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

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.