u s e y o u r h a n d s

I do not fly anymore. A few months ago, I was searching Amtrak’s Web site, a nearly non-fuctional piece of poo, for fares to Colorado for Xmas, and came across a $16.50 fare to New York. Of course, we had to go.

We went this weekend. While the prospect of sitting 22+ hours (give or take anything) sitting slightly reclined on an Amtrak train may not be that exciting to you, I knew – KNEW – that I was going to see some cool shit. Who takes the train? Weirdos. Who’ll be there to both eavesdrop and record for y’all? Me.

At about 2 am, the coach car’s heat kicked on and drove a wine-flushed me into the smoke of the dining car. The scene? Various obviously drunk/weird people all clapping and singing while a beanie-clad mandolin player strummed a new train-oriented version of “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” The race began!

I should explain the difference between weird, crazy, and drunk. Because of my family history, “drunk” generally means raucous noise fused with the tinkling of ice. However, the inebriated also slur, fail to focus, and gesture shakily. In my experience, I recognize the crazy instinctively, moving backwards steadily as though in the path of a pissed off rattler. The weird, though, can usually be fucked with slightly. They usually don’t even care if you write shit down about them. Weird people have a slightly grubby, rumpled look and have almost all heard of Art Bell.

The mandolin player made fast friends with this hippie-trash dude with long hair and his Indian cupcake. It wasn’t long before they launched into a plan of visiting Europe as mandolin-playing troubadours. Look out, Continent! Later, they would begin edging their way through “Hotel California, driving me from the car.

A very, very, very rotund lady borrowed the Indian girl’s celly. The first thing she said during this conversation was, “The bail is how much? $50,000?” A man turned to me and said, “Sounds like my family.” I half-heard this woman explain about her daughter’s domestic violence woes over the bizarre and drunken verbal diarrhea of a retired psychiatric nurse forcibly bending my ear. The guy was travelling with his aged mother back from seeing his daughter in Seattle. While I’d like to have asked him about his more grisly shock therapy experiences, I was distracted by his Parkinson’s shaking and repeated attempts to pick up both my poetry-writing table partner and me.

We tried to ignore the guy. She told me that earlier in the night, the racist cafe car attendant had banned her from smoking Black & Mild cigarettes, which smell of baking, even though a dude was puffing away on a stogie. The outrage! Personally, I’d have vomited if I’d been exposed to cigar smoke for more than 30 seconds, but the Black & Milds were quite bearable.

Crone is the perfect word to describe another cafe car inhabitant. Mussed topknot, ill-fitting and mismatched plaids, Mojave Desert complexion. Fascinating woman. Alternately, she dropped references to the Buena Vista Social Club, Roger & Me, and fucking Art Bell. She railed against Wal-Mart. A strange melange.

For most of the trip, an Amish family was seated directly ahead of Peedge and I. their black and blue clothes, like an orthodox bruise, stood out in the coach car. In the seat ahead of us sat two Amish boys in their late teens or early twenties. One was wearing discreet black Converse kicks. Whilst twittering on in pidgin German, they drank Coke out of plastic bottles. Further disillusioning me, during a smoke break in Pennsylvania, I spotted the two boys puffing away in full sight of their family. What’s this world coming to? I only hope that they were off in the city having some kicks before once again assuming the sober Amish mantle in Lancaster, PA.

Our return voyage was far less random. I didn’t even venture into the smoking car. All I wanted to do was read and I plowed through a pilfered copy of Memoirs of a Geisha (not half bad!), Bridget Jones’ Diary (bad), and a Hunter S. Thompson compilation of Phineas’. We took some time out to play Hangman in the cafe car, though. At the table next to us, two guys played some 21 with Amtrak souvenir playing cards. All of a sudden, this old guy from the coach car plunks down next to them and places a plastic bag and a cup on the table. He opens coffee-sized milk containers into a plastic cup. “Anyone want a glass of milk, compliments of Burger King? Vitamin D!” What? Then he does a weird version of Eenie, Meenie with the words “Surrender, USA.” He offers everybody in the car “milk, compliments of Burger King.” As soon as he gets up, the guys at the table, Phineas, and I head back to the coach car.

During our stop at the Altoona station, the old man in front of us tells us a joke about hearing aids and suppositories.

Ride the rails. See America.

Eating: On the train, I ate Wheat Thins, Pretzel Flips, raisins, Fig Newtons, and antacids.

XRT was just playing this song by the Rolling Stones. I suppose I’d been mishearing it this way instead of “…of my cloud.” My way’s cooler, especially now that TRS are wizened oldsters. Imagine them shooing a herd of grubby teens lounging on Mick’s Cadillac in front of one of those newfangled cyber cafes.

We went to see Bowling for Columbine at the Century 12/CineArts 6 in Evanston. Jesus, this movie theatre. I’ve never been to a movie theatre with a classy bar, and I’d definitely return. Anyway, the movie. BFC talks about, well, really how screwed up our country is. I thought it was telling that Moore failed to offer the riled up audience a course of action. Because what can you do? There are so many things wrong and we’re up against so much money. I just found myself getting so angry, just like I am a hundred times a day. And maybe that explains my anger a bit. It’s not just intense psychic disturbance; i get angry for legitimate social reasons. Not that I’m any less affected by it. Augh. It was just a draining, confusing experience. I’ve never wanted to hit someone more than Charlton Heston saying we have violence because of our ethnic diversity. I think all you should expect from ethnic diversity is really good food options.

Anyway.

I went to a meeting of the Nerdy McNerd Nerd Club Phineas belongs to. That’s how I’ve been referring to the Chicago Bloggers group. But no mega-nerdy folk were to be found! For their next project, I’m going to grow cultures of bacteria on subway poles. Why? Because now I’ll have actual scientific reasons for only touching those poles with tissues. Fecal matter!

I guess there’s ads coming out that blames terrorism on overconsumption of petroleum ala those dumb ass drug ads. And me with no TV!

Still looking for some hot job action. My friend Stacy, who’s recuperating in Naperville after donating a kidney to her father, sent me a link to a group of ladies called the Dinnergrrls, who network and hang whilst supping at area restaurants. Lovely!

Writing: Cover letters!

Eating: Tonight, we’re having a friend over for dinner. I’ll make a couscousy wonderfeast. And we have pie.

Buying: Petri dishes. I also need overalls for an unrelated reason.

Why the fuck do people give money to SaveKaryn.com? Jesus. Somebody should give her a kick in the ass and make her wear a shirt reading “I’m a fucking spendthrift tart. Please pinch me if I try to buy anything.” What really bothers me about her is that she’s so self-righteous about her sudden frugality. I’m glad she has discovered that “Oil of Olay really works” but some of us never thought to buy ridiculously priced ablutions. Props for us, I guess. Someone give me a damn dime.

There were no chickpeas yesterday. I was unhappy and confused about what to do, salad-wise. Peedge laughed at my webbity yesterday, claiming I have OCD. I do not have OCD. I am particular. And then I went on to tell him exactly how I always eat pinto beans when they are found in soup. I clean the bean of any soup scum with my tongue (whilst in my mouth). Then, I smash the bean to bits with my tongue, acting as a pestle. I like the starchy white beaniness on the roof of my mouth.

We attended last night’s Field Museum after hours with mixed results. The exhibits were good, but they had no hors d’oeuvres. The admission came with drink tickets and they didn’t think of hors d’oeuvres? Everybody was pawing through the Corner Bakery’s selection of pre-made sammitches. P-Jo and I dined on PB&Js. Also, so not a good idea to have loud music in a marble hall. Also, you should really light the sidewalk from the parking lot. We live in a dangerous world.

Oh, hey, still need a jobbity. I can write words. Please help.

Listening to the ultra-bitchin’ Lamb self-titled debut (1997, Fontana). Totally awesome. Their music is what would happen if you mated Beth Orton with Roni Size. Or thereabouts. Very interesting. Dizzamn, I’ve got to give this disc a play more often.

You know the smell of a recently microwaved Michelina’s or Budget Gourmet entree? That weird wet cardboard/warehouse smell? I’m smelling that now.

Eatin’: Let’s just say I hope there’s chickpeas today. Last night, we sated our grumbly tums at the Fireside on Ravenswood. Good grub, nice environs, nice selection of nums.

Goin’: p-Jo and I are hitting up River North art openings tonight. Free wine, things to mock, things to envy.

Knowin’: Just how fly I am!