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

Enjoy these select Missed Connection ads from the Chicago Reader and the LA Weekly. The stories below the ads have come from, or behind, my interpretaion of the ad. It should be noted that I don’t do this every Friday to mock the posters. I applaud the search for love and wish these folks well.

WEBSTER POT BELLY’S. Cute boy in blue turtle neck, tan pants, on Friday 2/21, 7:30pm-ish. You: Asian with glasses, kept touching your hair–I assume you just got it cut? Me: Caucasian female with brown hair, just a few people behind you. Would love to chat if you’re free! (From the Chicago Reader)

That barber did a great job. I am stylin’. I asked myself in the mirror, “Who’s that looker?” Answer: me! It’s the perfect cut, just short enough to really make me feel like I’ve just gotten a haircut, but not too short so I feel naked. It’s good. I am loving this new haircut.

#66 BUS, BLUE Line, Jackson stop. You: cute indie chick, brown coat, red scarf, cool Fluevogs, smoky gaze. Me: black everything, spiky hair, shaky knees. We’ve got to stop meeting like this, or start meeting somewhere else. (From the Chicago Reader)

John Fluevog stepped out of his Boxter early on Saturday morning. His size 10, resoleable Houtans crunched on the gravel as he lumbered toward the dry cleaner’s. A chilly Vancouver wind prompted John to tighten his scarf. Outside the door, he inhaled smoke from a pedestrian’s cigarette, and was glad he could only smell leather.

SEABISCUIT WRAP PARTY Union Station, 2/21, you wore pink halter w/black slacks. Me in all white, you asked for cigarette, let’s see if we can start a fire. (From the LA Weekly)

The bartender-for-hire sees all. I work all kinds of parties: corporate meetings, weddings, Hollywood parties. It’s ok when people remember to tip. And I can usually sneak out a bottle or two of something top-shelf. Last week, I had to work this party at Union Station for some horse movie. There were actual horses there, walking and shitting on the tile floor. I took three bottles of Ketel One that night.

AT BEVERLY DRIVE & OLYMPIC THURS 11AM You, driver for older man. You looked several times. I looked too. Let’s try. (From the LA Weekly)

The Rolls-Royce is a comfortable vehicle. Smooth, plush. Expensive to maintain, but projects an appropriate image. My driver has been with me for ten years. He is capable and, generally, invisible. At times, he lacks discretion and displays his natural effete manners. I know that constant reservation injures the soul, but I manage to stifle these impulses.

Overheard: [on clark street in andersonville] “ok, one, two, thr- you ass! you cheated!” these guys decided to have a foot race. shortly after this comment was made, the speaker’s wallet fell out of his pocket, spilling credit cards everywhere.

Worrying: about where I’m going to live. Our lease isn’t being renewed and I’m sort of afraid to live somewhere random by myself.

Accepting: a world where some people have decided I’m in no way redeemable.

I was thinking about the sad and tawdy life of Tonya Harding yesterday. I heard on the news that she’d just been ordered to pay her former landlord $20,000 and that she’d lost her professional boxing debut. She got married again only to get divorced quickly. Throwing hubcaps at said husband. Ill-advised eye makeup. Celebrity Boxing. Banishment from skating. Clubbing Kerrigan.

Harding’s list of humiliations is staggeringly long and funny. The judgement was for unpaid rent. The boxing debut seems like a stunt, but it’s not. Harding says, “I have put a lot of effort into boxing. This is not just a one-fight thing. I am making it my second career. I am not working eight-nine hours a day for nothing.” But she lost. And, in general, she seems to lose a lot.

It’s all her fault of course. She finds and marries losers. The spotlight she craves so terribly seems to always find her when she’s at her worst, in court or in scandal. I think most people who have endured so much would have gotten the hint by now and maybe learned a useful trade. She would probably be a good travel agent, beautician, or bank clerk. It would be a quiet life, though. But she’s determined, through bad choices and laziness, to rise to the top of the shitpile.

She’s a fool, but at one time, she was the best in the world at something. Harding was the first woman in history to do a triple axel in competition. That’s amazing. Think about what that means, to do a triple axel: Skating very fast on a razor blade, leap, rotate three times, and land on tangled feet. All to music and in front of a crowd. That’s got to be amazing. She figured out a way to be the best in the world at seconds at a time. Flying, dressed in sequins, in a spotlight.

Who can blame her for trying to be that again? To be that girl everyone was proud of before her life became ridiculous. I thought she was a hoot at the time. A working-class girl with way too much makeup, thighs like Virginia hams, and not an ounce of that gap-toothed Kerrigan grace. I hope Harding pulls out a victory somewhere and does something classy with her life. There’s nothing better than a come-from-behind win. Something excellent, on earth, with tangled emotions, and no crowd.

Loving: The chocolate Snackwell’s in the vending machine. Damn you, Nabisco. Damn you to hell.

Reading: Empire Falls by Richard Russo. I am a quarter done and really wish it would pick up the pace.

All About: Waffle fries at the Deluxe Diner on Devon and Clark. Boy, howdy.

I stopped off at Dominick’s on the way home from work yesterday to pick up some supplies for the sad evening in front of me. Here’s what I bought: A snickers bar, a chicken pot pie from Marie Callender’s, and a bottle of Yellowtail Shiraz Cabernet. You tell me what happened.

I felt like cleaning, sifting. It was like I was looking for something, but I didn’t find anything. I wanted order. I wanted sense. The thing I’m best at, the thing I really do well, is prepare. I am bad at execution, but I am an exquisite planner. The tubs I packed with all my shit before I drove here are still in the closet. I hauled them out, sorted, and prepared three bags for Goodwill. When I finally shut the closet door, the two packed tubs were poised to go. But not just yet.

There are still miles to go. There are still months left. I can’t afford to move, but yet I know there’s going to be a cost to staying. Whatever. I can’t figure it all out. What went wrong and why is part of me so incorrect, so inappropriate? People have asked what have I learned. Nothing. I’m not to the reflection part yet. I only really know what I’ve always known. You only have yourself, yourself to blame and yourself to trust.

Part of me wants to get the hell out of here as fast as I can. Nobody would miss me but the Peedger and there’s a few who would love to see me go. I’ve been lonelier here than anywhere else. I’ve felt lonely before, but mainly due to self-imposed exile. But here, I felt sad a lot of the time because, for the first time in my life, nobody was interested in me at all. If not for the Peedger, there were weeks that I wouldn’t have said a word.

But part of me wants to stay. Because there’s nothing I love more than the underdog, and in this fight, that’s me. Because fuck everyone who didn’t give a shit. Because I’m so afraid to be caught doing the wrong thing. Because it’s a wartime economy. Because, bitch, I want to win. Because I felt safe here. Because I’m wanted here.

We’ll see, I guess. Goddamn you, California. I miss you so much. I don’t know what it is, but I cried when I left you and I’m crying now because I’m coming back. I’m going to choke when I smell the beach in the mountains and I’m going to smile when I see ten thousand miles of concrete. But the whole time, you’ll know I was somewhere else for awhile and happy at times. We’ll be together again, but it’s going to be a wary reunion, won’t it?

This rambling entry lacks detail because I don’t want to add shade and light to a terrible thing. But let me end it like this. When I was cleaning out one of the tubs, I found this poem Phineas had left in the closet for me when I moved in. I never read it. I didn’t read it last night when I found it again. Maybe it started then or maybe it didn’t. I don’t know what it means, but I thought it should be said.

Running: through my head is “Girl’s Room” by Liz Phair. Who knows a girl named Tauryn?

Avoiding: my neo-fut class tonight. It’s all about your life and I don’t want to think about mine today. Especially not in front of sixteen-year-olds.

Hoping: that Lacey isn’t suffering from the tummy grumbles during her spiritual fast.