assignment shouldn't take you more than two hours, but fuck it. You want this gig, you spend seven on it. 2) You're confident when you send it in that you have a 98% chance of landing this thing.

For three days, you check your email like you're a god damn hawk. Where could they be? One day delay could be good. Three is just looking bad. Finally the email comes. 'Sorry, we went with another artist. Thanks for your time.' But here's where the 'isn't if funny...' comes in. We accept, if we are to act like sane people, that we can't write a follow-up email that looks like:

'Shit man, that's too bad. I was really gonna show some things to that company. I was gonna wow you, man. You wouldn't have been sorry. But now, now it looks like you just blew it. Well you know what? I hope your fucking grandmother finally falls flat from that smoking addiction. I hope your wife fucks your brother. I hope you fall down a dry well!'

That's just not professional. It will not help you achieve your dreams, I assure you. Instead, what we accept, if we have a good handle on things, is that we nod our heads when we read the rejection email/letter, and say to ourselves, this means something else out there is coming. And this is true, this shit is definitely true.

So as I mentioned, there are all sorts of ways to react to things like rejection (and I mean all sorts of rejection). But there's really only one way to do it that will put you on the path to the next big step: walk away...and say nothing.

Get thee to Chicago Underground Comedy...

Tuesdays: 9pm

Beat Kitchen: 2100 W. Belmont

Check this scene out. Chicago Underground Comedy is one of best comedy gigs in town; and I've been to several. Great eclectic mix of acts including singing, skits, and traditional stand-up. You won't be sorry you rolled by! I went last night as a virgin to the event and I laughed out loud (I have a loud laugh) the entire time. 

The Key(s) to Life

Figure out a way to not give a shit what others think about you. How this can be achieved: by realizing everything (yes every little thing) that happens is about perspective. 

The Power of 'One Day'

Do you ever get to the point during your days when you want to toss in the towel because you feel so overwhelmed with life? Maybe your significant is demanding too much of your time, or you've fallen behind at work. Perhaps you hate yourself because you seem to drink every night, or as much as you try, you can't evade buying a pack of cigarettes once a day. I have a simple strategy to allay these feelings of anxiety: exercise the power of 'one day.'

It needn't be about developing a plan to reconstruct your entire life. You don't have to break up with your girlfriend or boyfriend or profess to your mother, who won't get off your tail to come and visit, that you no longer want to have anything to do with her. All you must do is make a conscious effort to 'get shit done for one solitary day.' 

I'm a huge fan of lists. In the morning, or the eve of the 'one day,' jot down a few things you'd like to attack. Maybe this line-up looks something like: 1) No text messaging 2) Finish laundry, or at least ten of the twenty loads that have stacked up 3) No beers or cigarettes all day, if I want to return to one or both the second day, then so be it 4) Complete x portion of a work project I am working on 5) Devise a list of possible things I could make of my (in this moment seems to be) hopeless life. EDITORIAL NOTE: You are not hopeless, and try to remember that what you tell yourself puts you in a better stead to manifest it, whether it be positive or negative. I suggest you focus on the positive. 

Get lots of sleep before your big day. That way, you won't fight your commitment while battling a hangover, or struggle additionally to ward off the chemical reaction that typically comes about after long nights of drinking, resulting in feelings of self-defeat. Make your one day count. After all: you wouldn't pound the town before a big race would you? What if you were an olympic athlete? Pretend, just for this day, that you're a champion. You fucking rock.

Make sure your list is REALISTIC. If you set forth too many goals, you could become frustrated at the end of the day when you don't get through the lot. Don't pain if this happens; simply schedule another 'one day' as soon as you can. I guarantee that you will feel like more of a person after a mere day of productivity. If you feel you don't have time to schedule one tiny little day for yourself, then you might consider seeing a therapist. Your problems could be bigger than you; it's possible that you're--at the moment--tightly wound, and simply need a bit of objective perspective. Perhaps this here excerpt will be the first step toward that. Best wishes! 

Lesson #2: Abracadabra! Turning a Shit Job into Happiness

If you have ever wondered whether happiness is actually possible, or inevitably too slippery to obtain in life, I'm here to settle the argument you may be having with yourself. The truth is, happiness is in fact possible. All you must do is follow a few simple steps to get yourself hoisted on the train to blissful, fiery fulfillment:

1) Don't date people who are clearly not your type for more than one month.

2) Don't sleep with friends of exes, siblings of exes, parents of exes, or...well, exes. 

3) Don't do the opposite of something that your gut is telling you to do.

4) Call your parents as often as possible, even if they drive you insane.

5) Exercise at least 3 times each week; yes (good) sex counts, no masturbating does not.

6) If there is a tiny little thing in your brain ANYWHERE that tells you to do something, something that could be you, something that could help you become a better person for being on this earth, or more excited that you exist, or eager to love yourself and others: DO IT. Or, at the very least, try it until you prove yourself wrong. But I have an inkling you are right. 

Clearly, #6 is the most important of this lot. Right, I am addicted to my parents and for christ's sake, when I'm sexually active, I want to justify that it (the hottest sex that exists) counts for a daily dose of cardio, but what's most important in life, is that we follow our dreams. Now I'll highlight for you the action you must take after you have committed to accepting #6 as your constitutional code of conduct (call it #6 in your mind):

a) If you have a full-time job which you hate and that starts at something stupid like...any time before 10 a.m., quit it. Quit it at once. I mean, shit you don't have to just up and bail. Ride the integrity wave; put in a solid, expected two weeks. Be professional about it. 

b) But don't answer any questions that your boss asks. Fuck him or her. They don't need to know. 

c) Pray that whatever force you name the force that is responsible for blessing you with days that could be something close to "good days," will also deliver answers to you while you figure out what the fuck you are going to do after you quit this job semi-impulsively, okay completely impulsively. 

d) Party each eve of the fortnight after you are officially jobless to celebrate your new-found lack of attachment to something in your life that was erstwhile holding you back from #6. Yet don't do shots. I suggest you conserve some energy for the days, during which you'll need to get on the bandwagon of doing research; looking for fun, part-time jobs, calling companies, talking to people, networking with friends, former co-workers, etc. Polish and then send your resume everywhere. Ask anyone and everyone for work. Take comfort that you did the right thing by leaving your job. The pieces will start to come together. If you forget this, refer to c). 

e) Allow yourself to become a little broke. Maxing out credit cards is a good way to do this. Hate to break it to ya, but the only way to learn the value of a dollar--particularly for those of you who are in debt, and yes having a Macy's card with $500 counts, debt is debt--is to scare yourself into thinking you may have to crash on your mom's (insert, if applicable, brother's or cousin's or ex-girlfriend's) couch for 3-12 months until you stop freaking out and finally get a plan together to rebuild your life after you've officially gone broke. By the way, your mom, or applicable connection, lives in the middle of fucking nowhere. You're a city rat, so suburbs of suburbs are not exactly the environmental racket you can imagine will offer for you a zen piece-of-mind, and ultimately expedite your trip up the mountain to happiness. Don't worry: statistically speaking, fear is the best way to light fires under tails. You'll find something before you go bankrupt, I just know it. 

f) Meet people. And I mean anyone and fucking everyone. It can seem like a chore, but it helps you to feel connected in society. And without connection, how can we care about #6? Talk to people on buses and trains, at the local Jewel Osco, in neighborhood watering holes, through grated walls at churches (I'm not suggesting you go to confession, yet communication is what it is). Talk to your dog or cat or hamster. Do stupid "if this happens, then it's a good sign..." shit. And don't stop doing those stupid things--like counting the number of clouds in the sky, or how many hot men/women walk by a corner in 60 seconds--until you can convince yourself you have all good signs. 

g) Don't settle for bad signs. They are bullshit; they do not exist.

h) Be patient, especially when you are most exhausted. Think about the one thing in this world that sets you apart from others, whether it's a competition you won, a marathon you completed, a degree you obtained, or a record you set for most sexual partners among your friends. Whatever is good, is real. Whatever is real, will keep you going. If you keep going and you have your eye set on the ball of #6, then due to laws of nature and physics, happiness will in fact ensue. 

i) I think I'll stop here at i). I could go on for days, but if you've read this far, I truly love you as a fellow human being, or someone who pretends to be my friend, or one who actually just wants to fuck me. Whatever, I love you forev. I'll leave you with this, it's not complicated or ground-breaking. It's just the straight up truth for success as I've learned it after 30 some odd years on this planet: 

ii) Just think about today...could be all you 'got.  

A 23-Year-Old's Inevitable Stalking Itch

In an earlier blog tittle, I mentioned the dangers of forming attachments, particularly to people. Although I don't claim to be an expert on life by any means, I'm a relatively sound observer. I spend a lot of time taking in what's going on around me. Interestingly enough, I find that people in their early twenties do some bizarre, self-centered things.

For instance, I recently met one of my neighboring apartment's inhabitants, Sam. I noticed him smoking one day and politely asked to borrow a cigarette. After this, the 23-year-old and I somehow struck up conversation. Er, rather, he struck up conversation. I, on the other hand, could barely get in a word edgewise. He went on and on about this drunk story and that, about how his 21-year-old girlfriend cheated on him, and how could she be so stupid as to think he would go back to her when she would come to her senses and decide she wanted him back? That wasn't the end on that topic. The details were ceaseless.

And while I was listening to this--forgive me to those of you who are in your early twenties, but for lack of a better term--child palaver on about how he just doesn't understand: what is she thinking? How could she not see how great he was? Why did he stay with her though she continued to treat him like shit? While this was all contributing to my up-and-coming headache, I was thinking: Run away! Head for the hills! This dude is damaged goods. But, wait, oh yes--he's 23. 

Apart from age observations, I've come to know the recently-heartbroken type all too well. Men often do not appear to understand the #1 reigning strategy to turn a woman OFF and send her interest down, down to china town: TALK ABOUT THE EX. But then, I suppose those who are preoccupied with talking about their exes aren't really concerned with turning any particular female on anyhow, except of course for their exes, but those thoughts probably look something like: Whoa is me, I can't turn her on anymore. She's the center of my universe, how will I go on? Cry me a fucking river, really. 

So I'm a nice gal. I don't judge, which may surprise you because some of these sweeping generalizations I'm setting forth might seem a bit biting. What can I say, I'm a scorpio? But because I don't judge, that day out on my landing I listened to the young lad and smoked away, keeping my non-judgements to myself. But for some reason, I also gave him my phone number. You know, because we are neighbors. Maybe I was thinking we could grill sometime. 

Big mistake. He started texting me every 20 minutes. Let's go have a smoke. I sure could use a smoke. I'm about to start freaking out. What? Do women respond to that? I'm about to start freaking out? 23-year-old: what you must understand is that women in their 30s typically have spent a lot of time dealing with drama already, and are not altogether interested in continuing down the line of life allowing it into their daily regimen of thought processes. Come on! 

So I figured: if I ignore these text messages, he'll go away. Not so lucky. Can I ask you something? Do you think I'm good looking? Did you mean the nice things you said to me the other day? Dude, you mean when I told you you don't need to deal with a 21-year-old's drama? Shit, I said that not realizing that you must have your own. Oops. The barrage of questions (which were not responded to on my part, mind you) continued: Are you staying in tonight? Come hang out with me and my friend. Want to smoke a cigarette later?

I'm telling you from my end, I never did anything CLOSE to this type of thing when I was 23. I never cried to my boyfriends because they didn't love me enough, or understand me, or prioritize me. I never sent them follow-up messages to their lack-of-responses, just to get them to respond. I certainly NEVER asked them to tell me I was sexy, or screamed at them unwarrantedly just because I was insecure and no matter what they did, nothing would be enough. Noway, I got lucky in my twenties. I must have surpassed that whole drama phase. Phew. 

But the moral of the story is this: think twice when you offer your ears, or open up in any way to someone who is not at your level of emotional maturity, particularly if they live 30 yards away from where you sleep. It could come back to haunt you. 

I surmise that one safe generalization can be made of both men and women: if one he or one she is wounded from a previous relationship, or has not had enough time to figure him-or herself out, behavior that walks a dangerously fine line next to stalking can abound. If we are insecure, we want someone to tell us everything is going to be okay. But don't forget: no matter how old or young we are, unfortunately nobody can do that for us other than ourselves. Are you stalktastic? Think about it. 

Will the real pistachio please stand up?

I really love pistachios. But I hate it when certain of them among packages in which they come are not slit open. Today I had to use a hammer to get one of those bastards out. And then I chipped my tooth because the contents were such a smashed mess, I couldn't tell the nut from the shell. Fucking pistachios. 

Can a sister get a break?

I'm cheap. So much so that I have no health insurance. The other night, the thong on my right flip-flop snapped apart from its respective sole. I used a screw to affix the broken piece back in place. Worked like a gem, except that I got tetanus from stepping on the screw. Imagine that hospital bill...

One step forward, two steps back, people. Isn't it the intent of a woman by which she shall be measured?

Lesson #1: You Might Re-think Attachment

Have you ever given any thought to the abundance of attachments in this culture? We attach to all sorts of things: cars, homes, jobs, diets, drugs...people. I doubt many of us would reject that U.S. society is--as a general rule--drawn to superficial objects to define its collectively humanistic worth. But it's the latter item of this list that concerns me the most: forming attachments to people.

I pride myself on the fact that I'm an accepting girl. If you want to elongate your neck using giant neck-bracelets, far be it for me to judge. All I'm saying is: I'm not sure if it's wise to attach to others. 

For instance, say you live with a guy named Rex. Rex and you like to knock around and have fun. Catching episodes of "Two and a Half Men," putting down beers out on the landing, taking bike rides along the lake, and your favorite--smoking kind green buds in the room in your apartment the two of you set up, somewhat Euro style--and entitled, 'the salon.' This room is great fun; it's replete with a beautiful hookah straight from the French Riviera, lots of plush, Moroccan-print pillows, and all sorts of interesting lamps. This is where you go to 'download.'

But imagine you count on Rex for your KGB supply. What's to be done when Rex enters the "flake out standard," and moves all of his shit out of your apartment unannounced? Where are you then? Do you regret attaching to him? You might.

I'm only tossing out a healthy little challenge: rely on yourself for your salon collector's items. Maybe you farm your own supply of greens. Perhaps you have a network of suppliers, so that if three enter "flake out," you know you can count down the list. Or even better: write a book. That way, you can completely rely on yourself for entertainment. Sure you will need to depend on a stationary company for paper, pens, and the like, but if you squirrel these items away when the economy is actually not 'bust,' then you should be fine when others you mistakingly put your attachment talons in are nowhere to be found.

Thus marks the end of Lesson #1. But don't worry--these concepts can be applied to all sorts of unhealthy attachments: for-the-wrong-reasons marriages, two-faced friends, back-stabbing coworkers and bosses. Just remember: I don't--at the end of the day--need theses people. I can harvest my own green plants...hell, maybe even one that grows money. Hugs and happy detaching.  

Guy Walks into a Bar...

So I'm a bartender. It's one of several ways I make money. The other night, this guy walks into the lounge and says, "is this, uh, full service bar?" I look up from my muddling frenzy and motion to the other side of the bar, 'yeah man, just go take a seat. I'll finish up this mojito, then bust out my go-go-gadget arm and...' (hand motioning rigorously) '...jerk you off. I bartender. I make you well come.'

What I Don't Understand

Truthfully, there are a million things that I don't understand in this world. But among them, here goes the list of those that perplex me the most:

1) Why do men equate in their minds a woman saying, "I'm into you," with "I want to rob you of your manhood, freedom, and any possible firing at self-fulfillment and happiness?" 

2) Why do homeless people insist on spending more time sitting on corners with that god damn cardboard square that says, "God Bless you. I'm homeless. Can I please have some money to eat?" than walking around looking for a j-o-b? Furthermore:

3) Why do these homeless people not ask for money to read so that they can become educated and then look for a j-o-b? 

4) Why do some people just seem to want to be homeless?

5) Why, at the end of the day, is sex just...sex? Isn't it an infringement on whatever force was responsible for bestowing upon us those pesky little things called emotions? 

6) Why is it so much easier to gain weight than to lose it? 

7) Why can't magic actually exist? It would really come in handy if I could pick my nose (as I have an obnoxious tendency to do, unfortunately often in public), and that thing that I'm trying to do--like make even one of the 7 billion dollars that comprise the greeting card industry by writing verses for that industry--just, BLING, comes to fruition?

8) Why do there seem to be leaps and bounds more opportunities to become more cynical than more optimistic?

9) Why is one of those reasons that people, in general, do not know what they want these days, making "the flake out" system of operating and communicating the supposed universal standard, particularly in the city? But fuck it, just everywhere? 

10) Why is it actually inappropriate to masturbate in movie theaters and have sex on barstools? 

11) Why can't we all just walk around naked? Nevermind, that doesn't perplex me, it's possibly the only reality that soothes me. 

New York City: Roaches and Vin Diesel

Last week, I took a trip to Manhattan with a couple of my sexy girlfriends; a trip that I could absolutely not afford. It was to be three ladies in the big city, Carrie Bradshaw style. Our plan was to drink. To save on food by eating enormous slices of pizza. To find great parties and hot men and well, to live like those HBO girls. But as it turned out, during our adventures we continued to ask ourselves: would this really happen to Carrie?

So picture we three parading around midtown one evening late, 1:00 a.m.? Sassy dresses, polished make-up, shiny heels, the whole bit. I'm asked by my girl, Molly: what's the name of the hotel? 55th and what? (A tip had come from a friend of mine to go to the rooftop of the Dream Hotel for drinks, good music, and a lovely view.) 55th and 7th, I say. The Dream Ho--and then in chimes the voice of our third, Tia: Shit! Look at that roach!

And there on the sidewalk, scattering around our feet, covering distance more to match the pace of an escape locomotive than something that's got legs, is a New York City roach. Two inches in length. One inch in diameter. Glistening, alive and well, perhaps drunk off the contents of a milieu of white garbage bags that line midtown's curbsides. Drunk NYC roach. Roaches and heels? It's not right. Not for princesses like Carrie Bradshaw. Not for three beauties from ChiTown.

After several steps, we spot another. And after a couple more blocks, we put the roaches out of our mind and come upon the Dream Hotel. It proves to be what the tip assured. But then it's time to move on. It's time to visit one of NYC's hottest clubs as we hear it: Tenjune. 

We arrive by cab to Grenwich and 9th Ave. A tattered, greying old man approaches us just as heels hit pavement and scolds us, you shouldn't be here! You shouldn't be at this corner! Uh, okay dude, why because of that tranny over there? We're from ChiTown, we've seen it before; good try. He asks us where we are headed. We say Tenjune. No! He spits. But then we take off, he's creeping us out. And as the gap between he and us widens, he calls out: you'll never get in!!

As it turns out, tattered insane case has conspirators. We approach the line at the club, and one man who works the door, dressed in black, tells us the same thing: girls, I don't think you'll get in. Wha? We all say to each other. But why? We are three hot chicks? I'm sorry is all he says. We prod for more info. Go talk to Alex over there, he gestures to the other side of the line.

Tia approaches Alex, who is clad in jeans and a nothing-special white t-shirt. Alex, what's the deal here, can we get in? It's my birthday. (Actually, it did happen to be her birthday.) But he barely gives us a look. Sorry ladies, there's nothing I can do. We stick around for another minute, silently surveying the crowd: those who are trying to get in, and the very young, hopelessly thin, raggedly-clothed, and altogether random crew coming out of the club. We're galvanized. Shit like this abounds? Only in New York City.

Just then, Vin Diesel rolls up with his cronies. By the way, he's short! He slaps some hands, looks mostly at the ground under a newsie-style hat, and enters the club. Ninety or so seconds later, he reemerges, slaps some hands, looks mostly at the ground, and fades into the night as the club's line disperses to follow him. Sure, Vin--good work. We loved you in Daddy Pacifier or whatever the fuck it was called. You're short, dude, but really: love your work.

At this point, we're over it. We walk away and we realize: if it's not good enough for Vin Diesel and it's too cool for us, maybe this isn't our night. Or maybe it's not our scene. Or maybe we're not like the stuck-on-New York Carrie Bradshaw after all. For me, it's simple: New York doesn't deserve its hype. Chicago is home...and I'm on an official countdown to get off this island. 

Love: Friend or Foe?

They say that love makes the world go 'round. But I have wondered for many years: who started that hocus pocus cliche? Let's say it was a dude who started it (because it couldn't have been a man; a man is much different than a 'dude'). So this dude was in love and he realized, wow, now that I have this amazing woman (or chick) in my life, the world is really happening. Planets are aligning and the world is, well, revolving. Sure, revolving around you and your love affair, dude. What happens when this star from the sky breaks your heart because in the end, she is so wounded from her past that she "wouldn't know love if it smacked her in the face?" (True story, it's what she told you shortly after she broke up with you; a reply to your professed undying love for her.) The end of meaning for this cliche, that's what happens. 

Because unfortunately,  juxtaposed to this philosophy of love-is-my-savior 'dude,' once upon a time so started another cliche: nothing good lasts forever. All good things come to an end, so on and so forth. It's depressing for the aforementioned dude of romance because it seems to me, no matter what way the pie is sliced, love is more or less like a spell or a potion that has a surging-through-veins life expectancy of a mere--in my case--one year tops. And so the fate for romance dude: sorry man, you must be naive to be in love.

This may sound jaded, cynical, depressing, whatever you call it. And maybe it is. But the world these days is doggy dog. Cynicism is an outlook I like to think of and express using a much more intellectual concept: reality. Love: friend or foe? I guess it depends. Are you realistic? God speed and love hard. 

Jobless Life in ChiTown...and Blogs

Chicago, USA is rockin' good times. I went to Hideout last night to be inspired from a slew of female writers, and while listening to the lineup it occurred to me: one is truly not with the times unless he or she has a fucking blog. What's the deal with blogs? Where went the days when we would communicate via flesh-to-flesh at lunch? What happened to a time when one writer would say to another writer: bring me your manuscript, you know, when I see you at lunch next weekend? Alas, the technological revolution has landed us on this new planet. A planet never known to man before. The planet of Blogs. 

So fuck those lunches. Now, the new invite into one's writer's mind sounds like--even to strangers--"check out my blog." Or perhaps, for the star-struck types who are struck over those who, sorry, but are not really stars, "oh my god! I read her blog every day!" Where do these people find the time? 

Because truth be told, I don't really have a lot of time. No, I'm too busy vacuuming the 1x1 foot patch of rug I have next to my desk. And the watering of the plants. How about the three emails I must respond to? Looking on craigslist for jobs? And shit, that's tiring. So it takes me quite a while to smoke a cigarette here and there; naturally, to relieve myself from the stress...of looking for a job of course.

I also occasionally throw attempts at honing my hackey-sackying skills. And there are those Chinese chime-balls that I must fuss with--always in my right hand; I can't seem to work them around in my left; maybe in my next prayer to god for the job of my dreams, I'll also toss in a little "and can you please make me ambidextrous?" 

But now don't get me wrong, I think it's wonderful that we can reach the masses with our I-write-for-a-living-well-really-I-work-at-Walmart-and-say-I-write-because-I-have-this-lame-blog blogs. But really, I don't judge. If you work for Walmart, you probably are the best writer in the world. After all, you've probably got to keep yourself busy from those thoughts that constantly creep into your brain: this job blows. So right, instead of going bust in the brain over depressing thoughts like that, you think, wouldn't it be a good idea to start a blog and really launch my free-lancing writing career into another galaxy? 

And it works. You're doing it. You hate blogs. You love writing. You don't work at Walmart. And life isn't that bad. Here's to blogs. The thoughts all started in Chi-town USA. Best city in the world. 

We're up and running

This is my blog.