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

JASON WHO WORKS in Arlington Heights: I met you at John Barleycorn on Saturday 3/15. You were watching the U of I game with your frat brothers/ friends. We talked for a while. I even brought you a shot. Maybe we can meet up again. (Chicago Reader)

Oh, shit, Paul. You should have come out with us for the Illini game last Saturday. JB was totally crowded, as usual, but we got a pledge to show up at eight to get us a table. Halfway through the game, we were buzzing pretty hard. There was this table of cute girls next to us, and we started talking to them. I had my eye on this one girl, but you know how it goes. She went for Jason. They all went for Jason. That fucker gets all the pussy.

YOUR GREAT SMILE 3/15. We’ve been on the streetcar together. We smiled at each other as we entered the march from the waterfront near the booths (you were in black jacket, plaid shirt). I’d like to finally meet. Coffee? (Portland Mercury)

It was his buttons that caught her eye. The T-man’s jacket was completely tiled with buttons supporting various liberal causes. Some were funny, and she agreed with a lot of them. And he was attractive! So she did the natural thing, the third-finger sweep. She smiled a little when he didn’t appear married.

2/24/03 - ARBY’S ON Burnet Rd. I picked up your change from the floor, talked about not knowing the weather would be bad. Didn’t get your name, I would like to. (Austin Chronicle)

The tips of his fingers felt really warm when he put Laura’s quarter, dime, and nickel into her palm. They felt like they’d been in mittens, but it was 60 degrees outside. Laura considered whether or not he might have a fever as she darted between the raindrops back to her car, holding her sandwich bag. She tripped over the curb and barely caught her balance, but dropped the coins again. They stared up at her at the bottom of an oily puddle.

ELLIOT BAY PIZZA GIRL Not unlike Amelie, my heart glowed when I saw you. You: dark hair and big, beautiful eyes. Me: Can’t eat pizza without thinking of you. Respond soon. It’s too hot. (Seattle Weekly)

Why did Jerry find that girl attractive? She caught his eye after she bit into a slice of pizza and then spit it out into her hand. She gulped down her beer and fanned her mouth, but the damage was done. Jerry knew the bitch that was a burned tongue and he felt for her. What tickled him was how she burst out laughing when she daubed a napkin soaked in ice-water on her tongue.

When I was driving into work today, I was listening to a talk show as they tried to raise money for the infant daughter of an Indiana man killed in action a few days ago. The soldier, Army Spc. Greg Sanders, was 19.

My brother graduated from high school in 1998 and was nominated by our congressman Gary Condit to join the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs. He was going for the chance to play collegiate water polo, but also to get a free education, which is probably why most people join the military and not out of love of country. After the initial boot camp summer, he quit. And I have never supported that decision more than when I hear about all these boys our age dying.

If my brother had stayed in the Air Force, he’d surely be over in the Middle East right now. And maybe he’d be dead. I’ve never lost anyone close to me, and certainly not through war. But I can’t imagine that I’d feel like his death meant something sacred because he was a soldier, because of a uniform. I’d probably be angry that my only close family member was now a dead boy.

My dad got drafted to go to Viet Nam, but was rejected because he was too tall, of all things. But if there’s a draft, my brother won’t be too tall. He’ll be smart and fit and any service branch will take him in a minute. And I will tell him to run as fast as he can somewhere else, to Canada or Mexico. Somewhere that he’ll stay alive and keep on being my brother.

I’ve been making paper cranes recently. I’m going to use them in a decorating project for the new apartment. I just learned how to make them without looking at the instructions sheet, and I’m pretty proud of them.

I am amazed that someone figured out how to take a square piece of paper and, after making 25 strange folds, get a bird. People can be remarkably amazing.

Each year on my birthday, I think about writing a letter to myself and reading it on my next birthday. I never do this. Sometimes I compose the letter in my head, but I never do it. On my birthdays, I get me a pecan pie from Costco and eat it all over the course of a week. As they are a foot and a half in diameter, this is no small feat. This is how I have marked my birth for the past few years.

And today, I celebrate another milestone - the 100th entry on my webbity. This accomplishment does not merit pie, but perhaps some late afternoon animal crackers. At Use Your Hands HQ, the decision’s come down that I should write a letter to myself, only to be read again when entry #200 rolls around. So, here goes:

Dear Shylo, Use Your Hands Webbitrix:

Over the past 100 entries and several months, I feel that you’ve done a pretty good job. Good, not great. Hey there, put that X-acto knife down. Before we consider how you can improve your web concern, we should evaluate why you chose to do this in the first place. Mostly, I assume, out of sheer need for feedback, for attention, for focus.

People like your webbity and tell you so. They link to it. That tickles you. Thousands of people have come to look at it, and the total goes up every month. How astounding. More people look at your webbity than can fit in your apartment at any given time. Because people like looking at your web concern, you find the time and inspiration to write something on it almost every day. This is funny because you can’t seem to get back into those two 25-page stories you’ve been working on for fucking ever.

Now that we’ve examined why you write the webbity, let’s talk about where you’ve really done yourself proud.

You’ve stayed away from current events. Other people do it better and you’re not as informed as you’d like to be in order to speak authoritatively. Leave the war be. The War Show’s on everybody’s minds anyway, they don’t need your $0.02. Same goes for abortion, tax relief, tort reform, socialized medicine. Yeah, I know what you think, but let’s just keep that between us.

You’ve kept your cards close to the table, if you know what I mean. Sometimes when you read a ‘blog, it’s all about exposing the super-super personal. And that’s fine, but not for you. You mistrust everyone, especially total strangers. And your sad stories shouldn’t be in the forefront of your brain at all times. What you’ve got to do, baby, is take a deep breath and let the shit go, not publish it. The funny stories, sure. Sad stories you can make all funny-like, sure. But not the heartache. Not the woe.

You’ve done good shit. I’m proud that you put time and effort into your webbity. I know how hard you work on each entry. Sometimes you don’t edit them as much as you should (shame!) but the meaning’s there. It’s obvious you try. The fiction bits - I know you were wary about that - but I think it’s shaping up pretty good. You agonize over public reaction to what you put up there. Adding the comment field made you suck in your breath and you’ve yet to let it out. Breathe, kittykat.

But there are areas for improvement. I know you know that. I’m not going to get all brutal on you, because wow you do that fine on your own. These are a couple of loving suggestions, issues I see that I hope you’ve rectified.

You are careless. I just mentioned the editing thing, but sometimes, it seems that you put up stuff on the webbity not fully formed. Slow down and put in the effort. You have never worked hard at anything in your life and that’s beginning to catch up, isn’t it? Well, let’s put that nose to the grindstone and try a little harder. Length, depth.

You do this thing where you’ll allude to something, but not fully explain it, and the people get all lost. I don’t know how to remedy this, but maybe you could either stick your neck out and give some details or just drop it altogether. It’s a fine line you’re walking.

Thus ends my critique of your webbity. In the end, it doesn’t matter what I think, it matters what you think. I hope your webbity grows and takes on more shape, more light in the coming year. Remember that it is good, that you are good.

Gillian finally woke up after nearly twelve hours of dreamless sleep. Before she opened her eyes, she twisted around in the bedclothes and enjoyed the sun and breeze streaming through the window. There was nothing she wanted more than to bury herself under the comforter again and spend the balance of the day sleeping.

But then she opened her eyes.

Above her, Gillian saw a canopy of clear blue sky framed at left and right by the poplar trees. Their spastic leaves glittered and seemed, for a moment, to make sense. But this feeling of well-being was short-lived. Gillian realized she was floating in water, down a river. The current was steady, but she didn’t feel like she was in danger. She tilted her head from side to side to take in the view of the bank. Even the feeling of cold water filling her ears didn’t disturb the altogether pleasantness of floating down a river when you didn’t expect it.

Gillian felt the pitch of the river change and felt her body slip with the water over a little waterfall. She was never afraid. In fact, she’d never felt more lithe and free. Gillian began to think she might not have a swimsuit on, so she kicked up a leg to check.

But no leg came up to meet her gaze.

Gillian didn’t have legs, nor did she have arms. No head, no torso, nothing. Her body, so happily twisting in 300-count percale a few minutes ago, had become a leaf. This didn’t bother her, though Gillian did wonder which tree she’d been a part of whether she chose to float down to the water or whether she’d been pushed.

The idea went away as quickly as it had come. Gillian had accepted that she was a leaf. Instead of trying to figure it out, she just floated. The river never came to an end. She never got caught in the still water at the shoreline. Gillian relaxed, warmed herself in the sun, and decided that it wasn’t much different than her very own bed.

Last night’s Academy Awards were strange, what with the war, what with the winners.

The whole no-red-carpet thing seemed a really hollow gesture. Who would that affect? What would the message be? Did families of both Iraqi and American dead take comfort from this silly tribute? Will a soldier feel a curious solidarity with Russell Crowe because the after-party he attended was slightly less ostentatious?

I’m sorry that Eminem was otherwise engaged and wasn’t present to accept his Oscar from a flabberghasted Barbra Streisand. The handoff would have been half the fun, but the speech, ah, the speech. Instead, the Oscar was accepted without antics by a “Lose Yourself” collaborator clad in Detroit Pistons jersey and dinner jacket. Instead of a silly list of shout-outs, he accepted the award gracefully with heartfelt thanks to Eminem who he described as a good and creative man.

Michael Moore’s poo-in-the-punchbowl acceptance speech leaves me confused. I’m glad someone stirred it up, especially such an unlikely Hollywood player. Everybody expected a protestation from Michael Moore, but I expected an eloquent, well-reasoned speech from the man who so delicately coaxed Charlton Heston into hanging himself with his own rope in Bowling For Columbine. Instead, he was frantic and boisterous. I think his meaning was drowned out by his tone, and it’s a shame, because I think his vioice is a powerful one. Adrien Brody’s war statement was so much more touching as he wished for speedy resolution and safe passage for a soldier friend in Kuwait.

I’m glad I wasn’t watching for the Best Director award. Although the Oscars are in no way comments about the recipient’s morality but rather a critique on their art, I feel sick about Roman Polanski’s win. Did Hollywood decide to turn into the Catholic Church for an evening? Polanski is a convicted (not just accused) child rapist. As Church hierarchy looked the other way in order to advance the cause of religion, Hollywood looked the other way to honor this man’s artistic creation. The connection (at least to me) is not a tenuous one. It’s a bit ironic to me that Polanski was honored for his film, a touching depiction of the courageous life of Wladyslaw Szpilman, but lacked the courage to serve his own jail sentence.

The dresses were pretty and Steve Martin (at times) made a presentable host. But I’m glad it’s over and we can stop staring into the really bright spotlight that distracts us from where we should be looking. It’s just as painful, but far more important.

Ok, so there’s a theme to this week’s Missed Connections! When I first started reading Missed Connections-type ads in the LA Weekly, many of them involved Trader Joe’s in some way. Strange. So I’ve rounded up four ads involving the grocery store. Trader Joe’s even makes an appearance!

These four ads come from the Chicago Reader and the Austin Chronicle. As always, my stories appear below each ad. Enjoy!

TREASURE ISLAND, LAKEVIEW, 3/11, evening. You: long-haired handsome guy buying detergent. Me: shy guy in leather jacket behind you at checkout. Couldn’t take my eyes off of you. You were looking back. You were standing outside when I left, I was too chicken to talk. Love another chance to introduce myself. (Chicago Reader)

Every day, I fall in love with some stranger. Totally and hopelessly. The guy in Treasure Island? Before I even looked at him, he had me. He asked an employee if they carried the new Woolite for black clothing, which I’m a big fan of. It wasn’t so much the detergent, but it was how he asked that got me. After the employee pointed it out, I heard him answer, “Thanks kindly.” Don’t know why, but I got the shiver. You know that shiver.

TRADER JOE’S, FRIDAY 2/28, 6:30pm. You: glasses, sideburns, buying anchovies and chocolate chips, said goodbye while leaving parking lot. Me: black glasses, curly hair, wouldn’t mind hearing more about that recipe. (Chicago Reader)

On Valentine’s Day, Grant got dumped hard. He took his girlfriend out to dinner and as he gazed at her so happy that he finally felt comfortable and happy in a relationship, she leaned across the table and said it was over. Grant had a batch of her favorite cookies waiting when she came to pick up her stuff. When she interrogated him later about the ingredients, he just laughed.

CENTRAL MARKET 2/21: You: blonde, buxom, tan pants, bought flowers. Me: sandy blonde, red shirt. We smiled in aisle. Saw you check out and leave. I’m interested. You? (Austin Chronicle)

“This is the most beautiful girl in all the world,” said Circe’s mother as she gazed lovingly at the painting she’d hung in her daughter’s room. A girl with flowing blonde hair holding a bouquet in a field surrounded by a gilt frame. The woman in the market that day lacked the frame, but the rest of her was straight out of that painting.

MARISOL: WHOLE FOODS I’m lousy at check-out line small talk but would enjoy getting to know outside of work. I’m the shy Waterloo boy with the big sideburns. (Austin Chronicle)

Gus was a very jealous man and he always imagined that his wife Marisol flirted scandalously with customers at work. This idea tormented him and began to treat Marisol like a cheat and a liar. He sought confirmation one day by hiding around a corner and watching her work for an hour. But Gus didn’t see anything suspect in her behavior. She was kind and polite, but never solicitous. He felt like a fool.

So there’s this war. It bothers and confuses me. I don’t want to talk about it on my webbity at all.

But I’ve got this great lump of bother in me. Have you ever caught a fly or bumblebee in your hands and held it there? There’s a definite buzzing, a pissed-off flapping of wings going so fast, a frantic search for light. This huge drama, right in your fist. It sort of feels like that, my lump of bother, and it sits right in the middle of my chest, but is also setting up a colony in my frontal lobe.

Last night, I brought home some Girl Scout cookies from my contact here. One box contained peanut butter chocolate things called Peanut Butter Patties, which I remember from my days as a cookie shill as Hoedowns. I also got a box of chocolate-dipped shortbread with the likenesses of endangered animals on them. We got dinner things at the store and came home to cook. I flung the kitched door wide and opened the windows and listened to the thunder signal the storm about to break.

We watched a movie and immediately after it was over, we turned on NPR to see if the war had started. And indeed, it had.

I was supposed to start the whole packing thing last night. I was going to go to Jewel at midnight and get a bunch of boxes, make lists and labels. But instead, we just got under the covers with books, Girl Scout cookies, and a beer. I fell asleep listening to the rain and the radio.

Phineas has a good thing on his site today.

………………………………………………………

The sky was ridiculously dark when I drove in to work this morning. I stared at the horizon and everything seemed to get two shades darker at least. And my mood just took a header with the light. I flipped the radio around and found a DMX song, a really angry screed about something. The song validated the mood and as I drove along in my Subaru, wearing my plaid Eddie Bauer skirt, I felt like a bad ass.

I didn’t so much snap out of that mood but just forgot about it. I’m fine now, if a little eh. The siren song of coffee got drowned out by other stuff in my head. I’m in the middle of a song plague. “Say” from Cat Power’s Moonpix is stuck in my head, mainly this line: When no one is around love will always love you. Also in my head, this line from “Afraid of Love” off Changing Faces by Katie Todd: And over there you are safe in your haven. Over there you are meant to be.

But you know what trumps it all? The sound of my rumbling tum.

Next Page »