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.