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!