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CURRENT MOON

 

Go now. Go.


There’s something about Sunday night
that really makes you want to kill yourself
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Monday, December 27, 2004

Arg

I'm at a point where I'm starting to get irritable about the smallest things. Like a random phrase that I suddenly decide I don't like, so anyone who uses it annoys the crap out of me. Or people who don't agree with my beliefs, or who have totally annoying different ones.

I think maybe once I get back on my own turf, with my own kitchen and bed and kitties, this will go away.

Saturday, December 25, 2004

Chicago

I hate Delta airlines for minimizing my return to Chicago. Four hours late, arriving at 3 a.m. instead of 11 p.m. turns a triumphant return into a desire for bed—anywhere, it doesn’t matter, just sleep.

So my first encounter with the city was Christmas morning, driving into my sister’s; and the sight of the skyline made me cry. I felt like a part of me had been missing, and I didn’t realize it until I found it again.

That’s what it was like being around my family again, too. My parents and sister, and then later my aunts and uncles, cousins and grandmother. Only this time it wasn’t an ache in my chest to remind me of what I had missed, but a huge envelopment of warmth, like a hug that went on for 6 hours, until we had to beg off for tiredness, pack presents and cookie tins in the car, and drive home, digesting family time the whole way. Tim has never been around a family like ours, and it’s overwhelming, but I don’t know it any other way. I wouldn’t want it any other way.

(My aunt gave us a star ornament that had two pictures of my cousin on it. I think the way she survives, the way she remembers him, is to keep him a part of her life every single moment. Which is hard for me, because it’s difficult to remember without guilt someone I didn’t particularly like until his death, at which point I realized I did love him.)

Go now. Go.

I remembered that Angela Chase is so much more me than references to zones and defenses.

Thursday, December 23, 2004

Baseball!

I went to the Biscuit Basket today to pick up a cap as a Christmas present for Tim’s best friend. It’s the gift shop for the local AA baseball team, the Biscuits. The store is in the main walkway behind home plate, and the side that faces the field is all windows. I expected the store to be empty, because baseball season is still four months away, but evidently others had my Christmas idea in mind. A man ahead of me in line was talking to the clerk about his son, who played on a traveling team on the East Coast, and I watched the rest of his family run around in the stands.

It was a cold but sunny day, and seeing kids run around made me remember the first time I’d ever been there.

A few days after we moved, before Tim started classes, we spent one evening driving around, exploring the town. Not discovering much but strip malls, we discovered the desolate downtown area about the time we started to get hungry. We drove aimlessly, looking for a restaurant, but there was nothing. Then we drove past a small baseball stadium where people were gathering. Because I love ball-park dogs, and Tim loves baseball, and because we were on an adventure exploring our new hometown, we parked, paid a minimal parking fee, and went in.

—where we paid an even more minimal fee to get two tickets on the 3rd baseline. To be more exact, we were two rows back from the grass, within reaching distance of the bullpen. The weather was mild, the stands were sparse-to-moderately filled, and the night was electric. Once we sat back with beers and hotdogs, it was heaven.

The players were decent, but the inning break entertainments were the best. They shot a cannon filled with Biscuits tees into the crowd; picked people to Sumo wrestle; blindfolded folks, spun them around, then made them locate the batting mound; etc. It was evident by how everyone got into the activities that the whole town really supports the team and the ball park. And the facilities are amazing. Fancy, clean—I think it’s the beginning of a downtown revitalization/tourism project for the area. It’s right by the river; the area is beautiful.

We left under a navy sky filled with stars, vowing that our next visit, we’d sit in the grass of right field, where tickets are only $5 and you bring your chair, blanket, picnic, and flask.

God, I can’t wait for baseball season!



This is Big Mo, the . . . anteater? . . . mascot:


This is also a mascot, a little biscuit dude:


Santa’s here!

We had our Christmas party today. Santa came (the husband of a lady who works here. He’s built exactly like you’d expect, with the long white hair and beard.), and everyone got a present, and their picture taken on his lap. The kids were in awe of him. Afterwards, when he stuck around the party, they crowded around him asking questions. One little boy stroked his hair and beard, probably to see if they were real. (The elf—his wife—introduced us, and he said he’s been doing this for ten years. He's the best Santa I’ve ever met.)

I almost died of cuteness at the kids’ reaction when they were on his lap, getting their picture taken. Some were so shy and excited to be near him. Others were really scared. All of them were in awe of the presents he gave.

I’ve never had much Christmas spirit. I mean, I love that it’s family time, but I never for a second believed in Santa Claus. I can see why, though, when we have kids, I might just tell them about Santa and let them believe as long as they can.


Wednesday, December 22, 2004

My first car accident

Driving home from work today, in the pouring rain, I thought, “dear god, just let me get home without an accident,” as I do every time it rains here, when the rush-hour drivers still insist upon going 70 mph even though visibility is at minus one foot. I made it to Bruno’s to pick up some groceries for dinner, and was waiting in the parking lot for a car to back out ahead of me so I could take her place.

Directly to the left of me, an SUV’s rear lights flashed on. I did nothing, because there are a few beliefs I hold, and I assume the rest of fully functioning humanity holds them as well:

  1. Before backing up, you look in your rear view mirror. Some (like me) may turn around to check the blind spots, too, but at least, you look in your rear view mirror.
  2. After looking, when you see a car directly behind you, you stop moving.
  3. If you don’t stop moving, at least you stop when someone lays on their horn.
  4. It never reaches a #4, because you have stopped by #2.

So I learned tonight that there are a few people who don’t abide by the rules I evidently only have established in my head.

I honked politely, then embarrassedly (because no one honks here) laid on the horn, and watched as a big fucking SUV backed slowly into me and crunched my wheel well so I now can’t open my door.

And when the guy came out of his car to talk to me, the first thing I didn’t even think I was going to say was, “you didn’t hear my horn?” Not necessarily even accusatory. Not because I was being nice on purpose, or because I didn’t have to get up in his face since he was obviously the one at fault and everyone knew it, but because I was flustered and couldn’t think of anything else to say.

So he called the cops; I went back to the car (climbing in on the passenger’s side) and called Tim and cried briefly from the shock of it all; a cop came and gave us forms to exchange but didn’t file any report because we were on private property; the man parked next to me (whose door I nearly took off when I flustered-ly moved out of the parking lot lane and into a space so I wasn’t blocking everyone) gave me his card if I needed a witness; and then I went shopping for an onion and a green pepper.

I suppose, though, for my first accident, it wasn’t that bad at all.

More about exercise

So it’s only been three or four weeks, but my pants, which previously were just a titch too tight, are fitting normally again. But more than that, I am starting to see the two lines running on the outside of my stomach again. Sometimes when I drive, I rest one hand on my leg, so I can feel the new muscle that’s right above my kneecap. My thighs are now killing machines. I just want to start to see more muscular arms, which will hopefully be developing soon, because I sure do a lot of weight stuff for them.

I’ve never before seen actual results from exercising. Which is probably why I’ve never stuck with it before. There’s something terribly addictive about watching, and feeling, myself become stronger and more fit.

I even ran the other day. On the treadmill, and only for twelve to fifteen minutes, but since it was my first time, I didn’t want to overdo it so I’d get burnt out. The really bizarre thing—which I’ve never ever experienced before—is that it felt good. I could tell my body could have done more.

This all is just so fucking weird.


Baby daddy

(I use this term now quite frequently, even though it sounds awkward as hell rolling off my proper tongue. Sometimes it’s the best way to describe the guy. I still feel like a dumb-ass poser every time I say it, though.)

Today I asked someone who her daughter’s father was. She paused, looked at her daughter, thought for a moment, and said, “X. Well, really Y, but X’s name is on the birth certificate.”

It was surreal to me. How in the hell can I ever understand where someone like this comes from? Not for one single solitary minute do I have any idea what it would be like not to instantly know who my child’s biological father was.


Tuesday, December 21, 2004

Southern talk

Tonight when I was telling our pet sitter how Tim and I both had colds, I said, “In fact, we’re fixin’ ta go to bed pretty soon.”

And I didn’t even realize it until way after.

Everyone says “fixin’ ta” down here. The black ladies at work say it: “fit-na.”

I don’t do the accent, though. That I’ll probably never pick up.


Monday, December 20, 2004

Chicago concerts

Of all the things I miss about Chicago, the biggest one right now is the Old Town School of Folk Music. I used to volunteer for their concerts—and I forgot to tell them that I moved—so I got a sign-up sheet for the spring 2005 concerts. And now my heart hurts from missing all these good ones:

Jan. 16: Robbie Fulks’ Secret Country (Bill Kirchen, Phil Lee)

Jan. 23: Eric Bibb
I volunteered for a Leo Kottke show about four years ago, and the then-unknown blues guitarist Eric Bibb opened for him. I was absolutely blown away. It was just him on stage with his guitar. He did slap bass, stomped his feet, and had a fantastic voice. He’s now my favorite contemporary blues guitarist. Fantastic!

Jan. 30: Danu
When I studied in Ireland the summer I was 20, one night we were out at a pub with a live band that night (I think it was the Quays). Officially a live band, not a pick-up group like most pubs there had in the afternoon. One of my classmates, Stephanie, had some connection to them (maybe she picked them up in another pub earlier in the day? Those were the sorts of connections she made.), and knew them. We drank a lot of Murphy’s, and pretended to Irish step dance on the dance floor (annoying drunk Americans, I know, I know). The band was amazing. I think we may have met them afterwards (but by now, one pub night in Galway eight years ago tends to blend with another). What I particularly remember from the evening is: 1. Irish guys know where Kansas is because everyone in the world is familiar with “The Wizard of Oz.” 2. Danu was amazing.

Feb. 5, 6: Alejandro Escovedo
Alt-country god.

Feb. 12: Lhasa
Slinky melancholy tango. The woman (never sure if she is Lhasa, or if that’s the group’s name) has an incredible god. This is what the Old Town Web site says about her: “She is a strange and unusual singer who is part hippie blues singer, part Edith Piaf and a smokey, murky version of Tom Waits as Mexican jazz diva.”

March 12: Ladysmith Black Mambazo
I know them mostly as the South African singers who were on Paul Simon’s “Graceland” album.

I would kill to go to any of these shows.


David E. Kelley is what's wrong with our world

I hate him. I think he’s evil. Every word he writes is crap. He needs his writing license revoked and a permanent ban against his sexist shit ever being broadcast on TV. I only watched five minutes of his new show, Boston Legal, before it became obvious that it was an Ally McBeal knockoff. Even though I hold up everything I watch to a “could that really happen?” standard, I get that fantasy can make for good television. Ridiculous, pathetic characters falling squarely into clichéd categories? Not good television.

He clearly holds women in high contempt, which is disgustingly obvious in the misogynistic plots and character developments.

I know I can get up on my feminist high horse about shit like this, but that doesn’t mean I think every show has to be P.C. It just bugs the hell out of me when misogyny is disguised as P.C. bullshit. Ally McBeal a seemingly strong female lawyer who can get along just fine without a man? (Maybe for the first episode, anyway.) Give me Baywatch or Barb Wire any day. At least they don’t try to pretend it’s not about the boobs.

Sunday, December 19, 2004

I'm not getting sick

I’m not getting sick. I’m not getting sick. I’m not getting sick. I’m not getting sick. I’m not getting sick. I’m not getting sick. I’m not getting sick. I’m not getting sick. I’m not getting sick.

I’m not.

Thursday, December 16, 2004

The OC

The previews for 2005 were better than the entire Christmakkuh episode. I am pretty sick of Seth Cohen.

Wednesday, December 15, 2004

Work

I was talking with a volunteer about someone with five kids who is trying to get on disability for having freaking asthma. For which she doesn’t even take medication. The volunteer asked if that bothered me as much as it did her—people trying to take advantage of the “system.”

And my response was, “No, not really. They can try to get anything they want.” I think in the end, the system helps those who need it, sometimes people fall through the cracks, sometimes people get more than their fair share, and that’s just life.

She said, “I guess it takes a special person to be a social worker.”

I wonder when I got so laid back. There’s not much that bothers me anymore when it comes to human foible.

Tuesday, December 14, 2004

Who AM I?

I’m not going to lie about it—me and exercise, well, we’ve never been the closest friends. In fact, whenever my parents pushed me to get involved with it, I spent as much energy coming up with reasons why I couldn’t/wouldn’t as it would have taken me to run the mile (ok, bad example. I don’t run. Period.). One reason was that I’ve always pretty much done the opposite of what my parents recommend, and the other is that I was lazy. Oh, and the third: I’ve always had better things to do.

So why do I suddenly look forward to doing stupid Gunnar Peterson’s stupid Core Secrets workout? Why does my body suddenly crave the stretching and the movement?

Beats the hell out of me. But I’m going to go with it. I like it. But I’m not telling my parents I changed my mind about exercise.

Moments of grace

Last night Tim and I went to the cute section of town, the neighborhood known as Old Cloverdale. The one block in Montgomery that has an independent movie theatre, the live music venue, a few restaurants, and a real coffeehouse. The restaurant where we had dinner was a tiny, hole-in-the-wall pizza place. The building had 15-foot ceilings, hammered tin on the wall, and local artwork hanging all around. The floor was dusty and scuffed painted wood, and the tip jar by the register was made of hand-blown glass. Our waitress was wearing a hemp necklace and a headwrap that I would bet covered up hippie-girl dreadlocks. The other waitress had a back tattoo. I didn't know places and people like this existed here.

I probably spent the whole dinner exclaiming over how cool it was, and just seeping in its atmosphere. And the pizza was delicious. With a whole-wheat crust, even. It's hard to articulate what a place like that does for my soul. I wouldn't probably think twice of a restaurant like that in Chicago. But it reminded me of counter-culture, which I really didn't think existed here.

(Can organic food even be considered counter-culture? Sounds like a stretch to me, but . . . the world is different down here.)

After, we asked the waitress about a good bar. She recommended one by saying, "Lots of gays go there, but it's still cool." (Which makes me wonder what kind of recommendation she thinks she's making. Which also makes me wonder how many gays and lesbians live here—someplace I believe is pretty gay-unfriendly.) It was in the Old Alabama section of town. The business area, near the Capitol and the courthouse.

The Montgomery downtown looked like any small-town downtown. Old, decaying department stores, wide empty streets; a ghost town once 5 o'clock strikes and the government workers go home. A wasteland. I wouldn't want to be there alone after dark. In front of the recommended bar (closed on Mondays), cars were parked on the middle yellow line, and a few people were just hanging out in them. It was surreal.

So we went back to Old Cloverdale to 1048, an old house that has been renovated into a music joint. Dusty wooden floors, sports on TV and blues on the jukebox, the place was quiet but the bar stools filled with men contemplating their drafts. Two older men played backgammon at a table in the corner. They had Newcastle on draft, but it was the kind of place that makes me want to drink PBR from the bottle, shoot whiskey from a jar, and slowly draw in on a cigarette. It was home to me. I'm glad we found it.

If we can find moments of grace here like this night, then I feel like I belong somewhere.

Monday, December 13, 2004

The beginning

I'm not yet sure how I feel about being so open, but I'll give it a try.
 
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