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

I know it’s been a long time since I rapped at ya, but thanks for keeping it real this Friday with Missed Connections ads from around the country! The ad appears first and the story growing out of the ad is below.

MONDAY 6/16 TOWN Lake, You: beautiful, tall, red hair, walking with your golden retriever. Me: no shirt, black shorts, running. I’d love to be able to smile at you again! (Austin Chronicle)

Paul was proud of his slight resemblance to a Lost Boys-era Kiefer Sutherland. He was barely a teenager when that movie come out and he just got stuck in this vampire-by-the-sea pose. Paul smiled at Karen because she looked kind, but also because she looked ripe.

KEVIN FROM THE VA. We talked of the weather and Mark Twain. I was thoroughly charmed by your sexy southern drawl, but too shy to tell you. Our walk was a great start to my Monday morning. Can we continue our chat over coffee or cocktails? (Chicago Reader)

It was uncanny. In that seersucker blazer over a Thomas Pink shirt paired with pressed linen pants, he looked exactly like the man she always thought she would end up with. “Please let his name be Scott and let him love Campari,” she thought as she caught his eye at the crosswalk.

I SAW YOU Blonde girl: I saw you in a tye dye shirt outside Banana Republic. You gave me a cigarette a smile. Want to see me again? (Philadelphia Weekly)

She made the shirt at camp. Tiff had been going to Bishop Day Camp every summer since she was 10. Now, at 16, she returned as a counselor and was very desperately trying to affect a “counterculture” look. She’d made the shirt during crafts hour and the smoking was a new thing. Tiff considered adding slutty to her self-description as she handed over the cigarette.

BEAR CREEK WEDDING 6/7 You: Samantha, blue sweater long skirt, brunette. Me: Asian, brown suit/tie, glasses. We danced to a Rebel Yell and did a little Whip It as well. Care to boogie some more? (Seattle Weekly)

Fred attempted to impress Samantha by twirling her around the dance floor. He had been successful until he dipped her, and not bracing his leg properly, dipped her head right into the floor. She assured Fred she was fine, and told him she’d just sit the rest of them out. Horrified, she pleaded with everyone present not to give Fred her number.

In other Shylo news, it looks like the HMS Phlegmship is finally going back to sea. How fortuitious, as Phineas and I have just started in with our new pilates tapes.

I do not like the bathroom. Besides the filth factor, people (including myself) tend to ritualize their potty antics, and at the very least, reveal a side of their personality that I don’t want to know about. Fail to use a seat cover or wash for an appropriate length of time and I will never forget it.

But today, I had a different experience clearly within the range of ridiculous. While I praticed my own ritualized potty behavior (sidebar: I have a pee mantra. In order to pee, I must chant a mantra. Or look at a certain shade of blue. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.) I looked down and saw a tag where there should be no tag. A tag? What?

I investigated and figured out that somehow, I’d put my underwear on wrong this morning. Some explanation: I was wearing the “big panties” that were too big 40 lbs. ago. You do the math. A leg went into the waist and the whole house of underwear cards collapsed. I considered leaving the situation as-is, but I thought I might face elastic abrasion issues later in the day. So I took action.

Luckily, I’d worn shoes I could slip my jeans over. But did I really want to attempty the maneuvre during the pre-lunch potty melee? I did, but how? I raised my legs up above the bottom of the door and quickly slipped off the jeans. After righting the underwear wrong, I paused as a lady washed her hands at the basin opposite my stall. With legs in midair, I waited as she picked her teeth and fluffed her hair. Finally, she left and I finished the job. Right as rain!

But what of this bizarre bathroom paranoia? If someone caught me taking my jeans off and putting them back on, even through the 1/4 inch gap between the door and the stall, what of it? I don’t know, but it would be bad.

Listened to an archived broadcast of Liz Phair performing on KCRW’s “Morning Becomes Eclectic.” You know shit is going wrong when you’re promoting your first new album in five years and you only perform two songs from it during your six song set.

It’s best when it’s hot. This applies not only to weirdly kinky sex, but also to peppermint tea. Loathsome when lukewarm.

sick - adj. (sik) sick·er, sick·est - Suffering from or affected with a physical illness; ailing.

sick - adj. (sik) sick·er, sick·est - Excellent; first-rate. Bitchin’, tight, ill.

I am both of these things. Je suis la bombe y estoy enferma. I am trying to keep things on the DL today, but my hacking motherfucking cough sings across the cubicles. Oh, there it goes again. It’s not as productive as it was this a.m. Don’t know whether to be satisfied or what.

A couple of birds slammed into the window-wall here at the office and their pathetic little corpses decompose on the concrete shelf outside. One of the birds is a sooty black and the other has a yellow breast speckled with brown. Flies covered the eyes of the black one yesterday, but the yellow one is remarkably untouched. I took a photo of it.

Herman, the Serial Killer That Couldn’t

With his .357 slung over his shoulder, Herman skulked home. He carefully shut the door so his mom wouldn’t hear him, but try as he might, his mother heard him.

She peeked around the corner with expectant eyes, wiping her flour-coated hands on her apron, “Well?”

Herman studied his shoes and shrugged his shoulders.

His mother sighed and took him by the hand. “Come on,” she said, “I made cookies.”

As he munched, his mother tried to pep him up. “Herman, your father was a slow blossomer, too. But he found his groove when he picked up his first chainsaw.”

“But I like the .357, Mom! Maybe I just don’t have it in me,” he lamented.

His mother pounded her fist on the table so hard that some milk from his glass spilled on the table. “I will not allow sniveling like that in this house. Herman, you’ve got to try harder. Either start killing or get a job,” she commanded.

Without a thought, Herman picked up the weapon and fired it at his mother. Before she slumped to the ground, she smiled at him and whispered, “See?”

Oh, Jesus Christ. It was just a story!

Do you baby yourself when you get a cold? Or do you suck it up and just ride, braa?

Instead of going out and playing all weekend, I was struck down by a nasty cold. My throat felt like someone got at it with a pipe cleaner. The whole of my body ached as if someone had beated me with a length of pipe. And, as I had not been attacked by either pipe cleaner or pipe, I knew I was in for it. On top of these insults, my back has been a big nasty knot since Thursday.

I have a new piece on Gaper’s Block. I think it’s good. You may disagree, but then again, you might be both fat and ugly. Really, it’s your loss.

The phlegm, it is green!

Cops take note! I have purchased a City of Chicago sticker for my car. I have inflicted such ugliness on my cute little wagon. Put your ticket pads away, for I have joined the ranks.

Dear Muffin,

Priced at $.75, you proved to be unexpectedly delicious. I especially enjoyed your crunchy top. Your blueberries were underwhelming, as are most blueberries in muffins, so at least I knew what I was getting into. But back to your top! Love the sugar in the raw. Love, love it.

Thanks Again,
Shylo

Check back later today for Missed Connections.

Oh, my God. Somebody should invent a cork — a very well-designed, futuristic cork, maybe by Umbra? — to pop in one’s mouth when one’s mouth is spewing the diarrheal rants of the intoxicated.

At some point during my second yummy (and therefore retarding) martini at The Gramercy, some part of me decided to be charming, fresh-faced, and impish. I think I pulled this off, though I was not pleased at all with this performance. The whole time I was mugging for cameras and licking the sugared rim of my desserty intoxicant, my brain desperately tried to telegraph my mouth with an “SOS - you’re pretty well appalling me now” message.

But oh that mouth! She never leesten to me. She always wants to seeng with the band. And, it seems, that my mouth really wanted to retell mundane anecdotes, some of which involved ’70s powerband Styx. But at least the mouth coordinated with the brain to mock the party at right, who sang Bon Jovi nonsense until one member’s Abercrombie visor slipped down over his eyes. Nothing distracts group singing like a frat boy crying because he’s “alone in the dark.”

Do you want to know more of the mouth’s crimes? It teamed up with the tum and demanded a cheese sandwich. Male companion said no, citing lack of bread. I stupidly recalled hamburger buns and before I could stop, the mouth yelled out for buns, buns will do! I was unimpressed, but the mouth thought the impromptu grilled cheese con bun was genius.

Someone has gotten itself stuck under my skin! Quick, get it out before it lays eggs.

So, what’s for dinner?

We say goodbye to everyone and leave the restaurant hand-in-hand. I unlock my bike from Phineas’ and we pedal towards home. After crossing Ashland’s scary four lanes, we’re home free.

It is the perfect temperature for my long-sleeved shirt and skirt. I really wish I could ride with no hands because I want to be the type of girl that rides a bike in a skirt and flings her hands heavenward during a particularly delicious ride home. But I am not.

I am so pleased. My tum is pleasantly round with chicken and couscous and a few mini-martinis. The conversation was lovely and there were photos taken. We brainstormed and gossiped. We planned and praised. And Phineas was cute.

My limbs still feel post-workout wooden, but in a good way. We both lost five pounds last week. How did I ever live without a bike? Air doesn’t fondle you when walking or driving, but on a bike!

The air smells like perfume. I am so happy.

If I open my mouth right now, will I taste it on my tongue?

The new No-East is out. I edited this one and Phineas and I have a piece in it. Please check the magazine out.

Sleep, perchance to dream. There are so many things to do, but all I can think of are my new pajamas.

Phineas and I rode our bikes through Rosehill, Beth-El, and Bohemian National cemeteries. We spent quite a bit of time in the Rosehill Columbarium.

Shylo: Oh, look. Charles Schwab. (pointing to an ornate cell.)
Phineas: The Charles Schwab.
Shylo: No. Charles Schwab-Charles Schwab is still alive. My friend Brad used to see him in the elevator at his office.
Phineas: Maybe that Charles Schwab just inherited the name. Like the Dread Pirate Roberts.

Then we checked on one of our favorite graves, an above-ground black marble rectangle housing James A. Minakakis. The inscription reads:

“In Darkness he was born,
In Darkness he lived,
and in Darkness he will rise again.”

Phineas: Yeah, I really think he’s a vampire.
Shylo: We could ask the office. They’d know.
Phineas: I prefer not knowing.
Shylo: I want to know.
Phineas: I’m sure the real story isn’t that good.
Shylo: Unless he’s some prominent mid-century Satanist!

We pedaled through the badly neglected Beth-El/Ridgelawn Cemetery and spotted a stylish headstone for Robert “Righteous” Rudnick.

Shylo: Check this out.
Phineas: Who is he?
Shylo: A jazz musician? I’ve never seen a grave with a John Coltrane quote on it.
Phineas: Nice font.

With further investigation, we believe that this Righteous Rudnick was a slam poet of some repute.

For my money, I’d like to be cremated and then have my ashes mixed with cookie batter, baked, and served at my wake.

You?

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