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

Wow, this week has flown. On Monday, I deeply dreaded the daily trek to the Chicago-based airline. 40 minutes on the Kennedy in the a.m., 40 minutes on Devon (through the hole that is Park Ridge, a town which sure loves their Sting). But the week is done and I am ready to revel in the 2/7 of my week that is truly, truly mine. It was a better week than I thought it would be; I updated my webbity every day and attended my first Neo-Futurist class.

Anyway, on with the Missed Connections. These MCs were taken from the most recent edition of the Chicago Reader. The stories beyond them are from me, your favorite Shylo.

VICTOR: I MET you on a plane to and from Houston, Martin Luther King weekend. Laughed and talked about politics, family, Lord of the Rings. Really enjoyed your company. Would love to hang out sometime soon. Peace, Christina.

I got to the airport as my flight was boarding. The ticket agent must have thought I was cute and bumped me up to first class! Wow. What luxury. Coach is for suckers. Most of the people kept quiet and watched their private TVs, but these two in front of my just yammered on about Lord of the Rings. They’d come up with this theory that Peter Jackson, Fran Walsh, and Philippa Boyens had all fallen in love during the shooting and now lived in a secret plural marriage. Someone cut them off.

BLUE LINE 1/17. You were drunk and adorable, brown hair and green army coat. Saw you again as I was leaving Broadway IHOP 1/19, you were trying to place where you knew me from? I should have said hello.

Deanne and Shylo settled into the booth after three hours of driving. Sustenance was necessary. When they received their victuals, the girls eyed their syrups of choice from the sucrose carousel atop the table. As they grasped the handle, Deanne looked at Shylo, grimaced, and said, “Syrup equals sticky.”

DOCTOR STEVE, MET you at Spoon, Thursday 1/16. You were with two friends. You walked my friend home and caught a cab for me. Enjoyed our conversation and would like to continue where we left off. Please give me a call. Amy.

It’s funny seeing patients outside of the office. I barely recognized Megan, having not seen her since her annual physical six months ago. I gave her a wave and she came over and introduced her friend Amy. I bought them a few rounds and then offered to walk Megan home. When we got to her place, we made out for a while and then she led me back to her bedroom. I asked her to take her clothes off. After she stripped, she reached for my belt, but I stopped her and reached into my jacket pocket. Megan looked bewildered, but as she unfolded the paper gown, a wicked smile lit across her face.

THAILAND BOUND ENGINEER, gorgeous green eyes. Made connection, PJ Clarks opening reception, Saturday 1/18. Stupid me, left suddenly without saying goodbye when you headed to mens room. I was gone when you returned (too much champagne). How do we find each other now? Me: the attractive lady writer wearing a sexy black dress. Really miss your warm gentle touch, Joe.

Saturday afternoon in Filene’s Basement is the worst time to work. All these tacky women from the suburbs shuffle in with their full-length furs, jeans, tennis shoes, and big hair. They rifle through everything like it’s their last opportunity to shop before the second coming. I got stuck in the fitting rooms, which is normally ok because it’s mainly just counting garments and handing people numbers, but this woman came in frantic for an evening dress. She couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t let her take in 20 dresses at once. I’ve got to get a better job.

Overheard: [at work] “It wasn’t a traditional Paul Newman role, but Slapshot is a great movie.”

Attending: a Marshall Crenshaw concert at the Double Door. Tonight!

Wearing: My fantastically pettable long velvet skirt. I am sex on a stick.

Circa 1984, San Joaquin Valley: My brothers and I would lunch at a small “kid’s table” in the kitchen. This little card table was the scene of much torture for the youngest Bisnett child, Brett, just 3-years-old. Robby and I would begin eating our lunches while my mother woke Brett up from his mid-day nap. During this non-supervised interlude, we’d take little bites out of Brett’s sandwich. When he came to the table, bleary-eyed and hungry, he saw the bites and would ask what happened. Robby and I would tell him that mice had gotten into his sandwich and we didn’t bother to stop them. And then Brett would cry.

When I think about these lunchtime episodes, the most prominent thing isn’t the sibling torture inflicted on my youngest brother, but rather the lunch itself. PB & J on white, fritos, and milk. I hate white bread now and haven’t bought it in years. I’d rather die than betray WOW! Nacho Cheese chips and eat Fritos. Milk makes me phlegmy and if I drink it, it’s gotta be “tafnon klim.” But collectively, it’s a superb meal. The salty Fritos contrast delightfully with the sweet sandwich fixins.

I lived in Fresno for a while with Robby. One of my favorite hangouts was the Tower District, a surprisingly hip area with good used book/clothing shops, music venues, and toothsome restaurants. Grandmarie’s Chicken Pie Shop has been in the area for something like 80 years and looks it. When Rob and I cruised in for a fatty, filling dinner, the Chicken Pie Shop delivered. I got the eponymous pie, mashed potatoes, broccoli, and biscuits. It was all heart-hurtful and delicious and, at five bucks, totally cheap. We were just about to pay the tab and leave when the sexogenarian waitress asked us what we’d like for dessert. We were full and waved her away when she let us know that dessert was included in the $5 price. Well, sure, we’ll be more than happy to have some apple brown betty. Bring it on.

I’m not even hungry today, but I have a hellacious migraine and I need comfort. Why I’m thinking about being a kid is astounding to me because I was a very unhappy kid. That’s not comforting. Living in Fresno was a much better time because I created my own happiness. Food, though, transcends situation and is always good. Even when it’s bad.

Need to buy: Spray shellac. Someone remind me.

Need to do: Open a bank account. I haven’t had one since last May.

Need to get: Clarity, discipline, kindness.

I hated high school for the same reasons that most people hated, do hate, and will hate high school: it’s a holding pen for hundreds or thousands of kids all struggling to find their own identities through the vehicle of institutionalized torture.

But I know I had an easier time of it that most people. I had a wide spectrum of friends because of my eclectic involvement in advanced placement classes, swimming and water polo, and drama. Some lunches were spent hanging out with my AP teachers and some were spent in the drama room. Nobody beat me up. I was a weird kid, but not an alienating one.

My first drama class featured a mix of popular kids, athletes, and the nameless and faceless kids who just tried to get through the day. But our group also included one of the great outcasts of high school history. Mary Cisco was definitely emotionally bizarre and probably mildly retarded. She was completely undeveloped and her stick-straight figure resembled a boy’s. Frizzy hair framed an uncharming face burdened with cheap glasses.

Perhaps she would have been an outcast just looking the way she did, but what just put her over the top, relegating her to a story people write on their blogs ten years down the road, was her behavior. Her most popular move was to run up behind her victim of choice ambush-style and grab their shoulders while yelling. It was completely disconcerting, but it gave you a great story for the rest of the day, joining that choice cadre of Cisco victims. This behavior never received our sympathy or open ridicule, but left her banished.

One day in drama class, the red-faced Mormon Napoleon who taught the class Tom Fearon, asked us to pantomime everyday activities. One by one, we stumbled and overacted painting a house, making sandwiches, and singing rock songs. Mary topped us all. Mr. Fearon asked her to pretend to pet a puppy. Mary bent down to the ground and scooped up an invisible puppy and cuddled it tenderly in the crook of her elbow. She did this for a good thirty seconds before turning to the back wall and throwing her puppy as hard as she could. When she turned back to her audience beaming and bowing, we didn’t say a word.

If one prowled the mall on weekends, you were sure to spy Mary shadowing mall security. Her diligent study of these rotund, power-mad figures seemed like an apprenticeship. Her single-minded focus on her future career, even though it was mall security, made the rest of us, unsure of what our futures held, deeply jealous. This emotion was tempered by the joy we’d get when she’d speak into an imaginary walkie-talkie to “headquarters.”

There are other anecdotes I could tell about Mary Cisco. There are many, many strange and funny stories about this girl. And as I’ve been writing this, I reflect on my teenage self and my 24-year-old self. I’ve always quick with a well-crafted barb, but I’m more willing to analyze behavior instead of just mock it. I still mock, but more to understand the subject, as a vehicle for comprehension. I have always been fascinated with people who (either automatically or by choice) let their freak flag fly. Maybe I just feel like I appreciate them more than others. Maybe I’m just jealous. Who knows. But I would never want a world free of Mary Ciscos.

Reading: The Punch: One Night, Two Lives, and the Fight That Changed Basketball Forever by John Epstein.

Attending: The first session of a writing and performance class I’m taking with the Neo-Futurists.

Overheard:

[At work] Co-worker: “I’ve got the theme to Gone With The Wind stuck in my head.”

As I have mentioned, I’m currently doing time contracting at a Chicago-based airline in Des Plaines. The western suburbs bleed together like gunshot wounds across Cook County, so I’m not actually sure if I’m in Des Plaines, Mount Prospect, Elk Grove Village, or Schaumburg. Actually, I think I’d know if I was in Schaumburg. The collective glow from the IKEA and columned Cheesecake Factory herald Schaumburg to the world. No, I am in Des Plaines.

I spend lunch with my lovingly arranged lunch and a book and stare out the window. At this time of year, there are no geese paddling about the corporate campus pond to entertain me. Only gangly tree limbs, concrete, and dead grass. It is the most desolate spot I think I have ever seen.

But today it began to snow. I’ve never been here when it snowed, so it was a new experience. My past experiences with snow have been lovely. Suddenly the world turns into something from Currier & Ives. Flake by flake, crystals pile up in tufts on every possible precipice. But that’s at home, not at work. I looked out the window knew I’d gotten stuck in a snow globe, the snow was so plastic, so sterile, so uniform.

To cheer myself up, I tried to think of the worst possible metaphor for watching snow fall on a desolate corporate campus. And I succeeded. Avert your eyes if such pain will be fatal:

“It’s like Jesus is dusting confectioner’s sugar on our brownie-square world.”

I’m so tired of brown and white. I need to locate some Krylon and spray paint some heart on this place.

In other news of my day, I’m looking quite fetching in my clingy lavender top which makes up for my corduroy pants which are just too short for my insanely tall frame. I have no idea what I was thinking leaving home wearing such pants. Thankfully, I’m heading to Old Navy this evening to return two pairs of low-waisted pants. This style is the bete noir of the pant world. Especially for the tall, for the ever-so-low waist of these pants barely covers a third of my bottom. No.

Why didn’t I try them on? Shut up, Cap’n Logic. You have no power here.

Overheard:

[Last night at the Blogger Dinner] J3s says, “I told my dad my site was called ‘HardcoreXXXJess’ and he believed me.

[At work] Co-worker: “You can’t touch the manna.”

Listening to: The superb Ron Sexsmith. What a name for a curly tendriled Canadian.

I am a deep, deep fan of extremely random deeds or goods, especially when the creators or proprietors of such gifts are totally unaware of their random value. My pal Deanne (who today turns 27) and I ran a mailing list for several years devoted to the “randomnity” of everyday life. Read the complete archive of Randomnities.

Phineas recently completed a Web site for an up-and-coming local band and was invited to come along for Katie Todd Band’s performance on Evanston cable access television. The Rob Linkhart Show is a long-running program starring the eponymous Indiana PE teacher Rob Linkhart and his wife Sheryl. Linkhart’s own peculiar brand of “comedy” is made even more “appealing” by the huge dose of meth he seems to take before the show. His jumpy, scatterbrained stage presence is odd when juxtaposed with Sheryl’s Topanga. The wise-cracking Paul Shaffer of the Rob Linkhart Show, Topanga dons a long black fright wig, a brocade Sgt. Pepper dress, and strange dots of red makeup upon each cheek. The two actually got married on the show six years ago, though viewers were spared the experience of the birth of their only child.

Before the show, audience members received numbers corresponding to postions on the Wheel of Destiny. Said wheel, a sad affair made of an old bicycle wheel stuck on a piece of plywood, would be spun by Bobby Linkhart, 4. The winner received his or her choice of Rob Linkhart’s castoff ties. As I viewed the scene - dorky audience regulars, be-suspendered crew members, Topanga’s shimmies - I felt as though I’d been slipped a very large, ceremonial-grade dose of mescaline or peyote.

Linkhart’s first guest had cancelled, but restaurant propriestress Karyn Calabrese came on to plug her raw food establishment Karyn’s on Halsted. The 56-year-old health nut brought Linkhart a basket of raw food goodies. He washed down the free victuals with an extra large soda from McDonald’s. Unfortuately, Linkhart also asked Calabrese about her restaurant’s other services and she detailed her health center’s colonics. “My daughter calls it ‘butt washing.’” That’s Karyn’s on Halsted. Butt washing. Karyn’s.

There were also videos, including one for a mythical photo shoot. In one, the scrawny Linkhart donned a vest and cowboy hat and waved a paintbrush around in the style of the severly retarded. In another, he rode around on a tricycle blowing hard on a pinwheel. Off camera, Topanga shouted, “Blow harder. Show me those lungs.” Evil teddy bears marched down my arm.

Katie Todd Band performed three times with verve, unaware of the goofy special effects being employed by the volunteer production team. A diamond would appear onscreen featuring one camera angle, and then float and zigzag wildly. Lead singer Todd was thrown for a loop during a sit-down with Linkhart. Topics included Todd’s middle school career and how Linkhart knows Liz Phair’s dad through his doctor. Or something. The mescaline/peyote feeling raged on.

After the show, I asked Topanga about her name. Was she named for Topanga Canyon in Los Angeles or for Topanga, a character in the Ben Savage show “Boy Meets World” who was named for Topanga Canyon in Los Angeles? Bewilderingly, the latter was true. I edged past Mrs. Linhart as her wig reached out for me, hungry for my eyelashes.

We ended the night at Nevin’s in Evanston. At some point, I joined a couple gals at the bar and we chanted the Girl Scout promise and old Girl Scout songs. Reflect on the true bullshit value of this: “On my honor, I will try to: serve God and my country; to help people at all times; and to live by the Girl Scout Law.” What a weirdly servile oath.

Feeling: Unhappy. No, really. The cold is truly getting to me.

Attending: Chicago Bloggers dinner at Flat Top on Belmont.

Working Out: Half an hour of hard cardio this am; weights.

After the non-useyourhands debut of my Missed Connections fun, I’m going to be totally diligent in posting the feature every Friday. And without much more ado….

Missed Connections ads come out in the Chicago Reader every Thursday. Below, I’ve selected several ads and written the story beyond the ad. Enjoy.

REGAN: I WAS working the door at the Get Me High for a friend, 12/15. Made lame joke about “Vegan” being a bad name for a kid. Didn’t feel comfortable asking you out. Wish I’d talked to you/ better joke. Kicking myself now. Coffee? Movie?

The streets of Bucktown seemed a little lonelier that night as he walked to the club. Tuesdays With Morrie was a book that would really shake your shit up if you let it. Roger felt like seizing the night and doing everything he’d ever wanted to do. But instead, he had to get his daily bread. That girl had most beautiful hands he’d ever seen.

IF THERE’S A pier, reach its icy end; if there’s a mountain, climb it; if there’s a lake, dive in! We shared this sentiment at Montrose Beach on Friday afternoon in the sunshine. I’m kicking myself for not asking you to swim. We should have coffee.

It was really funny that they were both reading Who Moved My Cheese? Monica remarked to Joe, I’m really taking this book to heart. Joe nodded enthusiastically and they started discussing just how Sniff or Scurry they actually were. He’d have asked her out, but Monica’s cell rang. Her boss kept her on the line for so long and he had to meet friends for drinks.

FRIDAY 1/10, 4:30PM. Inbound Kennedy. You: WM driving a gray Ford Escort wagon from Wisconsin, got off at Lawrence. Me: WM driving a blue Jetta. We exchanged a few glances and a wave goodbye. Would like to get a better glance if you would.

“You’re lucky you brought the car in today, pal. Your axel’s busted. Could have lost a wheel on the Kennedy in rush hour. That’d been fun, hrm. You didn’t notice a wobble when you drove? I bet other drivers sure gave you a second look. Well, I can’t work on it here. We don’t do vee-dubs, but you can take it over to a shop on Western. They work on Kraut cars there.”

JENNIFER AT PRODIGAL Son, 1/3. You were too cool not to give this pot shot a shot. Next time I’ll bring a lighter, what a guy. Dick.

Gillian and Chris decided that Saturday was perfect for their annual “Get Drunk During the Day” Day. Early in the am, the longtime friends stocked up on stomach-bolstering food and booze at their neighborhood Dominick’s. They started off with mimosas and sipped slowly keeping pace in mind. A couple of hours later, they were a mile past shitfaced and watching Ghost World. Wouldn’t it be funny to post a ridiculous Missed Connex ad in the Reader? Fuck yeah! Give me the phone – no, me!

Overheard:

[Conference Call] “These furloughed pilots came to see me. They wanted to tell me that I had their full support and they were sure they’d be coming back to work soon.”

[Wal-Mart] “I’m just filling in for Pam.”

Weekend Planning: I’m so going back to Aion this wknd.

Perhaps a person better than myself would view the frigid Chicago weather as an opportunity to volunteer somewhere, read a challenging book, or scrub the baseboards. But I am not such a person and so I’ve decided to bitch, bitch, bitch about the weather. Thanks to those who’ve said, “Can’t do anything about it, so you might as well learn to live with it,” but you can shove those obvious platitudes up your ass.

The mucus inside my nose freezes almost instantly, as do my tears, turning into pearls on my dry skin. Due to a mixture of evil wind and constant cleansing, my skin has been robbed of all moisture. Can someone pass Ol’ Scalypaws some moisturizer, please? In addition to these considerable crimes, the dry air has now turned me into a huge conductor. My hair flies about my head like gnats around a week-old apple. I’ve successfully wrangled it down using trusty duct tape. (Sidebar rant: A major peeve is when people say or write “duck tape.” Unless it’s on a mallard, it ain’t duck tape.) Also, when I touch, well, anything I get an intense and painful shock. It’s a fabulous time to be alive.

I dress carefully each morning, layering long pants over tights and donning a sweater and long-sleeved top. This would be perfectly adequate for a Central California winter, but here, that’s just for starters. Next comes two pairs of socks, two scarves, a heavy wool coat, and mittens that make my hands sweat. And still I’m only warm while inside the apartment dreading the outside. Silk underthings are on order.

Luckily, I’ve taken pause from my career of unemployment to earn some funds to afford a lengthy vacation to the warm place of my birth, holy California. I plan to frolic, which is something you can’t even think of doing in the Midwest until late April at the earliest. I hear thawing is the most painful part.

Overheard: [At work] “Brazil looks good. What about Bahia?”

Munching on: Trader Joe’s pure applesauce. Just apples and cinnamon.

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