Another Day that Just Happened to Be a Tuesday
I couldn't sleep last night. I don't know why. Maybe I'm just nuts. I remember looking at the clock at 3:25 and falling asleep shortly thereafter. At 7:45, I heard rumblings in my apartment. I tried to ignore it. I thought to myself, 'Ignoring it will drive it away.' Wrong. I pushed my head deeper into the pillows. It did not go away. I smelled my brother’s cologne. I wondered why he was in my apartment so early, and I remembered that the law library doesn’t open until 8:30. He’s begun prepping for finals, so all the power to him. He closed the door to my bedroom. It’s a nice gesture, but a completely ridiculous one, because there’s a huge space in the exterior wall separating my bedroom area from the den area. It’s nearly as silly as rebuilding New Orleans, because the shit will eventually come flooding right in regardless.
This he turned on the television, and flipped over to ESPN. There was a story about the Bears’ defense, and Alex Brown and Nathan Vasher made an appearance. They were talking about (what else?) respect. Football players love to talk about respect, as though anyone in their right mind would intentionally disrespect a 6’6, 320 killing machine. Jeremy Schaap was feeding them easy questions about members of the team, and they blew nearly all of them. I mean, what Chicagoan doesn’t know that Brian Urlacher went to Lovington High School in New Mexico? There’s a gigantic Nike ad of him in his high school jersey on the building, right before you get on the highway at Ohio. Each of these guys must have seen it at least fifty times. Come the fuck on. Good team chemistry, like good defense in baseball, is just something people say when your team is winning. Anyway, I didn’t care much about what they had to say, because my new favorite player on the Bears is Tank Johnson. Because Todd Johnson and Bryan Johnson are also on the roster, “TANK JOHNSON” is written across his nameplate. How awesome is that? In my opinion, that makes it the coolest jersey in sports.
Through the wall in my bedroom, I could hear the neighbors playing with their newborn baby. These people form the height of irritation. They bitch and moan to the building office that about loud noises late in the evening, but I don’t call downstairs to complain when they blast the Teletubbies at the ass crack of dawn. Before having getting pregnant, maybe they should have looked into moving out to the 'burbs like every other normal, young family. It’s not my problem they’re shitty planners, or were too dumb to realize the win-some-lose-some nature of living in a high-rise. In retaliation, I make it a point to turn up the subwoofer on my computer while conducting late-night research into the sexual inclinations of the average American male on any variety of free porn sites. Growing up in a small two-bedroom apartment, the kid is bound to learn about sex pretty early anyway. F them.
It was about 8:15 when my brother answered a call from his office. My dad was out of the office all day, and the secretaries were apparently all in a tizzy over the fact that they didn’t have definite word as to whether they could wear jeans to work tomorrow, it being the last day of the work week. My brother made some wise crack about how they should be thankful that my dad already gave them Friday off and would probably let them go early tomorrow as well, but nonetheless promised to call my dad and find out. He did, and it was a strinkingly odd conversation. After about five minutes of talking with the volume turned on, he suddenly switched the television off and said, “I’m at the library already,” thereby establishing the world's all-time worst attempt at recovery.
By that point I was fully awake but groggy, but I really didn’t feel like getting out of bed just yet. So I rolled over and started reading Sherlock Holmes. As soon as my brother left, at about 8:30, I jumped out of bed to check my email and make a couple phone calls. I was back in bed by 10.
At 12, I heard the phone ring and saw it was my brother, but chose to ignore it for no good reason. I went into the bathroom and started the sink and the shower, when the phone rang again. It was the doorman. The phone hadn’t even stopped ringing when I heard the door unlock. The cleaning ladies entered my apartment just as the phone dumped into voicemail. Thanks for the heads-up, you bastard doorman. I know why he did it—to bust my balls. The morning guy is an East Indian who doesn’t get on too well with my brother, so he sometimes pulls small dick moves like that to piss me off. I’d like the record to show that I take a lot of crap from people with whom I would otherwise have normal relations, if only my brother didn’t piss them off or vice versa. Why we can’t be treated as two separate entities, I’ll never know.
I hoped to get the cleaning people to leave so I could clean up, but they don’t speak a word of English. In fact, two weeks ago I left them a note that I’d hoped they would bring to their boss to translate, explaining that I was broke and would inform them in the near future when to resume their services. I honestly think they mistook it for garbage and threw it away. Also, in true Meat fashion, I lost the damn number for the cleaning service, so I guess I'm not cancelling the service.
My brother tried calling once more just as I was lathering up to shave. I think I mentioned in an earlier post that my old phone broke, but Murton was nice enough to give me one of his old phones until Verizon starts to offer the Razr. His ring tone was “Nuthin’ But a G Thang” by Snoop Dogg, and because he forgot the combination to unlock the phone features, I haven’t been able to change it—nor do I really want to, come to think of it. During the digital rendition of this hip-hop classic, I heard one of the ladies utter something to the other that ended with the word “murzyn,” which is Polish for the really bad name for African-Americans. I burst out laughing and nearly butchered myself, because I was in the midst of going over my chin with my razor.
I stood in the shower for a long, long time, hoping to hide in there until the cleaning ladies left. Uh, wrong. I came out of the shower and they were waiting to clean the bathroom. Hey, at least they’re thorough! I hastily dressed, threw some money on my desk, and left the apartment, with my hair still dripping wet.
I wandered down to Seamus’ restaurant, and had lunch with Day, Seamus’ roommate. He was down in Champaign this weekend, to see the Northwestern-Illinois football game as well as to visit his brother, who’s enrolled in law school down there. We filled each other in on the details of the weekend, and it was a quality lunch. Day left, and I shot the shit with Seamus for a while. Most of the conversation was dominated by the displeasures caused by my brother telling Proehl that all these people think Proehl has an eating disorder, and about how the sell-out makes it nearly impossible to approach Proel about the problem in a serious manner. I told Seamus that this should be expected, because my brother is renowned for playing both sides against the middle. Everyone is a free agent in his eyes. That’s just how it is. I deal with it.
I walked back up to my place and stopped at the barber shop next to the Chicago Red Line stop. I used to go to Truefitt and Hill in the Bloomingdale’s Building, but a regular haircut there is $65 with tip and, like I said, I’m broke. This woman charges only $25 with a tip, which is more agreeable with the current state of my budget. Seamus had been going there since it opened, and he had pretty good things to say for the most part. Plus, it’s in a space formerly occupied by a shady pawn shop, so I figure: support a clean business might clean up the strip of shit a little. Because the city made the immensely unwise decision to extend the long-term lease on the Lawson YMCA several years ago, that corner is dominated by a collection of human shitbags like you would not believe. It’s not unsafe per se, but it’s still bad enough that the barber woman feels the need to keep the door locked at all times. I can't tell you how many ugly looks I got from crackheads and drunks while I was sitting there getting my haircut, or how many of them would have jumped right in and raped the woman given the chance. The only people who say gentrification is a bad thing are the people who live far, far away from the idiots getting kicked out.
The barber woman was a very nice lady, but she went way too short with my hair. My mom is going to cry when she sees it. One downside of getting my hair cut really close, and the reason why I keep it relatively long, is that short hair makes my head look fucking gigantic. I never considered my jaw to be overly large until I looked in the mirror this afternoon. Seriously, I was like, “Woah, Jay Leno!” I am aware of the fact that I have a huge nose—remember, Italian + Irish = Jewish nose—but this haircut adds fuel to the fire. At least if she hadn’t shaved off my sideburns I’d have some cover, but they’re merely a shade of what they once were. It’s not like it matters, though. As the lady remarked, “I feel like your hair is growing even as I cut it.” I tipped her well and told her to remember me, because I’d probably be back once a month.
I went home. My place was clean and empty. I shot down a job in Philadelphia, and sent out a few more resumes. Seamus came over on his way to class, and as we were leaving my apartment, we heard some shouts from the guy across the hall. I mentioned this to the doorman, and he said the guy across the hall is a Greek, and he’s got a fire-y personality. No shit. Apparently he's the one the baby couple has been complaining about, so I felt bad for chastising them...for all of three seconds.
Seamus ducked into class, and I took a long walk down Michigan, back up to North, and home. It was a pretty typical dark, winter early evening. I talked to my G-Man buddy for a bit; he’s driving home Friday. I bought a Gatorade and cigs, and went back upstairs.
That brings me to right now, and I’m pretty bored. I’m thinking about going to see the new Harry Potter movie, but I’m not sure how great of an idea this is. After all, I blew a chunk of my scarce funds today, and we’ll probably go to a movie with the family at some point this weekend. Then again, screw it. If they go out to the theater, I’ll watch Rome and Curb, because those a-holes watched it while I was talking to the G-Man’s parents at dinner Sunday night.
It's supposed to snow tonight. That’s just great. Life couldn’t be better, but it could definitely be more interesting. I need a job.
This he turned on the television, and flipped over to ESPN. There was a story about the Bears’ defense, and Alex Brown and Nathan Vasher made an appearance. They were talking about (what else?) respect. Football players love to talk about respect, as though anyone in their right mind would intentionally disrespect a 6’6, 320 killing machine. Jeremy Schaap was feeding them easy questions about members of the team, and they blew nearly all of them. I mean, what Chicagoan doesn’t know that Brian Urlacher went to Lovington High School in New Mexico? There’s a gigantic Nike ad of him in his high school jersey on the building, right before you get on the highway at Ohio. Each of these guys must have seen it at least fifty times. Come the fuck on. Good team chemistry, like good defense in baseball, is just something people say when your team is winning. Anyway, I didn’t care much about what they had to say, because my new favorite player on the Bears is Tank Johnson. Because Todd Johnson and Bryan Johnson are also on the roster, “TANK JOHNSON” is written across his nameplate. How awesome is that? In my opinion, that makes it the coolest jersey in sports.
Through the wall in my bedroom, I could hear the neighbors playing with their newborn baby. These people form the height of irritation. They bitch and moan to the building office that about loud noises late in the evening, but I don’t call downstairs to complain when they blast the Teletubbies at the ass crack of dawn. Before having getting pregnant, maybe they should have looked into moving out to the 'burbs like every other normal, young family. It’s not my problem they’re shitty planners, or were too dumb to realize the win-some-lose-some nature of living in a high-rise. In retaliation, I make it a point to turn up the subwoofer on my computer while conducting late-night research into the sexual inclinations of the average American male on any variety of free porn sites. Growing up in a small two-bedroom apartment, the kid is bound to learn about sex pretty early anyway. F them.
It was about 8:15 when my brother answered a call from his office. My dad was out of the office all day, and the secretaries were apparently all in a tizzy over the fact that they didn’t have definite word as to whether they could wear jeans to work tomorrow, it being the last day of the work week. My brother made some wise crack about how they should be thankful that my dad already gave them Friday off and would probably let them go early tomorrow as well, but nonetheless promised to call my dad and find out. He did, and it was a strinkingly odd conversation. After about five minutes of talking with the volume turned on, he suddenly switched the television off and said, “I’m at the library already,” thereby establishing the world's all-time worst attempt at recovery.
By that point I was fully awake but groggy, but I really didn’t feel like getting out of bed just yet. So I rolled over and started reading Sherlock Holmes. As soon as my brother left, at about 8:30, I jumped out of bed to check my email and make a couple phone calls. I was back in bed by 10.
At 12, I heard the phone ring and saw it was my brother, but chose to ignore it for no good reason. I went into the bathroom and started the sink and the shower, when the phone rang again. It was the doorman. The phone hadn’t even stopped ringing when I heard the door unlock. The cleaning ladies entered my apartment just as the phone dumped into voicemail. Thanks for the heads-up, you bastard doorman. I know why he did it—to bust my balls. The morning guy is an East Indian who doesn’t get on too well with my brother, so he sometimes pulls small dick moves like that to piss me off. I’d like the record to show that I take a lot of crap from people with whom I would otherwise have normal relations, if only my brother didn’t piss them off or vice versa. Why we can’t be treated as two separate entities, I’ll never know.
I hoped to get the cleaning people to leave so I could clean up, but they don’t speak a word of English. In fact, two weeks ago I left them a note that I’d hoped they would bring to their boss to translate, explaining that I was broke and would inform them in the near future when to resume their services. I honestly think they mistook it for garbage and threw it away. Also, in true Meat fashion, I lost the damn number for the cleaning service, so I guess I'm not cancelling the service.
My brother tried calling once more just as I was lathering up to shave. I think I mentioned in an earlier post that my old phone broke, but Murton was nice enough to give me one of his old phones until Verizon starts to offer the Razr. His ring tone was “Nuthin’ But a G Thang” by Snoop Dogg, and because he forgot the combination to unlock the phone features, I haven’t been able to change it—nor do I really want to, come to think of it. During the digital rendition of this hip-hop classic, I heard one of the ladies utter something to the other that ended with the word “murzyn,” which is Polish for the really bad name for African-Americans. I burst out laughing and nearly butchered myself, because I was in the midst of going over my chin with my razor.
I stood in the shower for a long, long time, hoping to hide in there until the cleaning ladies left. Uh, wrong. I came out of the shower and they were waiting to clean the bathroom. Hey, at least they’re thorough! I hastily dressed, threw some money on my desk, and left the apartment, with my hair still dripping wet.
I wandered down to Seamus’ restaurant, and had lunch with Day, Seamus’ roommate. He was down in Champaign this weekend, to see the Northwestern-Illinois football game as well as to visit his brother, who’s enrolled in law school down there. We filled each other in on the details of the weekend, and it was a quality lunch. Day left, and I shot the shit with Seamus for a while. Most of the conversation was dominated by the displeasures caused by my brother telling Proehl that all these people think Proehl has an eating disorder, and about how the sell-out makes it nearly impossible to approach Proel about the problem in a serious manner. I told Seamus that this should be expected, because my brother is renowned for playing both sides against the middle. Everyone is a free agent in his eyes. That’s just how it is. I deal with it.
I walked back up to my place and stopped at the barber shop next to the Chicago Red Line stop. I used to go to Truefitt and Hill in the Bloomingdale’s Building, but a regular haircut there is $65 with tip and, like I said, I’m broke. This woman charges only $25 with a tip, which is more agreeable with the current state of my budget. Seamus had been going there since it opened, and he had pretty good things to say for the most part. Plus, it’s in a space formerly occupied by a shady pawn shop, so I figure: support a clean business might clean up the strip of shit a little. Because the city made the immensely unwise decision to extend the long-term lease on the Lawson YMCA several years ago, that corner is dominated by a collection of human shitbags like you would not believe. It’s not unsafe per se, but it’s still bad enough that the barber woman feels the need to keep the door locked at all times. I can't tell you how many ugly looks I got from crackheads and drunks while I was sitting there getting my haircut, or how many of them would have jumped right in and raped the woman given the chance. The only people who say gentrification is a bad thing are the people who live far, far away from the idiots getting kicked out.
The barber woman was a very nice lady, but she went way too short with my hair. My mom is going to cry when she sees it. One downside of getting my hair cut really close, and the reason why I keep it relatively long, is that short hair makes my head look fucking gigantic. I never considered my jaw to be overly large until I looked in the mirror this afternoon. Seriously, I was like, “Woah, Jay Leno!” I am aware of the fact that I have a huge nose—remember, Italian + Irish = Jewish nose—but this haircut adds fuel to the fire. At least if she hadn’t shaved off my sideburns I’d have some cover, but they’re merely a shade of what they once were. It’s not like it matters, though. As the lady remarked, “I feel like your hair is growing even as I cut it.” I tipped her well and told her to remember me, because I’d probably be back once a month.
I went home. My place was clean and empty. I shot down a job in Philadelphia, and sent out a few more resumes. Seamus came over on his way to class, and as we were leaving my apartment, we heard some shouts from the guy across the hall. I mentioned this to the doorman, and he said the guy across the hall is a Greek, and he’s got a fire-y personality. No shit. Apparently he's the one the baby couple has been complaining about, so I felt bad for chastising them...for all of three seconds.
Seamus ducked into class, and I took a long walk down Michigan, back up to North, and home. It was a pretty typical dark, winter early evening. I talked to my G-Man buddy for a bit; he’s driving home Friday. I bought a Gatorade and cigs, and went back upstairs.
That brings me to right now, and I’m pretty bored. I’m thinking about going to see the new Harry Potter movie, but I’m not sure how great of an idea this is. After all, I blew a chunk of my scarce funds today, and we’ll probably go to a movie with the family at some point this weekend. Then again, screw it. If they go out to the theater, I’ll watch Rome and Curb, because those a-holes watched it while I was talking to the G-Man’s parents at dinner Sunday night.
It's supposed to snow tonight. That’s just great. Life couldn’t be better, but it could definitely be more interesting. I need a job.
posted by Pat at 9:05 PM
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