Short story long: Josh, my good talented friend does a lot of web stuff for me because, well, he loves me as much as I love him. This includes changing the look of my blog. Changing the colors. Changing the fonts. Adding section divisions. Updating things that I didn't even know existed and of course placing new links. Anyway, if you'd like your blog/site put in to my links (because linking is totally like high five-ing in internet world) please put it in the comment section. Some people never ever ever comment and I didn't even know half of you added me to your blog roll until I just for fun googled myself and found out that I was on tons of blog rolls which I love because AWESOME people are cool out there, but BOOOO because I didn't have you on mine and I want to internet high five tons of people all the time. Internet high five-ing is the new black.
Anyway, I send him new links I need updated and then he updates them because he's cool like that. But I feel bad that I keep sending him a new one when I find one and thought to myself: "Hey! Get a list!" So, you need to help make that list.
Long story that turned a short story long now turns short again: Leave me your link.
This tiny Hispanic woman is at the coffee shop counter trying to sell Mary Kay perfumes to the cute girl behind the counter. I'm behind in line trying to eavesdrop on the woman, but her accent is super thick and super quiet and super, well, weird.
"I'm sorry... I'm not interested... thanks though." The cute brunette behind the counter says to the tiny quiet talking lady.
"Swishfpoof pa afjs s" The woman whispers. (It totally sounded like that).
"I'm sorry... I can't understand you, what?" The barista says confused and turning nervous.
"Poof pa shwish be?" The woman whispers a bit louder while shaking the colorful box of perfume in her hand.
"I'm sorry... I ... I don't know what you're saying?"
"THIS WILL GET YOU BOOTY!" The small woman screams with her Spanish accent. This is loud enough that every table in the area turns around and people sitting at them start to giggle.
The woman gets frustrated and leaves the line.
"That was rude!" The girl behind the counter says to me typing in my order.
"Maybe she was talking about pirate booty... you know, like, treasure?" I say pulling out my debit card.
The girl didn't laugh.
But I totally did.
A lot.
I'm still laughing right now.
A few afternoons ago I dropped off a giant shopping bag of my dry cleaning. The guy there was a mid-twenties dark haired Paul Rudd look-a-like. I'd never seen working there before.
Dry Cleaning Guy: "So, wow, lot's of dirty clothes."
Me: "Yeah, well, I've been saving up and been working a lot... so haven't had time to stop in."
D.C.G: "Yeah, me too. I have two jobs. A day and night job"
Me: "Yikes! How do you have any fun in between that?"
D.C.G: "I go out on Fridays and Saturdays and just work here hung over. Who cares. I need the cash."
Me: "Yeah, I can understand. I used to be a bartender. The extra cash can be handy."
D.C.G: "Where did you bartend?"
Me: "Here in Boystown."
D.C.G: (While smiling.) "Huh... what are you doing tonight?"
Me: "Um, nothing. Just hanging out."
D.C.G: "Can I take you out for a drink?"
Me: "Oh... no... thank you... I have to be up early..."
D.C.G: Shrugs and shakes his head. "You don't know what you'll be missing. I'm a fun kinda guy."
He hands me my slip and smiles. I nod and head out blushing. It was flattering. He was kind of cute. Nothing wrong with a little flirting, right? Until...
Me: Have a good night!"
D.C.G: "You, too. You know where I am tonight if you change your mind."
Me: "Yup, here?"
D.C.G" "Uh, huh... here with alllllllll of your adorable little dirty clothes. Hope nothing goes missing!"
He picks up a few of my dress shirts, holds them in his arms, and winks.
You can ask a gay man out at a dry cleaners. You can tell him he's going to miss out on a good time if he turns you down. But you can never threaten to kidnap his Club Monaco slim fitted stripped banker button up shirt. That, well that, is just playing dirty with laundry.
While leaving an overpriced body product store(ahem, Kiehl's) in an overpriced neighborhood(ahem, Lincoln Park) with my overpriced lip balm(Pause. Lip balm, folks, is a fancy word for chapstick. See, you can call it lip balm when you pay a price that doesn't involve a drug store. Paying this price for lip balm is something I tend to do because with winters this city can get and with single boy lips... well, I can get lip balm and not chapstick.) I was thinking how expensive it can get living in this city.
I mean, with rent and cabs and the variety of restaurants and then, of course, there's that 10% sales tax. You know, we get totally raped by this city with buying things because they add that extra 10% and all the sudden that expensive lip balm is actually even MORE because the city says so and as you're walking down the expensive streets of Chicago looking at your lip balm receipt and seeing how much they tacked on to that lip balm cost you start getting fired up. I mean, I did. I mean, lip balm. People. Should not cost the same as a nice lunch already, but add that extra percentage and it's like lunch and tip! I start thinking about how all the rich people don't even care about this and how all us people who want to be rich and aren't yet do worry about this stuff and I start thinking about money and how scary it can be and with the economy and... and... and... !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! And as I turn the corner in the quiet expensive neighborhood I say to myself: "What else will they start taxing!!!"
And then I quite literally at that moment stumbled upon this on the sidewalk:
An almost exact replica of a Monopoly game board spot.
In the game of life there are winners and losers and there are apparently randomly placed game board spots placed in the city to remind us... well, to remind us that we are just pawns(I'm the shoe!) in life and in order to win you have to have nice lip balm.
There's this great line in the this bad movie called "Smart People". Yes, I watched it for Sarah Jessica Parker. Yes, I thought it was going to be one of those independents that much to the like of Me and You and Everyone We know(POOP!) would be pure brilliance. But it ended up being one of those movies to the like of, well, a Vin Diesel movie.
Anyway, the line comes from one of the neuritic young republic characters who says this to her crazy out of mental normalcy uncle when she sees that his room is a mess and his bed is unmade: "You should always make your bed in the morning. It sets the tone of the day."
This was the only good part of the movie.
Anyway again, when I watched that I was all: "Huh... I wonder if that's true. I should try that!" Because, well, when I was fifteen I VOWED never to make my bed again unless I felt like or it or if I had company and seeing that I don't feel like it that often and, well, my company has seen my unmade bed clearly these rules don't work.
So since Friday I have been making my bed after I get up and I like it.
I just thought you'd all like to know: The tone of the day hasn't changed, but I don't nap as much.
10.20.08
Things I learned by spending a weekend in the woods:
Running HOT water is not overrated.
Stink bugs are not funny. NOT. FUNNY. Especially when one shows up in the shower with you. They are the alley rats of the woods.
Dark does not include street lamps. It includes stars as lamps.
Getting mud on your jeans along with marshmallows and tequila gives a whole new meaning to "distressed" style.
Time Travel is possible in the right places. See, cell phones don't work here so it's like being in the year 1995 where people can't expect you to respond right away. And you don't have to feel guilty about it.
Not hearing a cab honk its horn for two days is underrated.
You will see something like this and remember why it's totally awesome to have eyes:
I want this to be known: One night a few months ago, I had a few too many glasses of wine and apparently couldn't calculate my own strength and SNAP my key broke in my backdoor deadbolt. I also want this to be known: I am terrified of my Landlord.
He's this Russian older dude that probably is the nicest guy in the world, but all I ever hear him do is yelling.
" On menya zaebel!" He screams outside of my window one morning about one of the tenants that always leaves his bike attached to the metal gate. (I only discovered how to spell that after I asked someone who heard him yell that another time what it meant. And it ain't pretty).
He's got a deep voice and the way Russians speak their words just seems like if he found out one of his more "scared of him to death) tenants just broke a key in his lock while being semi-intoxicated, well... that would be grounds for a full on screaming of "menya zaebel!". I just never, uh, got around to asking for help.
So my back door had been permanently locked since June.
I'm not handy. I'll admit this. Josh will totally back this up. If I need something done in my apartment that involves a screwdriver or, well, a hammer I will end up staring at the project for weeks before I attempt it myself and then screw it up or get frustrated and call Josh and say something like: "So, uh, I'll buy you beer if you hang this shelf for me." I'm not a big help guy. I don't like asking for it. Call it the "Big Brother" thing where I was the one that wanted to prove I could do it with out anyone else needing to help me. Homework while growing up, I hated asking for teacher help. When I had a problem I just wanted to figure it out myself and, well, whenever I needed something from someone else... no matter if I was scared of them or not... I just found it easier to go it alone.
Anyway, this broken back door thing has been ridiculous. This door leads to my laundry room. So, for the last couple of weeks I have been having to carry a duffle bag of my dirty laundry down my block and around the corner to the back alley and coming to the laundry room that way. This back door is actually the easiest way to get out of the apartment to all the places I usually go in a day.
The other day I just got fed up with broken door and I don't know if it was the super strong Americano I had that morning or if it was a whim of masculine spirits filling me from top to bottom, but I took out my screw driver and started attacking that lock. I had read online that most key breaks can be fixed with just taking apart the locks.
Within minutes pieces of screws and dead bolts and this hingy looking thing lay strewn on my floor. Finally I got the broken key. It was jammed in the lock and snapped off flush. I couldn't get at it. As I stared at my mess I realized that that was just what I had made... a mess... of my lock and my life.
Asking for help is usually something I do after I make a mess. This is something I learned in age that is sort of a repeat problem with me. I screw holes in my wall thinking I don't need anyone to see if they are straight and later realize the picture is crooked. If my toilet won't flush I will try to take it a part only to realize that I don't know how to put it back together. If I am feeling kind of frustrated with where my life is going in these recent months, I just dwell on it instead of trying to talk it out with people and let them know that I am going through a rough time with career and health and just other aspects of my life. That along with other things I'm just not a pro about... well, that needs to stop.
And instead of letting pieces just sit there, I need to ask for some smart people who know about these things to help put it together.
Mr. Johnson is my hardware guy. He owns a store on Broadway and when I came in with my bag of lock pieces and said: "Hi, um, I don't know what I am doing anymore... can you help me?" He smiled and nodded and within seconds took the chunk of broken lock out and told me exactly how to put the lock back on the door. And it worked.
After I got home, I called Josh and told him about it. He, of course, was not as excited I was about being able to put a broken lock back together. I wasn't expecting him to be.
But what I was really excited about was that I could open and close a door again. That just keeping it locked and ignoring it was making everything else not easy to handle. And all it took was asking for a little help.
10.15.08
I want to Marry the "Mr. No Vote". So let's vote No for, um, "NO".
The "No" Vote is like the cutest thing I've seen in the longest time. Philosophically speaking and physically speaking. I mean look at "No" Vote's smile. Dang. I'd marry the "NO" vote in a second. I'd totally say "Yes" to "No" Vote alllllll the time.
So there's this old man that lives on the corner of my intersecting streets who sits in his wheel chair wearing an old man hat that stares off in to space. He doesn't stare off to space in the sad "I'm not all here" way. He does it in a "I'm thinking a lot" kind of way. He looks like an older Bill Cosby, which is why I have dubbed him Cliff( Pop culture time! Cliff was Bill Cosby's name on the Cosby show. Just so you know, F.Y.I.)
Anyway, in the year that I've lived in my neighborhood I've seen him almost daily. He sits all proper with his hands in his lap dressed like he is going to go to church. When people walk by, especially the ladies, he will nod and smile. When dogs go by he will bark and laugh because, well, that scares the shit out of dogs. And when I walk by, I swear to God, he always winks.
We've evolved. I used to just swoop by him on my way home and not say anything with an ipod blasting in my ears, a grocery bag or a coffee in had, or something distracting me. Just another guy in the neighborhood I would always think to myself. Unlike Wisconsin, people don't really chat with the neighbors they see outside. Then one day I nodded when I tried to slip around his wheel that was blocking the sidewalk.
"Hello." He said laughing in a way old men laugh when they think anything is funny just because at that age everything probably is funny.
After that it was always a mutual "Hello" and a smile. Within weeks it was a wave without a hello and then after that it was just a wink. On his part. When he winks, I always smile so I know he knows I know he's winking.
Then the other day, I was walking home with a newly purchased books in hand. It was a sunny day and he was under a tree with leaves turning that orange burnt color. As I walked by I looked him through my aviators just expecting the wink when: Nothing.
He didn't do a thing. He looked at me and looked away and that was it.
As I steered around the corner and headed to my apartment I couldn't help but think: Did I piss him off!??!?!?!! No wink? Eye contact with no wink?!
As I sat in my apartment trying to work on this freelance piece, I kept thinking about Cliff and what I could have done to not get that wink. Did I ignore him one day? Did he think it was time to evolve in to not knowing each other again?
Yes, I know this is crazy. The man has to be in his 80's. He has to see tons of people a day. Am I really that insecure to dwell on the fact that an old man who I dubbed a faux character name didn't wink at me? But it wasn't about that. It's about those little things that people do that just make you realize you're there. You know, the way the girl at my coffee place always says: "Hey boo, you having the same thing today?" That reminds me that she pays attention. Or the Whole Foods girl that looks like my friend Gina who always tells me that my smile makes her smile. It's those things, you know? When you live in a city with tons of people, you want to be reminded that some people still see you.
I haven't seen Cliff for, like, six days since the "no-winking" incident of 2008. I'm sure he's on some sort of old man vacation or barking at dogs somewhere else. But I'm determined to get that wink back.
I was twenty. I was in art school. I was a broke little college kid with no money and naive to the city life and having a blast just scraping by on cheese sandwiches while living a dream I had always thought would be hard to get. A city life.
Then I was outed.
It was an accident. I know this now. Won't go in to too many details. But in the summer of 2001, I had to make a phone call to my mom that to this day will still give me the Willys (you know, a mixture of stomach drop/hair standing on the neck/chills/cold sweats/the shakes) when I think about it. She, um, wasn't too thrilled with the idea and actually either was my Pop. But when I finally came out and confirmed and said: "Yes, mom, I'm gay." It was like getting that burp out that has been stuck and making all your insides compress and gurgle and build pressure. I know, pretty metaphor!
Today is National Coming Out Day. I don't know all of you who read this(Funny story about that. Hey dude that bumped in to me on the street and said: "You're that Check Please guy with a blog... I read it all the time!" Hope your dog's vet bill got fixed! Thanks for reading!), but I know you all come from way way wayyyyy different backgrounds and I know that you are either gay or straight or your both(Which I'm totally jealous of) and for a second I just really want you to just realize it. Whether you're out. Whether you have a best friend that is out. Whether you terrified to come out because you don't want to disappoint the people in your life that really won't be disappointed if they truly loved you because they would be smart enough and patient enough and intelligent enough to know that you deserve to be happy. And if those people aren't in your life right now, then Yo, you need to start looking for them. Seriously. Like NOW. Like, why are you still reading this. Go find someone that will hug you when you tell them. Or GEEZ! Tell me. I'm pretty cool like that. I listen. Well, I'll read it. Just tell someone. Or just know it will be OK when it does happen.
I would hate to see where I would be if I was still in the closet. I would hate to think the things I have had in my life wouldn't even exist because I was too afraid to get what I wanted. Like my past love or even the past opportunities that came from me being exactly who I am. A gay guy with an obsession for his Netflix Que.
This morning I woke up with this dog spooning me on my left and that cat sprawled between my legs. I'm house sitting while this couple is out of town.
Josh is a couple now. Actually, he's engaged. And last night while I was sprawled on his couch watching episodes of Sex and the City on my laptop, I looked around his and Drea's apartment. It was funny, seeing scenes of Season Three (episode six!) of single Carrie strutting the city of NYC on the screen of my laptop while all around me was a happy twosome sharing an adorable loft space with awesome paint colors, shelves of shared books framed photos, and two adorable pets that I swear to GOD look at you with eyes that seem like they will open their mouths and say something all "Look Who's Talking, Now"-esque.
And just when Carrie is about to type something wise and profound on her single girl laptop about why her and Big weren't working in season three, I realized Josh did "it".
Without going to in to Josh's personal past(because, um, he's not like me where he spills the beans on everything to you people) he wasn't much of a "I'm going to get married and have pets kind of guy." Actually, a year ago he was quite the opposite. Actually, a year ago I was him now and he was me now. Does that make sense? Are you picking up what I'm putting down?
Anyway, here we are in switched places. His cupboards filled with spices and pots and pans and things to cook with. Mine filled with take-out menus, some sweaters, and a few cook books I pretended I was going to use when I was in a relationship that never really got the past the whole page one thing. He's got a patio with two chairs that I imagine he and Drea drinking wine on. I don't have a patio. He's got a washer and dryer in unit. FOLKS! He has a washer and dryer in HIS UNIT! Well, I don't. He's got the girl. A great girl. Man, you need to meet this girl. This is a power couple. He did "it".
I bet you think you know where this is going. This the moment where Byron has an epiphany, right? You know, this is where Byron would say something along the lines of: And that's when I realized that..." and I would go in to this whole deep thing that would blow your mind and you would fall asleep tonight with deep insight and a changed perspective on life.
Well, it's Friday and I don't feel like it. Because, when I woke up this morning with a cute dog and cat snuggling in to me all I did realize was, DANG, Josh is lucky and Josh deserves it all and damn their bed is comfortable.
OK. So. I lied. I did have an epiphany. Just like the juxtaposition of Sex and the City single woo-is-me scenes playing within a perfectly happy twosome loft and my single self vacaying in a non-single house, sometimes we are in places in our lives where it feels like it doesn't make sense. It seems awkward and uncomfortable and weird and unplanned and humorous. But somehow... it just works, you just need to figure out how it works.
And that's the trick. Make the juxtapositions in your life make sense. That, and finding a place that has a washer and dryer in unit. A WASHER AND DRYER IN UNIT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
10. 7.08
Why kids and rabbit ears are pretty dang awesome.
So I was carrying my dry cleaning down the street a few afternoons ago. See when you live in the city, everything tends to involve foot. Taking a cab for the littlest things adds up. Public transportation is as dependable as Amy Winehouse's sobriety and sometimes it's just easier to carry things to places for the view. Unlike growing up in Wisconsin where a mile could feel like "Please God just shoot me in cornfield hell" a mile in the city involves plenty of store window shopping, exercise, and of course, the ever wonderment of people watching.
Anyway, my hands are full, right? I mean, I've got ten shirts to get cleaned and a pair of these really nice pinstriped slacks that I was aiming to wear to a wedding and a few fall sweaters to get pressed. I'm double fisting. I'm on a mission. I've got places to be! My fingers are about to fall off because, um, dude... sweaters are heavy.
I turn the corner and leaning against a brick wall of the neighborhood's best sushi joint is an older homeless guy with a crumpled cardboard sign that reads: "Please, hungry." in black permanent marker. The man's handwriting is beautiful. Seriously. Like he once was a sharp student in middle school with penmanship that always got compliments from teachers. But as everyone whizzed by this guy would say: "Could you spare some change?" and even if people ignored him, he would still say: "Peace." and place his index finger and middle finger in the air to make the famous rabbit ear symbol.
At that exact same time, a little girl(totally seven or eight years old) stops in the front of the man giving the peace sign and says: "What's that?" to her father who is distracted by the grocery bags in his hands.
"Bridgette, come over here!" He races to his daughter who is now starring at the homeless man's hands.
As the father grabs his bags and zips in front of me down the sidewalk with his daughter's hand in his other, I hear the girl start asking questions.
"Dad... what was he doing with his fingers?" As she asks she stares at her fingers trying to make the same rabbit ear peace sign as the homeless guy.
"What? I don't know what you're talking about?" Her dad says annoyed.
"He was doing this!" She says with her little fingers trying to separate just enough to mimic the man's gesture.
"Oh... that means 'peace'."
As I continue to walk behind with my hands full of all these shirts and sweaters I started to remember the first time I learned what that symbol meant. It was in third grade. We were told to use it when we didn't want to fight. It was about the same time as the Gulf War. I remember watching the news at night, right before dinner, where anti-war protesters marched with giant signs and some with 'peace fingers'.
"What does peace mean?" She asks still trying to get her fingers to look right.
"It means... no fighting..."
"Oh! I don't like fighting... right? I hate fighting!" The girl shakes her brown haired head wildly back and forth.
I smile and watch as the dad looks down at his daughter and smiles.
"That's right. You don't like fighting." As the dad says this he takes his hand out of hers and makes a peace sign with his hand.
"Show me how to do that with my fingers!" The little girl begs holding her hand up in front of her face."
In that moment, the dad puts down his grocery bags and stopps his hurried walk in the middle of the sidewalk. As I pass around them, I turn and see the little girl's hand in the shape of a peace sign and a smile on her face. The dad then picks up his bags as the girl walks down the street with her little fingers in a peace sign.
It seems like our hands are always full. Whether it's with the physical stuff like grocery bags and dry cleaning or it's with the bigger stuff, like the responsibility of taking a second and stopping in a crazy fast paced world to teach a little someone a big something that maybe we as adults too often forget can even still exist.
Get ANOTHER ride home on a motorcycle with a hot straight guy while watching a perfect fall sunset fade behind skyscrapers. Say something like: "This is why I live here." Then smile. A really really big smile.
