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

If you are a girl and you want to get picked up lickety-split, take a stack of cookbooks to a bar.

Missed Connections! This week, I picked out ads from the Austin Chronicle, the Chicago Reader, and one from Craig’s List. Several people have suggested I take ads from Craig’s List, but they are a nightmare to go through. Note: The Reader ad? Fucking genius golden brilliant.

DAPHNIE WAS YOUR Stage name, Rico was mine. I enjoyed your company, let’s do it again in the real world. (Austin Chronicle)

Love is not often found on the go-go dancers’ platform, but it’s another story for Daphnie and Rico. He’d danced with a lot of bikini-clad women painted gold, but not one quite like Daphnie. She was kind, offering him water and complimenting the way he ground his pelvis into her rear. She will call him because of this ad. They will date, marry, and then open their own nightclub.

GREAT KHAKIS! JOHN Barleycorn, my favorite bar. We’re both fifth generation Irish. We talked about work. Beer: you like Bud, I’m into Guinness (more exotic). Wonder what you look like without the baseball cap. Can you handle this wild chick? I’m Poi Dog Pondering the possibilities! (Chicago Reader)

(Proprietors’ Note: I swear I did not make this one up.)

Nobody really knew who was behind The Project, but Naomi supported their aims. The reputation of the Irish people had been besmirched by movies, books, and bars. And the time had come to destroy. Naomi was sent to John Barleycorn on a busy Saturday night after a Cubs game with a purse loaded with dynamite. But something unexpected happened. She had a good time. Naomi had a beer (on special!), a chat with a cute boy, and then she threw the purse away. But when she got home, she did burn a copy of Angela’s Ashes. For priciple’s sake.

DEPORTED TO CANADA. You are being deported to Canada. My friends and I were thought is was a big joke and were saying funny things like Get ooooooooot of America. But then you sang America by Neil Diamond and you danced like you were walking on cotton candy and you earned our respect. It looked like a lot of people turned out for your deportation party. I wish you luck up north. Come back real soon ya hear. (LA Craig’s List)

“Kate,” said Marion, putting down the scrap of paper Kate had asked her to proofread. “You can’t put this up.”

Kate’s heart sank. “Why not?”

Marion rolled her eyes and read aloud. “‘Danced like you were walking on cotton candy’? Kate. What is that? How can you both dance and walk and what does cotton candy have to do with either? And he’s gone. Back to Canada. Why would he be surfing Craig’s List?”

Kate didn’t bother to tell Marion how she felt. That that night was the best of her life and she was scared nothing would eclipse it. That it was a lovely, joyful moment and she wanted it to last. She nodded, took the piece of paper, and then placed the ad.

Because I listen to NPR and because I am fascinated by the confirmation process, I’ve been paying close attention to the hearings of one William Pryor, a Bush nominee for a Court of Appeals gig. Everyone’s all up in arms because 1) He’s a very devout Catholic and Orrin Hatch decided to thrust and parry with him about that and 2) There’s some serious ethical questions around his involvement with a group he founded called the Republican Attorneys General Association (RAGA). Every time I hear Nina Totenberg talk about RAGA, “Rock the Casbah” by the Clash gets stuck in my head and I want “to let that RAGA drop.”

Every time we go to one of the series of staged readings of bad movies by the Neo-Futurists, I develop a crush on some member of the cast. Last week, I flipped for Steve Walker the gravel-voiced star of last year’s Hellhound On My Trail. This week, Merrie Greenfield of WNEP won my heart with her turn as a drunken narrator. Fabulous! There are two more shows left in the series, including the finale Tron.

I want to be a hard core rap star. Here is my effort:

Cristal, bitches, and hoes
These are a few of my favorite foes
Killaz, muggaz, playa hataz,
I will smell you all lataz.

Going to work to get my scrillah
But I’m dreaming of my pillow.
Fuck the Man and fuck my job.
Want to be a capo in the Mob.

Quittin’ time, Miller Time
Later, gonna be Cristal time.
Quittin’ time, Miller Time
You know you wanna feel my phat rhyme.

And thus.

My rap name will be either MC Shy-B or something involving the words princess, goddess, or panda. My costume will involve track suits, eye patches, and maribou.

The seasons, they are like the phases of a party. Spring, you are for planning. Poring over cookbooks, listmaking, advance prep. Spring is for purchasing Japanese lanterns and fresh flowers. Oh, but Summer! You minx! You are the party. You’re a ton of fun and everybody laughs! These are the days, but the party wears toward goodbye. When the first leaf falls in Autumn, people begin to file out of the apartment, a little tipsy and still smiling. “Wasn’t it a marvelous party?” they say as they stumble down the stairs. You turn back to face Winter and spend the season gathering up bottles and crumpled napkins.

Your favorite summer dessert: share!

We went to Ravinia last night. There is something slightly unnerving about a sea of well-heeled white people chugging chardonnay. Or was that just me? Anyhoo.

In the middle of the movie, Chloe pulled out a small pair of scissors and began to clip off her hair. Thin strands fell to the floor with each of her furtive clips. Her date did not notice what she was doing, but did enjoy having the popcorn all to himself. When the movie was over, Chloe gathered up the pile of hair from the floor, stuffed her scissors back into her bag, and followed her date into the lobby. Half of her head was still covered in the long, honey-colored hair he loved so much, but the other half was spiked and patchy. People stared as tears dripped down his face.

The other day, I woke up and started calling Phineas “Bandit.” This name makes him giggle and color charmingly. Each time I say it, he says, “I’m not a bandit!” Last night, as he tucked me into our futon, I looked up at him and asked, “Hey, where’s our copy of Huckleberry Finn?” He turned to me quizzically and then smiled and said, “Bandit.”

I’m growing a few pots of tomatoes on the back porch and they’ve begun to really kick out the ripe fruit. They are the most amazing tomatoes we have ever tasted. The skins taste sweet, sort of like a pluot, but inside they’re meaty and tomato-y.

Tonight the Neo-Futurists, Andersonville’s own improv/theatre company, is performing the latest in their series of staged readings of forgotten classics. Back Street is about adultery, fashion, and New York City! $9, Ashland and Foster.