Another Conversation I Overheard Between Two Blatant Hipsters

We're walking through Renegade Craft Fair and looking for food.  I've finally given up on Renegade, I think.  My first Renegade (six years ago?) was fucking mind-blowing, and over the past five years it's just spiraling into this clusterfuck of pricey graphic t-shirts and felt jewelry covered with zombies/dinosaurs/robots/unicorns/owls/mustaches/sea monsters or whatever buzzwords are floating around. 

But then again every year there are one or two people that do something so simple and clever that I nearly buy one just because they're rad, and not because I want one.  But more often than not this anthropomorphism gets redundant instead of fantastic, and I feel tired.

I'm sorry to sound so bitter, but it's like...okay, it's like there are only so many times I can have the exact same fucking conversation about craft beers, where I get repeatedly told that I don't like IPAs because I've never had a real IPA, and they are going to introduce me to real IPA because obviously I am incapable of trying new beers on my own.

Thank goodness I have these people to guide me.  By the way, also, thanks for calling me a snob in 2005 when you told me to drink 'real beer' while you sipped your Bud Light.

The most frustrating thing about that conversation, though is that I am that person too, the one who says things like, "if you don't like bloody marys, then you've never had a real bloody mary."  Hell, I did that two weeks ago.  And I do this with movies goddamn constantly.

Then again, beers are far different than movies.  I'm 1000% guilty of telling people they base their opinions on the wrong movies: "I know you say you don't like sci-fi, but that's because you're watching shitty sci-fi.  You can't just throw the whole fucking genre in the garbage because you didn't 'get' Johnny Mnemonic."

Anyway, we're walking through Renegade looking for food, and everything is covered with the latest version of "roasted cauliflower" (the fact that "cauliflower" is a 2012 trend blows my fucking mind) and something that's pickled. Everyone is pickling their shit.  It's crazy.

Jean's style transcends gender.

So we're debating if we should eat some of this highfalutin' hipster food when I notice two heterosexual couples smoking cigarettes and chatting casually about the menu, all four of them - two men and two women - dressed like different versions of Jean Seberg.

A plea to men: I applaud your efforts to be fashion forward and murder sartorial stereotypes.  Congrats!  But if it's imperative that you dress like a Godard film, I would really, really, really appreciate it if you picked a character played by Jean-Paul Belmondo, and it's not because you're dudes and he's a dude...it's because he is a sexy dude. Be sexier is what I'm saying.

Also? Your TOMS look fucking stupid and they always have.

Because I'm nosey and fascinated by things I don't understand, I listen to Couple No. 1 gush over their last date at some restaurant (that probably serves pickled cauliflower), when the gentleman from Couple No. 2 interrupts them.

"You know what?" he said with complete sincerity.  "I don't think I've ever actually had pheasant heart before."

"Oh, you have to go [here, to whatever new asshole restaurant just opened], then.  It's awesome.  I wouldn't even consider ordering it anywhere else."

Fucking paupers.  I eat at least three pheasant hearts a day. I juggle them like fresh cats from the corner apothecary and swallow them whole.

...

Air and Water Show

I find a clockmaker online and walk over there on my lunch break.  I haven't worn my watch since one of the links broke. Which is odd to begin with, because I never wore a wristwatch at all, really.  Not until this year.

But I walk over there and this sign said 'fifteen minutes' which is an asinine thing for a clockmaker's sign to read.  Fifteen minutes from when, exactly?  For someone who specializes in the precise measurement of time, your vagueness astounds me.

So I buy some Jalapeno Cheetos and decided to watch the Air and Water Show from Daley Plaza.  There's a homeless man carrying a gallon of water.  If I were homeless, I would save up all year to buy an airhorn and a squirt bottle, and the weekend of the Air and Water show I would run up to tourists and blow the horn and squirt them with water and yell, "I'M THE MOTHERFUCKING AIR AND WATER SHOW, BITCH" and run away laughing and it would be hilarious.

I start laughing to myself, reinforcing the hilarity, and then this woman is plowed down by a car.  It drives away.

Now, I've been in situations like this before.  There are several things I could do. I could run over there and join the crowd of people surrounding this poor woman, yelling to see if she's okay, this poor woman who is lying face down in the middle of the street with her summer dress hiked up around her waist, and we can all see her Spanx and her varicose veins and her shattered high heel shoe.  I could crowd around her with all of those people standing in a slowly growing half circle, and stare at her and ask everyone what to do, what happened, did someone call an ambulance.  I could do that.

But there are other people doing that.  More and more people are doing that every second. 

So I rip open my Jalapeno Cheetos and walk into the middle of the street, blocking her from the cars honking by. She hasn't moved yet, and a woman on the sidewalk yells about being an RN and takes control of the situation.  I keep my back to them and start popping Cheetos and look up at the sky.  I can hear the planes, but I can't see them at all.

The nurse yells at me.  "Excuse me?  Excuse me?  What are you doing?"

I turn, and look at her, mouthful of Cheetos.  "Arm brocking va kers frm hervin her."

"What?"

I swallow. "I'm blocking the cars from hitting her.  And trying to keep people from staring."

"Well, you're in the way."

I look at her, and laugh.  "Yes I am.  That's kind of the idea."  There is no way I'm going to explain that I'm trying to prevent this woman from getting scrutinized and oggled to a nurse, who has more important things on her mind.  I hold out the bag of Cheetos as a peace offering. "Sorry.  I'm just trying to keep the Air and Water sightseeing down to a minimum."

The woman on the ground turns her head towards me.  "Thank you," she says.

"You're very welcome.  Would you like a Jalapeno Cheeto?"

...

Tell Me Who's Yo Housekeeper Wutchoo Keep in Yo House

I'm seriously trippin' right now, because there is a strong chance I forgot to turn off Clocky's alarm and I really wanna go home and make sure that bitch ass alarm clock isn't rolling out around the apartment.

Shit, Clocky.

I mean, we know I have issues with like, not sleeping. I am awesome at sleeping. Anything that involves suspended motor functions and unconscious creative output is like cake for me, and you know. Fuck yeah, cake.

Being awake is so hard. You have to be clean when you talk to people or else they make scrutinous little snipes, since everyone's a private dick, like "oh, are we too good for a shower?" or "I can smell you were drinking last night" or "go put on a bra, this isn't Wal-Mart."

So I need an alarm clock that'll get all up in my business so I can be a daisy-fresh daywalker, and Clocky is loud enough to get me out of bed. Sometimes. Usually. After awhile. Basically Clocky is an annoying little bastard, and if that alarm has been going off for hours...shit.

If Clocky's been bustin 'round the a.pt. like a wheeled schizophrenic banshee all frakking day, then right about an hour ago I'm sure the neighbors chopped down the door with a fire-axe and crushed him to bits in an alarm-fueled axe-rage, smashing family portraits and snatching my Band of Brothers DVD's because they are laying out on the table right now in plain sight omgwtf, and and then Oscar The One-Eyed Cat prolly got loose into the world (I started calling him Colonel Tigh) and is about to get grilled by crack-addled hipsters who don't have jobs because they need to focus on their "music" and eat cat-steak sandwiches for lunch. Cat-steak with hedonistic hipstery condiments and toppings, like roasted-red-pepper-and-guava-chutney-with-gluten-free-brie-purple-Japanese-sweet-potato-truffles.

GAAHHHHHH.

...

Psychological Warfare

For Fat Tuesday, Gyna finds out about a bar with $3 liters of something that sounds delicious. We leave right after work and take Bowser dze German, who introduces us to his friend Philip, who is also from Germany and visiting Chicago.

"So how did you like the Field Museum?" I ask after a few. I am a Member of the Field Museum, which means I have a fancy tote bag and my name on a bunch of mailing lists.

"It was nothing. It was crap," Philip shrugs.

"What?" I bug out at Gyna.

"I know, I told them to get Mold-A-Rama dinosaurs and everything.”

“The whole thing was a little Discovery Channel," Bowser laughs.

“Exactly. That’s why it’s awesome,” I mutter. Philip looks at me and mouths egzakilty? I nod.

“Ja, egzaktily, with the gift shop and Sue dollies,” he mocks. “Tell us where we find out about dze real American dinosaurs. Wie sagt, ah, intelligent design and wonderful nonsense."

“Oooooo, like the Creation Museum." Gyna raises her eyebrows.

"Egzaktily! There is one?"

"In Kentucky,” I explain. “I went last year, and it is hilarious. They hate Darwin because he’s the devil. And they murder lambs like over and over and they have their own Garden of Eden and the guards have rifles and it’s goddamn wicked ridiculous."

"It is good? Are you a Creation…nista?”

“No, but I also don’t believe in talking mouses, and I—“

“Mice,” Gyna and Bowser correct me, grinning. Simpatico, those two.

“What?  What did I say?”

“Mouses. You said mouses.”

 “Yeah, well. Mice. Whatever, I would go to Disneyland tomorrow if I had the funds. Oh! And they have hip archangels who wear drug rugs and sunglasses and talk like they’re from California and talk about how science is wack and Jesus is your homeboy.”

"Well, that is what I want to do then." Philip turns to Bowser. "We will go tomorrow?"

"I can't. I have work."

"But it is so...America. Christians...und, and...and guns! Don’t be wack."

"I want to go, but I leave for Houston tomorrow," Gyna whimpers.

There's a slim needle of silence. The last time I went to the Creation Museum I caught a lot of atheistic hell for ‘supporting ignorance and everything that is wrong with America’ and ‘giving them money so they can teach our children mythology instead of science’ and I’m like, yeah, but, you know. Funny. "Fuck it. I got personal days.  Let’s go.”

"You'll go? Really? Wickedawesome!"

"Ausgezeichnet!" I say, which is a German word I think I understand but really don’t.

We agree on a five-thirty am departure and slow down the beer before scattering home.

"I made a friend dzis morning when you were late with your car," Philip says at five-fifty-five, coiled with patience while I house my coffee.

"And how is that?”

"A young man came up to me, ja? and he said to draw my portrait. So I gave him ten US dollars."

"Dude. Schmuck."

"Schmuck? Schmuck. And yes, I know, I know, but it was such a nice portrait." He pulls a pencil sketch out of his jacket and shows it to me. It's horrible.

I laugh like a wrecking ball. “He gave you a ponytail.”

He smiles with pride. "Yes, well I now know I need haircut. I think it’s wickedawesome."

"It's on the back of an excel spreadsheet."

"Axel spredshit? Oh I know, I gave him dze, ah, the paper."

"And apparently ten dollars. You could have just given that to me, you know."

"I like to think dhat I pay for a story to relate."

Philip flicks the sentence aside with his odd translational English and admires his shitty portrait. I’m jealous. No young man ever asked to draw my portrait for ten US dollars, and I’m a nubile lady. A friend of mine has a face like a gently carved bolt of lightning, and artists are always trying to catch it on paper and hilariously failing. She isn’t a professional model or anything, just a breathing muse.  But you can’t capture the shattering sincerity of lightning bolts without the right lens, yet they keep trying.  Now I’m jealous of her too.  Dammit.

We drive for a while.  Kentucky is far from Chicago and we don’t have any directions, but I don’t think we need them since I read road maps when I’m in the bathroom.  Perhaps maps would be more useful in the car.  “If we hit Indianapolis, we’re going the right way.  All the roads lead to Indianapolis.”

“Similar to Rome. I think that is wickedawesome,” Philip grins.  “We will arrive.”

“Good. I don’t stop in Indiana, even for directions. People here keep bodies in their basements.”

“Why would they do that?”

“I don’t know.  Because I have unwarranted prejudice.”

“Why is that?”

“I think it’s the accent.  There’s a soft, um, hostile—?” I glance at him and he nods—“pattern to speech here.  As if people don’t trust you. It’s probably unintentional.”

 “Are we driving between the Bible area of America? Perhaps they know you have so little respect for them."

“I guess.  But we aren’t in the Bible Belt.  Not right now.”

"Belt? As if for trousers? It supports what covers the sin—that’s intelligent. I wish we were.”

“We will arrive.”

 Two hours in and I have to remind myself that I should not speak English like a river, but a light rain. I apologize to Philip about this but he thinks it's hilarious.  I complain about Journey for like a bajillion minutes. After five hours and only one false exit all that quality bathroom time with maps proves worthwhile and we turn onto Bullittsburg Church Road where the museum lives.

Families scuttle around the parking lot like beetles, and the Creation Museum thrums dead center with the Garden of Eden dinosaur topiary rolling muddy and green beside it.  Philip strolls towards the doors and opens them with flourishing reverence, on the cusp of jest, but only because I realize that doors should always be opened that way.  I mean with honesty and zeal, never as a flippant remark on genuine excitement.

I watch him marvel as we walk the path through Genesis. There’s an alien alchemy to the Creation Museum, where bunnies and Velociraptors share honeycombs and drops of morning dew. I touch Philip’s shoulder and point to a red snake in the trees, glittering like a Chinese dragon while Adam and Eve bathe in a pool. I blush at their nakedness. Bearded Philip looks eerily like Naked Adam and I tell him so. Naked Adam is not necessarily a dreamboat, but it makes me picture Philip naked. I glance at his jaw. There is something about jaws, but not Philip’s jaw, which is good. Who needs a crush inspired by anatomically biblical mannequins and frivolous jawlines?

 He snaps a picture of the exhibit.  “A second portrait,” he explains.

I watch Philip as Adam and Eve slaughter a lamb on an altar for clothing, and study his curious face while Cain shadows over a bloody Abel. He thoughtfully regards the miniature model of Noah’s Ark where giraffes and horses and Brachiosauruseseses board the vessel in pairs.

I drag him to the flood diorama because it’s my favorite: scrappy, quarter-inch figures scramble on scarred rocks, wrestling bears and punting each other into the waxy, jagged sea. They’re determined to survive even after Noah didn’t pick them for his survivor team. I loiter for a while, memorizing their sins. “I just love how they try,” I say, and then turn to smile up at Philip, but he’s across the room.

Philip floats through it all, casual as a sonnet. He is here without a trace of irony, I realize.  It makes me jealous again, so I counter these bursts of jealousy by repeatedly calling myself a stupid, jealous bitch and or telling myself to drop it. Like a dog. Drop it. Drop et. Humanity has come so far from the days of sharing honeycombs with Velociraptors.  We hear drums in the distance, horror over the death of Christ and mourn for him. It is, after all, the greatest story ever told. In this building, and nowhere else, I want to believe. Only when I am here, I think, because they deserve that much. Science really can be used to verify a predetermined outcome. (No, it can’t.) But the museum is beautiful. We take lots of pictures.

“They don’t do, ah,” Philip makes the sign of the cross on his forehead, “Ash Wednesday.”

 “No, Creationists think Catholicism is evil.” Up ahead, an animatronic prophet is writing ancient texts.  “Are you Catholic?”

Philip sniffs. “Germany is very Catholic. And yes, we are evil. Remember the Holocaust? And Indiana Jones films?”

We stroll through the garden because that is how one is supposed to walk through gardens, stopping at the petting zoo to admire the zedonks and there’s a terrifying turkey thundering next to a camel. Philip pets a pig. I try to feed a wallaby but it runs away.

We decide to stop in Cincinnati for a bowl of chili and hit up a White Castle instead.

“White Castle,” I explain between bites, “Is the quintessential American food. It’s our entire cultural mindset packed into a square. I always want more White Castle, but in reality I don't need it. Ever. Because the idea of White Castle fundamentally opposes its physical manifestation – what we have is this. And then I have to pay the price for fantasy and indulgence. With my bowels."

“So...America makes you shit?" Philip winks. Why don’t people wink anymore?

I laugh, burning words. "No. No, not at all. But—yes. Because everything we love becomes shit. Because we smash it til it’s unrecognizable and then we mercilessly ridicule that which was once good until all that's left is poorly executed snark.”

"So...White Castle is snark?"

"I guess this has nothing to do with White Castle."

Later on Philip asks if we can stop in Indianapolis for a pair of Vans.

“What are you thinking?” I ask as we browse Shoe Carnival.

“I am thinking today was, ha, wickedawesome. I think when you come to Germany I know where I will take you, egzaktily.”

I've been given so much crap for supporting this museum just by paying to go there. But seriously, it's like Disney World, but with Jesus and dinosaurs and mass slaughter, and dead sheep are just lying all over the place. Completely macabre, like they're trying to scare you into agreement.

The propaganda tactics employed throughout the place are genius. Sometimes very, very subtle, and sometimes outright obvious. Every exhibit is designed with the distinct purpose of making non-believers feel guilty and the believers feel righteous. Perfectly constructed psychological warfare.

Although I believe that Creationism is firmly rooted in mythology, I believe even more strongly that people reserve the right to believe in what they want. So, I will support the Creation Museum, because no matter what, different mindsets are worth noting. In the end, it's just exciting and fun, like a Voodoo or Scientology museum, or watching Ghost Adventures.

...

Thirty is the New Awesome

This may or may not come off as a coherent entry, because I may or may not be super-dee-duper hungover. So hungover, to be true, that after going out to Grandma Sally's for some serious corned beef hash and blueberry pancakes, I drove by an Arby's and decided that the most important thing in my life was a big beef and cheddar. I sat in the drive-thru for two minutes before I remembered not only that I am broke, but I'd polished off a massive late-afternoon breakfast not fifteen minutes earlier.

Last night was Slinger's 30th birthday. Ideally, right now I would burst into catchy Cat Ballou ballad, one where Nat King Cole and I would saddle up into cowboy gear and pluck our banjos while harmonizing about things of drunken legend. Because I love that fucking movie, and I've had it on my brain ever since I watched My Name Is Bruce last Sunday. Twice. So basically, instead of writing about getting drunk and being all around awesome, I think I'm going to watch Cat Ballou.

But I have to say, that Ang and Dainon are my favorite people for letting us destroy their house. It's all cut up into this kitschy swinging ridiculous 1970's bachelor pad, which is odd for a married couple, full of red and leopard print and a fully stocked bar in their basement with more full bottles of booze than half the bars I've hit. But my love didn't escalate just because Dainon played barkeep while he dished out shots and beer.

It was because at six in the morning, Ang busted out a big vat of cooking oil and fried the shit out of everything in her freezer.

I struggled into the kitchen, because when you've been drinking for ten hours, life is a struggle. Ang was standing over the stove, dropping little frozen bits of heaven into the pot of oil. "Wait...are you...are you actually frying things? Not just baking them in the oven and hoping they're not soggy and bullshit?"

"Ross, what the fuck kind of black woman would I be if I didn't force feed ya'll some fried chicken?"

"I do not want to answer that because it confuses me," I had to lean on the counter for support, "but you are the most amazing human on the planet if you're seriously deep frying those jalapeno poppers right now."

"Girl, you know I take care of you."

"You blow my mind. I doan even know how you can fuckin use a stove."

"Here, honey, have some pizza puffs," she pointed toward a basket full of fried goodness. "And there's ranch dressing over there."

I did exactly as I was told, and started struggling away.

"Ross, don't forget your beer."

I looked at her with as much puppy as I could muster. "I wish I was a lesbian and you were my wifey."

...

One hole closes, another opens.

Anything from White Castle needs to come with a side effects label. Especially those goddamn jalapeno burgers. I only had two. Just two.

And chicken rings.

Now I have IBS. Seriously, fucking Castle.

I woke up this morning and it felt like someone--or you know, the entire student body of Ohio State--was celebrating New Years Eve in my brow chakra. With cranking noisemakers, honking horns, a clan of hyenas, and a fucking hatchet.

M.E.'s Bongiovi birthday limo surprise was a huge success, of course, because I didn't plan it.


TOP TEN

(I understand that the quotes number far more than ten. It's just what I call it.)

14. "We definitely have enough beer." - MoLinder, underestimating our imbibing skills.

13. "M.E.'s gonna be one happy jappy."

12. "Please do not put feet on bar." - the completely ignored suggestion written on the window of the limo.

11. "I can't drink tonight, I'm on antibiotics. Because of my hole." - Me, before drinking and telling everyone about my hole. Which isn't much of a hole anymore, and is more of a slight opening.

10. "That little bitch, you know she's telling everyone that she can get a limo to pick her up from the fucking bar." - Ammo, on Xtine being picked up at Pints with our limo.

9. "Put on Jack FM." - Schmee's repeated plea on radio time. Over and over and over and over again.

8. "Shit, I have to unbutton my pants, I'm bulging." - Ammo, when she had to unbutton her pants due to bulging.

7. "You're like Dustin Bon Jovi." - Xtine, to Dustin, on his rad rendition of Bad Medicine.

6. "Fuck you, Chicago, I'm done. Done. DONE. I WILL NEVER RETURN." - MoLinder, on the cold.

5. "I am Rossi, and I am coming to pick you up on the southeast corner of Madison and Damen. We are in the black limo." - Gyna, on our incognito limo locale amidst a sea of black limousines while talking to Mary on the phone so M.E. wouldn't know we were waiting to surprise her in a limo.

4. "I'm so pissed off--he didn't sing Always." - M.E., being a tool who likes douchey songs.

3. "Rossi, you're not allowed to get any Jalapeno burgers. Remember the Creation Museum?" Xtine, reminding me about how I always feel after eating Jalapeno burgers.

2. "I'll have two jalapeno burgers." - me, at White Castle, ignoring Xtine's sagely advice.

1. "Let's go to Mothers." - I don't know whose brilliant idea that was, but I hate them.

...

In which I explain why Grindhouse is awesome.

This blog is dedicated to Gyna, because she's being a cocktease and won't go see Grindhouse with me tonight. At the end of our conversation she was all, "And we will totally see Grindhouse" and I was all, "Really? Tonight? No f-in way" and then she was all "Well I didn't mean tonight" and I was all "you're a goddamn whore" and then she was all "I'm probably just going to go to bed" and I was all "hell fucking no, bitch, you're gonna sit in the theatre with me for four hours because GRINDHOUSE IS AWESOME" and then then she was all "prolly not but eventually someday" and I was all "fine then I'll just make someone else go with me."

So I guess the point of this blog is this:

1. Gyna is a dumb bitch.

2. Grindhouse is awesome.

3. Who wants to go see Grindhouse tonight? It tore my world asunder. To quote Adam, "You better not wear socks. Cuz they're gonna get rocked the fuck off."

Grindhouse is like...ok, let's say your ex-boyfriend that cheated on you and accidentally ran over your dog with his car shows up at your door with with an assful of shitty avocado-wasabi-roasted-red-pepper-and-tilapia-on-ninegrain-whole-wheat sandwiches from Cosi and a case of Miller Lite and says, "Hey, eat these sandwiches with me and drink this beer with me and lets make up" and you say, "Fuck that, Miller Lite tastes like ass and Cosi sucks and so do you and it would be way cooler if you got hit and snagged by several stray whaling harpoons and smashed into a wall of pointy crack needles that's on fire and then eaten alive balls-first by a colony of fire-immune fire ants" and then it HAPPENS.

I really don't know how else to describe how awesome this movie is.

...