el fin del año 2014

2014 was a hard year for many reasons. Money was always an issue (despite the fact that I am fully employed in what is basically my dream job). Love was always volatile. Living quarters were less than ideal in both countries I lived in. I was depressed for at least 1/3 of the year.  But this was also the year that I learned that sometimes, in order to maintain emotional stability, one must always remember of life, that "this is an adventure." 

And while it was a year I'd never want to re-live, it's certainly worth remembering. Here were the extremes of it all. 

Best Meal

Mont Bar, Barcelona. The whole family was there, the service was exquisite, the food was tasty, the wine kept flowing, and I even got to wear my fancy new dress.

dessert (and my dress is visible in the background)

Worst Meal

Ramen. Over and over. I had 10s of dollars to my name and no way of cooking other than an electric kettle. So ramen was basically the only thing to rely on. For months. 

Best Party

New Loki La Paz Opening Toga Party. Everyone was there. Everyone was in togas. What's not to love?

"we came, we saw, we bloodbombed"

Worst Party

Goodbye London. No one showed up to the bar. Even the friend that convinced me I must have the party. I cut my losses and went to a house party, which in the end was a good time. 

Best Reunion

Loki Reunion in London. Old friends in new places is the best thing ever. 

the people who changed my life forever

Worst Reunion

I stopped by the Iquique tattoo shop only to find my least favorite South American happened to be in town and was hanging out there. 

Fanciest High Class Moment

Shooting Party, at a place quite reminiscent of Downton Abbey. 

Roughest Low Class Moment

No kitchen. No bathroom. No internet. No power. No money. I kept reminding myself "this is not my life forever."

Best Holiday Celebration

Thanksgiving. We were in London. The oven didn't work. The bottle of bourbon had an anti-theft device still attached. There was no pumpkin or cranberry. But we made the most of it with no-bake cheesecake, butternut squash, trail mix, and the broiler. And it was glorious. 

Worst Holiday Celebration

St. Patrick's Day. It always seems to end up the worst. In 2012 I had my heart broken. In 2013 I gained a stalker. In 2014, I had a baby guiness in the morning in La Paz then flew back to Iquique where I picked up what had fallen in a minor earthquake, finished a paper, and remained totally sober.

Best 24 Hours

Día de La Paz, Masage at Hotel Europa, & Pamelita's Wedding

Worst 24 Hours

That day I thought we broke up.

Best Surprise Place

The Eagle and Child, Oxford England. We randomly wandered in, looking for a good place to write a paper and discovered we were in the very corner where JRR Tolkein and CS Lewis used to write. 

Worst Surprise Place

That apartment that necessitated all the ramen. Did I mention the bathroom shared with an older couple and no hot water?

Best Death Defying Feat

-17 F. Hunkered down with the folks in Heyworth and made an adventure of it. 

it got colder

Worst Death Defying Feat

8.2 Earthquake. I really did think I was going to die. The powerless, waterless, homeless, blocked road aftermath was arguably worse.

"more than 4 thousand people are now living on the street"

aftershocks

Best Fight

Getting what we wanted for our AAA session.

Worst Fight

Santander taking 4 months to finally deny me a bank account. 

Best Encounter with an Animal

"Adopting" La Vaquera.

Worst Encounter with an Animal

Vaquera wasn't in the back seat. It cost us $40.000,00CLP ($80US).

Hardest Goodbye

My last shift in the old Loki bar

Easiest Goodbye

Getting out of Iquique for 4 months

Best "Illegal" Activity

Absinthe in Prague.

Worst "Illegal" Activity

Watching our new friend, Sin (seriously his name) resolve some sort of mafia-style dispute after the Halloween party in Brixton.

Best Student Experience

My dissertation advisor tells a new colleague that I could "hold my own" and don't "need any help," causing said colleague to appologize.

Worst Student Experience

A well respected La Paz luchador asks me about the rumors my old trainer has apparently been spreading.

Best Academic Experience

George Marcus publicly compliments my AAA paper. Also, he has awesome glasses.

Worst Academic Experience

An older academic (who shall remain nameless) continues her history of putting me down by asking how far along I am in grad school.

And there they are. The noteworthy moments of 2014. May 2015 be better, more productive, more enjoyable, more economically stable, less stressful, and less dangerous. But even if it gets worse, I'll remember that "this is an adventure." And in the end, I got to live in 2 different countries (Chile & England), and visit six more (Bolivia, Peru, Spain, France, Czech Republic, and United States), seeing at least a dozen old friends in new places. That's a pretty good track record!

la casa en college avenue

I'm doing some writing on my own "history" of wrestling, while cooped up with all sorts of ailments, and remembered this, which I wrote in 2008 for some "project" Dre was working on. I never saw the finished project, but upon rereading my words I thought I'd give them some light of day (or light of computer monitor). When completed, I'll put the history piece here too. But for now...

My memories are blurry. They are not in chronological order. Sometimes there is no date attached. They are as jumbled as the collection of music posters, cardboard cutouts, tapestries, and the giant Uma likeness that filled the rooms of the house on college avenue. My memories are snippets of Christmas-eve Jerry Springer episodes, pumpkin carving, HHH weddings, and summer evenings in the back yard.

Though it’s not what immediately comes to mind when thinking about the house on college, my first memory of being there was the summer of 1999. I don’t know why or how the night ended up the way it did, but I will speculate that it began at Denny’s. At some point it was decided that a dance party should follow and off to the house on college we went. With some Save Ferris, and Ben Folds Five we danced the night away. Later that summer, we listened to Hide Your Love Away, always twice in a row, as Glen mourned an impending loss.

And while there are certain songs that I associate with the house on college, most of my memories are not so innocent. Years before a former roommate and I established Naked Drunken Thursdays, I remember the roommates talking about naked hour. I never knew whether it was a joke or not, but in retrospect, I wonder if it was the first seed in my head of what eventually became NDT.

Strangely, I don’t remember any underage drinking (though that’s probably merely the result of faulty recollection), but illicit substances of other kinds do speckle my memories of the house on college. I remember being home for spring break, and sitting on the floor of that living room. A small crowd had formed and we watched Glen’s new Yellow Submarine dvd. A certain close friend of mine sat on the floor in front of me, and like many others was doing whippits that night. For each person, the dvd would be set to a particularly “trippy” sequence, and after his experience, my friend had an uncontrollable fit of laughter. Still, when I hear him cackle that way, I’m reminded of that night.

I, perhaps despite appearances, was not quite an innocent bystander. I was no stranger to pot smoking, but it never really seemed to affect me. Maybe I didn’t smoke enough. Maybe I didn’t really know how to inhale. But one fall night I took my first hit of a bong in the house on college. I was instructed by a number of people on proper form, and after much choking cleared the chamber. I walked away feeling victorious. A short while later I was standing on the back steps of the house, leaning against the wobbly railing, and realized I had absolutely no balance. Once that awareness was reached, suddenly everything spun into a fog. But I was surrounded by comforting people in a familiar place and it felt as if nothing could go wrong.

And it was that sort of comforting feeling that always emanated from the house on college for me. Maybe the most important memories are the times that made me feel like I was a part of something. I remember the secret toilet paper stash when certain roommates wouldn’t chip in, and I remember a long conversation in the kitchen one afternoon, that put everything into perspective. I knew I didn’t ever want to be the best thing that happened to someone.

Something still feels wrong when I drive past the apartment complex that replaced the house. Maybe it’s just that its time was over. And maybe its better that I’m able to remember things the way I want to without the imposition of reality settling in. I wouldn’t want to see the next generation of early 20-somethings that took over the house. I wouldn’t want to know that some other group of people is having dance parties, playing video games, and having what turn out to be life-altering conversations in there.

A friend of mine wrote many years ago, “You always imagine that the significant moments in your life you can play back like a video…but instead we remember the significant the same way we recall the useless—through fragmented images, half-developed snapshots.” But I think this begs the question, what is significant? If I can recall so well how I felt about the world on a random winter night watching Noggin and eating a La Bamba burrito as well as those more “pivotal” moments in my life, who is to say its useless. We are merely accumulations of our experiences and memories. We are who we are because of what we’ve done and where we’ve been. And the house on college, decades after its demolition, will continue to be a part of who we are.

en heyworth

Most of my friends from this place scoff at the local establishments. And for the most part I don’t blame them. The “Family Restaurant” (refered to as “res-turnt” by most of my family) presumes that a Greek Salad should include bacon. The grocery store carries no veggie burgers and only Boone’s Farm Wine Products in the alcohol section. And Bell’s Lawn and Video, the only known store this side of the Mississippi where you can browse the video rental library while waiting for diagnostics on your riding mower, closed years ago. But one thing I do appreciate, in spite of it all, is the bar scene.

Once upon a time, before I was old enough to really be aware of such things, the American Legion was the only place in town serving booze. Then, I believe during my jr. high days, the owner of the Irish Circle bar, in the next town over, decided the market was gaping and opened up Circle II (the logo to which is a branding iron style circle with the II emblazoned in the middle). And then finally, sometime when I was off at college in Chicago a real “Chicago style” bar opened. Yes, in the building that had been vacant since 1982, when the historic Hickory House Saloon shut down, Pit Row opened its doors. Now the place does have a nice wooden bar. It has a well kept pool table and a long row of electronic poker games along the back. The ceiling is high and they do actually enforce the now ubiquitous Illinois smoking ban, unlike the bartender only known as “Smokey” over at II. But after having spent the better part of 6 years in Chicago, I have yet to find a NASCAR themed bar there. So while I find the paintings of a racetrack crowd on the walls, the racecar hanging upside down from the ceiling, and the cardboard cutouts of Dale and Dale Jr. in the corner endearing, I would not exactly call this place a Chicago bar.

But despite the Dales, despite the smoke, despite the implicit proliferation of militarization in small town United States, I love these places. And I rather enjoy checking in on them during my infrequent trips to heytown. I suppose because you always run into someone interesting. And by interesting I do not necessarily mean someone who is leading a fascinating life (though its happened on occasion). Mostly I mean someone unexpected from the past.

So my most recent trip to heytown happened to fall during the NCAA tournament, and for the final game, Mama H, Papa H, and I decided that since none of us really cared who won, it might be more interesting at the Row. Papa H, in his sage-like way, predicted I would run into a young man who I hadn’t seen in 3-6 years. I agreed saying, “who will it be? Someone who will induce crying, like CT? a old flame like MN? Or maybe just someone silly dancing by himself in the corner like JC?”

And so, we all took the 5 minute walk to the Row, and plopped down at the bar. It was slow on a Monday night, and when we arrived was only populated by the bartender, the owner’s wife, and an older gentleman waiting for a to-go order of the night’s special, chicken wings.

But was we watched the game, JC came in and ordere more to-go food. MN came in with his home-wrecking new(ish) lady-friend. And the predictions came true. Two out of three ain’t bad. And to top it all off (despite the lack of a CT appearance), LM, the current mayor wandered by and said hello to Mama and Papa H as if they were best friends.

There have been times I’ve been creeped out a bit by the close knittedness of heytown. I don’t like knowing that gassing up on my way into town sets in motion a series of text messages which results in a former classmate calling my parents’ home to talk to me. But the flip side is, its comforting. People know you and care about you, and in a pinch would surely take care of you. They may not be family, or even friends. But there’s a trust and knowledge that develops just seeing people in the IGA that you can’t replicate in larger communities. And as much as I curse it at times, sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your name.

de donde eres?

well, in the last week i've been asked about twice daily where i'm from. and i don't know how to answer.

of course, there's the problem i've had for years. i was born on the west coast. grew up in the midwest. went to school in chicago. lived in new york. resided in DC.

but i could always fall back on the place i currently lived. the place i paid rent. where my car was registered. where i voted. where i paid taxes. but now that's over. my stuff lives in my parents' basement and closets. i sleep in a bed in chicago. my affiliation is with a school in DC. and in a week, i will physically be in Bolivia.

and so i stutter. i hesitate. i look to other people to answer for me. because i am no longer from anywhere. i am only to somewhere. to illinois. to chicago. a bolivia. and with my fromness, in a way, my history is obscured. if i'm not from dc, i have no school, i have no purpose.


leaving dc has been difficult. its the end of an era in a way. and i'm not sure i'm entirely ready for the next era. i'm hesitating about all kinds of things. but in a way, i suppose bolivia has come to symbolize a release. a relief. a place where i can just be. and there the answers are easy.

soy de los estados unidos.

mantequilla

for anyone who's been keeping up on the butter controversy, it seems to be settled.

it's official. MJ has no place in butter.

the Duff Dog will be happy

iowa

i used to dislike iowa. mostly because i had family in ames, and every thanksgiving and every december 26th, and often on a random july day, i'd be forced into sharing the blue station wagon's backset with my sister for a 6 hour journey across flat land. inevitably we'd arrive and my cousins, who i did actually rather enjoy, would be off with their cool older friends, and i'd be forced to endure "grownup" time with the aunts and uncles.

then in 2003, everything changed. a little documentary called "pats of glory," introduced me to the beauties of iowa's fair history, camping next to carnies, and deep fried...well, everything. i was hooked. and i won't go into too much detail because as rule #2 of the fair states, "what stays at the fair, stays at the fair," but my feelings on the state have only become more and more positive in the last 6 years.

and now, well, it might just be surpassing my love for its neighbor to the east. and its not just because of gay marriage. iowa has a long history of progressivism, which i admire. and this article really sums it up.

my love of iowa may even be surpassing my love of the land of lincoln (and obama--but then again, if i'm closely associating obama with illinois, some recent presidential actions -such as this and this-may be making the state slip in the rankings independent of what iowa's doing). illinois might have to start selling rooster booster to redeem itself.

sloppy & unprofessional

it seems butter carving (or sculpture) may make its debut on the big screen. but seriously....there's a big difference between carving and sculpture, and the blurb conflates the two. get it right!

just a little duff dog eye candy

also, in case you weren't paying attention, fujimori got sentanced to 25 years.

el restarante

the top 5 most interesting dishes offered at Heyworth Restaurant

5. Butt Steak
4. Beef Roll
3. the Belt Buster
2. Fiddle Faddle Club
1. Wing Ditties ("music for your taste buds")

obligatory heyworth bar blog

[i originally started writing this as the power went out in heytown on dec. 27. sorry for the delay but amaren is really to blame]

it seems that every time i'm home i find myself at one (or more) of the three local establishments dedicated to alcohol consumption. and usually, something significant happens, about which I want to report. Things like crying over CT. sophomore homecoming dates becoming plumbers. jody singing while doing a shot. spartacus. my girlfriend from nap town. getting invited to house parties by 9th graders. the list goes on.....

but three things of significance happened last night at C2. first, i saw the necessary. it was not the first time i'd seen him at the circle. in fact, the very first time i went there on a thursday night with the butter cow crew he was there. the night it all began...but last night, the conversation was a bit more intense. he was one of the first people i saw after walking in with lou and mamaH. he said not much is new, except... & held up his left hand to display a wedding band. and then he very directly looked at my left hand. it was strange. i know plenty of married or engaged people. i know r___ & r____'s elaborate code system for communicating the presence or absence of a ring. but i've never felt so scoped out before. not to say that his scoping was due to romantic interest, but i guess i've never felt subject to such curiosity, presumably because i've always felt so far from the marriage stage. so i lifted my empty hand and said "nope" to which he responded with a slicing off the head motion, and said "don't do it." maybe i'm making too much of this, and by no means do i think this really means he is unhappy, but its very strange to be told by the man you went on your very first date ever with that marriage is a bad idea.

now, however much i'm blowing necessary's comments out of proportion, this is the type of thing i expect to happen when i make my rounds at the heyworth bars. i have bizarre conversations about children, marriage, jobs, school, and mostly the past with people i marginally knew in high school. but the second noteworthy event was entirely unexpected. i was standing by the flocked christmas tree with mamaH, and lou had gone to the bathroom (in which, taped to the mirror, is an utterly ignored sign that says "no smoking comrade" just below a newspaper article explaining the unconstitutionality of the illinois smoking ban). mid-conversation, i felt a swift and strong slap to the ass. i expected lou to be returning from the bathroom. but i looked around and she wasn't there. i searched behind me for b.s. or some other character i've known for 20 years that might feel such entitlement, but mostly just saw a bunch of kids about 6 years younger than me playing pool.

Then I saw markH. I didn’t know him well. His sister was on my high school basketball team. I believe we went to the same church as children. I once bought a pair of jeans were likely his from his family’s garage sale. But I wouldn’t say any of these connections might give one reason for thinking they have any business slapping my ass. Well, upon realizing through his drunkenness what he had just done, his face turned a bright rosy shade. He apologized. And I, being in a jovial mood didn’t yell, but laughed and eventually excused him. This of course, was the wrong move. I’m not sure any logic was functioning in his brain at the time, so perhaps my excusing was unrelated, but at this point, he started putting his hand on my waist and asking my age. When he discovered I was a mere 5 years younger than him (as opposed to one of his former girlfriends, who was 8 years younger), he pressed on. He paused to say “that’s kind of young” at which point I thought to myself- Oh, honey, if only you knew…but I kept quiet. The conversation finally ended with him attempting to get me to kiss him with the convincing line “come on, why not?” He walked away and rejoined his friends.

Later, Dana, who I had seen earlier with the elder Fox at H3, came over to say hello. We had lovely conversations about her sisters’ children, connie, and the Arkansas connection. The conversation was nothing extraordinary. But an hour after leaving the bar, I got a text from BS saying he ran into Dana at a gas station and she told him I was in town. The night before, I ran into little Mr. Burns at the AL and he texted his sister to tell her I was around. Last summer, BS’s brother saw me at the GLT summer concert and without my knowledge BS was informed. It sort of feels like being stalked. Perhaps it shouldn’t surprise me, and in a way its comforting, but you just can’t go anywhere in this town and get away with it. Word travels fast. My face is too familiar. This is not the place to hide out if I ever need to be anonymous. But on the other hand, it sort of feels like walking into the Cheers bar.

problemas grandes en un pueblo pequeno

i was talking to my mother this evening, when i could hear in the background my dad burst in and say "there are 20 police cars up the block." this coming from a man who lives in a town that only has one police car. and at most 2 officers on duty at a time. this is a town where i once unlawfully entered the library at 2am, knowing that the police officers were changing shifts at that moment and i wouldn't be caught.

my mom said she was going outside to put some meat on the grill, and go "crook-hunting." I told her to take a big knife. she said the sawzall might be better.

an hour later i called back to get the report of what was going on.

the neighborhood was abuzz, 8 different neighbors had stopped by, all the kids were riding their bikes around checking out the scene. the traffic from 136 was rerouted on cole street, making the front porch prime viewing real estate, and the k's had come over to watch. kerkid heard a plane overhead, and thought it was a helicopter, at which point kathkid said she knew there had been helicopters on the scene earlier because she thought she had seen one.

Denny, the neighbor who you can hear from 5 blocks away, any summer night yelling "Hans" (his son's name), came over to give his version of the report. Which presumably would let the whole east side of town know, given his town crier skills. Some guy named Cletus beat up his girlfriend last night. Kerkid asked if it was Cletus Newton, the high school football defense, shotput and discus coach.

**Coach Clete was beloved by many of us back in the glory days of track where we spent more time hanging out at the IGA than running the circuit. He was the type of guy who weighed 300 pounds, but didn't let that keep him from riding his harley and being an athletic coach. Plus, since he wasn't actually "our" coach (except for mary, jessie, and marcy) we didn't have any ill feeling toward him for making us do intervals or dots or boxes or bunny hops. he was just pure fun on the track bus.**

well, kerkid heard this news and wondered aloud why they didn't just send his best friend, mike law (former hey high interim principal, athletic director, and sexist phys ed teacher) over to talk to him. taking it upon himself mr. k called mr. law and asked why he didn't just go over and talk to him. apparently, mr. law then informed mr. k that it was not Cletus Newton, but some other Cletus that lived on the same block (what are the chances?) that had beaten up his girlfriend. and apparently had a large arsenal of hunting riffles. hence the swat team being called in. oh, and by the way, coach Clete apparently doesn't even have a girlfriend (shocking!)

so, now as of 10:20 pm cst, they heytown, county, and state cops are using sirens, airhorns, and bullhorns to try to coax this other clete out of his house.

so, no doubt thanks to kerkid's assumptions and denny's loud mouth, half the town will be calling for Clete's resignation as school starts tomorrow. I'm a little sad I wasn't there for all the commotion. Not since the escaped convict ran through town 10 years ago has so much action taken place!

la boda gorda

I walked into the church foyer with papa H, and saw stevie and ms. burns in line. We slid in with them, and were seated on the groom’s side about half way down the aisle. Not long after gina and jen joined our row, and eventually, mr. BS came and sat on the end. The music started playing and my mustached first grade crush (who will be a father in 2 weeks) walked in with a bridesmaid.

Now, I’ve been to a number of weddings in the last few years, but this was my first wedding as a single adult. And I thought that would make me less sappy. Maybe bring out my bitter cynical side. But the truth is, when brewski walked down the aisle to join gordo as his best man, my eyes got teary. There is something about seeing us all together in the same room that really got to me. Just feeling the presence of these people who I rarely speak to made me so happy and at home.

I guess there’s something about the people that you’ve known since the age of 4 that really allows you to be yourself. Suddenly, I could do anything. All self consciousness subsided. You can’t get away with an ounce of pretension with the people you used to take swim lessons with. At the reception I sang along because they’ve all witnessed me in years of painful chorus classes and karaoke nights before I developed my staunch aversion. I danced wildly without fear because we’ve been forced to line dance, swing, and perform the hand jive together, and quite honestly, I’m sure I looked far more awkward on the jr. high basketball team than I ever could on the dance floor. I said whatever came to my drunken mind, because they’ve all heard my most embarrassing statements (about Lincoln’s election) and one night of eloquence would never be enough to convince any of them I’ve become “educated” or “refined.” And though we might not have a lot in common any more, though we might be in different places both physically and figuratively, our mutual history counts for more than I’d realized. They are like family. Some of them annoy me, some piss me off, others I just disagree with entirely, but I love them all.

home part iii

i just thought i should counter the previous post with some later summer thoughts on "home"

I woke up at 5:30 this morning, when lou was leaving for work. my clothes were still in the washer from the night before, so i took them out to the clothesline. then i watered mom's garden for her. by that time it was fully light out, and the newspaper had arrived so i read it on the front porch watching the pickups go by on the morning routes.

mom and dad got up around 9 and i walked to the iga with dad for eggs & milk. we carried the big canvas bag. as we walked in the door an old man said hello to us very directly. i forget that you have to be ready to respond to salutations at all times here. as we walked back home in the still dewy morning, we discussed possible campaigns for dad's newly formed green initiative.

in the afternoon, i helped mom strip some furniture, and we made a quick run to the fabric store for upholstery fabric. i think these chairs are going to turn out nicely. in the afternoon j.m. drove by and took a look at our handy work. i got dad to saw some of the left over beadboard from the bathroom into good painting sized pieces for me.

as the sun was setting we took turns taking showers, and all quickly made some dinner. then off to the Ks. Jon is home from Iraq and the family is all around for the wedding reception tomorrow. i've said it before, but they really are a second family to me. i ended up talking to ellen in the kitchen for a long long time. in the other room, the college kids played poker, until they moved to the garage for some beer pong. we went home around midnight, but ended up sitting on the porch with a bottle of wine looking at stars and watching a few cars go by. lou eventually came home from some after-work activity and we all went to bed exhausted.

i guess this is what i'm always looking for when i come home. something you can't find in the city. something you can't find in a place where you haven't known everyone since the age of 5.

un otro

another early summer writing about blo/no

Tonight I ate dinner across the street from the coffeehouse. I saw indie looking boys walk by, and yell to their friends, “hey man, I haven’t seen you in a while.”

It made me realize this place doesn’t feel like home anymore. No more sitting at the coffee kup recognizing people that come in. no run ins along the street. No gunshots outside of la bamaba.

Sure places change, and I’ve been away for almost 10 years. But gentrification is a different beast entirely. The cobbler’s been displaced. Along with other ports. You’ll still be the only one I’ll ever love, but this Uptown is bullshit.

I guess I’m feeling a bit disenchanted with this place in general. The small-town bars aren’t what they used to be. The IGA still holds untold wonders, but even my parents, the coolest in the world, are losing their usual luster. Not in a getting in arguments sort of way, but they’re just being a bit boring.

But I also wonder how much this has to do with my current state of affairs. Usually, it seems, there’s something to keep me grounded here. Or rather, keep my feet from totally touching the ground. A friend around. A boy’s calls to keep me occupied. And lou. But this has been just me and the ‘rents. Which is nice, but it lacks that Sweet Home Alabama feeling I always associate with these parts.

And I want to write about this in a Klosterman-esque sort of way. But its not coming to me at the moment. No lofty poetry about the open spaces of the center. Or the way the center centers me. Perhaps I’ve grown out of this. Or perhaps it’s the comparisons I’m making. The last two weekends were filled with former friends and the sort of comfort one expects to find only at home. And not to say that comfort isn’t here, but the camaraderie I’ve had recently is missing. No antics. No late nights, flaming beaches, or wine-drinking roof talks. It is simply home. In a very adult sort of way. And maybe what it comes down to is that I want this place to restore the child in me. To make me feel as young and free as I want to be. But now, my friends here have children and own houses. They’ve all settled into that sub-suburban lifestyle, and aren’t hanging out at the circle anymore. So I’ve just got the Hs and the Ks around. And as much as I adore them all, they don’t have the spark of 20-something life that I’ve enmeshed myself among in recent weeks. By comparison to DC this is the life. By comparison to the nj/ny contingent, this is lame.

But now, I await my train to Chicago, and I hope more antics shall be found there. Of course, the usual suspects are all out of town, but chuckles will be a good time, along with the moyer, and of course my one true love, lou.

I also wonder if the crazy, unrequited things running through my head lately are putting me in a funk that’s not letting me fully enjoy my surroundings. I feel like I spend all year waiting for these moments, and then when they arrive, they are disappointing. And that’s no way to live life. I need to make them worth the wait. So here we go…

upside downtown

i wrote this about 2 months ago while sitting outside at the coffee house. now, the coffeehouse is being sold to the development agency. its like watching my youth disappear one business at a time. i guess i shouldn't feel so privileged to think that i could escape the effects of gentrification. but enough commentary. on to the writing:

I am sitting at a coffee shop I frequented ten years ago. And all around it, things have changed. This is now uptown, and across the street is a bar whose LED sign advertises 80s night.

Ten years ago I sat just a few feet away, and I read a poem of my own aloud for the first time. In those days, this was downtown, and I recognized the faces of the passersby.

I’m back working in the same office where I spent those summer days, and though little has changed there, my attention to detail now thrives.

I used to spend my nights staying awake, roaming the streets, using the cover or darkness to engage in illicit acts in parks and feeding my thin body only on caffeine and free desserts from all night restaurants. In those days there was always someone to see and somewhere to go next. There was always an adventure just around the corner. And many of those adventures began on the corner I’m staring at. But the pizza place is gone along with the import store, and my favorite roach-infested lunch counter. And half the disappeared places I can’t lament because I don’t recall what occupied these brownstones. There was a thrift store somewhere on this block. The comic book store where I once saw Kevin Smith. The drug paraphernalia store that claimed to be a music store. The music store my one-time crush bought after I moved. The candy store in the old train station. The used book store. This place, in many ways reminded me of an early Linklater movie. Now its just Uptown.

And a skinny blonde girl walks past in short shorts and a thrift store t shirt accompanied by a dreaded guy on a skateboard. And for a minute I pause. First because they make a strange pair. But I see myself in her. Second because they just don’t seem to belong here anymore. At least the way I used to belong here. Or the way I felt I did. But it was downtown then. Now its uptown.

gimnasta de mantequilla

my sister and i settled in for a nice home cooked meal of bean burritos last night. i made the guac, she smashed the habichuelas. and not being quite, um, mannered, we decided it was best to just sip our lemonade from the carton. minute maid lemonade, official juice sponsor of the olympic games.

on the side of the carton was an olympic athlete profile, that of Shawn Johnson, a gymnast from Des Moines. First of all, we found her name, what with its nice rhyme scheme, rather amusing...and moved on to more ridiculous and insulting conversations about the young, innocent, and surely undeserving gymnast.

well, today karma is not turning a blind eye. it seems that she will be immortalized in a way that really means something to me. not with her face on a coin, or a bronze statue, but like Princess Kay of the Milky Way and Tiger Woods, Ms. Johnson will be preserved, at least for 2 weeks, in butter. It only comforts me that its Sarah Pratt, not the Duff Dog that's handling the task.

el mundo es muy pequeno

at least the world of speech & debate

i met the cope last fall. i found out he had been a texas debater back in his day. in fact, he had judged at least one other debate-savy texan i know. probably both, given the circumstances. but the connections continue.

cope recently informed me that a friend of his from MD, a blo/no native, was passing through austin. in tow was his friend, tim. and it seems that this curly blonde headed man remembered me, of course, because we did speech together.

so maybe its not all that strange, or small, but i haven't spoken to tim in 10 years. in fact, its possible that i have never had a conversation with him. of course we've heard each other give speeches, but its entirely possible that i have never said a single word directly to him. though i vaguely remember talking to him before copi's performance in Rumors senior year.

in any case, i felt the need to email him. which i suppose is sort of weird and creepy. hopefully not stalkerish. but, considering my past non-friendship with him, at least i'm not losing anything in the venture. i think this is a sign that i'm truly bored. and what a great feeling it is!

la cuidad y el campo

i left heytown feeling down on home.

the train had some major delays but i made it to the city by 10. while there, i saw droves of old friends and like the weekend by the beach and stroh day weekend. its always good to catch up and reorient. especially when involving things like karaoke, tasty art, russian poetry, vodka, elevator music, awkward parties, and public playgrounds.

i got home yesterday evening feeling renewed, and then spent some time on the porch with the Ps, wine in hand, looking at the night sky, and talking about historical politics. it made me remember again, why i love this place. thick soft grass beneath my head. pure night quiet. a clear sky, with the most visible of stars. and the best company one could hope for.

i realize the sum up of the weekend is pretty lacking here, but i think its better addressed in a picture blog, to come shortly.

deuce

i went to the circle last night for karoke. the second time on this trip home. of course, the first attempted resulted in a surprise encounter with a man-stripper, and total lack of karoke.

last night, however, did not disappoint. there was plenty of dixie chicks, johnny cash, and kid rock/sheryl crow to go around. i ran into twilla, and she was sweet as ever. i also saw the tear-inducing turner, and we had a nice brief chat. he said he's been working in construction, and perhaps it was just the booze talking, but he said a few times that he should have paid more attention in school, but he was trying to be a rebel. i responded that he seemed happy, and to be doing well, so really, he shouldn't be too regretful.

i think in our own little way we were coming to terms with each other. he was saying, "sorry i thought you were a dork in high school, now i realize you knew what was up." and i was saying "sorry i thought you were a deadbeat in high school. now i realize you knew what was up." i hope it was our own little artis/miller moment. thankfully, this one didn't take a funeral.

cerdos y mantequilla

well, iowa showed up twice in my google alerts today.

first, ol duff dog made another obama tribute in butter

second, edwards apparently is advocating a national moratorium on the construction or expansion of concentrated animal feeding operations. you'd think that'd be enough to sway duffy, but i guess she's more multi dimensional than i give her credit for.

anyway, i was in ol ioway yesterday for a lovely family lunch at bennigans. it was good time talking with with cousin doug about guatemala, and i got to see the newest of my nieces once removed (sobrina mas o menos), and heard about the birth of my newest nephew once removed. i think i'm using that kinship term correctly. cousins' kids...who knows really. anyway, on the way back home we stopped for some refreshment, and i found myself some swiss valley chocolate milk. its my favorite dairy because that's where duff's milk goes. and i trust her product. she knows her milk.

piensos extranos

1. i acquired a tiny thing of grey pupon mustard recently, and damn its good. i mean, yes, i like mustard a lot. but the g.p. beats the hell out of safeway/shoprite brand dijon mustard. mmmmm...

2. i ran two miles on tuesday with the kronner. it was pretty pathetic at the end. there was a very slow but steady upwards hill that just killed me. but hey, at least i'm trying. we did get to discuss his thoughts on moving to chicago though.

3. my internet went down yesterday, and was fixed today. they guy who fixed it was from chicago, and we discussed the beloved windy city. then i got an email from smoyer who just moved to chicago. i'm now putting together something to send, but i have to find a few more things. its all making me miss chi town. and i won't ever fly through there for the holidays. i'll have to make a trip sometime soon.

4. it was a crappy rainy day, and my allergies were bad, but i decided i had to get out and go to the grocery story before consuelo z arrives. and when i left the apt, i had something very exciting from method in the mail. just a bag, no cleaning goodies, but still. it lightened my day.

5. as did this
i was especially heartened because a few months ago i made an ill-advised attempt to argue in class that the butter cow had something to do with citizenship. at the time i basically conceded that it really was only about belonging. but this proves the point. speaking of which, i should call duff.