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.”