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

Hands in horrible pain stop Can’t do Missed Connections stop Read these selected ads from a hodgepodge of publications stop

BARN DANCE. TAMMY. We sweated together. You shared a beautiful vision. I remember the gaze! How about coffee? or more dancing? Rick (Austin Chronicle)

I MET YOU at the port-a-potties at Goose Island fest on Saturday night. You asked if you could go ahead of me and I said I was going to time you. Sorry I couldn’t wait for you. I’d like to see you again. (Chicago Reader)

STINKY You: Long hair, loving, having buttsplosions. Me: wishing I could help your digestion. Will we meet again? (Portland Mercury)

DAMIEN JURADO FAN You: Tall gorgeous blonde in red walking South on Alaskan Way w/friend after 8/21 SAM show. Me: long-haired cowboy rushing to ferry. I recommended “I Break Chairs’ Chat? (Seattle Weekly)

MC W/ THE RELEASE of “9 Dead Gay Guys” To the director: when the hell are you going to get that masterpiece released? I’ve been talking a blue streak about it! You wouldn’t believe how many scenarios your film gets jammed into. Besides, I am breathlessly awaiting seeing that hot Irish bull(y)! If you see this (and we both know how much time you spend online playing silly war games), flip me an email. Hope you’re well! -Your East Coast Siren Chauffeur (London Craig’s List)

YOU WERE AT albertsons at scottsdale and thomas - m4w - 34 i was squeezing melons while you were admiring zuccinis. our eyes met. our carts moved closer. yours was full of honey, whipped cream, nestle quick sauce, some cucumbers and a selection of summer sausages. you were admiring my hairy coconuts, daikon radish, bottle of nutella, sour cream and tuna helper. you reached for a banana and i reached to grab a bag to help you wrap it… but there was no more plastic. i went to go find some more, but upon return found only a smoldering cigarette butt and a coupon for handi wipes. if this was you, let’s meet again and maybe i can help load your trunk… (Phoenix Craig’s List)

Help. Hands. Help.

I checked my voicemail this a.m. and got the word that I landed one of the strangest apartments in Lincoln Square. And I couldn’t be happier.

Lincoln Square is located in the vicinity of Western and Lawrence and is home to the Old Town School of Folk Music and the diminishing seat of Chicago’s German community. After just falling in love with Andersonville, why venture south? I hadn’t even ventured in to Lincoln Square until dinner last week with Rachael. After a good movie, yummy Greek food, and some pinot grigio, I looked around and felt so pleased, so excited. So, now I’m going to live there.

My apartment is right by the Davis and within spitting distance of yummy sammich place Costello’s. I’ve got an entire floor in a house. There’s a backyard, a shed for storage, and laundry. The door opens into a little foyer with another door in front and to the right. Go to the right. The living room is good-size and fronts on the street. The windows are high enough so as to prevent people climbing in them. Turn down the short hallway. On your left, I’ve got several large built-in cabinets with glass doors. They sold me on this place. The bathroom is small, but features a roll-rim claw-foot bathtub. I am a bath person.

The bedroom is up ahead on the left and is literally the smallest bedroom I have ever seen. But that’s fine. It’s womb-like. Hey, what’s that door? Oh, shit. It’s the closet. The closet is this random, inexplicable nook you could never find in a modern building. I envision a settee.

Here’s my plan: run curtain rods around the entire room. Tightly blouse hot pink fabric around the entire room, covering up the window. Jam in ultra-plush double bed covered in black velvet duvet. High thread-count sheets (in pink). Lacy design out of rhinestones hot glued on to ceiling. Fairy lights.

But here’s why I rented the apartment. The kitchen is probably over 200 square feet. It’s the largest kitchen ever. And, like my current setup, it’s got a small oven, but also a small fridge. I was dismayed until the owner said out of the blue, “You know, you can totally cook a 22 lb. turkey in there.” And that’s what got me.

The whole vision of me as an adult? As the earth mother/bon vivant passing around wine and food at a party in my house? It’s going to happen here. And when it does, I hope you’ll be there.

I’m turning 25 on November 25. I think that’s two days before T-Day this year, but bookmark Saturday the 22nd. There will be a turkey. There will be eclectic sides. There will be wine. And in the middle, I’ll be there, beaming.

Where can I buy gloves? Gloves that you’d wear to tea.

I embarked on strange little excursions this weekend. Late-night swap meet, Hala Kahiki, smoke-filled Irish bar. When I lived in LA, I had a mailing list with my roommate and partner-in-crime the Lovely Miss Deanne. We documented our adventures for a few hundred folks. You can view Randomnities archives here at UYH.

This weekend reminded me of those times with the Dea’.

Pulaski is an interesting street. And I got to see quite a lot of it during the half-hour trek to Paddy Mac’s. We got a table near the door, a Stella and a cider, and copies of both the Irish-American News and Karaoke Nite Life. The I-A News has been a constant source of joy to me since I moved to Chicago. One column in particular, Hooliganism by Mike Houlihan, is a must-read. Houlihan’s ham-fisted working-class prose is littered with none-too-charming phrases like “cheese hog.” Here’s a sample:

Paddy wants to be the Irish Martin Scorsese and is studying film at Columbia. His assignment was to write, produce, and direct a short film. Paddy brings his quirky sense of humor to his film, “Courtney is Starving.”
It’s the story of a young man named Courtney in love with a very fat girl named Courtney. My son Billy stars in the film as bachelor Courtney and I volunteered to make my drag debut as Courtney the cheese hog.
A good thing too, because he was too afraid to ask an actual cheese hog to play the part. She would probably kick his ass.

Pick it up. All I’m sayin’. But Karaoke Nitelife also proved entertaining. The grainy, unflattering photos of karaoke belters are fabulous, but the real gem in this free publication are Karaokescopes by “Fubar the Adequate.” Here’s mine:

Lots of good energy surrounds you for the rest of the month and for the better part of August. Be careful of the kryptonite. You really need to find a playful outlet for your aggressiveness, though, since the final outcome will have people classifying you as an overachiever, which will only piss you off. Try singing novelty songs this month. “Weird Al,” maybe.

Have truer words ever been spoken?

Anyway, I’m just going to get to the swap meet because it was in many ways both fucked-up and glorious. Readers of UYH know of this writer’s fondness for the Missed Connection. I’m really just interested in the reasons for things. My brothers and I were hooked on the Leonard Nimoy-narrated show “In Search Of…” as kids. The show took meandering paths to explain cultural and historical phenomena. Maybe that’s part of why I’m so interested in the stories behind things.

The all-night swap meet, I’m sure you can predict, was a mother lode of creepy kitsch. Tacky I can handle. Frightening, I have more of a problem with. However, doll collectors must be immune to this condition. Why else would the Du Page County Fairgrounds have been home to so many doll vendors? I’ve posted a few doll photos in the photos section, but you’ll have to believe that there were literally thousands of half-naked and dirty dolls.

Who collects these? How did these dolls come to be in a scuffed plastic bin? Little girls played with all of them at some point. What happened to separate a girl from her doll? I can’t think of any happy reason why these dolls ended up in Wheaton at midnight being ogled by collectors and smartasses with camera phones.

I’m mentally redecorating my future Lincoln Square apartment. I saw a place this weekend that was nice, cheap, and close to the action, but I wouldn’t be happy in the kitchen and there’s no porch. I’ve been spoiled by the Damen pad. I haven’t worked out the other rooms, but the bedroom will involve the following: pink walls, maribou, black velvet, and rhinestones.

Jones, Bisnett Announce Split
Blogging Duo Go Separate Ways; Vow to Remain Friendly

Chicago, August 22, 2003

After nearly two years together, Phineas X. Jones of nocommercialpotential.net and Shylo Bisnett of useyourhands.com are sad to announce their breakup, effective immediately.

“We realized we were just friends, you know?” said Jones. The pair had been discussing a separation for some time but only recently agreed to part. “Nothing will change,” said Bisnett, “I’ll just live down the street in an apartment with a better stove.”

Although the reasons for the split may be simple, the splitting of communal property proves complicated. Papers will be filed in Cook County Family Court to determine who will receive custody of Lapsang, the couple’s year-old adopted Chinese baby. Fans of the pair will be reassured to learn that their fifth and final album, tentatively entitled Pony Corset, will be released later this year; however, they will not tour to support the effort.

“Really, it’s cool,” insists Bisnett of the parting. “We’re only doing this fake, Onion-y press release thing because tongues will wag in the blogger world otherwise.” Bisnett and Jones agreed to make a public announcement of their separation so as to prevent uncomfortable reader comments. Also, because they are lazy. Jones said, “This way, we tell it once and we’re cool.”

Currently, Jones and Bisnett are sharing the residence on Damen Avenue. Bisnett is actively seeking a sunny one bedroom with new kitchen and deck in Lincoln Square or Ravenswood.

So, this week’s been the bomb diggity. Lots of changes, which you’ll read about in a press release this weekend. I got a job, additionally, so I’ll get to be an actual grown-up girl again. Healthcare and flight benefits. Score.

Anyway, on with the show….

YAWNING PANTERA FAN. Southbound Brown Line, 8/6, near Diversey. You: short black hair, sunglasses, Pantera shirt, great tattoos, incredible smile, beautiful. Me: black T-shirt, clean-shaven head, goatee, glasses. Couldn’t stop looking at you. I smiled as you left train, you yawned, apologized for it. Care to meet over coffee? (Chicago Reader)

“This is Kitty. She’s my sweetheart of darkness,” said Curry, grinning like a motherfucker, as he introduced his lady to Phil Anselmo, Pantera’s longtime frontman. The lead singer moved his eyes from Kitty’s chest to her face and thought for sure he fucked her from somewhere.

8-4-03 To The Girl Beneath The Starry Night umbrella, with curling cypress trees and painted Stars, pin wheeling In their gyres; To give you shelter from the rain. (Philadelphia Weekly)

In high school, Ezekiel still went by his given name, Tim, and was just getting into the goth scene. He left the day after graduation, bought a bolt of velvet, and never looked back.

You Pink Shirt and Pink Socks - m4m - 28 Oh my god you were so cute looking at the listings at Great American Music Hall. Our eyes caught, but I was all hot from carrying groceries, hot from seeing you, that I couldn’t get the nerve to come and say hi. (San Francisco Craig’s List)

“This is what happens when you watch Amelie too often, sweets,” said Tina. She put an arm around Keith. He nodded in agreement, but still felt blue that nobody ever responded.

On the train (18/03/03)… - m4w I sat across from you. You got off at Leicester. I’d like to buy you a drink. (London Craig’s List)

“Is that me? I ride that train. Maybe that’s me. Why couldn’t it be? And if it’s not, maybe I should respond anyway because you never know and what a good story that would be to tell our kids?”

The last installment of the serial. You know, I always intend to write something funny, but I never do. Ever. Sorry about that.

“What in the hell, Veronica?” Barry yelled after the door shut behind them. Veronica was already heading back into the kitchen to make some very strong coffee and toast. “Let him yell,” she thought.

He followed her into the kitchen and wondered what had happened. Veronica used to glow alive, but now she was shuttered, hiding her light. Her moods were more and more irrational and truculent. They irritated him because she seemed unable to control them. Or perhaps unwilling.

With each motion she used to make the coffee, Veronica kept time to a metronome ticking in her head. Barry’s pacing was not in step and her song grew increasingly discordant. She fought to block out his red, demanding face but he kept beating back into her tune.

“Veronica!” he shouted. And even as his volume increased, so did his love for her lyrical name. He repeated it, softer this time, remembering with his love for her. She heard the change in his voice and turned her face in profile.

“That bird,” she began, but her voice sounded froggy with phlegm. She cleared her throat and began again. “That bird. I just wanted to look at it.”

“But it was gross,” he said, holding his arms out at his sides.

The coffeepot was nearly full. She firmly grasped the handle and held out the delicate flesh inside her arm. It was his favorite part of her and when he touched her there, she’d shudder. Her extended arm shook slightly, but the one holding the coffeepot was steady. Barry felt close to vomiting. He couldn’t speak or stop her. He stood still as she poured the entire pot over her skin.

When the last drop hit Veronica’s arm, she dropped the pot and it shattered across the floor. The sound of the glass mingled with her own screaming. Her arm shook violently now, but she did not dare touch it. Barry grabbed her hand and pulled her arm underneath the tap. Blisters bubbled up instantly and her skin, once beautifully white, turned a livid red, like blood gone solid. She needed to go to the emergency room. He shut off the tap and reached for a nearby dishtowel.

As he wrapped up her arm, he screamed for an answer. “Why did you do that?”

Her arm still felt as if coffee was being poured over it. The pain was so intense she thought she might faint. It was exquisite. She caught her breath and looked into Barry’s eyes. He was horrified. His expression sent goosebumps crawling across her body, including the wounded arm. She gasped at this unexpected pleasure.

Barry shifted his feet and the glass crunched beneath them. This was sick. “Why did you do this?” he repeated, at a somewhat lower volume. Tears snaked down his face.

Veronica whispered her answer before collapsing in his arms, “Because it was beautiful.”

I’m still pursuing the end of my serial story. Unfortunately, my tum is all goofy. I hope this doesn’t affect my game.

They stood on either side of the dead crow. Its wings were stretched wide and ruffled gently in the breeze. Barry held a shovel and nudged the bird. It did not move. He moved to edge the bird onto the shovel, but Veronica stayed his arm. She knelt down for a closer look. On her hands and knees, she looked closely.

The beak was slightly open. She wondered if the bird had cawed on her lawn for minutes or hours before it died. While she had tried so hard to remove her mind from reality that morning, life was hurtling away from this crow. The two glassy eyes had begun to cloud. Veronica placed her face close to the bird’s eye, but she didn’t see her own reflection. Its wings were outstretched as if soaring or embracing.

Her curiosity turned Barry’s stomach. Birds had diseases, right? Could she catch something poking around the bird like that? She wasn’t a kid; her unabashed examination was ridiculous. He touched her shoulder and gave it a shake.

“Veronica, come on,” he said sternly, “Let me throw the fucking bird away.”

She was still in her reverie but found herself replying, “I want to keep it.”

He choked on frustration. Barry was tired of these moods, these airy depressions that required him to come down to her level and scoop her back up. He bounced the shovel up and down with his sneaker and chose not to reply to her nonsense.

Veronica extended her hand to touch the bird. The feathers felt far more delicate than she’d imagined. Maybe the bird had been on her lawn for days and she had overlooked this small death. Guilt brewed inside her. To atone, Veronica curled up on the ground next to the bird. A blade of grass poked her in the eye. Damp seeped through her clothes. She had no particular sadness that this animal had died, but a huge well of grief swelled within her. What had she missed? What else had gone by?

Barry had enough. He saw a tear leak out of Veronica’s eye and snapped. He shoveled up the bird and stomped to her trashcans. He threw open the lid, dumped the bird, and flipped it back down with too much force. Veronica blinked when Barry threw the shovel and it clattered against the cement. He stormed back toward her and jerked her up by her arm.

“Get inside, Veronica. You’re ridiculous,” he spat through clenched teeth. She trailed behind him into the house. She felt dazed and stupid. Barry was right; her behavior was ridiculous, but it came naturally.

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