And the Award Does Not Go to: Mr. Douche

Previously, in Satoko's article, I mentioned the term 'douche bag'. I don't know what the literary protocol is on that term; that is, do we write it as two words or what? But now I'm just being neurotic, so we'll move on. 

So right, I described this guy who I dated for a second as such. A 'douche bag'. But this morning, as I was delivered from the world of sleep to awake, I realized that perhaps it could be useful for future endeavors if I try to become more sensitive as a writer. So I'll define the term 'douche bag'. 

A 'douche bag', or 'DB' as some like to call it, is typically a guy, if not always. He's usually someone who thinks, like the 'tweetle-dees' (another loose term I cooked up to replace 'douche bag') at my bar last night, that diamonds are important--and that knowing about them is important--only because women like them; only because they have great monetary value; only because they represent a certain level of status. For instance: if you see a woman with a giant, obnoxious rock on her finger, you automatically assume that she has a husband who has a lot of money (regardless of whether or not he got that money legally). Or you assume he's a douche bag, or a sentimental douche bag, because he saved for years of his life to give this diamond to a girl who will end up leaving him in a couple short years. But now we're deviating from the point.

A douche bag is someone who, like my aforementioned date, thinks that he understands people. He thinks he knows the most important things about the world. And fine, in his own, individual reality, I suppose he does. But he doesn't, oops. He's someone who thinks people at bars or restaurants want to hear what he's saying, even though they've never seen him in their lives. In truth, they simply want to have a drama-free evening out with their significant others, or close friends. 

Douche bags typically like to make money for the sake of doing it. For instance, I'm sorry to say, but while bartending at Whiskey Blue for years of my life, which is situated in Chicago a mere set of steps from the notorious Board of Trade, I have served countless traders. And from where I was sitting (or standing, as it would go), many (and a painful amount of many, like so many it was more close to MOST) traders are douche bags. My dad would agree. If only because they make more money than they need to make, and it fucks up the economy. Right on, dad. I love you.

Douche bags don't really take a look at themselves. I know this is how a lot of us are. And I understand that it's scary; scary as fucking hell, to really delve into your soul and see what you are. To try to find meaning in life's events, or people's actions, especially if they're you're own. But if we're interested in trying to make the world better, I don't see that we have another choice. Unfortunately, many of the douche bags will never see this. It's sad. But now I'm moving onto another topic.

The thing is, at the time of these dates with Steve we'll call him, I knew he was what I would call a douche bag. I mean for Christ's sake, the dude was wasted and I had hardly had a drink. What was he trying to prove? Or hide? Or was he just an alcoholic? If so, that's another story entirely. Douche bags can tend to be tacky on dates, that's another thing. They also can tend to assume that the women they are with actually want to sleep with them, if only because they are so stuck on themselves, they can't see it any other way.

So that brings me to my next point. Douche bags think a lot about themselves. A shit load. But people don't like people who think about themselves and only themselves. It demonstrates a level of ignorance and lack of compassion. These people cannot be trusted, like many politicians, because they are not really thinking of the interest of the common man. It makes me nauseous and sad. And I said in Satoko's (god bless her) article that it depressed me to see 'Steve' last night; doing so reminded me of the number of douche bags out there. 

Still, I hope for the best for Steve and for other douche bags. Maybe one day they will see the light and stop doing things that are void of great meaning when considering the bigger picture. Maybe not. Either way, I'm infinitely grateful to have been born a woman, and not a douche bagette. Douche bagettes exist too, but that's another article. Anyhoos, I just didn't want you to assess that I wasn't a conscientious writer. I mean it's not like I called Steve a douche bag for no reason. 

Satoko Minagawa is My Valentine

Before I get started here, might I just say: I really don't see what the appeal of a diamond is. As we roll into that crusty hallmark holiday people know as Valentine's Day, I hear about these things more than I'd like to acknowledge. Tonight I am bartending at the swank spot that I occasionally do, and these two tweetle-dees at the bar are fawning over my dear friend's wedding ring (she's sitting there keeping me company). She continues to mention how in several years, she's going to get it upgraded. My question is: who the fuck cares?

That's A. B is: why is one of these tweetle-dees a guy that I just happened to date for a second several months ago? That's right, we ran into each other tonight. He showed up out of nowhere, just when I took comfort in the fact that I would never see him again. 

It made me feel dirty and depressed to see him. Partially because of the flippant nature in how our stupid interlude ended after a couple of over-drunk dates (over-drunk only on the part of him, which makes it even more depressing. 'Hey babe, I'm too drunk to be hot and sexy, but you know you want it.' Right. 'Actually dude, you're a douche bag, and I'd rather lick the dust off my shoes.'). Sigh. And partially because I ended up having sex with him. It was that kind of one-time-and-one-time-only sex where it's over before it begins because it's so awkward and insignificant and lame and fast and regrettable. But that's neither here nor there.

So here they are, looking at her ring and talking about how much it's worth and what she'll do to get it upgraded and blah blah blahbety blah. This is when I started thinking of those stupid advertisements I've been seeing on tv that run to the tune of: 'Love your loved one too much not to show it? Why not give her a diamond?' I feel nauseous even writing this. And no, I'm not a hater because I am single. Actually, I'm pleased as punch to be single. Maybe that's why I usually drop the men I date like hot pototoes--because after a couple dates, they start to make me feel like the world is closing in on me. 

And so you can imagine how much I love Valentine's Day. But the truth is, I'm not such a Valentine's scrooge. I think it's cute how there's pink and red hearts in all the retail store windows; and people are not only talking about diamonds, but they're also talking about what they're going to do with their loved ones; where they will go to dinner and such. It's actually quite refreshing: the thoughts of entertainment and love in this god-forsaken economy. But I did set out to talk about diamonds, didn't I? 

I did, but I don't care about diamonds. So let's talk about something that I do care about. I care about Hello Kitty. A lot. Over the years, people who are important to me have come to understand my fixation on the Japanese icon, and as a result, have gotten me all kinds of paraphernalia; from t-shirts to toasters to miniature picture frame magnets to ballet-slipper wall hangings to sugar dishes to compact mirror sets from when I was eight years old...and the list goes on. My favorite most recent Hello Kitty acquisition is a rubbery pen (a girl's true best friend, not some fucking diamond) with a little charm on the end of it and, oh of course, a tiny little diamond etched in the charm. Brilliant. 

So could Hello Kitty be my valentine? Sure, she deserves it. She has brought me so much joy over the last twenty to twenty-five years. But really, if I had to say who my real valentine would be, it would be Satoko Minagawa. She was this beautiful, gentle, silky black-haired Japanese girl from my first grade class in Ann Arbor, Michigan. She was my best friend, and she didn't speak much English, but I loved her. She had me over after school and she taught me to play piano and her mom would make me this delicious Japanese soup. And she gave me Hello Kitty pencils. 

I haven't spoken to Satoko in over two decades, but I will never forget her. I wonder if she is in Japan right now. I wonder if she is talking with her husband about diamonds. I'll bet she doesn't even want one, or ever has, for (Japanese) Valentine's Day. I'll bet she still collects Hello Kitty. I sure do. I will forever. If I could send my old friend a telegram, I think I'd ask her to be my valentine. It would probably be on pink Hello Kitty paper. She would respond: 'sure...yes' on a different-colored Hello Kitty paper. And then I would sigh and say to myself: 'Satoko Minagawa is my valentine.' With her, who needs a diamond? 

Be Happy and Gay

Along with the swearing off of stagnant full time working-for-some-asshole corporate jobs, comes certain ups and downs. The ups would be: not working for some other asshole all day every day, added variety in life, an absence of oppressive, fluorescent lights beating down on you and boring into your soul as you pretend to care about what you're doing, and--one of my favorites--constantly being on a new adventure. 

Of course, some would view the latter of this list as one of the downs, and would word that concept as no adventure, but something closer to 'having an unstable income, never knowing where your next paycheck will will be,' or 'being forced to do manual work.' But I don't mind manual labor, I've come to find. I didn't know it was true, but it turns out it is.

In fact, I was thinking about this very concept as I was walking to the bank yesterday, a most blustery of days. I considered a book I recently finished reading: 'Dry,' by Augusten Burroughs. This book chronicles the author's travails through alcoholism, and then rehab, and then reentering the world upon completion of rehab. In the meantime, he is a well-paid advertising copywriter in Manhattan. At one point in the book, when mused by his coworker that advertising is far from glamorous or fulfilling, Burroughs says something to the effect of, 'it beats manual labor.' And the coworker replies that this is true if you're willing to hand over your dignity. And the author says that he doesn't have dignity, and he never did. And that made me think.

Because dignity, or integrity as I say, is the most important thing of all things. And so months ago I quit my part time job as a bartender where, even working part time, I was bringing in more money than I needed. I quit because I was required to wear a provocative uniform which made strange alcoholic businessmen eye me in weird ways and stare and ask me to get them a cognac, knowing full well that I would have to get on a step ladder--wearing a very short skirt--to retrieve the bottle (the cognacs in this particular bar were kept on the fourth shelf, some ten feet from the ground). I quit because I was tired of dealing with alcoholics, and I was tired of being hit on arbitrarily as an object, like I was trading my body and integrity for money.

And of course I'm more blessed than many. I have pursued a master's degree, and as a result I teach writing courses to college students, which I love. But I also have to pay my bills, and teaching part time doesn't cut it. So to replace my bar money in an economy where options are closer to nil, I took a job for a cleaning service; I clean the condos of yuppy people around the city who still have options perhaps because they are working these I-work-for-some-other-asshole-under-the-fluorescent-lights jobs. Who knows if they have integrity. Who even knows if they could say themselves.

Well anyway, as a perk for working this adventurous maid job, I meet people (coworkers) who belong in a lower socioeconomic bracket than I do. They are uneducated and living on food stamps and involving in work so that they can get 'Section 8' funds from the government to pay for their dilapidated apartments (I'm assuming, at least more dilapidated than my nice enough Lakeview apartment) to shelter the children they could not afford to have (shit, I am not really judging, I promise). 

In so doing, you know, working with these people of a lower socioeconomic caliber, I have conversations with them while we are driving to the next condo. The other day, I was talking to Maureen, who is sweet as pie, has a southern twang, though I am not sure if she is from the south, and says things like 'the dog-gone thing,' and does things like put a sign on a horrible dent to the front right quarter-panel of her beat up '93 Oldsmobile that reads: OUCH. I mean the lady is a card, and I'm glad to know her, if for no other reason than she makes me feel real, more real than I already feel. 

But Maureen is uneducated. And so she thinks that to be gay is a choice. Augusten Burroughs, author of the aforementioned book, might disagree, as he himself is gay. A gay ad man who claims to not have dignity. (I'm sure that was sarcasm in part.) But while I was reading his book, I couldn't help but think: I don't relate to how gays must feel. After all, I am not gay. I am the type of person that goes to bed dreaming up the most exciting fantasy I can conjure of how a hot man can lift up my skirt and give it to me passionately in some dark club or something. My whole life has been about the obsession and reflection over heterosexual romance. Gay romance perplexes the hell out of me, and frankly, doesn't seem natural. 

But I am absolutely not like Maureen. The other day, we are heading north on Sheridan and she squeals, about these gay men whose condos we clean: "Hell, I don't know if they're together or not. I'm so sick and tired of everyone saying you're gay because you're born that way. Gimme a break! It's a choice and that's that. Gays say 'I can't help it, I'm gay,' but no! You make a choice! You know? Don't you think?" she turns her head to me. 

But I don't want to have this conversation with Maureen. While reading the memoir of Burroughs had me feeling detached and uninterested much of the time, I still respect what he must have gone through, what all gay people must go through, just as a result of being gay, of discrimination and looks and hatred and--in the worst of cases--violence. It makes me cringe, the lack of compassion of it all, and not least of all on Maureen's part. So quietly, I say: 'I don't think it's a choice. Many gay people probably deal with a lot of suffering, and feel alienated; I don't think if a lot of them had the choice, they would choose to be gay.' And then I'm grateful for Doreen's ADHD because she says, 'Well there it is!' indicating the building inside which we are to find the next cleaning project. 

But later that day, I feel sad. Not only sad for Maureen or for Burroughs (who's autobiographical account is about his struggle as an alcoholic as opposed to as a homosexual), but for the world. Why do we have to harbor such hatred for others? Can't we just accept others as they are, and not judge them? Oh I don't know. I don't have the answers. I guess this is why I teach: because I want to try to enlighten people like Doreen who just are not aware. And I want to help other people believe that we can all be happy, whether we are gay or straight or working at a job that falls far below the perfection line. 

I never told you the downs of swearing off these fluorescent-light jobs: come to think of it, there aren't any downs. Without them, I'm much happier...and much gayer. 

What's Wrong with Getting Personal?

These days, it seems that trends only last a few hours. What, with the advent of each new technological 'gem': ipods that get smaller and more colorful by the week, cellular phones injected with so many whistles they can now microwave food, houseplants that take photographs, and the list goes on. And as a society, in part due to these plush, techie pillows, we have become fickle. Our attention diverts to the next hot thing quickly. We care less and less about an object in front of us. We don't have time for long-winded anything. This, sadly, includes conversations with people. 

Less than a couple years ago, I discovered text messaging. I was late for that fad, as I typically am with trended fare. But once I came to and saw the light of the the text message's beauty, I was hooked. I texted all my friends. I lavished in opportunities to meet people and put their numbers in my phone, if only I could text them. I took more time than I would ever admit to construct my messages just so, particularly if sent to men I was attracted to. I called my provider and opted for the unlimited package. I played games that people ridiculously play, whereby they 'pretend' they are busier than they are, and sit on messages for hours or days, just to appear to be 'aloof' or 'unavailable'. Why anyone would do this, I have no idea; I'm certainly not sure why I did.

But to be sure, I did. I became part of the text culture. And eventually, texting became an obsession, until it led to utter frustration. What did this text mean from he or she (usually he, as men tend to get under my skin more than women; I'm heterosexual and sexual, go figure). Why would he take so long to write back? Why didn't he write back? Why did he say that and nothing else? Why can't we sit here for hours and text each other back and forth? Why why why? 

Certain nights, I distinctly recall sitting on my favorite red, plaid chair in my apartment, staring back and forth between my laptop screen, and my cellular. Why doesn't anyone write? Why didn't he (whoever he happened to be at the time) write back? It was a sickness, I finally realized. And furthermore, despite the fact that I'm a writer, with a passion for expression through written words (probably what drew me into texting in the first place), such a sickness well, sickened me. 

Through text messaging (first it was emails, and now in ways, it's still emails), we have been overtaken by a preoccupation with brevity. We don't explore what's in our souls. We think: 'I don't feel like calling him/her back, why not shoot a text?' But even worse, we think: 'Why even bother to text, it's just a text?' It's sad, very sad. 

Because at times, the older I get and the more I realize how precious life is, the more I crave a good vis-a-vis talk. The more I miss times when, as in college or high school, I would talk on the phone for hours of the night. I would laugh and squeal and delight in the inflections of the voice on the other line. I felt connected. But though text messages are forms of communication, we have gone to the extreme (as we often do), and have replaced such ability to be short and to the point for a good phone chat, or a drink maybe, or dinner. 

We're not like Anna Karenin in Tolstoy's 'Anna Karenina'. If she longed to see her lover, Vronsky, she would send him a letter (long hand, imagine!) and plea for him to come to her (in person). What happened to such intimacy? The text message is so informal and its contents so ambiguous and slippery and lifeless. I prefer something I can sink my teeth into. A hug, a smile over two coffees, my family at the dinner table, or cooing on an L-shaped couch over the newest baby in our clan. These are things that matter. Text messages, for me, I'm happy to say, have become 'passe'. Yes, it's true. I'm on to the next big thing. 

Next time I meet someone interesting, I won't ask him for his cell number, and in a giddy way, add it into my phone right in front of his eyes, telling him I'll call the number so that he will have me in his phone too. No no no. Instead, I think I might say: 'Can I have your street address?' Maybe I'll send him a letter by the ink of my favorite pen, and invite him out to a Sunday brunch. 

May the text get sick and die. 

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.