there was a crack, she noticed on the way to the store one day. in the pavement, where there had been no crack the day before. a long and jagged one cutting diagonally across the second square in from the corner, the second square out from her door. she probably wouldn’t have noticed it at all if she hadn’t been trying to take a photo of her walking feet.

When I first moved into my one-bedroom apartment in this building, back when i was living with Mike, we had this upstairs neighbor. She was this tiny little woman in her 40s I’d say – not tiny as in frail, just very very compact. Also hyperactive; I was never sure whether she was on methamphetamines or just naturally that perky. Either way, she was mostly harmless, unless you let her corner you in the foyer, in which case you might well be trapped for hours while she chattered away. And get this: her job? CTA bus driver. Drove the route, in fact, that passed right by our building. So she worked some odd hours. I can’t remember her name right now, so we’ll call her Mary.

Mary had one super-annoying habit – well, more of an addiction, really, I suppose. Every night, for at least 2 hours, she would put on WBEZ’s Smooth Jazz. Loud. Like, so loud my windows rattled. So loud I could feel the bass throbbing through my sofa. Very, very loud. We put up with it, though, because we weren’t home in the evenings very often, and besides, she was always really nice about it when we saw her in the hallway. “If my music’s ever too loud, you just come on up and let me know, ok?” And we always wondered how anyone could fail to think that music was too loud, but like I said, she was so nice about it that we never bothered her – besides, with a job like hers and a temperament like hers, you never really knew when she might snap.

Mary eventually moved out and was replaced by a lesbian couple. They weren’t particularly neighborly – the most you’d get out of them is a mumbled greeting on the way up or down the stairs. They, too, had an annoying habit – it’s just I’m not so sure what it was. On a fairly regular basis, though on no discernible schedule, suddenly our ceiling would begin to shake. Nothing rhythmic enough to suggest, say, step aerobics or jumping rope or an olympic size trampoline or sex or anything. Just thumping. Really loud. For about an hour. And then silence. No music, either. I left this mystery behind me, eventually, when I moved to a larger apartment on the other side of the building.

Over the years, I’ve had some dodgy neighbors on this side, too. I’m on the top floor now, so mercifully my ceilings don’t shake anymore, but the big gay dance club downstairs sometimes served as odd accompaniment on movie nights, and one time they got out the Tina Turner when I was having a poker party. The kids across the hall last year used to throw these unbelievably massive out of control parties – I’m pretty sure they were college students – and fairly frequently drunk guests would get turned around and try coming into my place. I remember scaring the shit out of one of them once: I happened to look out my peephole (trying to figure out how in the hell they managed to jam the 50 people into the hallway that it would take to make that unholy racket) to see this dude reaching for my doorknob. Quick as lighting, I unlocked the door and opened it. He almost fell over into my foyer. “Can I help you?” I asked, with a cheerful smile. He stammered and backed away. I can only assume he wasn’t a fan of the clay mask and blue polarfleece bathrobe look.

Anyway, I don’t remember seeing anyone move in or out in the past month, but Across The Hall has a new musical fetish, it seems. And it sounds remarkably like – wait for it – yes, Smooth Jazz. So I’ve come full circle.

D’you reckon this is a sign from the baby jebus that it’s time for me to move?

For some time now, I have been enjoying the fine wordsmithing over at Tequila Mockingbird. And I’m not the only one – with writing this consistently good, a regular readership is sure to follow. Perhaps a link here or there. Or a quote posted on someone else’s site. It happens. It’s flattering. But even if it’s true that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, this is just flat-out fucking wrong.

This is something I really missed last year. I woke up this morning in my warm comfy bed and looked out through the gap in the curtains to see luscious white flakes spiralling gently down. The kittenhead and I curled up and just watched for a while.

The snow doesn’t give a soft white damn whom it touches.

– e.e. cummings

And now, sitting in my living room, I’m really glad I didn’t take my tree down yet. She’s standing in the big front window, glowing against the driving snow outside. I am full of belated holiday cheer.

Happy first Sunday of the New Year.

OK, so it wasn’t quite as cool as partying on a tropical paradise island and then going diving on New Year’s Day, but I gotta admit: any night that ends with me sprawled out on the sidewalk in front of the bar in leather pants and a fur coat is a pretty good indicator that we had a hell of a time.

Now will somebody please bring me a new head?

It’s really amazing what a good, solid dose of hermit time can do. With the exception of a walk here and an errand there, I’ve been out of my house exactly once since Christmas Eve. I’ve spent most of my time reading, watching the Comedy Central SNL marathon, listening to whatever’s in the CD player and just thinking things over. Also napping.

No epiphanies or breakthroughs or anything dramatic like that, but then that’s not what I needed. I’d been feeling so fantastically rocky lately, blaming it on this or that, but now that I’ve had some time to navel-gaze, it all looks pretty simple: I spent a lot of time on my own last year. I haven’t given myself much since I’ve been back. I had a lot of plans that I’ve had to adjust and/or cancel. I haven’t processed any of it, really. Between worrying about work and worrying about moving and worrying about not moving and, well, just worrying about pretty much everything… let’s just say it’s easy to lose track of what’s important. The good news is, I’m starting to come back around.

To sum up: I’ve seen ads for some scary shit – I only wish I’d caught the whole of that blue-screen spot for nationwide donut-of-the-month-club or somesuch horror (I would like to point out that, with the exception of Comedy Central’s own Holiday spots, what I said a few days ago about advertising emphatically does not apply to what’s airing on cable); I’ve been alarmed by the sight of Angus Young in short pants at age 104 or however old he is now; I’ve successfully solved a murder mystery before getting to the end of the book; I’ve written several thousand words and processed a few hundred photographs. I’ve decided I need to open a store called Disco Pants ‘n’ Haircuts*, but I’m not sure what I’d sell (ideas welcome, bien sur).

So, yeah. I’m feeling much better, thanks. Now, who’s coming to see Big Fish with me? It’s showing right across the street from La Creperie…

When I was a child, we celebrated Christmas in the German tradition, wherever we happened to be. It’s not that dissimilar from the American version, but there is a fairly serious twist for parents. Instead of Santa coming down the chimney with presents while everyone sleeps (wink, wink) through the night, in the German folklore, the Christkindl (literally, Christ child, though in illustrations the child looks about 10 and is fairly androgynous) comes around to the house with presents while you’re at church on Christmas Eve. Every year, we had company for Christmas – my mother’s friends were our extended family, and I called them all uncle and aunt (the “orphans’ holidays” began a long time ago for me, and I still host them to this day). One year, when I was about 6, Uncle Keith and Aunt Joan and their father, whom I called Grandpa Arthur, were in town. Normally, the guests were charged with taking me for a ride after church, distracting me with a tour of the neighborhood’s most garish lighting displays, while my mom dashed back to the house and ran around like a maniac, unearthing the presents from all the back corners of closets where they’d been hidden. This year, though, was to be a little trickier than usual, because my mom had had reconstructive surgery on her left ankle, which was encased in an enormous cast.

After church, I climbed into Keith’s car with him and Joan and Arthur. We pulled out of the parking lot and commenced our tour of the neighborhood. About 5 minutes into it, I spoke up. “Uncle Keith, you’d better take the really long way home tonight,” I said.

“Really? Why is that?”

“Because the Christkindl’s got a cast on.”

They were all so shocked that there was total silence in the car for a good thirty seconds. I really thought Arthur might cry. Isn’t it funny how much harder it is for adults than for the kids, when the kids figure out about Santa? Maybe we perpetuate the myth so that we can somehow vicariously live some of that childhood joy that can only come when you’re too young to be suspicious and analytical.

Anyway, it’s going to be another quiet and lovely Christmas at the den of iniquity this year – 6 of us for a traditional meat fondue tonight, followed by opening of presents and general merriment. Tomorrow will see the traditional nursing of the hangover, with mimosas and silly movies to ease it along. Also roasted poultry. And hopefully snow. And a handful of people I really love, which means more than anything else.

Joy!

Over and out.

It’s all so weird. I can go back and read the posts from a year ago and even less, and I can remember being there, remember the taste, the feel of it, but I feel at the same time so far removed from the place I was in then. I went away and found something, and I came back to collect what I needed and take it away again. Only I haven’t left. So now here I am, in this minor crisis of identity, or consciousness, or something – just dire enough that I’m not entirely sure who I am or what I’m becoming; not quite dire eonough that I’ve forgotten who I was. Maybe this is my trap – the best laid plans, as the man said.

One way or another, I’ve got to get back to that place in my head where, even when it was bad, it was clear. Somehow, I’ve got to get back to that place where I saw all the possibility in the world. It’s tempting to see this as a function of geography, but I know better. It’s tempting to think of this as a function of circumstance, but what isn’t? It wasn’t so long ago that I wrote three chapters in a day; what’s keeping me from writing even one now?

A lot of things are tempting. A lot of things always were. Somewhere in it, I found something beyond temptation. How and where and why I lost it is another question entirely.

The other night I was watching television. I haven’t watched TV in quite a while – except for the odd game at a bar somewhere – because I haven’t had cable or an antenna, so it’s been DVD or nothing for the past 6 months. But when I rearranged all the wiring of my home entertainment system the other week, presto: TV! Not just networks, mind, but Discovery Channel and the Cartoon Channel and IFC and Sundance and all the other lovely things that so effectively kept me from getting anything accomplished before I went away last year. Now, the good thing about not having had TV for so long is that I often forget I have it, which not only means I’m not camped out in front of it 24/7, but also that every time I turn it on I get a little tickle of gleeful surprise, like… well, I guess it’s just the teensiest bit like Christmas.

That was a lot of exposition, but I feel it’s important to note up front that I haven’t been paying attention to these things for some time. What I noticed the other night was that when commercials came on, instead of taking the opportunity to channel-surf (and haven’t commercials always been the Pavlov’s bell of the remote?), I quite often paused to watch. What’s more, I found quite a large number of the spots really good. Sometimes funny, sometimes intriguing, sometimes just solid work. It occurred to me for a fleeting second that if I’d been able to stomach sticking it out in the advertising world, I might have been working on spots like this by now, and wouldn’t that have been fun. Of course, most of the Account Supervisors must be about my age by now, which would make a lot of sense. Obviously, those spots appeal to me. They were developed by people my age, in similar urban environments, who share a lot of my cultural references. I never thought I’d hear Tones on Tail in a financial services commercial, but there you have it. So what I’m wondering now is this: has it always been like this? If I had been in my early 30s ten years ago, would the advertising of that period have appealed to me as much as the current stuff does now? Or does this represent some sort of evolution in the industry?

One thing that occurs to me is that I only rarely remember the product/brand associated with the spot after it’s over, even when I remember the ad itself quite clearly. And with few exceptions, the ads for which I do remember the products are the ones I really dislike, not the ones I enjoy (case in point: the H2 print campaign from last year – I still don’t think I’ve seen a TV spot for one of those monstrosities, which is good because all I can think of when I see an H2 is how very much I want a rocket launcher). It seems possible that advertising is actually growing closer to the film world, at least in the sense that commercials now have discernible plots, production design that goes beyond logo placement, cool effects and sometimes even some bitchin’ camera work. Is this the result of all those disgruntled former film students stuck in the corporate grind, or have my standards just become alarmingly low? Or has actual television programming grown so poor that commercials look great by comparison? I’m a little concerned by this. Perhaps I should seek help.

Also, and still on the topic of television, I have a new favorite show. Favorite in the sense of can’t-look-away more than wow-this-is-inspirational, but still. Have you seen the talk sex lady? Last week, I was flipping through channels on mute when I came across a small older woman behind a desk, holding a cock ring. I was so shocked I had to turn up the volume. She was explaining to someone on the other end of the phone line that this device could be lubricated for easy removal, and “doesn’t catch in the pubic hair like rubber bands.” Now, entirely aside from a woman old enough to be my grandmother magically producing sex toys from under her desk and demonstrating them on national television (remind me sometime to tell you about the sound-activated vibrator – she was on about that one for ages), does this mean there was some guy out there who had previously been using, um, rubber bands to prolong his erection? Yikes.

And finally, a little something non-tv-related that made me very happy today: a fan letter to Grace and Mercy. I want to give this woman a big fat hug.

The holidays are a time of mixed blessings. A perfect example (several, in fact) of this was the 1st Annual Star Wars Holiday Special Party (& Inappropriate Ornament Contest) at Jeff’s last night. Star Wars Holiday Special? Is this some new thing you haven’t heard about yet? Did you miss it? Well, yes and no. You may never have heard of it before, but it’s not new. The SWHS aired during the holiday season in 1978. And yes, you missed it, but that’s really nothing to be sorry for. I promise. As Jeff put it:

“You have never seen a bigger piece of shit in your entire life than The Star Wars Holiday Special. It’s like a motherfucking train wreck.

“You. Cannot. Look. Away.”

He’s not kidding, folks. It’s all for real, right down to the performance by Jefferson Starship. I’m glad I’ve seen it, more or less so that I never, ever have to again. It was only an hour long, but I could swear I lost about a week off my life. So, mixed blessing #1: getting together with friends; sitting through the most abysmal piece of television any of us can remember having seen, ever.

On to part 2: the Inappropriate Ornament Competition. The instructions (again, from Jeff’s email) were as follows:

“Each partygoer is encouraged, nay URGED, to bring along an Xmas ornament of their own devising for entry into a contest, to be judged by popular vote. The theme of said ornaments is simple: be inappropriate. It’s my goal to have the most stupefyingly awful Christmas tree ever. Shock & Awe, kids. Shock & Awe.”

It was further indicated that owing to the other theme of the party, entries involving Star Wars characters would be highly regarded, and that biblical characters in compromising conditions would also rank high. A “LARGE prize” was to go to the lucky winner of the Most Inappropriate Ornament competition.

Now, considering the ridiculous artiness of most of the attendees, I didn’t really think anything I put together would stand much of a chance. Add to that a more or less complete lack of inspiration, and you’ll find me exactly where I was on Wednesday evening around 8:00: at home, drinking a glass of wine, with neither ornament nor more than a half-formed idea involving pipe cleaners and condoms. But then something magical happened. I took out the pipe cleaners, leafed through the craft suggestions pamphlet in the package, and behold! One of the muses (the one in charge of drunken epiphanies, what was her name again?) came and bashed me in the head. Roughly 25 minutes later, I had my ornament, which I have lovingly titled: And what do YOU want for Christmas, little girl?.

Well, he said inappropriate. Quit staring. It’s not polite.

As I said, though, I didn’t think I had much of a chance of winning. What with Andrew’s gingerbread Star Destroyer (which, by the way, is delicious), Phin’s Star Wars Nativity Scene, complete with R2D2 baby and scary-ass goat, and the host’s own Yoda Jesus on a cross, I was just happy to have managed to contribute. But when the time came for judging, there were actually two categories: Most Inappropriate and Most Needlessly Elaborate. And I won the prize.

[later addition: sorry, I forgot to mention that Andrew won (completely deservedly) the prize for Most Needlessly Elaborate. I got a giant plastic Santa; he got a crystal bowl (no, really) full of chocolate. Somehow I think I might not have got the better end of that deal. But hey, he spent days making templates from CAD drawings and I spent 20 minutes twisting up pipe cleaner, so I guess I really shouldn’t complain.]

The prize may well be scarier than the entry. Then again, I’ve been saying that I’d like something to curl up next to, keep me warm at night…

See what I mean about mixed blessings?