Dear Holiday Travelers,
If you’re like me then this holiday season you will be returning to your childhood home. You may be traveling across the world, or down road, but either way the realization of change will be drastic. I can only speak for myself but I personally enjoy the contrast both places provide.
Just before Thanksgiving I spent my time in Chicago enjoying "the smaller things". I would go on late night walks down Lasalle Avenue marveling at the tall buildings and amber glow. I would smile upon my morning commutes in which private space became public. I took the time to see the last minutes of the golden 4:30 sunlight hit some random high-rise window. It was enjoyable even to watch small commanding children lock eyes with sleepy eyed riders on the EL. It's the times in which big city life is put into small prospective that makes life so enjoyable.
But in the country it’s never the small things that make life worth it. Everything is small. Banal stories of leaf raking and dog haircuts fill the conversation. Long thoughts regarding the weather, and snowstorms fill the voids. It’s a little slower and a lot smaller out here. What makes it worth it is exactly the opposite; small town life being placed into big perspective. Hope is the name of the game. It's what gets us through when the jobs dry up or when the schools have leaky roofs. Its what I try to keep in mind when I’m home. I’m not out looking for the "smaller things", rather the best moments are when life seem so big. Its those shimmering frosty stars that are missed in the amber glow of Chicago that make it worth it.
For me I latch on to the contrast both places provide. The conversations about leaf raking, are just as good as that 4:30 Chicago sunlight. Both make life a little greater.
Yours,
Thoroughly pleased
And readers please let me know about what holiday travel presents for you.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Saturday, November 14, 2009
On constructing a dream house.
Dear Architects,
The dream home seems to be stuck in a place of shimmering contradictions: I like the wilderness. I like the city. I like solitude. I like companionship. I like blue. I like red. I like brick walls. I like white walls. I like new. I like old.
It is a near impossibility to imagine a space that is complete in its relation to the creator and inhabitant. Extrapolating definitions by speaking about what the space isn’t seems just as bad as holding onto ideals of what it is or might be. At times one is struck by the shear catchiness of the act to define a capsule that would encapsulate all our hopes, dreams, wants, and desires.
But for my self, the multiple drafts of an ideal space only seem to be riddled with nonsensical marks that finalize themselves in utter failure. I am no architect, and bothering myself with dreams that seem trivial is not a game I want to play.
However, using my own framework (my current apartment) seems completely different. It latches onto the concrete, and from the concrete I can speak of the abstract without contradictions. To spare the reader I will refrain from trudging long-winded descriptions of my dwelling and instead mull over what can stay and what can go.
First and foremost the 24-year-old pot smoking, party-mongering hack of a roommate can go. He can take his clutter, his second hand highs, his glass blowing torch, and his dirty white gym socks with him. Yes, his books on Identifying the Dream, and Buddhism for Dummies can go as well. And just to make sure he can take those ugly-ass women, and that repetitive 90’s techno music. Life would be so much better with out him. No more razors left on the sinks and in the showers. No more constant smell of ego waffles, fake maple syrup and weed wafting through the house. No more cupboards packed full of Chef Boyardee, Pasta Roni, and Instant Mac & Cheese. And no more counters filled with candy corn, empty fruity pebble boxes, and plastic sporks.
I never want to see another black light poster or electric strawberry vanilla candle again. I never want to have to pick pubes from my sink, or change my socks due to maple syrup. I don’t want to be the bad guy and tell people to get the fuck out of my house at four in the morning. I don’t want to have that discussion about shared space. I don’t want to come home and find the windows open and the heat at seventy-eight. I envision the day when my space will be free of clutter and no longer considered a war zone. I envision coming home and being able to see hard wood floors and granite counter tops. I envision being happy after a long stressful day. But most of all I envision no longer dealing with the daily occurrences.
Like the other day, I came home to find glass blowing bead separator dried on the hardwood floors, the subwoofer, the desk, the laptop cord, the granite kitchen counter tops, the sink, and all the utensils. The couch was full of coats, pillows, and wet towels, the bathroom was littered with socks, my toothpaste cap, and old razor handles. And the motherfucker was missing in action.
After his return the Napoleon-esque stance he took armed only with a fork was almost laughable. Seated behind the kitchen table, he chomped on a soupy mess of fake maple syrup, globes of jam, and cold ego waffles. He then in the most eloquent way he could tried to tell me that the reason the house was such a mess was based solely on the morning after pill. I listened to him describe his condom situation in graphic detail and then tell me how this girl he got pregnant had spilt the bead separator. Seeing I wasn’t impressed the show continued. With the most extreme agony I witnessed him change directions and tell me that he’s madly in love with a girl that won’t love him. Mind you, a different girl. I was going to remind him that getting other women pregnant might be a reason someone would cease their love, but I refrained. The show somehow got better. I watched as a steady stream of tears fell into the half-inch pond of Mrs Butterworths that sat below him. I almost felt sad until I remembered that my Subwoofer was still caked in bead separator. The only thing I could muster out of my mouth was, “Well, I imagine you will get this shit cleaned up.”
It’s funny to me that someone who doesn’t go to school and is jobless can have a bad day. If I smoked $200 worth of weed a week, I would be smooth sailing.
Not even a week after the bead separator incident, I came home to witness the picture window shattered. I’ve dealt with sleepless nights where drug dealers are coming to the house at four in the morning. I’ve listened to him pass diseases on to new women and manipulate stories about free love and the hippy dream every night. I even put up with him calling me pimp-a-licous, but the picture window hit my breaking point.
All I want to do is sit and enjoy silence when silence is due. I should be able to marvel at floors that are so shiny I can see my own reflection. I should be able to study and prepare for the next day of class without hearing a constant techno beat. I should be able to sleep during normal sleeping hours, and have a night in which only the people that pay rent are in the house. I think I’m being reasonable; I’m a simple guy really. I have had many living situations and have enjoyed most of them. I like white walls. I like brick walls. I like solitude. I like companionship. But what I don’t like is motherfuckers who test my sanity every chance they get.
So, when I imagine my dream home, all I want is a clutter free existence. The more clutter brought into my life the closer I get to my breaking point. On the plus side the 24-year-old pot smoking, party-mongering hack of a roommate might be leaving, and just the mere thought of this makes me happy.
Please, let me know what the framework for your dream home looks like, and if yours is anything like mine then let me know what can go immediately.
Sincerely yours,
Almost Insane.
The dream home seems to be stuck in a place of shimmering contradictions: I like the wilderness. I like the city. I like solitude. I like companionship. I like blue. I like red. I like brick walls. I like white walls. I like new. I like old.
It is a near impossibility to imagine a space that is complete in its relation to the creator and inhabitant. Extrapolating definitions by speaking about what the space isn’t seems just as bad as holding onto ideals of what it is or might be. At times one is struck by the shear catchiness of the act to define a capsule that would encapsulate all our hopes, dreams, wants, and desires.
But for my self, the multiple drafts of an ideal space only seem to be riddled with nonsensical marks that finalize themselves in utter failure. I am no architect, and bothering myself with dreams that seem trivial is not a game I want to play.
However, using my own framework (my current apartment) seems completely different. It latches onto the concrete, and from the concrete I can speak of the abstract without contradictions. To spare the reader I will refrain from trudging long-winded descriptions of my dwelling and instead mull over what can stay and what can go.
First and foremost the 24-year-old pot smoking, party-mongering hack of a roommate can go. He can take his clutter, his second hand highs, his glass blowing torch, and his dirty white gym socks with him. Yes, his books on Identifying the Dream, and Buddhism for Dummies can go as well. And just to make sure he can take those ugly-ass women, and that repetitive 90’s techno music. Life would be so much better with out him. No more razors left on the sinks and in the showers. No more constant smell of ego waffles, fake maple syrup and weed wafting through the house. No more cupboards packed full of Chef Boyardee, Pasta Roni, and Instant Mac & Cheese. And no more counters filled with candy corn, empty fruity pebble boxes, and plastic sporks.
I never want to see another black light poster or electric strawberry vanilla candle again. I never want to have to pick pubes from my sink, or change my socks due to maple syrup. I don’t want to be the bad guy and tell people to get the fuck out of my house at four in the morning. I don’t want to have that discussion about shared space. I don’t want to come home and find the windows open and the heat at seventy-eight. I envision the day when my space will be free of clutter and no longer considered a war zone. I envision coming home and being able to see hard wood floors and granite counter tops. I envision being happy after a long stressful day. But most of all I envision no longer dealing with the daily occurrences.
Like the other day, I came home to find glass blowing bead separator dried on the hardwood floors, the subwoofer, the desk, the laptop cord, the granite kitchen counter tops, the sink, and all the utensils. The couch was full of coats, pillows, and wet towels, the bathroom was littered with socks, my toothpaste cap, and old razor handles. And the motherfucker was missing in action.
After his return the Napoleon-esque stance he took armed only with a fork was almost laughable. Seated behind the kitchen table, he chomped on a soupy mess of fake maple syrup, globes of jam, and cold ego waffles. He then in the most eloquent way he could tried to tell me that the reason the house was such a mess was based solely on the morning after pill. I listened to him describe his condom situation in graphic detail and then tell me how this girl he got pregnant had spilt the bead separator. Seeing I wasn’t impressed the show continued. With the most extreme agony I witnessed him change directions and tell me that he’s madly in love with a girl that won’t love him. Mind you, a different girl. I was going to remind him that getting other women pregnant might be a reason someone would cease their love, but I refrained. The show somehow got better. I watched as a steady stream of tears fell into the half-inch pond of Mrs Butterworths that sat below him. I almost felt sad until I remembered that my Subwoofer was still caked in bead separator. The only thing I could muster out of my mouth was, “Well, I imagine you will get this shit cleaned up.”
It’s funny to me that someone who doesn’t go to school and is jobless can have a bad day. If I smoked $200 worth of weed a week, I would be smooth sailing.
Not even a week after the bead separator incident, I came home to witness the picture window shattered. I’ve dealt with sleepless nights where drug dealers are coming to the house at four in the morning. I’ve listened to him pass diseases on to new women and manipulate stories about free love and the hippy dream every night. I even put up with him calling me pimp-a-licous, but the picture window hit my breaking point.
All I want to do is sit and enjoy silence when silence is due. I should be able to marvel at floors that are so shiny I can see my own reflection. I should be able to study and prepare for the next day of class without hearing a constant techno beat. I should be able to sleep during normal sleeping hours, and have a night in which only the people that pay rent are in the house. I think I’m being reasonable; I’m a simple guy really. I have had many living situations and have enjoyed most of them. I like white walls. I like brick walls. I like solitude. I like companionship. But what I don’t like is motherfuckers who test my sanity every chance they get.
So, when I imagine my dream home, all I want is a clutter free existence. The more clutter brought into my life the closer I get to my breaking point. On the plus side the 24-year-old pot smoking, party-mongering hack of a roommate might be leaving, and just the mere thought of this makes me happy.
Please, let me know what the framework for your dream home looks like, and if yours is anything like mine then let me know what can go immediately.
Sincerely yours,
Almost Insane.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Slim Sandwiches
Dear fellow gluttons,
I want to make a Dagwood. Yes, a sandwich piled so high you can't see the top slice of bread. Roast beef, pastrami, and freshly cooked honey ham. Bacon, eggs, and hash-browns. Two types of peanut butter four types of jam. Three types of lettuce, and twelve types of cheese. I want tomatoes, pickles, onions, carrots, olives, and peppers. Green peppers, yellow peppers, red peppers, and orange, banana peppers, jalapeno peppers, chili peppers, and more. That's right if its a sandwich ingredient, please slap it on. I want a steak section, vegetarian section, vegan section, and glutton free section. My sandwich will be a sandwich to top all others, and I want it to be named after its height and weight. Four feet six inches twenty two pounds. Using three freshly baked loaves of bread, end pieces and all. And most of all I want to eat it without worry. No more weight gain, or money loss fears. No my sandwich will supersede that.
But... until I can make my Dagwood the way I want, success is yet to come.
As of late my sandwiches average out at 1.5 inches and 2.2 ounces. They are usually mistaken for two slices of bread smashed together. A slim sandwich.
Nobody likes a slim sandwich, but its the price you pay for being poor. Or rather, the price you don't pay for being poor. Scrounging around to set something, anything on that stale bread sucks. I'm lucky if I find chicken or turkey, but usually its just peanut butter and jelly. The worst part is the rationing. Trying to figure out how many toppings I have until my next pay check, makes me terribly depressed. Remember, I lust after that four foot six inch twenty two pounder. In reality, I end up with one slice of turkey some mustard and maybe a tomato if its not molded yet. Assembled, its barely a sandwich.
So what do I do. I dream.
Yes I too have a dream. I have a dream, that one day, this nation will rise up, and live out the true meaning of its creed. We hold these truths self evident that all sandwich toppings should be created with grade A quality and affordable price. I have a dream that the presence of the sadwich, the slimwich, the cheaply made wich will be eradicated. As ludicrous as this may sound , Im standing up for sandwich rights. I want to bring forth a day of the manwich, the megawich, the überwich, the dagwood. I envision the world having a quality sandwich pandemic. Too many sandwiches.
But how is this done? With global food prices and shortages only rising, will we ever see a day of the überwich? There are skeptics that say no. There are people that say we must limit our intake. But I disagree. Once again lets just beat science. Lets put our brains together not to deflect the inevitable but rather bypass it. Science has saved us in the past, and in the name of sandwiches Im calling on science to save us again. Yes I'm almost positive, if we can design a Dagwood that is ecologically, and environmentally friendly, with an exemplary price, healthful outlook, and wonderful taste, I can promise you we will be well on our way to solving the worlds problems. Stop sending your money to save the rain forrest and the ice caps and please start sending it to save the sandwiches. Together we can make one hell of a good sandwich.
Signed yours truly,
The most gluttonous glutton.
P.S. For some good sandwich resources please refer to a blog i wrote previously on the definition of a sandwich. And here is a great resource for scouting out sandwiches in New York.
And please let me know if you have suggestions on how to create an überwich.
I want to make a Dagwood. Yes, a sandwich piled so high you can't see the top slice of bread. Roast beef, pastrami, and freshly cooked honey ham. Bacon, eggs, and hash-browns. Two types of peanut butter four types of jam. Three types of lettuce, and twelve types of cheese. I want tomatoes, pickles, onions, carrots, olives, and peppers. Green peppers, yellow peppers, red peppers, and orange, banana peppers, jalapeno peppers, chili peppers, and more. That's right if its a sandwich ingredient, please slap it on. I want a steak section, vegetarian section, vegan section, and glutton free section. My sandwich will be a sandwich to top all others, and I want it to be named after its height and weight. Four feet six inches twenty two pounds. Using three freshly baked loaves of bread, end pieces and all. And most of all I want to eat it without worry. No more weight gain, or money loss fears. No my sandwich will supersede that.
But... until I can make my Dagwood the way I want, success is yet to come.
As of late my sandwiches average out at 1.5 inches and 2.2 ounces. They are usually mistaken for two slices of bread smashed together. A slim sandwich.
Nobody likes a slim sandwich, but its the price you pay for being poor. Or rather, the price you don't pay for being poor. Scrounging around to set something, anything on that stale bread sucks. I'm lucky if I find chicken or turkey, but usually its just peanut butter and jelly. The worst part is the rationing. Trying to figure out how many toppings I have until my next pay check, makes me terribly depressed. Remember, I lust after that four foot six inch twenty two pounder. In reality, I end up with one slice of turkey some mustard and maybe a tomato if its not molded yet. Assembled, its barely a sandwich.
So what do I do. I dream.
Yes I too have a dream. I have a dream, that one day, this nation will rise up, and live out the true meaning of its creed. We hold these truths self evident that all sandwich toppings should be created with grade A quality and affordable price. I have a dream that the presence of the sadwich, the slimwich, the cheaply made wich will be eradicated. As ludicrous as this may sound , Im standing up for sandwich rights. I want to bring forth a day of the manwich, the megawich, the überwich, the dagwood. I envision the world having a quality sandwich pandemic. Too many sandwiches.
But how is this done? With global food prices and shortages only rising, will we ever see a day of the überwich? There are skeptics that say no. There are people that say we must limit our intake. But I disagree. Once again lets just beat science. Lets put our brains together not to deflect the inevitable but rather bypass it. Science has saved us in the past, and in the name of sandwiches Im calling on science to save us again. Yes I'm almost positive, if we can design a Dagwood that is ecologically, and environmentally friendly, with an exemplary price, healthful outlook, and wonderful taste, I can promise you we will be well on our way to solving the worlds problems. Stop sending your money to save the rain forrest and the ice caps and please start sending it to save the sandwiches. Together we can make one hell of a good sandwich.
Signed yours truly,
The most gluttonous glutton.
P.S. For some good sandwich resources please refer to a blog i wrote previously on the definition of a sandwich. And here is a great resource for scouting out sandwiches in New York.
And please let me know if you have suggestions on how to create an überwich.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Doppler Gangers and Halloween
Dear Brad Pitt,
Getting compared to you is starting to get a little annoying. In an elevator, buying clothes, or just walking down the street I am bound to be told of our similarities. It always happens in the same way, the person will step in front of me and make it impossible for me to continue through my daily activities. The phrase," Do you know who you remind me of..." is bound to follow their impediment of my life. And woe is me, the hard ships of looking like a heartthrob. It gets old after a while. Imagine the countless dates and modeling jobs I have rejected, and the people that leach off me based solely on appearance. It makes one fearful of ever stepping outside.
For the intelligent reader, you maybe have already caught my fib. In reality it’s not a comparison to Brad Pitt that I receive but rather Jim Carrey. And this is detestable. Yes, some of his films have been decent, but you never think of shear godliness when you think of Mr. Carrey. This lack of godliness is where the problem lies, because godliness is my ultimate aim. On the plus side its better than being compared to Chris Farley or Christopher Walken but common is Jim Carrey really that much better. As a civilized and thoughtful human, I don't walk up to strangers and tell them they look like a spitting image of Rossane Barr, Rosie Odonald, or George from Seinfeld. Sometimes, I have to resist because these people actually look like ugly celebrities, but I garnish myself with a quality I like to call, tact. Maybe others should think about the human condition before they open their mouths. However, I personally don't put this much faith in people. It only gets worse when they immediately follow up their comparison by saying, "but thats not a bad thing!" Like this softens the blow. It would be Ok, if I got comparisons to John Wayne, Clint Eastwood, or even Johnny Depp, but common, Jim Carrey! Please refrain!
I have to laugh, because for the last couple of years I have modeled myself after celebrities even though I hate quick comparisons. I chose from a whole range of celebrities, picking out different characteristics that I like from each. First it was Andy Warhol, then Woody Allen and John Wayne, now it might be Abraham Lincoln, or David Sedaris. But always it has been Brad Pitt. I try to figure out different aspects of my life that can be paralleled to the celebrity world, but then I feel a need to go into hiding and mask myself as Ryan Ingebritson. Thankfully I have a reprieve. Halloween. Yes, its the greatest time of the year because for one night I can actually be myself! Other people say the same thing, but then I see them dressed as little red ride me hard, or hoe white. OOh, I hope this isn't who you aspire to be. We as humans should strive to be great; mediocrity is not even a possibility. So, what does this all come to: a synthesis of greatness. When you see me wearing cowboy boots, pleated slacks, and a turtleneck, sporting a chin beard and looking devilishly handsome. You will know immediately, that I am, as a friend once called me "Woody Wayne". I believe this friend was speaking not of a mere synthesis between John Wayne and Woody Allen but rather the amalgamation, of Wayne, Allen, Sedaris, Lincoln, Pitt, Warhol, Einstein, and maybe a touch of Monroe. Marilyn Monroe. Shortened, it becomes just Woody Wayne. For the people that call me Jim Carrey, the stupidity lies with you. In reality you are only transmitting your fear of being a washed up celebrity. Look a little deeper; you will see Brad Pitt emerge before your eyes. So, I must sign this letter in the only way that I can.
Sincerely,
BW2 (Brad Woody Wayne)
P.S.
Since now you know my 'costume' for Halloween, please tell me who you really are. This means, I don't want to hear a bunch of Supermans, or Football players unless you actually believe yourself to be just that.
Getting compared to you is starting to get a little annoying. In an elevator, buying clothes, or just walking down the street I am bound to be told of our similarities. It always happens in the same way, the person will step in front of me and make it impossible for me to continue through my daily activities. The phrase," Do you know who you remind me of..." is bound to follow their impediment of my life. And woe is me, the hard ships of looking like a heartthrob. It gets old after a while. Imagine the countless dates and modeling jobs I have rejected, and the people that leach off me based solely on appearance. It makes one fearful of ever stepping outside.
For the intelligent reader, you maybe have already caught my fib. In reality it’s not a comparison to Brad Pitt that I receive but rather Jim Carrey. And this is detestable. Yes, some of his films have been decent, but you never think of shear godliness when you think of Mr. Carrey. This lack of godliness is where the problem lies, because godliness is my ultimate aim. On the plus side its better than being compared to Chris Farley or Christopher Walken but common is Jim Carrey really that much better. As a civilized and thoughtful human, I don't walk up to strangers and tell them they look like a spitting image of Rossane Barr, Rosie Odonald, or George from Seinfeld. Sometimes, I have to resist because these people actually look like ugly celebrities, but I garnish myself with a quality I like to call, tact. Maybe others should think about the human condition before they open their mouths. However, I personally don't put this much faith in people. It only gets worse when they immediately follow up their comparison by saying, "but thats not a bad thing!" Like this softens the blow. It would be Ok, if I got comparisons to John Wayne, Clint Eastwood, or even Johnny Depp, but common, Jim Carrey! Please refrain!
I have to laugh, because for the last couple of years I have modeled myself after celebrities even though I hate quick comparisons. I chose from a whole range of celebrities, picking out different characteristics that I like from each. First it was Andy Warhol, then Woody Allen and John Wayne, now it might be Abraham Lincoln, or David Sedaris. But always it has been Brad Pitt. I try to figure out different aspects of my life that can be paralleled to the celebrity world, but then I feel a need to go into hiding and mask myself as Ryan Ingebritson. Thankfully I have a reprieve. Halloween. Yes, its the greatest time of the year because for one night I can actually be myself! Other people say the same thing, but then I see them dressed as little red ride me hard, or hoe white. OOh, I hope this isn't who you aspire to be. We as humans should strive to be great; mediocrity is not even a possibility. So, what does this all come to: a synthesis of greatness. When you see me wearing cowboy boots, pleated slacks, and a turtleneck, sporting a chin beard and looking devilishly handsome. You will know immediately, that I am, as a friend once called me "Woody Wayne". I believe this friend was speaking not of a mere synthesis between John Wayne and Woody Allen but rather the amalgamation, of Wayne, Allen, Sedaris, Lincoln, Pitt, Warhol, Einstein, and maybe a touch of Monroe. Marilyn Monroe. Shortened, it becomes just Woody Wayne. For the people that call me Jim Carrey, the stupidity lies with you. In reality you are only transmitting your fear of being a washed up celebrity. Look a little deeper; you will see Brad Pitt emerge before your eyes. So, I must sign this letter in the only way that I can.
Sincerely,
BW2 (Brad Woody Wayne)
P.S.
Since now you know my 'costume' for Halloween, please tell me who you really are. This means, I don't want to hear a bunch of Supermans, or Football players unless you actually believe yourself to be just that.
Friday, October 2, 2009
My Big City Paradise
Dear Chaos,
Stay away from me!
As a child, my mother claims I was relatively particular about the way my space was put together. But around the age of eight the spaces I encountered started to be treated as social experiments to test the limits of mankind. In other words, I was extremely messy. I brought chaos with me everywhere I went and gave meaning to the expression, "Bull in a china cabinet." I can only imagine the social embarrassment my parents encountered when people showed up to their house for unannounced visits. Like a tornado, I left a path of destruction everywhere I went, and containment was impossible. Traces of paint and charcoal, mud and grass left permanent stains all throughout the house. And believe it or not, this general state of being continued all the way through high school up into college, and for a while, even got worse. But at some point, I started to grow up and realized that I was nothing in comparison to most college kids.
I distinctly remember my very first roommate and the atrocities of uncleanliness he used to perform. Some of my favorites were him leaving a pot of rice in the rice cooker for over two months, and spots of visible mold growing across the entire kitchen. I thought this was bad until I visited the University of Michigan and saw a toilet with a one inch thick layer of piss and pubic hair caked to the toilet seat. I've heard even worse stories of a friend finding a soggy plate of french fries underneath the toilet , ketchup and all. I know I've committed crimes of cleanliness multiple times before, but I would like to believe Im getting better. Living situations that breed diseases, or having roommates that think I recently fought wars is no longer appealing to me. In a sense I'm growing up. And I wish you could all see me now; living alone, being poor, and paying rent has turned me into a beast of cleanliness.
My apartment which is located in downtown Pilsen, is the perfect place to come back to after a long day of work and class. I have labeled it my Big City Paradise. Four bedroom, two bath, hardwood floors, granite counter tops, stainless steel appliances, and a large stained glass window make this place perfect in every sense of the word. And for the last month I have lived alone. My landlord has been to lazy to find other people to move in, and the guy that does live with me has been traveling for his job. He has not spent more than ten nights in the place. So I sit at home in the evenings at my desk and study in front of the big picture window, reflecting on how great it is to have this place I can call home...
But this last Friday the beauty and peace that had recently come into my life started to fade. I had just brought Charles home, the newest member of my two part family (a Sansevieria Trifasciata). I received a phone call as I was standing admiring Charles in his red terracotta pot, proudly displaying his three small leaves. It was a prospective roommate, and he was in the neighborhood. Five minutes later the trouble started.
Now instead of trying to retell the incredibly awkward story that ensued while he was sitting there. I will make a top 10 list of things you don't want to do when introducing your self to your new roommate.
1. Do not start off a conversation asking me if I smoke weed. This is not impressive. "I don't want to know if you smoke the best or the worst chronic."
2. Do not have predetermined ideas of how you're going to use my spotless living room and desk as your studio. And refrain from making statements such as, "Man, you know, I'm like a glass blower. So what I'm thinking is I'm going to come in here and set up my torch and my fan in the picture window and a kiln all on this table. Its going to be sweet. Man I can show you how to blow glass and shit, dude you're going to totally dig it. I can tell already were going to get along great.
3. Dont proclaim eternal friendship after three minutes of knowing someone.
4. Dont tell me your twenty four, have no job, dont go to school, and your parents pay for your rent.
5. Stop mentioning how rich your parents are.
6. When I ask if you have a lot of dishes and utensils, dont tell me you're just going to just buy paper plates because all you eat is frozen pizza, you're 24, grow up.
7. When we agree on both liking house music, do not get up and start dancing in front of me for three awkward minutes, and then follow it up by saying, "You know, I only rock that pure flow shit."
8. When I ask about your state of cleanliness dont say, "you know, whatever man", giving me a definitive answer.
9. Stop saying "you know" when I ask you questions, I don't know, that's why I asked you.
10. And when I tell you I'm an artist, do not form predetermined ideas that your glass blowing is similar to what I do. I do not want to have "Art Stations", and I do not want to teach you how to paint with watercolors.
and the kicker,
11. When you have a scraggly soul patch and pants that are awkwardly big, please, please, please, don't tell me you have to beat girls off with a stick and then claim that if I 'roll with you', we will be living the "high life". I don't want to live the high life you're associated with.
I know I sound a little angry but I have been so happy in my place and don't want to go back to living like I'm in a frat house. I have already had one mouse and don't want to attract more. The mere thought of someone bringing a torch into my house scares the shit out of me. For a rich boy whose parents have a "mega mansion in the forest" burning down an apartment building is not that big of a deal. But my entire life sits within that place, and I've read that Charles does not do well with flames.
And the worst part of it all is I have no say in the matter. My landlord does the selecting, and apparently my landlord approved this guy to move in. He moves in Thursday, and so my Big City Paradise will be no longer, more of a Big City Inferno. But on the plus side the anxiety that this guy brings will supply you, the reader, with a plethora of blogs. So stayed tuned.
And readers, please let me know if you have met potential roommates that threaten the entire infrastructure of your lives, and how you dealt with it.
And just because I love him so much, here is a picture of Charles.
Stay away from me!
As a child, my mother claims I was relatively particular about the way my space was put together. But around the age of eight the spaces I encountered started to be treated as social experiments to test the limits of mankind. In other words, I was extremely messy. I brought chaos with me everywhere I went and gave meaning to the expression, "Bull in a china cabinet." I can only imagine the social embarrassment my parents encountered when people showed up to their house for unannounced visits. Like a tornado, I left a path of destruction everywhere I went, and containment was impossible. Traces of paint and charcoal, mud and grass left permanent stains all throughout the house. And believe it or not, this general state of being continued all the way through high school up into college, and for a while, even got worse. But at some point, I started to grow up and realized that I was nothing in comparison to most college kids.
I distinctly remember my very first roommate and the atrocities of uncleanliness he used to perform. Some of my favorites were him leaving a pot of rice in the rice cooker for over two months, and spots of visible mold growing across the entire kitchen. I thought this was bad until I visited the University of Michigan and saw a toilet with a one inch thick layer of piss and pubic hair caked to the toilet seat. I've heard even worse stories of a friend finding a soggy plate of french fries underneath the toilet , ketchup and all. I know I've committed crimes of cleanliness multiple times before, but I would like to believe Im getting better. Living situations that breed diseases, or having roommates that think I recently fought wars is no longer appealing to me. In a sense I'm growing up. And I wish you could all see me now; living alone, being poor, and paying rent has turned me into a beast of cleanliness.
My apartment which is located in downtown Pilsen, is the perfect place to come back to after a long day of work and class. I have labeled it my Big City Paradise. Four bedroom, two bath, hardwood floors, granite counter tops, stainless steel appliances, and a large stained glass window make this place perfect in every sense of the word. And for the last month I have lived alone. My landlord has been to lazy to find other people to move in, and the guy that does live with me has been traveling for his job. He has not spent more than ten nights in the place. So I sit at home in the evenings at my desk and study in front of the big picture window, reflecting on how great it is to have this place I can call home...
But this last Friday the beauty and peace that had recently come into my life started to fade. I had just brought Charles home, the newest member of my two part family (a Sansevieria Trifasciata). I received a phone call as I was standing admiring Charles in his red terracotta pot, proudly displaying his three small leaves. It was a prospective roommate, and he was in the neighborhood. Five minutes later the trouble started.
Now instead of trying to retell the incredibly awkward story that ensued while he was sitting there. I will make a top 10 list of things you don't want to do when introducing your self to your new roommate.
1. Do not start off a conversation asking me if I smoke weed. This is not impressive. "I don't want to know if you smoke the best or the worst chronic."
2. Do not have predetermined ideas of how you're going to use my spotless living room and desk as your studio. And refrain from making statements such as, "Man, you know, I'm like a glass blower. So what I'm thinking is I'm going to come in here and set up my torch and my fan in the picture window and a kiln all on this table. Its going to be sweet. Man I can show you how to blow glass and shit, dude you're going to totally dig it. I can tell already were going to get along great.
3. Dont proclaim eternal friendship after three minutes of knowing someone.
4. Dont tell me your twenty four, have no job, dont go to school, and your parents pay for your rent.
5. Stop mentioning how rich your parents are.
6. When I ask if you have a lot of dishes and utensils, dont tell me you're just going to just buy paper plates because all you eat is frozen pizza, you're 24, grow up.
7. When we agree on both liking house music, do not get up and start dancing in front of me for three awkward minutes, and then follow it up by saying, "You know, I only rock that pure flow shit."
8. When I ask about your state of cleanliness dont say, "you know, whatever man", giving me a definitive answer.
9. Stop saying "you know" when I ask you questions, I don't know, that's why I asked you.
10. And when I tell you I'm an artist, do not form predetermined ideas that your glass blowing is similar to what I do. I do not want to have "Art Stations", and I do not want to teach you how to paint with watercolors.
and the kicker,
11. When you have a scraggly soul patch and pants that are awkwardly big, please, please, please, don't tell me you have to beat girls off with a stick and then claim that if I 'roll with you', we will be living the "high life". I don't want to live the high life you're associated with.
I know I sound a little angry but I have been so happy in my place and don't want to go back to living like I'm in a frat house. I have already had one mouse and don't want to attract more. The mere thought of someone bringing a torch into my house scares the shit out of me. For a rich boy whose parents have a "mega mansion in the forest" burning down an apartment building is not that big of a deal. But my entire life sits within that place, and I've read that Charles does not do well with flames.
And the worst part of it all is I have no say in the matter. My landlord does the selecting, and apparently my landlord approved this guy to move in. He moves in Thursday, and so my Big City Paradise will be no longer, more of a Big City Inferno. But on the plus side the anxiety that this guy brings will supply you, the reader, with a plethora of blogs. So stayed tuned.
And readers, please let me know if you have met potential roommates that threaten the entire infrastructure of your lives, and how you dealt with it.
And just because I love him so much, here is a picture of Charles.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Meaningful passion
Dear Lovebirds,
I am one of you. I am here today to stand on a mountain top and sing, to go to the depths of the ocean, traverse the entanglements of the jungle and the barren landscape of the desert, just to proclaim my love. Were not together yet, but, I can only imagine; I will come home after a long day of work and school and it will be sitting there like a ray of sunshine beckoning me to come close, to stroke it ever so gently, to smell its beautiful fragrance. OOOOh my love! Just the mere thought of you reveals the mysteries of the world. Woah is me, how I think about you every chance I get, your big green leafy leaves, and the fruit you bear. Your cute little red terra-cotta pot, the dark soil that nurtures your growth, and the water I should one day feed you on. For in reality folks my love goes not to a woman but rather a plant. Im thinking, maybe a cactus.
I know readers your thinking to yourself, this guy is a nut job, and maybe I am, but I like to think of myself as a romantic nut job, at least. The other day it occurred to me, that its time after three and half years of selfishness, to start caring for something else. And since the dating prospects are not forming a sensible queue, I figured a plant would be a good substitution. Something that can bask in my affection, reciprocate when i make it dinner, and bring me flowers instead of me bringing it flowers. Yes a plant is perfect for me. And all I want to do is make art, write books, create plays, sing songs, and act in feature films that glorify my plant. It is already the object of my love and desire but non the less...... a dilemma has occurred. Even though the love exist for this plant, Im not sure what kind to get.
At first I wanted to get a real leafy plant something small and intimate but with a lot of green. But then the thought occurred to me something with flowers might be nice. I've never owned a plant before, so maybe it should be low in maintenance. Something similar to the kind of women I like; smells nice, comes out when the sun is shining, low maintenance, soft to the touch, and doesn't leave after a season. And even though I dont really like thorny women, a cactus still sounds nice. Not knowing where to find cactus I recently tried the grocery store which seemed somewhat promising. Unfortunately Jewel Osco doesn't have the best plant selection, in reality they only have two types. But non the less I stood there for 20 minutes trying to decide if pet grass would look good on my window sill. I even asked the lady at the meat counter what she thought, and judging from her apathetic reaction I started to doubt the grass option. After leaving Jewel empty handed I went home to really think.
And so readers I need your help. Please give me suggestions on a plant the might be nice for my kitchen. It doesn't get a lot of natural sunlight, and sometimes I forget to water, but I think I can manage three times a week. I don't know if I want flowers, or if I just want something green, but definitely nothing bigger than a rabbit. Winter is near so a vegetable plant might not be the best option. But if you have solutions then please send them to me. Remember this is to be the sole object of my love, so it has to be good, choose well, but please choose because I am starting to get lonely.
I will leave you with a quote from my roommate in Berlin, "Oh, ryan, these plants are going die!." and indeed every last one of them died within a four week period.
Anne I dedicate this post to you.
I am one of you. I am here today to stand on a mountain top and sing, to go to the depths of the ocean, traverse the entanglements of the jungle and the barren landscape of the desert, just to proclaim my love. Were not together yet, but, I can only imagine; I will come home after a long day of work and school and it will be sitting there like a ray of sunshine beckoning me to come close, to stroke it ever so gently, to smell its beautiful fragrance. OOOOh my love! Just the mere thought of you reveals the mysteries of the world. Woah is me, how I think about you every chance I get, your big green leafy leaves, and the fruit you bear. Your cute little red terra-cotta pot, the dark soil that nurtures your growth, and the water I should one day feed you on. For in reality folks my love goes not to a woman but rather a plant. Im thinking, maybe a cactus.
I know readers your thinking to yourself, this guy is a nut job, and maybe I am, but I like to think of myself as a romantic nut job, at least. The other day it occurred to me, that its time after three and half years of selfishness, to start caring for something else. And since the dating prospects are not forming a sensible queue, I figured a plant would be a good substitution. Something that can bask in my affection, reciprocate when i make it dinner, and bring me flowers instead of me bringing it flowers. Yes a plant is perfect for me. And all I want to do is make art, write books, create plays, sing songs, and act in feature films that glorify my plant. It is already the object of my love and desire but non the less...... a dilemma has occurred. Even though the love exist for this plant, Im not sure what kind to get.
At first I wanted to get a real leafy plant something small and intimate but with a lot of green. But then the thought occurred to me something with flowers might be nice. I've never owned a plant before, so maybe it should be low in maintenance. Something similar to the kind of women I like; smells nice, comes out when the sun is shining, low maintenance, soft to the touch, and doesn't leave after a season. And even though I dont really like thorny women, a cactus still sounds nice. Not knowing where to find cactus I recently tried the grocery store which seemed somewhat promising. Unfortunately Jewel Osco doesn't have the best plant selection, in reality they only have two types. But non the less I stood there for 20 minutes trying to decide if pet grass would look good on my window sill. I even asked the lady at the meat counter what she thought, and judging from her apathetic reaction I started to doubt the grass option. After leaving Jewel empty handed I went home to really think.
And so readers I need your help. Please give me suggestions on a plant the might be nice for my kitchen. It doesn't get a lot of natural sunlight, and sometimes I forget to water, but I think I can manage three times a week. I don't know if I want flowers, or if I just want something green, but definitely nothing bigger than a rabbit. Winter is near so a vegetable plant might not be the best option. But if you have solutions then please send them to me. Remember this is to be the sole object of my love, so it has to be good, choose well, but please choose because I am starting to get lonely.
I will leave you with a quote from my roommate in Berlin, "Oh, ryan, these plants are going die!." and indeed every last one of them died within a four week period.
Anne I dedicate this post to you.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
New Roomate
Dear exterminator,
Get that thing out of my house, now!
The other day I arrived home after a long day of work and school and went straight to my kitchen to prepare dinner. Upon grabbing the bread from the refrigerator to prepare a first class meal of toast and peanut butter, I was greeted by a dark gray mouse. He was hiding behind the toaster and ran across the window sill, behind the dishes, and underneath a towel lying on the far counter. To say the least, I freaked out!!!! Now I wasn't as bad as my mother who upon seeing a mouse in her house in the mid 90s stood on the top of the couch and screamed for what seemed like 3 hours. But it definitely got my heart racing. And instead of cornering the mouse and finishing this silliness once and for all, I backed my way out of the room to calm down (I was afraid to turn my back on a 1 inch mouse in case he attacked me like a million pitbulls fighting for their last meal). After catching my breath I realized this might potentially be my end. I was the only one in the house. I went back armed with my running shoes on and the longest broom I could find. I approached the dish towel in which the mouse had ran under five minutes previous and wIth one epic blow struck the towel and sent it floating to the floor, with no mouse. The mouse had somehow escaped to a new hiding place, and I had a strange feeling he was just waiting to attack. So I ran back into the other room to call everyone I knew. Being alone I needed consoling.
After everyone on the phone laughed at my hysterics of finding a small field mouse, I decided to turn towards a real sense of comfort... the internet. I was searching for solutions on how to get rid of this vermin that was destroying the basic foundations of my emotional life. For all I knew he could be carrying the black plague, and I would lie dead in my house for weeks spurring the downfall of humanity. I needed solutions and I needed them fast.
Some of the solutions I wanted to use were not economically or environmentally feasible, like putting my entire neighborhood inside one of those tents and fumigating until all things that ever moved were dead. I started searching for homemade solutions. The best and most humane solution was a trick to place a toilet paper roll on the edge of a counter with peanut butter inside. You then place a trash can under the toilet paper roll and wait for your mouse to climb inside and topple into the trash can. After a few sleepless nights of coexisting with George (I named him George), I decide enough is enough. I put up the trap and waited to take the trash out.
I went to bed hoping all would go well and I could go upon living a normal life free of utter terror. But.... when I woke up in the morning the toilet paper roll had been pushed back onto the counter and the peanut butter that I placed within the roll was all but eaten. George had gotten the better of me. After 15 more variations similar to this I realized I was just feeding George and that if this went on he might reproduce and I would have many Georges running around creating the downfall of human existence.
After my failure to capture George the humane way, I have resorted to several different tactics. First I called my landlord who claims his solution will be poison. But I dont want poison because if George dies in some vent, he will begin to smell and attract insects, snakes, rodents, bears, and other animals that are attracted to smells. But I dont have to worry so much about this, because my landlord seems to be the kind of guy that gets to problems when he damn well feels like it. And when I called him he didnt seem as if he felt like it.
So my next solution was to rid the place of all food on the counters, lower drawers and cabinets. If I just keep my place really clean George will get the picture that the free buffet is over and he will move on to terrorize some other household. I have been doing this well for almost a week and still I see mouse dropping everywhere, which means he's feeding off some food source I know nothing about. So what do I do? Im thinking about buying actual traps but this seems expensive and unnecessary. I don't really want to kill the little guy I just want him to leave and never come back. But maybe death is his only option, he has driven me to complete paranoia. Every few minutes I hear a little rustling somewhere within the house and I go out armed with my broom that is now always at my side, and poke at everything that could be a potential hiding spot.
Everything that happens in my house is now blamed on George. My oven is reading that a "connection failure occured", the lights sometimes flicker, and the dryer didnt dry my clothes properly. All of these things are George, and he is causing me to not sleep. I dont even leave the house anymore in hopes I might catch him. I now have dark circles under my eyes and walk like a hermit everywhere I go. And yet, somehow he still evades me. Every scratch that I have on my skin and every sound that is louder than a pin drop is attributed to my furry friend. One of us has to go, and it might just be me.
Ok well in reality its going to be George, but please this insanity needs to end. I was once an intelligent dignified person, but anymore if you were to look there is no difference between me and the crazy man that sleeps outside of my house. Who knows maybe George torments him as well.
I relate my experience with the scene from Annie Hall in which Woody Allen goes to kill a spider armed with a tennis racket and copy of the national review, he comes out of the bathroom completely and utterly defenseless, complaining how its the size of a Buick.
The utter insanity, what am I to do!
Readers if you have ever experienced a mouse problem please tell me your story, and what you did to solve it.
Get that thing out of my house, now!
The other day I arrived home after a long day of work and school and went straight to my kitchen to prepare dinner. Upon grabbing the bread from the refrigerator to prepare a first class meal of toast and peanut butter, I was greeted by a dark gray mouse. He was hiding behind the toaster and ran across the window sill, behind the dishes, and underneath a towel lying on the far counter. To say the least, I freaked out!!!! Now I wasn't as bad as my mother who upon seeing a mouse in her house in the mid 90s stood on the top of the couch and screamed for what seemed like 3 hours. But it definitely got my heart racing. And instead of cornering the mouse and finishing this silliness once and for all, I backed my way out of the room to calm down (I was afraid to turn my back on a 1 inch mouse in case he attacked me like a million pitbulls fighting for their last meal). After catching my breath I realized this might potentially be my end. I was the only one in the house. I went back armed with my running shoes on and the longest broom I could find. I approached the dish towel in which the mouse had ran under five minutes previous and wIth one epic blow struck the towel and sent it floating to the floor, with no mouse. The mouse had somehow escaped to a new hiding place, and I had a strange feeling he was just waiting to attack. So I ran back into the other room to call everyone I knew. Being alone I needed consoling.
After everyone on the phone laughed at my hysterics of finding a small field mouse, I decided to turn towards a real sense of comfort... the internet. I was searching for solutions on how to get rid of this vermin that was destroying the basic foundations of my emotional life. For all I knew he could be carrying the black plague, and I would lie dead in my house for weeks spurring the downfall of humanity. I needed solutions and I needed them fast.
Some of the solutions I wanted to use were not economically or environmentally feasible, like putting my entire neighborhood inside one of those tents and fumigating until all things that ever moved were dead. I started searching for homemade solutions. The best and most humane solution was a trick to place a toilet paper roll on the edge of a counter with peanut butter inside. You then place a trash can under the toilet paper roll and wait for your mouse to climb inside and topple into the trash can. After a few sleepless nights of coexisting with George (I named him George), I decide enough is enough. I put up the trap and waited to take the trash out.
I went to bed hoping all would go well and I could go upon living a normal life free of utter terror. But.... when I woke up in the morning the toilet paper roll had been pushed back onto the counter and the peanut butter that I placed within the roll was all but eaten. George had gotten the better of me. After 15 more variations similar to this I realized I was just feeding George and that if this went on he might reproduce and I would have many Georges running around creating the downfall of human existence.
After my failure to capture George the humane way, I have resorted to several different tactics. First I called my landlord who claims his solution will be poison. But I dont want poison because if George dies in some vent, he will begin to smell and attract insects, snakes, rodents, bears, and other animals that are attracted to smells. But I dont have to worry so much about this, because my landlord seems to be the kind of guy that gets to problems when he damn well feels like it. And when I called him he didnt seem as if he felt like it.
So my next solution was to rid the place of all food on the counters, lower drawers and cabinets. If I just keep my place really clean George will get the picture that the free buffet is over and he will move on to terrorize some other household. I have been doing this well for almost a week and still I see mouse dropping everywhere, which means he's feeding off some food source I know nothing about. So what do I do? Im thinking about buying actual traps but this seems expensive and unnecessary. I don't really want to kill the little guy I just want him to leave and never come back. But maybe death is his only option, he has driven me to complete paranoia. Every few minutes I hear a little rustling somewhere within the house and I go out armed with my broom that is now always at my side, and poke at everything that could be a potential hiding spot.
Everything that happens in my house is now blamed on George. My oven is reading that a "connection failure occured", the lights sometimes flicker, and the dryer didnt dry my clothes properly. All of these things are George, and he is causing me to not sleep. I dont even leave the house anymore in hopes I might catch him. I now have dark circles under my eyes and walk like a hermit everywhere I go. And yet, somehow he still evades me. Every scratch that I have on my skin and every sound that is louder than a pin drop is attributed to my furry friend. One of us has to go, and it might just be me.
Ok well in reality its going to be George, but please this insanity needs to end. I was once an intelligent dignified person, but anymore if you were to look there is no difference between me and the crazy man that sleeps outside of my house. Who knows maybe George torments him as well.
I relate my experience with the scene from Annie Hall in which Woody Allen goes to kill a spider armed with a tennis racket and copy of the national review, he comes out of the bathroom completely and utterly defenseless, complaining how its the size of a Buick.
The utter insanity, what am I to do!
Readers if you have ever experienced a mouse problem please tell me your story, and what you did to solve it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
