Red Man Says Nein

This is Part 11 of the Wir Gehen Nach Deutschland series, which is, apparently, a series now, because I just called it a series, just now, and there are eleven of them, which is bonkers.

Part 1: Fashion Scarves in Fucking Charge

Part 2: Predictable

Part 3: Noishenvantengutencastlestein v. Hitler's Casino

Part 4: Beating Hitler at His Own Game

Part 5: Inhale

Part 6: After the Fox

Part 7: Like Mountain

Part 8: But You Know. Sweden.

Part 9: It's Fine

Part 10: Kiss Off

 Part 11: Red Man Says Nein

The next morning I inhale breakfast, where I do not have coffee because Germans are bad at it.

Throughout the day it becomes sufficiently clear that Gyna and Patrick are diplomatic travel guides, and they lead us prudently through East Berlin lending purpose to the day.

I ponder noisily about streets and directions, hammering my brain to remember how to get places that I haven't been in nine years.  "Is it...I think I know where we are!  I feel like we're supposed to turn left. Last time I was here, I think we went this way...like there is a huge building and field, and then a huge building and a field...but I guess, I mean...it doesn't look like that anymore...am I remembering it wrong?  You guys?" Then I realize that most likely no one is paying attention to me since we are in FUCKING BERLIN AND IT IS AWESOME, as well they shouldn't.

We stand at a crosswalk before Brandenburg Tor, waiting for the Ampelmann to start his green strut. But he is taking his sweet ass time.  I don't care how jaunty your hat is, little man, I just want to cross--

"Red Man says nein," Gyna hisses at me.  Menacingly.

"Red Man says nein!" I snap in imitation, stepping back from the street. 

"Red Man says what?"  MoLinder asks, with faux innocence. She knows damn well what Red Man says, because we have been shouting "RED MAN SAYS NEIN" at each other for a fucking week.  Gyna told tales of the Ampelmann the weekend before.  Of his green gallant stroll.  His red commanding sincerity.  And being silly people who like silly things, we joked heartily about a thing we heard about that one time, joking about an experience someone we know know had directly in anticipation of having that experience ourselves eventually, which is, of course, an optimistic way of going about your life and therefore quite unusual for the likes of us.

"RED MAN SAYS NEIN!" 

(This conversation continues with slight variance at every single crosswalk in Berlin).

We mildly stress over where we could sit, shit, and have a beer, because foreign lands are thirsty business.  After entering and leaving no less than forty-seven establishments on our way to finding a very particular one within a maze of alleyways, we finally saunter into a particularly awesome one with a giant, coin-eating, flapping, blinking bat automaton serving as herald, like the skeletal insides of an unemployable Jim Henson creation, marking the entrance to gritty bars and dancing for quarters, but whatever the German equivalent of a quarter is.

I want one. I want hundreds. I want to line the block with them and collect my quarters and never pay for laundry again.  I imagine stealing this one, just draping it over my shoulder and carrying it through across streets of Berlin until, alas! Red man says nein, and I return it to its alley, dejected.

Directly across the the way from this thing is a bar called Eschschloraque (know this: I had no idea what the name of this place was until ten minutes ago, much less how to pronounce it.)  The bar requests no pictures, which is a shame, but I imagine a rule like that accomplishes two very important things; (1) it's the kind of thing that keeps a place like this from being driven into the ground by complete overexposure, and (2) things are more fun when there's a supercool mystery about a place, such as, "omg why can't we take pics this is place is so rad gaaahhh".

The bar itself is deceptively dingy.  Soft long-loved couches, old wood and mottled walls, but clean, with good music. Plus, you know.  Aliens.

At least I think they are aliens, but that's the thing about aliens.  They are more likely sculptures, or cardboard cut-outs, or shadowy corners or those dangly spinny things that we hang above sleeping babies that are not disco balls and they are not chandeliers and they are not plants and they are not lightbulb chains and they are not spiders and they are not rainclouds and they are not ominous thoughts and they are not, but can be, models of the solar system and THEY ARE MOBILES.  Sweet fuck, I was going crazy just then, and I knew if I kept listing things they were not I would figure out what they were.

Those were there.  Mobiles.  They felt alien.

It's a cool fucking place.  Usually cool places reveal my idiosyncracies and expose me as a fraud and an outsider.  This place, fantastically, comforted the glaring parts by ignoring them, assuming a place has that magical capability.

I went outside and loitered for a few minutes, watching the giant metal bat-thing crank into life.  There was a gallery, you know, full of these terrifying, clanking sculptures.  I have a great respect and penchant for all thing ridiculous...but as we were nearing the end of the trip with limited time, I had to put a decision to my comrades, who unanimously voted no clanking sculptures.  I didn't argue, and I didn't really care about skipping it - at this point, I just wanted to spend time with Gyna and I didn't give a fuck what we did.

Which was, basically, hang out and enjoy the good company.

...

Like Mountain

This is Part 7 of the Wir Gehen Nach Deutschland series, which is, apparently, a series now, because I just called it a series, just now, and there are eleven of them, which is bonkers.

Part 1: Fashion Scarves in Fucking Charge

Part 2: Predictable

Part 3: Noishenvantengutencastlestein v. Hitler's Casino

Part 4: Beating Hitler at His Own Game

Part 5: Inhale

Part 6: After the Fox

Part 7: Like Mountain

Part 8: But You Know. Sweden.

Part 9: It's Fine

Part 10: Kiss Off

 Part 11: Red Man Says Nein

The thing about stories, I mean, the reason things can feel terribly exciting is unrelated to action and unrelated to meaning and completely related to truth.

The truth behind an action, the motivation for an action or inaction is the truth of a story.  Doing something for the sake of telling other people about is a quest for fame, not life.  Sometimes I need to remind myself of that when I get all weird.  Why am I doing this?  Oh yeah.  For me.  To prove to myself that I'm not a waste.  Because honestly, this is about me. 

...

(I wrote all of that earlier, and now it's four-thirty and I'm drunk, but not too drunk, so hopefully this makes sense)

We forced ourselves out of bed the next morning and Katsisch was still pretty drunk, but we stumbled to the train and onto a plane and I snored the entire flight like a jackass.

Snoring, by the way, is a relatively new thing for me, lifre-wise.  I think it started about two years ago? People complain about being single because they're lonely, they want love, sex, passion, someone to make sure they get home okay, someone for all-bed-all-day Sunday, for speaking in codes, for adventuers, for no other security than wrapped arms, for boozing and lazing and facebook updating, for dirty guilt and thought dumps, for hate and shame and squishing and groping, for dreams and futures and memories and all of those things that romantifc comedies make us believe we want, because really, we fucking do...but as of this moment, right now, I really need a chronolurgical snoring timeline.

Then Copenhagen came along, looming like dappled Legos, the city equivalent of cool, but rude, and everything there felt broken somehow but proud and healing.   There was mystery leaking out of the cobblestones, because people were elusive and because every night the Tivoli would gear up just slightly in preparation for opening day, and it was eerie and sinister and always afterhours, and I was always afraid bad little boys were being magicked into donkeys because that is the goddamn scariest shit I've ever seen in a Disney movie ever, other than puppies being skinned and sewn into haute couture, and WHO THE FUCK WRITES CHILDREN'S BOOKS?

Hans Christian Anderson does.  I feel sorry for Copenhagen, wonderful wonderful Copenhagen, because their mascot is a stupid martyred mermaid bitch that gives up everything so she can walk on daggers and die for the love of a douchebag who was never really that into her anyway, god girls are dumb.

And the fucking cunning grandeur of it all is this: Copenhagen doesn't fucking want your pity.  They want your money.  They want to charge you eight dollars to ride the bus.  They put holes in their money (how quaint!) so silly Americans say things like, Oh, this looks like a donut! I will spend this willy-nilly.  Look at me, I am well-traveled! Did you know ketchup packets and butter pats cost extra?  Hooray, I get to use my octagon coin! 

I know this because every time I used a donut coin I felt validated as a human being who has experienced other cultures.  It's a brilliant scheme. 

But then! They have secret trampolines along the coast that you can just fall onto if you aren't paying attention, and it's not uncommon to accidentally wander into a palace or a fortress shaped like a star.  And they have a land with zero rules and red wagons full of puppies that are NOT being made into fancy clothes for rich ladies, and there are so many drugs and skate parks and brilliant graffiti murals, and you can buy beers for fifty cents.

But thar be monsters, and some of those monsters are scary orange meth-heads from Thailand who wink and raise their eyebrows at MoLinder, who is 5'10" and a curvy, brickhouse nightmare.  Gyna is also a curvy brickhouse nightmare, but she wasn't there.  Honestly, now that I think about it: we all have giant boobs. We could rest trophy collections on them, or encyclopedias.  Plus, we've read encyclopedias.  We are walking library shelves.  The reference section.

(I've used my backspace key soooooooooooo many times)

"You are like mountain," the meth-head said to MoLinder, hourglassing his hands.  He moved and wiggled like an amateur surfer, but since the ground was flat it was obvious he just had serious gravity problems. The open sores on his face pulsed.

I laughed and MoLinder ignored him.  His friend dropped a boombox and hit play. "You dance?  Me?" 

"No thank you," MoLinder said, then ignored him properly.

I didn't.  "You look like you're trying to balance on a rickety bus."

"Ah?" He smiled at me, gray-toothed and wobbly.  "Dance?  You dance?  You think I funny?"

"No dance.  Yes funny," I laughed again, and sipped my Christiania beer.

"He is a zombie," Katsisch whispered loudly, and a stray dog peed on my Pumas.

...

After the Fox

This is Part 6 of the Wir Gehen Nach Deutschland series, which is, apparently, a series now, because I just called it a series, just now, and there are eleven of them, which is bonkers.

Part 1: Fashion Scarves in Fucking Charge

Part 2: Predictable

Part 3: Noishenvantengutencastlestein v. Hitler's Casino

Part 4: Beating Hitler at His Own Game

Part 5: Inhale

Part 6: After the Fox

Part 7: Like Mountain

Part 8: But You Know. Sweden.

Part 9: It's Fine

Part 10: Kiss Off

 Part 11: Red Man Says Nein

We left Dachau thirsty and depressed and in desperate need of ample beers, so luckily we were in the right land for that.  Back in Munich we immediately booked it to the Hofbrauhaus and spent half an hour trying to (a) check in to Facebook, and (b) tell Gyna we were going to be late for dinner.

Checking into Facebook took up about a total of ten hours of our time throughout the whole trip - every arrival into every city was kicked off with a trip into a Starbucks for free wi-fi so we could check into Facebook, because it's not real if it's not on Facebook.  This is something I don't understand, mostly because I don't have internet on my phone.  I'm not anti-check-in or a hater or anything.  I just don't get it.

By the way, if you leave me a comment about how touristy or overhyped the Hofbrauhaus is, you're a jerky elitist and you hate fun for no goddamn reason other than jerkiness and fun-hating elitism.

Poor Gyna waited to meet us for like half an hour, no doubt frazzled and frustrated at our complete disregard for her time.  Sorry, Gyna.

There was wine and dinner, and everyone learned how Katsisch and I hold conversations, which is not so much of a back-and-forth as it is a breakneck foxhunt, and we weave and tangle and plummet and jolt in this excessively verbal, raucous harmony, but we're after the same damn fox.  Philip wore red chinos and we got drunk.

Then there was a bar, and there was beer, and soon we were knee-deep in strange Germans who said wonderful things like, "So, you are the Americans?  Yes, I know.  You have been shouting to the bar.  Yes, Chicago, your sister yelled that.  She is the pretty blonde one?"  Katsisch never learned about vocal resonance or volume, and the more alcohol she had the more obvious this became. 

Eventually all things must end, good and bad, and we went back to Gyna's around two.  Three?  I have no idea, but we had to be up before 6am to catch a flight to Copenhagen.


...

Predictable.

This is Part 2 of the Wir Gehen Nach Deutschland series, which is, apparently, a series now, because I just called it a series, just now, and there are eleven of them, which is bonkers.

Part 1: Fashion Scarves in Fucking Charge

Part 2: Predictable

Part 3: Noishenvantengutencastlestein v. Hitler's Casino

Part 4: Beating Hitler at His Own Game

Part 5: Inhale

Part 6: After the Fox

Part 7: Like Mountain

Part 8: But You Know. Sweden.

Part 9: It's Fine

Part 10: Kiss Off

 Part 11: Red Man Says Nein

Munich feels like walking through a hugely-proportioned, freshly-scrubbed Bavarian village on mute. Polished professionals with calculated relaxation. There are no loafers dallying about a city like Munich, and there's little room for pissing around, which is ridiculous because Falcor lives like, right there. 

Falcor and I are now best friends and it's about fucking time.  You can ride him, and they play The Neverending Story (Die Unendliche Geschichte!) song and film you on a blue screen so you look all Atreyu-y.  It's basically the most amazing thing you could ever do ever, and our first day was a jet-lagged daze crammed into a list that happens after a colon: plane lands in Munich.  Hug goddamn everyone who I love and haven't seen in forever.  Go to Bavarian Filmstadt.  FALCOR.  Beers and beers and beers.  Save the world using naught but the power of my fucking imagination and a single grain of sand. 

There were beers, and they were done very efficiently. We drank gallons in an exceedingly organized manner and never all at once, which is a nice way to have a day of dreamy chuckles without ever approaching lazy or belligerent.

On Sunday we rode a ski lift to the top of Blomberg.  They have a slide going down the mountain for the last 3/4 of a mile, but it was frozen and that was horseshit.  Either way, it was all very darling and cozy and smart, and there were signs with blue and white striped poles and a tidy Bavarian inn that served actual coffee and cold beers.

* There's no coffee in Munich, which is like saying "winter is coming" or "there's always money in the banana stand" because it doesn't really fucking mean anything until some German bitchslaps you in the face with what it really fucking means.  All coffee is espresso because it saves time, and they don't like it when you call it express-o because that shit is wrong.  The Germans don't understand that when you want a big coffee you want a pint dangerously spilling with dark, scalding, thick dirty water, not a giant cup filled halfway with slightly darkened water, which is the amount of coffee they think you need because you're a nancy-ass that can't handle her coffee.  But coffee leads to bathroom breaks and hypersensitivity, two things they don't have room for in Munich. Still, I like dallying over cup after cup, because half the fun of coffee is wasting my time and getting caught up in enjoying it and then paying for it later. Repercussions are half the fun of consumption. Silly Germans.

So the back at the top of the mountain, tables were full of serious hikers and people wearing assertive endurance garb that states, without guile: "if you're going to be outdoorsy, fucking do it right." There was this permeating sense of al fresco throughout it all.  Kind of like, "no, we are not eating outside, we are dining al fresco." Hiking and drinking and doing all of these things that are awesome, but with a twist of validity.

As a person who loves wandering astray--and I mean that damn literally, I love getting lost and I love the stress and immediacy of finding my way back--but lives in a land that is actually a grid, where you can plot things and where the major hills are streets that rise over highways, and also as a person who is fucking wicked out of shape, there was a ten minute uphill trek that nearly goddamn killed me.  Dude, that?  Is the worst.  It's like, I'm out of shape enough that it could be mockable, but I'm so fucking determined to not look out of shape that it becomes sad, and as a result I don't want to try anything because I'm afraid people will feel sorry for me and fuck you for feeling sorry for me, and then I'm angry before anyone can try doing anything.

Man, remember back when I was solid peasant stock?  I could throw hay bales and build fences.  I did throw hale bales and build fences.  Proudly.  Ain't no way I could do that shit now.  Staying fit is so much easier when the shape of your life demands it, but now I have to make the decision to do it because there's this desk in front of me, automatically, for ten goddamn hours a day. 

We rode the ski lift back down to real life, and Gyna and I rode together all awkwardly and I feel terrible because throughout the entire trip down all I could think about was that. Up there, two paragraphs up about my abrasive inferiority.  I keep on trying to fix it and it keeps on punching me in the face, and the more menial I feel the more aggressive I become which is soooo fucking predictable because I'm trying to justify my self-worth, I'm trying to take the things I'm good at and turn them into something positive, but again, predictably, I never quite get there and in the end I'm still sad, angry Rassles who uses her blog as failed self-therapy.

Hot damn, I hate being predictable. 

When I decided to give up hating on things for Lent it worked, but then it was over and I didn't try to stick with it because I am weak. 

Look at this: I started out talking about my vacation that I loved.  I was going to talk about how amazing it was to see Gyna, about how crazy it is that she is a legit grown up and how well it suits her, about how proud I am of her for moving abroad and creating a life and taking chances and making friends, about how I'm sad that she really is a grown up now and she's moving up on and onward and I'm really just kind of laterally spreading. 

I was going to talk about how glad I was to see MoLinder again, about how well we travel together and how we're both just up for making shit up as we go along and if we want to go to Salzburg, we're going to go to Salzburg, and if we want to go to Sweden we're going to go to Sweden.  We do things the same way like that - head to a place with a hundred ideas and live through the first story we stumble across.   The only time things get stressful is when there's a schedule, but as long as we don't have any time constraints or any real things we feel like we must do, everything is always awesome. Being around MoLinder is also good for me, well, because her bitterness makes me look like a peach. 

I was going to talk about how much fun I had traveling with my sister, which I was kind of worried about.  But she proved herself to be up for anything, throwing in ideas as we walked the streets and not really giving a shit if her ideas weren't chosen.  She never freaked out when we weren't really sure if we were getting on the right train or the right bus and she totally just went with it, which is a big sacrifice for her because she is a SCHEDULER.  I almost said "big step for her" but it's not really a step, because that would insinuate one thing is better than another, and I really don't believe that.  I just believe that one way is more comfortable for me.

I used to think that when you traveled, if you didn't really get to "know" a city your trip wasn't as good as another. Too many Robert Frost poems and Kerouac, I was caught up in the romantic adventure of freedom and I was completely missing the point:  the point is not to do what no one else has done, the point is to do whatever the fuck you want and not give a shit what everyone else does.  Because you can.

Okay, once again: Lent starts after this post.

...

Fashion Scarves In Fucking Charge

This is Part 1 of the Wir Gehen Nach Deutschland series, which is, apparently, a series now, because I just called it a series, just now, and there are eleven of them, which is bonkers.

Part 1: Fashion Scarves in Fucking Charge

Part 2: Predictable

Part 3: Noishenvantengutencastlestein v. Hitler's Casino

Part 4: Beating Hitler at His Own Game

Part 5: Inhale

Part 6: After the Fox

Part 7: Like Mountain

Part 8: But You Know. Sweden.

Part 9: It's Fine

Part 10: Kiss Off

 Part 11: Red Man Says Nein

So as you might have gathered from the previous post, I just got back from Germany.  This just in: German people are the new French people.  Scarves everywhere.

In case you've been anywhere near my brain for the past thirty years you would know that scarves are for French people so they can be all "Hon hon hon, mondieu! In Francais oiu say bon soir, yiou stooopeeed fat Americahhhn! Eat le cake! Francais francais francais! Ratatouille! Le poisson! Zou bisou bisou!"  and then they will flip all of these scarves over their shoulders and smoke very thin cigarettes and never, ever wash their hair in that haughty, dirty, sexy French way. And then I'll eat cake because it is carrot cake, which is the most delicious of cakes, and if you disagree you are a goddamn liar.

I mean sure, there are fashion scarves all over New York and Chicago and basically everywhere in the US as well, but my scarflessness in Chicago makes me feel rebellious and in Germany it made me feel like a fat American.

But then I realized that I love being blatantly American, and I love it when Europeans point it out, because I consider it a compliment.

"You are so American!" they say. "You are so European!" I say.  And then I laugh, because Europeans are afraid to laugh out of fear they will seem too American.  Which reminds me of Stranger in a Strange Land which reminds me of Swiss Family Robinson, because in the end everything reminds me of Swiss Family Robinson and I believe, I know, for a fleeting moment, that all I want is to live in the middle of nowhere with a few people I love.

Apparently they say that to Gyna, too (actually, they said it to her first, and she warned me, so when it happened to me I was wicked prepared with witty barbs) which is crazy because (1) she lives in Europe, and (2) she is fancy.  This is why I could never be European: it's a lack of fanciness. I've always associated a certain fanciness with Europe.  Like, "Oh, Europe. It's fancy over there."  Mostly because of the architecture, and the circular logic of "Oh, Americans think they live in the best country in the world, but we know they do not and we are better because we know it" which makes the Americans say "What in tarnation? That there Yuro-pee-an acts like he's sat hisself on a rail spike.  Dangdurnit, they think they're better'n me.  Let's see how they feel about this here nuecular bomb."  And then the Europeans mutter in the mother tongue about how no one from the US knows another language.

So the point, dear friends, is this: I am a person who is decidedly not fancy, and proud of her not fanciness, and someone, apparently, who just sits at her desk all day burping for no fucking reason other than being extra gaseous.  Rassles = not fancy.  Also, math!

Um, and I'm totally on Pottermore, thank god, and I'm all up in Gryffindor and my friends are all, "you just want to be in Gryffindor because it's the trendy house, Ravenclaw/Slytherin what what" and I'm like, "you guys are elitists and you don't make any sense BECAUSE YOU ARE CHALLENGING A TRUE BORN GRYFFINDOR" and then I win all of the duels because I'm in fucking charge.  


...

This is How I Do Things

Back when I considered myself a traveler, or a wanderer or fucking whatever because I thought it sounded romantic and Kerouacian, I idolized people who could travel freely and extensively and I flat out looked down upon those who seemingly had the part of their soul that longs for sojourn surgically removed.

I would have conversations where I would say things like, "Why would someone want to stay in one place?  Why don't they want to go out and experience the world?"

And the individuals I spoke with would agree with me, and say yes, of course, why wouldn't they?

The assumption that there are people who have an ideal world that opposes my own is inherent to my personality.  I grew up idolizing personalities that had a direct enemy.  Finding out I have no one to fight is...uncomfortable. Is this a generational thing?  thanks to eighties movies, we grew up believing the protagonist was always an underdog, and we're learning that is really never the case and as a result we feel unimportant.

Or is this just me?

I've always assumed there were people out there who had a desire to stay put and experience nothing new, that there were people whose goals never reached beyond remain, consume, endure.  In a way, I made them my hypothetical enemies.

But I've never actually met any people like that.  

For reference, here is a list of other people I have never personally met, but hypothetically frown upon because I assume they exist:

1.  someone who has never felt like an outsider
2.  someone who believes pit bulls are inherently vicious
3.  someone who super enjoys a good office cubicle
4.  someone who never questions authority
5.  someone who hates Disneyland

Sure, I've met people who cannot afford the luxury of travel.  I've met people that grow out of their insecurities.  I've met people who are afraid of dogs.  I've met people who enjoy their job at the office.  I've met people who follow the rules, and I've me people who don't give a crap about amusement parks.

But that's living in a shade of gray, and it's undesirable to fight gray.

You know, it's not that I want to go out and "experience the world."  It's that I like wandering into new places, and having a beer and talking to people.  That's what I like to do.  And I want to do that in as many places as possible.

And when MoLinder, Katsisch and I got to Munich, what did we do?  Well, we hugged Gyna like hell, because she lives there and she's amazing.  We rode Falkor (oh, that's right), said howdy to ze Germans, then immediately got a beer and shared stories.  We went to Salzburg and we wandered around and then sat down and had a beer and told stories.  We went to Copenhagen and we wandered around and had a beer and told stories.  Sometimes we were talking to strangers (natives and fellow travelers), sometimes we were talking to each other.  But it never got tedious, it never got pressing.  Not to me. Unless I had to pee really, really bad or something.

To me that is doing something.  That is experiencing the world. Because I'm taking what I love and I'm making it work within other places and cultures, I'm learning about other people's lives and how they relate to my own, I'm learning about my sister, I'm learning about my best friends, I'm learning how we fit together and I fucking dig that.

I got some criticism because we went to five cities in ten days.  But it was never stressful, really, since our goal wasn't to tour.  It was to wander, enjoy people's company, share memories and stories and have beers.  I loved it so, so much.

And that, I think, makes us awesome. 

What would I do if the world was ending tomorrow?  I would invite everyone I liked to wander aimlessly around with me, get drunk, yell at people and share stories.  That is what I would want to do.

So.  Seeing as I am not Dave Attell or Anthony Bourdain, how do I turn this into a job?

...

The Thing About Healthy Parrots

On New Year's Eve I got good and drunk.  Gyna was here.  She brought Germans.  There were all of these Germans in my apartment, and we drank White Russians and ate Caesar salad and Emi came over, who is Japanese, and Xtine who is Korean.  But it was very unlike the Cold War, in all honesty, yet I imagined myself a diplomat anyway until I started doing that thing where I get angry for no reason, which passed quickly. 

We went up on the roof and watched the fireworks at midnight.  Drank champagne out of solo cups.  The usual.  I love it up on the roof.  I think that was the turning point for me.  After midnight everything goes downhill, because I never want to leave city rooftops when it's windy at night.  Partly because of the dancing lights and fireworks and partly because it is really hard to put the ladder away.  It makes a huge fucking racket.

Sometimes I think--no, I know--that I am extremely juvenile about things like rooftops and fireworks and champagne.  I wonder if they felt it too, or if it was just me?  I'm sure they felt something, everyone went off into their little corners and made out with each other and I just stood there staring at the skyline, feeling sad and alive.  It was wonderful. 

But then it's over and we're not on the roof anymore, and we're fighting with the ladder and it just kills everything completely and I'm embarrassed that something so pure has to end so ridiculously.  And I'm nervous because I don't know everyone very well, except for Gyna of course and I will miss the hell out of her when she goes back to Munich tomorrow.  Muffy is moving to South America for the summer.  Just because she can.  How does that work?  I feel like I would be much more likely to up and move if it wasn't alone, because I'm not very good at making new friends on my own.  I'm excellent at being introduced to people who have already heard about me, though.  That usually works out well.

But on New Year's I was nervous.  I would just talk and give prolific answers to very simple questions.  And then I ask questions and receive simple answers, so I talk more and get angry at myself for talking too much until I say something offensive, and then I get angry at myself for being offensive and end up yelling at everyone when I'm mad at myself...I don't like it when my friends get down on themselves.  It makes me sad and angry, because they are perfect.  If they are perfect, what am I?  Angry.  This is how it works, I think in circles.

Did your mothers tell you to judge people by their shoes?  Mine did not.   Apparently Gyna and the Germans were told otherwise: you look at peoples' shoes.  This has never occurred to me before, not until I really got to know someone.  You look at their shoes?  Really?  I feel like if I paid attention to everyone's shoes I would get annoyed.

I feel like I would gravitate towards worn-down boots and stained sneakers, frayed laces.  Or shoes that are ridiculous and overly-buckled, like too many elves got excited with their tiny belts, or shoes that aren't shoes and all and are just like leather ace bandages.  I support walking around in slippers all the time.

Anything too tidy would make me nervous.  Or someone who wears Toms, those shoes you send to Africa.  Why don't you just donate money to an African charity?  They need medicine and opportunity and release and they need us to stop dropping our unusable electronics to the African desert, because Africa is not a dump where you can put the stuff you don't want anymore, you fuckhead. You might as well just buy forty dollars worth of flip flops from Walgreens and put them in a box labeled "Africa" with a picture of a baobab tree and hope it gets there.  Put money in the system instead of sending over canvas shoes that fall apart when you wear them every day.

Also, excessively well-groomed shoes confuse me.  Do you avoid puddles just because of your shoes?  That's ridiculous.  Why else would you wear them?  I specifically wear shoes so I can walk through puddles without hesitation. They are feet armor.  Not accessories.  Alas, this is where I differ from the world.  

My mother told me to judge people by their stories.  If my stories were shoes, everyone would think I was rich.

The next morning I was in the process of waking up and I thought I heard one of the Germans say that I came from wealthy parents.  It kind of bugged me, because he does not know my parents.  Then again he could have used a completely different word.  He could have been talking about healthy parrots.  "That's the thing about people with healthy parrots," is what he could have said.

I don't really understand what it means, but I think I heard it. 

I am thirty-one years old right now.  It just happened like three hours ago or something.  I'm playing bingo tomorrow night - tonight - because now I'm an old lady.

...

We Spend Our Lives On Trial

This article just punches me in the chest, because I had to deal with that bullying shit for years (of course, I retaliated by yelling louder and pointing out how the things they loved were stupider). I still have to deal with that shit, although on a much smaller scale. I hate getting that look, that confused, oh-she's-one-of-those-girls looks. I don't have socially acceptable interests. At least not among extroverts. And by "extroverts" I mean "guys who don't live in a basement." Hey guys - GET OUT OF YOUR BASEMENT AND COME TO THE BAR.

It's easy to get addicted to being bullied after having it define you for years. Of course now I have this ridiculous arrogant air about me because yes, I was bullied for being smart and nerdy and not very feminine, so say it. Go on. Say what you're thinking.

And then it's my fucking turn.

They called me crazy because talking back, of course, is a sign of mental dysfunction. Teachers never stepped in, mostly because in high school the bullying is all sidelined and mental and pansy-assed. The smart kids (who were the biggest assholes) trap insults into class discussions during Literature of Romance and Tragedy, "I think it's commendable that Hester just bears all of the persecution with nobility. I admire that. It's always obnoxious when they fight back. Right Rassles? Wouldn't you agree?" The most neanderthal, and the rarest, hang out in the cafeteria near the quiet, greasy-haired kid in a black trenchcoat and combat boots and loudly talk shit about his clothes and music from a short distance. So I would walk over there in my little sweater vest and khakis (fuck you, mom) and call them gutless and make fun of their shoes or their hair or something and just walk away.

This did not make me popular. If anything they ignored me.

Of course, in college my behavior was a virtue. I think it's just because students didn't know me well enough to know that you're supposed to avoid me, like all those kids from kindergarten through the end of high school. Then again, in college we clung to the people we knew would have our backs, because that place was like a fucking battleground where everyone was fighting to be the most awesome.

So...now you know why I'm a fortress.


Day 5: a song that reminds you of someone

Basically every song reminds me of someone, it's just that sometimes that person is myself. I thought long and hard about this. Who would I honor with words, affection and song?

You better be reading this, asshole.




Gyna is moving to Germany in one month. This makes me very very sad. Gyna is leaving and now I'll be swimming in a sea of couples and pairs. Goddammit. Having someone like Gyna around, someone who perfectly balances the excruciatingly rational with the excruciatingly silly, is kind of nice.

You remember those guys I mentioned above, the ones who live in basements? Gyna is the girl they approach at the bar. It makes sense, she wears glasses and is roughly shaped like a superheroine. Sometimes I get eerie osmosis loiterers that stand close to me and laugh at my jokes but never say anything, just soak up my shine, but Gyna gets picked up and then they want to see her again.

That's because Gyna laughs readily, tells good jokes and engages in the ridiculous (like when she threw a Four Loko party with eight flavors of Four Loko chilling in wine coolers, plates of lavish cheeses and grapes on the vine, bowls of fruit, delicate crackers, and the 100 Sexiest Music Videos counting down on the TV), she's whipsmart and knows a lot about a lot of things. She is also very self-assured and fashionable, but the good kind of fashionable because she still hangs out with me when I wear Pumas and a t-shirt to a club (not that I go to clubs willingly but birthdays are birthdays) and she's all cleavage and fancy jackets and heeled boots with belts on them, even though she shakes her head and calls me an asshole (which is fine, because I know very well that I am being an asshole when I deliberately dress down so I don't have to talk to douchebags that hang out at fucking clubs which will let me in because my friends are hot).

I just noticed something when I was fielding through pictures: there are lots of pictures of me and Gyna going places and sitting on things, like motorcyles and barrels with saddles on them and strange hands.

Also, she rides in my sidecar. Or I am her driver. Not sure which is which.

So "Youth Gone Wild" is our official karaoke duet. There's really no reason for it other than the fact that it's a bad ass song.

...

The McFly Syndrome, Or: The Devolution of Sally to Four Loko

Everyone's dressed like they're about to go urban chic horseback riding, and poor Gyna has had to listen to me mention working in a stable about seven million bajillion times over the past several months, when I haven't been in a barn in years. Whenever I see people wearing fashiony riding boots and jeans that look like fucking jodphurs I get all sentimental. And then Mongo told this heartbreaking horse story, and the only solution I can think of to get myself out of this sewer of schmaltz and memory is to quit my job and become a professional carriage driver, which I would probably dominate and loathe.

Speaking of domination and loathing, Gyna sallied me into hunting for Four Loko last week because she said, and I quote, "So we need to have a Four Loko night before it is banned."

My whole face raisined and scowled. "How about we just punch each other in the throat for a few hours?"

"How about you stop being such a sally? You are acting like a lame old lady."

It's actually pretty easy to get me to agree to stupid shit: call me a sally, and I berate myself until I do it better and harder with triple the gusto (and no, you cannot sally me into blow jobs). I agreed to her proposal in the name of science and bravery, and we sallied forth--

Holy etymological epiphanies, Batman! If to "sally forth" is to embark on adventure, and I believe in adventure with all my brains, then calling someone a "sally" in place of yellow-bellied chickerlegs is just downright irresponsible. Besides, I don't know anyone named Sally that reacts like a ninny-headed Nancy-face whenever something unpleasant comes up.

BOOM. Solved instantly. Here we go: Nancy is the new Sally. I've never liked any Nancys anyway, they're all so shrieky and nasally. Nancys are the types of people that can't enjoy Four Loko for even comedic value. Nancys are teabagging hypocrits who ask stupid questions like, "If your friend was a lesbian, would you still hang out with her?" or "do you want to go to Fridays for dinner?" and they love movies starring Ashley Judd/Katherine Heigl/Kate Hudson (remember when Kate Hudson was like a clean glacier stream and then she went and made a crapton of movies that weren't Almost Famous?).

I think I was spoiled living with MoLinder, because we always had parallel tastes in movies and TV shows, and argued our differing opinions incessantly. CrazyLiz lives on a completely different plane of entertainment and I feel like a dick because I loathe half the things she loves, and I will tell her so. But when I tell her I don't like something - and it's this way with everything - I want her to defend it with the same passion she claims to feel for the story itself. I don't want her to say,"Oh" and then silence herself.

I want to hear why. I want everyone to tell me why they love the things they love, because "I just do" isn't enough for me. Drives everyone crazy, I know, but they drive me crazy. Can't you people just be on my side? I have to compromise for the sake of the world, shouldn't the world sometimes compromise for the sake of me?

So many people claim to love something and so few champion that thing with unbridled zealotry, it just makes no sense. I'm a fucking zealot for the things I love - that's how I love things. With insanity and repetition and constants. And like, math.

Right now I kind of love grape-flavored Four Loko.

...

Happy St. Patrick's Day Weekend, Me.

My head is on something hard. Why am I sleeping on something hard? I peel one eye open.

Daylight is for cocksuckers.

Laptop. Why am I sleeping on my laptop? And...cat. MoLinder's cat. "Panther, mrrrrmfff."

He chirps and sniffs my hair.

"Fuckin...mmmfff."

I try to lift up my head, but my neck fails and my head smacks the laptop again. Shit. Passed out with the lights on, too. Gotta stop...ooomff. Doing that.

"Okay, Panther, ready? We are getting up on the count of three."

He chirps.

"Fuck you, cat."

Chirp.

"Seriously, I can do this. This is happening."

Chirp.

"Why do you have no faith in me, Pan?"

Chirp.

"I have had enough of your shit. It is time to get out of bed. Hangover be damned -- shit. Shit. Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit. Shit. Wow. SHIT. Hey. Hey, Panther?"

Chirp.

"Why am I sleeping in my bed?"

My body slams upright and sweep my hands up to slip the hair from my face, leaving a trail of cash along the bed. I look in my hand.

"Why am I furiously clutching a stack of cash?"

I shoot out of bed, knocking Panther onto the floor and damn near stepping into a mug of soup.

"WHY IS THERE SOUP ON MY FLOOR?" I never eat my bedroom.

Is someone here? MoLinder's out of town. Oh god. Oh, god, fuck you, St. Patrick, and all of your days. I couldn't have seriously, I mean, there is no way...no. Thank god. Jesus fucking Christ, how the fuck did I get home last night?

"Wow. Fucking...wow." I pick up the mug of soup and carry it into the kitchen. Purse? Well, the contents are spread around the floor. Check. Keys? On the hook. Check. Shoes? Heels are smashed down. So I didn't wear my shoes home...which explains the soaking wet socks lying in front of the television. I'm still holding some cash in my hand...about thirty-five dollars.

"So I took a cab home. And I pulled out cash. Or I stole cash from someone. Either is possible, right? Wow. Wow. Wow wow wow shit-owwwww!" I stub my toe on the filing cabinet and suck in a breath. That hurt. I look down at my foot. Apparently I skinned my heel last night. There's blood.

I don't time travel when I'm drinking. I'll have little brown outs, sure, where I don't remember one conversation or something, but I don't just lose fucking time. I walk into the kitchen. There is soup fucking everywhere.

Burp. Tastes like soup. At least I ate some of it.

What was I doing on my laptop? Oh, shit, did I send out drunk emails? I struggle back into my room and open my laptop. It's on youtube. This video. I am awesome. Self-high-five. I check my email. No drunken email messages, thank god.

"Holy fucking golly, what the hell? Wow. How did I--PIECE OF SHIT PHONE."

I knew exactly where to go for that - because I always sleep on top of my phone when I'm drunk. I don't do it on purpose. It just happens that way. I wake up, and Piece of Shit Phone is under my ass. Because it rings, you know? And my ass is a natural muffler. Kind of.

Piece of Shit Phone is exactly where I thought it would be, under the covers. There's also a small smear of blood from my heel near the foot of the bed. Lame. I check the messages. Around 12:30 I told Gyna I got home. Okay. I talked to Phil at 10:30 - definitely don't remember that. I texted Schmee the same text message twice - that I was too drunk to drive - once just before nine, and once at ten. I don't remember the second one.

Think, goddammit.

Call Gyna.

Network busy. Piece of Shit Phone. Go out on the porch. Daylight. Hot damn, it is wonderful outside. Okay, it's ringing. Gyna, answer your phone. You fucking whore, answer your phone. THIS IS IMPORTANT. I leave her a panicked message the length of her voicemail.

Okay, it's 9:30 on a Sunday morning, and she was with you last night. Let's be realistic here. She's asleep. PHIL. Call Phil.

"Lo."

"Phil!"

He starts laughing. "What's up dude? How you feeling? Are you hungover as hell?"

"Dude, did I call you last night?"

"No, man, I called you. You don't remember? That's awesome."

"Okay. Okay, cool. How long did we talk?"

"I don't know, ten minutes or something. I wanted you to come to Estelle's but you said you were hammered and playing cards. And I think you had a cigar."

"Good fucking golly, that explains throat hangover."

"Maybe you smoked pot."

"Definitely no. Besides, that only happens when I'm fucking wasted and trying to prove how hardcore I am. Once a year."

"Awwww, Ross, babe, you know you're never going to be hardcore."

"That doesn't negate the delusion."

"So what do you remember? You said you were at some dude's house."

I rub my forehead. People are walking toward the church down the street. I should've put on a bra. "Clutter. I was at Clutter's. And there was booze. There was beer, and then there were white russians, and then...then I was drinking vodka and strawberry crush."

"Very Irish."

"I was smart enough to lay off the whiskey to avoid fighting. I think."

"That all sounds fucking disgusting."

"And then we talked about playing asshole, and then...I woke up with my face on my laptop holding a wad of money."

"Dude, did you send out drunken shit to people?"

"I don't think so, but apparently I was watching Orson Welles champagne commercials."

"Ross, you are by far the nerdiest cool chick I have ever met in my entire life."

"I know, right?"

...

You Want to Hear About Mexico? Fine.

1. Hit up the ocean. Roguishly warm, swelling waves. Plus it smashed things, which was brilliant, and carried the greatest boat I've ever seen across the horizon, and now I totally have a thing for massive, ugly, complicated ships. I wanted to make out with it.

2. Read trashy books that me and Gyna bought from Osco. I'm talking like space assassin erotica, which was hilarious and awesome, and then a book about a cowboy that was so horrible I plotted to crucify the author in an angry, fiery fashion with swords and stuff.

3. Me and Emi smoked Cuban cigars while we roamed the beach at night, and the lot of us drank a slop of banana daiquiris. An obnoxious amount of banana daiquiris. I don't like bananas anymore. Or rum.

4. Kenny Rogers was there. Perhaps. He climbed into the beachside hot tub all naked and red one night, and Gyna freaked out at his dangly bits while he touched her arm and tried to soliloquize about the stars. I was too drunk to notice, and she hauled her ass out of that tub like they were handing out free Bradley Coopers by the bathroom, and then I totally couldn't find my shorts.

5. Kristy met an adorable man named Steve From Toronto who was a teacher, a volunteer fireman, and he probably invented puppies.

6. There are a fuckload of Canadians in Cancun.

7. We went to a club thing place show whatever that sucked. Luckily, we are good natured and hilarious, and completely above criticizing shitty ass bars with waterbeer and skunk tequila disguised as dance clubs for stupid Americans that apparently enjoy sirens and confetti and guys dressed like The Mask. It was fun and ridiculous and I never, ever, ever want to do it again. I am not cut out for the Cancun bar scene. I have taste buds and self-respect.

8. MoLinder did not go to the bar with us, because she is cultured and smart and went to bars like that when she was eighteen like a fucking normal person.

9. Don't get me wrong. I had an amazing time. It was beautiful and relaxing and drunken, other than that bar.

10. But I feel like I would have had just as good of a time lounging around South Dakota or something.

11. I didn't even make friends. It's no surprise, I spent my first two days there self-conscious and uncomfortable, and the rest of the time being a snob.

12. It's easy to be snobby when there's a herd of spikey-haired, raging douchebags calling everyone "bro" and not laughing at my supercomical jokes. But they thought my D.A.R.E. shirt was like the funniest thing they'd ever seen, as if I created the concept of ironic t-shirts or something. It was all, "No way! That chick is fucking drinking in a D.A.R.E. shirt! THAT IS FUCKING HYSTERICAL! Look at that! Oh my god, bro, you should get a picture with her and her fucking beer and her hot friend! That is so hysterical, bro. Seriously."

I guess it's just different in Chicago, where hipsters roam free. Because here I get responses like, "Is that really a D.A.R.E shirt? Yeah, I used to have one. I wore it for awhile like years ago, you know, before the whole "ironic t-shirt" thing really took off. I totally got rid of it, though, because then everyone else started wearing them too." And then I'm embarrassed and I wanna choke a bitch. Some of us don't give a shit if you like our clothes or not, you roadwhore, and now I never wear that shirt anymore just so I can avoid talking to people like you.

So my snobbery is somewhere between "raging douchebag" and "fucking hipster."

13. Trip = overall success.


Also, I'm going to change my template. I need to design a header image. Because this template sucks, as do all other templates. They never really fit me properly, like button-down shirts and basically every coat I've ever owned.

...

Stop It.

"Dude. That was totally Ginger."

"Who?"

"That guy that just walked by, it was totally Ginger."

I furrow in her general direction.

Gyna sighs, speeding up excitedly. "Little bit of facial hair, shaved head - one of those guys you talked to at Blind Robin about movies - that was totally Ginger."

"Ohhhhh, that guy. Was his head shaved? I thought he had a hat."

"No, the other guy had a hat."

"That's right, Hat Guy and Ginger."

"Dude, it's fate! We have to go talk to him! You have to go talk to him!"

"Why would I talk to him? I don't even remember half the conversation we had. I don't even remember what he looks like." She could be sending me on some fucking chase after a stranger just for the hilarity. Besides, fate is bullshit, and really, I don't remember enough about the guy to care if I talk to him again.

"He looks like the guy that just passed us." She glares at me. "You're a wuss."

"Yes I am."

And then we walked around Wicker Park Fest for awhile, which is a very vogue and trendy thing to do, particularly in the summertime. We're laughing obviously while pointing at all of those little tents with their vogue and trendy jewelry and purses (as if setting up a tent at a street festival is going to make their goods seem more boutique-ish when all that shit comes from Urban Outfitters. I know, because I can see it in the store window right there) scoping the crowd and petting people's dogs. Like we're in a fucking tampon commercial or something.

Gyna points. "Dude, I think you need a hippy dress."

"I think you're right. I've always felt, you know, secretly, like inside, that I needed more flowy dresses."

Light laughter. We're not anti-hippy, it's just...could you see me in a flowy printed dress? No, you couldn't. I would embody awkward and angry and paranoid, challenging anyone who looked at me. No, no, no, I couldn't wear anything like that. I would be unreasonably defensive, I would get in fights, I would cry and feel weak and lash at people out of fear, then sink into an unworthy state of pathos. Because that's what I do every single time I wear a dress. No. I don't do dresses.

We wandered around some more, killing time before the Smoking Popes started. Damn, I loved that band in high school. Loved them. I remember listening to "Destination Failure" in my room and feeling sorry for myself. It was awesome.

No. No it wasn't awesome. It sucked. It really, really sucked. Damn, I did not like high school at all. I didn't like high school as much as I don't like dresses.

My brain jumps, mad and flailing, rampaged.

Fucking stupid high school, full of fucking stupid assholes. Fucking stupid dances where people wear fucking stupid dresses. Why do people do that? Wear dresses? Dresses aren't about feeling good about yourself, they're about feeling better than other people. Dresses are about being judged and scrutinized and compared and criticized. Why do we need that at all? I don't need it. I don't want it.

Why do I have such a loathing revulsion towards something as simple...no, that's not right, because the social implications of something so thin and fragile as clothing are...well, there's a labyrinth of flavor there, because it's not just about comfort and function, is it?

I hate dresses because they make me hate myself. I just don't know why.

It's a fucking stupid fear, irrationally conjured up by a fucking stupid girl. Stop it. Stop it, Ross. Snap out of it. Stop it. You're overreacting. You're being a dumbass. Seriously. You're better than this.

"You okay?" Gyna looks at me.

My arms are crossed and I'm fixed on the stage, but I'm a little dreamy and angry, and very, very sad. "I'm fine. I just...I just fucking hated high school." I did not go into my pointless, psychotic frenzy about dresses. Stop thinking about irrelevant things. Why am I so angry? Just don't be angry. Stop it. Breathe. Exhale it away.

Gyna smiles a little somberly. "Yeah...I get that. Think of it as, instead of being all hating high school, think about how happy and grateful you are to be out of there and that bullshit and now you're with people who are way cooler than high school." She grins and does a little dance to prove her coolness.

"Yeah, I know. I should. I just suck at that."

(Why is my automatic response "I know" when half the time, I don't know?)

"You wanna move up here, so I'm not standing alone?" she gestures to her side, facial expression subtext: please stop feeling sorry for yourself and have fun. Gyna is right (she's frequently right). I take a hesitant step forward, because stepping forward means accepting that I cannot change the fact that I'm still an emotional trainwreck and a crazy over-reacter person who needs to keep her silly little thoughts to her silly self.

I relax. I'm still sad. But relaxed. People are hanging out of their apartment windows, cheering wildly, singing along with the band, waving their arms like the assholes they are, and I'm in pleasant awe of the social diversity of the crowd. Crazy. I like it when bands like the Popes get bigger, after being around for fifteen years. Jesus, fifteen years.

The show ends, and immediately Gyna scans the crowd again. "There he is! Ginger! Go talk to him!"

"I'm not going to talk to him."

"You have to. You just have to. Come on!"

"No, I don't have to. I don't even remember what he looks like. Why do I have to talk to some dude I don't know?"

"Because, he was totally...whatever, look, he's right over there. And there's the other guy! The guy with the hat! But he's not wearing one right now! Come on, you sally, talk to them."

"What would I say? Oh, hello, remember me, I'm the drunk girl that forced you into a conversation about movies?" I am deeply embarrassed that I even exist right now, after being so foolishly temperamental just ten minutes earlier. I look at the ground and shake my head. "I'm not going over there."

"Come on! What the fuck? Just go over there."

"What's the point? You think we're going to like, make friends with them or something?"

"Who cares? What's the big deal?"

"I'm embarrassed. I don't want to. I was a drunken fuck, and I really don't recognize them." Which is half true. They looked familiar when I glanced over there, and I panicked.They wouldn't want to talk to me anyway. If they wanted to, they would. They probably went home and made fun of me, and talked about the ridiculous, annoying girl that talked to them at the bar that one time. Whatever. Pout about, why doncha?

"You're a wuss."

"Yes, I am."

"Sally!"

"Yup."

"You're either going to go talk to them, or you're buying a hippy dress."

"I'm not doing fucking either of them," I snap, and regret it. "Sorry. I'm just not."

Gyna is resigned. "Fine." I know she's just trying to be helpful and fun and spontaneous, but I'm not in the mood for it. As we weave through the crowd down the street, out of the festival, I can't look up. I'm afraid I'll cry. I don't know why. Like I said before: It's a fucking stupid fear, irrationally conjured up by a fucking stupid girl.

...

Fun With Foreigners, But Not the Band

So yesterday at a late-night barbeque I had the pleasure of meeting a fifty year old drunk ass Polish man, who has nearly half of his teeth and a thick, heavily slurred accent. He was the only one of his kind, struggling through a slop of skinny drunken hipsters.

After we watched the landlady throw a giant wicker basket on the firepit (which I'm pretty sure was an old wheelbarrow full of flaming two-by-fours) and nearly set the tree on fire, Gyna and I started making friends with people we didn't know. Being me, I got to talk to a close-talking drunk twice my age. He loves me. Duh.

"I beeld house. For you. Yes?"

"You want to build me a house?" I turn to Gyna, who is next to me, talking to a guy that's our age, with a full set of teeth. "He wants to build me a house."

"Oh god," she shakes her head.

"I know."

The Polish Man interjects. "Yes, and we have sree chilren. All boys."

"Oh, really? Okay then."

"You are spayshel. Veree. You are streeling, yes? Streeling?"

"Stealing?"

"Yes! No, no. You are um, carree? You carree beeg theengs?"

"Strong?"

"YES! YES! I know. Eez no bullshit. Some say bullshit I say no bullshit. But my Eeenglish, is...meeeeeeh, you so-so, you okay, you Polish, you bullshit. No bullshit. I am Polish. I am talking to spayshel girl, who my son like."

"I am definitely special. Exactly."

"Yes. And you have dance?" He tries to dance with me.

"No, dude, I'm not gonna dance with you."

"You have dance, and we dance. And we do this? You have pen?"

"No, sorry, I don't have a pen."

"You have pen, and you write...name...and you write tellofone."

"Dude, I'm not giving you my phone number."

"You frend? We frend. Son frend."

"Your son?"

"Okay."

"How old is your son? Do I know him?"

"I have son and he is, um, he like...shport. He um," the guy starts thrusting his his hips and pumping his fists, and my eyes bulge, "he do zis, on snow...in mountain...in um...snow. He has hat, he has...shport, he has...no fear. NO fear!"

"He skiis?"

"He do that, yes. Skeeze? Skeeze. Yes. His is very big skeeze." He reaches over and squeezes my arm. "You make mossle."

"Um, okay." I flex.

"You are skeeze?" He starts the thrusting thing again.

"No, I don't ski. I would like to ski, but I have this problem, you see, it's called, severe uncoordination and subsequent falling all the time. Aaaaaand I like saying things that you won't understand."

Uncomfortable silence. I sip my beer. Gyna is chatting away. I look around for a way out, but then the Polish Man starts yammering again.

"You are baseball?"

"I am baseball? Yes. Yes, I am baseball. Are you baseball?"

"Me? I um...no. I am beerd, and I clean, and I no have beerd. I have...knife. I creem on face."

Oh, jesus. "You cream on face?"

"You see--" he grabs my hand and makes me feel his cheek "--is clean. Veree. I do that."

"Oh, you shave. Are you a barber?"

"Ohhh, no, yes. I like dark beer. You? You like?"

"Do I like dark beer? Sure. It's fine."

"My Eenglish is not good. Is focking bullshit."

"Exactly."

"Ackzaktillee? What is zis ackzaktillee? You say?"

"It means, um, you are right. You are correct."

"Oh, I am veree ackzaktillee. All ze time! Veree ackzaktillee!"

What fun the foreigners are.

...

There Has to be a Finish Line

Now, I've been feeling this foreboding for a couple of days now. At first, I thought it was because all I had to eat on Sunday morning was pancakes when I wanted bacon and eggs. Pancakes are delicious and all, but ultimately unsatisfying. Not enough salt. Salt is a finish line.

So in my brain I'm backtracking to what actually instigated this bullshit inner-gasiness, and I think I got it.

Friday night. Some bar somewhere. There is a dude handing out very obnoxious Guinness hats, and I want one so I can sell it to an idiot. Gyna has met the second microscope salesman in her lifetime, which is two more than most people, and Rob keeps on getting text messages from a number that he doesn't recognize.

"This guy has been texting me for like over a month," he shakes his head and shows me his phone, which says something like, "yo baby girl where you at"

"Why don't you just ask who it is? Be all like, 'bitch, who you be?'"

"I don't know. I told him to come here, though. Figured why not." Rob gives one of those uncomfortable snickers that I seem to be getting more and more every day from guys and it pisses me off. Not Rob, but the frequency of uncomfortable snickers. He holds up his phone again, and shows me another recent text. One of those painfully common little limericks about smooth skin and eyes like stars or whatever. I don't know. I was drinking. Everything was hilarious. (Rob, if you're reading this, post that shit in the comments).

"Dude, give me your phone."

"Why, are you going to call him or something?"

"Duh."

"Seriously?"

"Uh, yeah. Gimme your phone." He hands it over, and I plug the strange number into my phone.

Rassles: What up snatch?

"Did you text him?"

"You know it."

Rob compulsively rubs the back of his neck, "They're totally gonna respond to you. You think they would come here?"

Stranger: WHO DIZ

I love it. "Yehhhhss. Love it." After every text, I show my phone to anyone who will pay attention to me.

Rassles: Bitch wut

Stranger: Who iz diz

"Shit. Who am I? You guys. Hey, guys, come on. Give me a name."

Rassles: Kaykay

"Is this racist?" I start asking people. "Am I being racist right now?"

"If you have to ask, you're probably being racist."

"Gaaahhhh, whatever, my good-and-evil-shoulders are itching for exercise anyway."

Stranger: Awwww

Rassles: Where you at?

Stranger: On ma way home u cumn ta ma partie

"You guys, we're totally going to a party."

"What, are you still texting that guy?"

"Hell yeah."

"Wouldn't it be hilarious if we like, ran into him, like, after he finds us?"

"There's no way. This guy can't even spell 'party,' you think he's gonna triangulate some shit?"

Rassles: U know

Stranger: WHO U WIT

"Fuck. Fuck. Guys, guys, I need more names. Who'm I wit? Who'm I wit? This is hard."

"You have to say like, Tyrone."

"I think I'm just gonna say Mike and Jenny or something."

"No, Lashay," someone suggests. "We work with a Lashay."

"Oh, I love Lashay! Yeah, say Lashay."

"I know! We should have asked her to hang out."

"I don't know Lashay," I say, because I don't work with them. We. Are. So. Caucasian.

"We'll have to tell her about this."

"I think this might be racist," Gyna says through laughter.

"Fuck this, shit ain't racist," I am committed, now, "it's psychological profiling based an ethnographic study of like, what's it called, lexical innovation. I'm allowed to do shit like this because I majored in Anthropology."

"You were a Speech major."

"Same thing. Whatever. Shut up."

You know, half the time I speak I think I only have a vague understanding of the words I choose.

Rassles: Elliot n Lashay but they not cumin

Stranger: Aite i guezz

"I have to end the conversation."

"No! Don't!"

"Seriously, I don't have unlimited text messaging and this is gonna get long."

...

So there was that whole thing. And then on Saturday, there was this:

Smith Sister: What do you call a stamp collector

Rassles: Philaterist?

Rassles: No - Philatelist

Smith Sister: Yeah thanks it came to me after I texted you we are the smartest

Rassles: No - Loser.

Smith Sister: B says not awesome I say amazing

Rassles: What do you call a person who knows what you call stamp collector?

Smith Sister: My hero or shiny

Rassles: Dicknose.

And a further onslaught of other text conversations throughout the weekend.

I love it when people call and text me with questions. No one does that anymore, now that everyone's got internet on their phones. But it used to be a daily thing, getting "what's the word for" and "who's the president of" questions. Fucking internet, ruins my life as the person who knows things.

But, as I said, there was a point, and thus the foreboding event is exposed:

I am almost positive I'm going over my texting limit. I can feel it off in the distance like a fallen tree, if distance were time and the fallen tree of finance was my fucking cell phone bill that I can't afford to pay. Or salt. Fallen tree of salted finance. Should tie in fallen trees to salt, because of beginning of blog, fuck it, salt the earth and move on. Whatever. Shut up.

Lame.

...

Who Am I To Mock Your Fun?

Apparently, for Valentines Day, the best love that me and Gyna were able to muster up was from our fathers.

Because Gyna mentioned this VDay phone call from her dad:

"I think someone got you something sweet from your sweetheart for Valentines Day!"

"Is it candy?"

"If you guessed chocolate candy, then you would be correct!"

My Dad drove out here on Sunday to wander around a used bookstore with me and have dinner, which was unfortunately the best date I've ever had. Because seriously, there are few things more satisfying than coffee and the smell of old books.

"Is it sad that our only Valentines are our dads?" Gyna asked me on the way to the VFW.

"I don't think so. Nevermind. Yes."

Some people wouldn't go out with us on Saturday, and gave us sarcastic excuses like, "Oh, I'm sorry, my limo driver has the night off." It's not our fault you live far away.

So we gathered up Xtine, her friend from work, and Bowser ze German, and headed out to the VFW, where we were served cans of PBR by an old veteran named Hot Rod. It was goddamn single hipster central.

Hanging out with ze German is a blast, because his pants are too tight and he dances with abandon and wants to hit on all the American girls.

I wanted to make fun of him so bad for dancing. So. Bad. Because he looked epileptic and painfully Caucasian. I had to hold off. Who am I to mock someone for dancing for fun? Even though no other man in the entire room was doing it? I admire that: the fact that it never even occurred to him to be embarrassed for dancing like a fucking moron. I guess I'm growing up.

But seriously, if you're at a place with Xtine, Gyna, and myself, and there's karaoke? You would dance with abandon too, because you walked in with the three best chicks, and everyone there knows that, you lucky bastard. Because we rock so fucking hard. We always turn into minor celebrities for the night.

Sure. Karaoke celebrities at the VFW. Yeah, we're cool.

Still, I love it when strange guys give me high fives and tell me how awesome I am. Inevitably, though, in the middle of our conversation about the Peter Sellers movie in the background, whatever girl who was clinging to whatever guy before he talked to me at the bar would come barreling over and drape herself around his shoulders and glare at me in victory. So I would smile to take the sting away, and ask her if she was singing, and she would giggle and say, "Oh, no, I don't sing. He knows," she tilts towards him and coils around him tighter. "You were great, though."

Friendly smile. "Thanks." Pick up my beer and start walking away. "You should totally sing though. Who fucking cares that you suck so much? Other than him." Beer salute to the dude, grin at the whore on his shoulders, and back into the fray. This happens what, like, four times? Same conversation, exactly.

Story of my life. Back to the friends, who've gained genuine admirers from the crowd. They just want to be around us, I think. Am I really so full of myself, to think that? To assume we can have that effect on people?

No. After all, it's how we all met each other. Hanging out at a bar, being so impressed by how the others shined that we all kind of grouped together and became excellent, inseparable friends. Is it too hard to imagine that we wouldn't meet other friends that way? That people wouldn't be drawn to that?

I don't think so.


...

Gyna

You know what's some bullshit? Getting old. I am sick as fuck right now, and instead of drinking it away last night I bought some cough medicine and went to bed. 

At least I got someone else to write again for me today. I've been downing Robitussin all morning, and I'm gettin' a little woozy.

Everyone, I would like to introduce Gyna, the "BFF." Just you know, read what she wrote and leave me to my Tussin.


Alrighty then- Happy Birthday and here is your blog present. You better not edit this all to make me sound lame. Also I demand a hot photo of me.

Rassles Blog Take 96

What is so daunting about this task is not the judgment about my writing skills (you can all suck it) but the mere fact that I don't want to fuck it up and just try to sum up the awesomeness with a bad story. No one wants to read a bad story- especially in stranger blog form (I now hope that you do have strangers reading this otherwise, maybe it won't be so bad!).

But back to the task at hand, all Rassles, all the time. First things first- I love that we went to the same college at the same time and didn't know each other and never hung out. I think that was nature's way of saving our lives because there could have been some scary consequences. Meh. I think we made up for it in the past couple of years.

Once I made the wise decision to finally come to live band, I was well on my way to what became my sole purpose in this life- writing a blog entry for you. From that first night on, I was hooked. I hated all karaoke experiences prior to that night- but since it was Dead Icon night and there was good singing to a band, it made all the difference in the world. You then were the driving force to get me out on the stage to sing in front of people. It was the most terrifying thing I have ever done, but now I just inflict pain on those that listen to my brazenness. We sang Under Pressure which was kinda bad. Then we tried it again weeks later and it was still bad- we should really work on that song.

The next couple of awesome karaoke stories that I thought about telling were all fuzzy, drunken stories of yelling out car windows for cheeseburgers and falling down and exposing body parts and kissing weird boys while waiting for some fried mushrooms (don't believe me? i am sure there are some photos somewhere around here...)



Lap dance from that one guy- remember him? he was ... interesting



Oooh tower



Told you people fell- at least I was nice and helping someone up



Flippy cup action



See ultimately when I sat down to finally write this (yay for procrastination!) I didn't want to go sappy, so I stopped watching Little Women for writing advice. I tried to then review photos from the past few years and most of them were either too embarrassing to look at or I noticed how young we looked and that scared me more.

What I saw in those photos were how awesome we were together and how much awesomeness you have brought to the city. And while most of those times seem like ages ago, we at least sometimes get to ride the bus home after work together- and that is cool for many reasons mostly because it is where excellent schemes are hatched. I love that you bring along adventure when you come to hang out, except for when it is a bad adventure. I mean I guess what I discovered most is that when I start stories about you, it always comes out as an inside joke- you had to be there to experience it. So instead of coming up with my top ten Rassles stories and make everyone jealous of our lives, I am going to give you some advice- which you should heed since I am like almost a month older than you are.

Rassles, there are some things I want you to tackle in your 28th year and there are many things I hope for you to experience as well. I hope that we get to do more tarot readings for each other as I think that is fun times. I also hope that the crazy psychic lady was right and you do fall in love this year (and if the other night was that guy, then jackpot!). I also hope that when you fall in love that he takes you to the opera and makes you fall in love by translating the song into english and you get all sappy and make out (hehehe I so did not turn off Little Women- suckers). I almost hope that you lose your contact again on a stage and do that weird, swimming search dance. I hope you throw that Teen Wolf party because I want to make a shirt for it. I hope that there are more camping trips in the future. I also hope that you seriously think about making a goal to write a book because I am pretty sure people would want to read it cause you are funny and not an asshole. Also, I hope you dance (couldn't resist as usual from the lame, obvious joke).

Thanks again for not being a lame-ass friend!

Oh and HOLLA!!

...

There Are, In Fact, Multiple Row Sevens Throughout Soldier Field

So when my boss fast-talked me into accepting those football tickets, he spouted, "Row Seven" in between many adjectives and verbs and other forms of grammatical syntax that I've forgotten, because I ignore my boss as much as I can, as I did all of my English teachers.

Usually when someone donates tickets to my office (for all of the hard work we do servicing the community), they're phenomenal, and fuck yeah Bears game.

I soon remembered that there are, in fact, multiple Row Sevens throughout Soldier Field, and we could be in any one of them. This did not concern me.

One thing you should know about me: I don't really have a winter coat. There's this nice-ish looking camel coat I wear to work, with lining that rips a little more every single time I lift my arms. Not wearing that to a Bears game.

Let the layering of the sweatshirts commence. For extra luck with the cold, I topped it all off with my Homer Brewing Company sweatshirt, because I like beer, and it kept me warm when I was in Alaska. But most importantly, because I wanted the opportunity to mention, over and over again, that one time I went to Alaska, and I bought this sweatshirt and a growler of Red Knot Scottish Ale and drank it on a rocky beach where the sun rarely sets.

Thank god I've gotten that out of the way.

So yeah. We arrive at the game, and our spectacular Row Seven Seats are in Row Seven of the upper deck. Not only that, but they're in a corner facing goddamn Lake Michigan, and there be biting winds. And I be cold as all fuckery.

But the game was excellent. My co-workers ditched me at half time and left me drinking and sitting alone. About halfway through the third quarter some of the neighboring Phase 4 Fans gave up (come on, guys. Ten degrees? Nothin.) and pretty soon I had a radius of four empty chairs around me. I was not warm. But was I going to let a little cold front scare me away? Hell no.

And then I got very lonely.

I could survive the dropping temperatures in the Fortress of Solitude, but never its ever-desolate name.

So I got the fuck out of there. They had stopped selling beer anyway.

Then I met up with Gyna, who has been in California all week, and we went to a bar with a vast array of desecrated coloring books, where nearly every page of Spiderman, Biblical characters, My Little Ponies, Anakin Skywalker, and eerie Precious Moments children contains visible hand-drawn genitals.

So we whipped out our pens and helped them finish off all of the pictures they missed. Besides, the bartenders threatened to take away our PBR if we didn't draw dicks on stuff.

...

Drunk blog, morning after.

I am so over listing all the lyrical references in "We Didn't Start the Fire." It's a shame, because that might have been entertaining. For me. Totally bored with it now, but perhaps I'll bring it back if I ever get into a writing slump, so I'm just going to stay tuned, mentally, for Red China and Johnnie Ray.

Hung over. Wrote a drunk blog last night at about four a.m. and read it this morning. So here it is, in all its horrible, sloppy, embarrassing glory:


Fucking air conditioner: check. Is in whindow but slighltly holy, not religious, there are physical holes. Holey rusted metal, Batman...

Baja chicken chalupa whatwhat. Yeah buddy is wonderful. Went to the Field Museum today and got mold-a-ramas for$1.50 a pop: brontasauri and triceratopi, waxy goodness. bargain. Apparently nobody at bars appreciate epic love battles between dinosaurs. "Oh, your three horns are so pointy and slender." "the better to smite you with, you long necked tart"

Gyna said that I would never meet a guy if I just went to bars and played with dinosaurs. Ha. Mayhaps I wanna meet someone who will play dinosaurs wiht me? Funny thing about that, bouncer guy George totally loved them. Had a good conversation with him actually, fun guy, although his chin looked like a hairy vagina. Figures. Just exciting when someone gets me, you know?

Then it turned into "Rossi, you need to learn how to flirt." This is very true, flirting is not my forte.

Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Ross. I act like a child when I want attention, right? Yes. Not like, whiney crybaby but dinosaur playing. Not as if I just go to bars and play with wax dinosaurs everyday, this is just a one time deal. Theyre shelvednow.

Did not want to flirt with bouncer, however, I wanted to have talking, and talking was had. Whatever, she got mold-a-ramas too, it was all her idear. Love the museum.

Did the orchestra in Millenium Park thing, which is fun because you get to sit on blankets outside and drink wine and eat ruffles with ridges and French Onion dip.

Best part about all: Spent very little money, oddly, getting drunk and museum going, because cash is short now.

Oh, and Dark Knight was bad ass. Promised people I would give nothing away, so I won't. But what's really bullshit was the lack of cool trailers before the movie. Some other theaters played the Watchmen trailer, which would have been AMAXING, it's like in my top five favorite books (graphic novls totally count) but of courswe didnt get tha one. Trailer, by the way, is incredibel. Did you watch it? Did you see the sweetness of rising glass castle on Mars? So excited.

Once I need to realize that its time to grow up. Am I stuck in childhood mode? Do I shirk responsibility and the possbilty of love? I feel like really burnt french fries and sour oranges. but I'm responsible, I really am. Self-supported an near broke, but hey, I can move air consitioning units without anyone elses help. But its hard, being so fickle picky. Finger pickley. akjdf;kalsjd;fk Pickled fingers/?



Reading it again, I just...smile.

How the hell did I manage to link that trailer?

...