my busy life

On Saturday morning, I decided to go downtown with Brigid and see Paul's art in a show. Brigid got ready a little bit before me, as I was still busy surfing the internet. I was grabbing my bag and stuffing any activity books I could think of that I might want to work on while I'm out. I had my jacket on was just about ready, when Brigid, standing in the doorway, says," There is a bus in two minutes."
I stopped what I what doing.
And although I could have quickly stood up and joined her, apparently I cannot be rushed into getting ready. 
All my will to get out of the house went through the front door with brigid before I could.
"You go ahead. If I don't make the bus, I'll meet you downtown."
I didn't want to stand up right after saying that and go out to wait for the bus, like I could have. There had to be some buffer room between her leaving and me. So, the next bus would be a fine one to catch. I went back to internet surfing for just a few minutes and also turned on the TV to have in the background. I like the noise.   
Six hours and a movie and-a-half later,  I still had my coat on, ready to go.  Brigid came home and there I was, still ready to go, as if time stood still at home during the time she was gone.  And, in reality, it kinda of had because I had not changed at all...  Well, maybe the Doritos bag was a bit on a lighter side, but thats it! ...That and one sandwich worth of sandwich stuff, but thats it!  Brigid just smiled at me and I think I died just a little inside because of the power of American Classic Television, like Divorce Court.

Pickles and Starbursts

It was cold. The wind was blowing and I didn't have a warm jacket. The wind blew harder here, it seemed, because of how big this intersection is.  As I stood on Randolf and State street in Chicago, facing the intersection, I wondered why torturing myself with the cold was a better idea than staying in the warm tea shop.  But then again, asking myself why I do most things I do is a battle I am not prepared to be champion of.  A man with long gray hair stood, facing the center of the intersection, held his arms up, as if reaching for heaven, and preached to the everybody. "Repent!" He screamed.  No one payed him any attention. I was just glad he wasn't talking to me.  I'd seen him before over on Michigan Avenue doing the same thing and actually, wearing the same thing. Which is weird because he was still, now, wearing a big t-shirt and slacks in the dead, freezing winter and he remained untouched by the bitter cold.  I stood motionless, facing him, going through everything I had in my pockets, curling up like a caterpillar, trying to stay warm.  To my right, a homeless man sat on the ground, leaning against a power box.  He is always there and every time I see him I am surprised to see he is actually still alive. He shakes a cup for change.  I was still digging my hands in my pockets and noticed a man on my left who kept looking at me as if he needed me to know something.  He'd look away and then back at me. His face said he cared about a young, homeless man like me.  Either that or, or he was losing a fruitless battle with the cold night.  He didn't look at me though, and say, "boy, what a fruitless night, eh?" He turned my way as if to give me some money or words of encouragement the same time the loud preaching man finally took a break, turned around as well and walked towards me.  In the same moment both men were coming towards me, I found what I was fumbling for in my pocket for the last few moments. Through all the loose change I always have and my keys, the starburst candy I wanted was finally in my grasp.  The preacher was smiling in my direction and coming at me.  It only made me unwrap that artificial lemon flavored square of sunshine juice even faster to get out of the pickle I was in. After jumping out of that man-triangle, I shuffled back into the warm tea shop where someone had all the free cookies I could stuff in my face.

It will bite your ass

For Thanksgiving we ate turkey.  It was nothing out of the ordinary and of course it was delicious like an iced soda.  As we gathered, my mama asked us all to share something we are grateful for.  " People don't count.  Neither does this food," she added.  Often, I have a hard time expressing serious things  like this in front of a group.  I would really rather not do activities like this and instead, I can just ponder the things I am grateful for inside my head.  Things I like.  Since my outer character is more outgoing than my inner, repressed self, the cake goes to being shallow and easy.
My mama went first.  She said she is grateful for being able to text, because she feels closer to her kids now that she can do it.  I manage to look passed the fact that every text I get from her has an empty attachment included in it.  My sister expressed her thankfulness for her baby and her husband.  By this point, I figured the rules were out the window since Amy broke them. So, I felt okay about expressing my love for television.  I even told the story about having cable in our previous apartment and then, when we had our service transferred over to our new place we got something like a "Premium Excellence Package" that included something like one hundred channels.  I watched so much TV that month, knowing I had to take advantage of the time, because I also knew it wouldn't last. Then it did end. The cable company found the "mistake" in their service and quickly fixed the "error."  No more "American Chopper" for me.  Man, I loved that show! 
My brother then opened his heart, flushed my moms rules down the pooper and spoke sweetly about his appreciation for his wife and being able to be a papa.  Imagine how I felt for following the rules and feeling "so" grateful for basic cable television.  I felt like an idiot! As if I had a booger the the size of Texas was relaxing on my lower lip drinking an iced cola on spring break in Mexico.  Or getting a really long pinky nail caught in the dishwasher.  Or  having a sleepover at a friend of a friend's house and waking up to find you wet their sheets, because we both know you are the the kind of person who brings their own sheets to slumber parties.  You know, something like that.  It went real quiet and as we listened to him, we all felt close to tears and I know we all shared a whole humble pie thanks to Erik and his rule-breaking giving thanks technique.  It was a big pie.  I was given an extra large slice of that humbleberry pie and after what I thought was the whole piece, actually turned out not to be.  The rest of it grew teeth, an anus, claws, then climbed down my back and bit me in the ass.  Why couldn't I have been grateful for the sunshine,  doing well in school, or soft and strong toilet paper?  No.  That would be too easy..
Anyway, I learned a valuable lesson that day-  never break rules or you will really get it in the butt.  The turkey and everything was so great.  -No surprise.  I must have eaten me three plates in under fifteen minutes!

"order something"

I wasn't waiting in line to order a drink, but I was humming the Wicked Witch of Wests' theme music to myself, completely lost in it and I guess I wasn't paying attention.  "Are you in line?" a woman asked.  "Sorry.  I am not in line...  Sorry."

"Me'n David"

16 November 2010.

In a recent letter to my friend...

Dear David Sedaris,
Thanks for meeting with me.  Since I don't have much "Formal People-Training" I had to write down what I need to say, otherwise I'd panic, sweat and say something I'd regret.  Thanks for writing all your books.  I have every single one, except for the new one.   Please don't be mad, David, I will get it soon. Your books are the best.  If I wasn't so sure it was true, I wouldn't say it. They make me laugh, cry and sometimes for a few minutes, feel better about myself.  They inspire me to write and one day, publish a book of "Sedaris-inspired" stories and experiences from my life.
Thank you.
Matthew Larson 
Please sign these (books). 

  Written on notebook paper, folded and hiding in my pocket, it was my notes to keep a straight and clear mind when the time came to actually speak to him.  I wasn't sure if I'd actually get to give it to him. In either case, I needed the notes and they would serve me well. 
  I think I was the most nervous there.  -Probably because I was the biggest fan. Everyone else was laughing and telling their own directionless stories about dirty jokes and hearing dirty jokes about camping, puppies and the DMV, as if they were the very celebrity everyone came to see.  Seemed they were all having a pretty good time.  But I still found space in my anxious mind to not like certain people right away.  The man with the microphone, who began giving instructions every ten minutes, said that braking any of David's rules, like picture-taking of any kind, would resulted in the cutting of ones entrance wristband and a firm “goodbye.” Apparently this was hilarious to the over-zealous crowd and they roared with even more laughter every time he'd say, "your wristband will be cut." During the same speech, he'd tell us to read at least a few pages from the new book.  Of course I tried to, but with all the commotion going on, I really couldn't do anything but sit there, be quiet and once in a while smile at the air in front of me to try to fit in.  Physically, I couldn't been more uncomfortable.  I am sure my sweat stains continued down my shirt to the bottom of my ribs.  -A steady flow of gutter stink.  Only when he arrived, did I begin to feel better, smile and accept that hating pretty much everyone around me is not so bad.  He was absolutely wonderful and made everyone, including his hired security, laugh hysterically.  After which, was the time for books to be signed.  To make the signing of countless books go by faster for David, we were instructed to put a sticky tab on the inside title with a name on it so he’d know who to make it out to. If not, he would just sign it. I had brought four books and bought the fifth there because I thought I wouldn't be able to get in without it. Also, everyone had it. That made my total number of books five. At first, all mine had sticky tabs with my name on them.  After seeing people have multiple books with multiple names on them, I decided following the crowd was a better, safer choice. I scratched out my name on the new one, put Paul's and immediately felt like I had just donated a million dollars to some Jerry's Kid's Fund. I let the book sit open, waiting for someone to ask, "Well, who is Paul?"
Borders had some waiting-in-line system for everyone in this event. We all wore a certain colored wristband that would allot one into a certain group that would meet him sooner or later.  I wear a purple wristband, meaning I was one of about one hundred in the second group to meet him.  When the time came to get up and move to our specific waiting locations, a woman wearing a Borders name tag and a big dress, excitedly let her emotions get the best of her as she threw the whole "wristband" system out the window like it was a dragon puppy that needed freedom over captivity. So, we lined up by who was closest to him.  I was in the middle of the second row.  They moved the podium off the table he spoke from, gave him a comfy chair and a box of cinnamon rolls to pick at while the next few hours slowly rolled by.  I stood in line, moving a few feet every few minutes.  I could barely breath comfortably and kept looking at the girl next to me to see if she was exhibiting anything near what I felt.  How could all these people be so calm, I thought.  When the girl in front of me walked up to his table I felt as if someone made stool in my pants. The woman beside him took my books to prep for him to sign just as the girl left his table.  I walked up, put my bag down and leaned over the table as if I were interrogating him. Not intentionally, though. 

David:  Hey! How are you tonight? 


Matthew:  I'm good.  I'm good.  I am real nervous, you know?

David:  Are you Matthew?

Matthew: Yeah, that's me.  I'm real nervous.  I am not real good with people.  I don't talk much. 
(At this time I pulled out my letter/ lines because I knew if I didn't, I would just gush. And I don't think David wanted me or anyone to just gush).

Matthew: (From letter) Thank you for seeing me.  I think your books are great.

David:  (Who was working on a drawing of a puppy dog for me in the book as part of signing, which I find kind of ironic because that is probably how I seemed to him)  Does that?...Oh no.  That's a terrible dog. The eye is way to big and in the wrong place...

Matthew:  No, I think its great!

David:  But that eye...( and he draws another)

Matthew:  Well, I think it looks good. 

David:  (grabs the book for Paul) So, who is Paul?

Matthew:  Oh, he is my best buddy and we have known each other since we were three and now we live together and its great!

David:  So what do you do Matthew?

Matthew:  Oh, I'm in graphic design! ...But I also write..


David:  Cool! Where?

Matthew ...Herald Washington?

David: (who is working on a drawing of a turtle in another book)

Matthew:  Yeah, I really like to write.

David:  What do you write about?

Matthew:  Stories and experiences from my life.

David:  What’s that? (Pointing to my Idea Journal I had so conveniently placed for him to see and ask about)

Matthew: Oh this?  That is my Idea Journal.  For writing.

David:  What's the last thing you wrote?

Matthew:  Oh, just some of my fears.  Bunions, getting diarrhea in class and dandruff. 

David:  (He chuckles) What do you fear about bunions?  I have some experience 
with bunions, you know.

Matthew:  (pointing at him like we are having a best-pals-moment) I know! I remember you writing about that... Ha-ha…?

David:   Yes, I remember.  What do you fear about bunions?

Matthew:  ...I don’t know. Bumping them? Hurting them, minding them? What do you do?  

David:  I just ignore them. 

Matthew:  But...don't you have to be careful?

David:  No, Matthew. 

Matthew:

David:  So you got a joke for me, Matthew?

Matthew:  Uh…well, my roommate has this one joke that is kinda.  Uh…So, what’s worse than stepping is dog crap?

David: (smiling at me, waiting for the big line that will knock his socks off) I don’t know. What is worse?

Matthew: Waking up in the middle of the night to have someone angrily taking a dump in your mouth.

David:  (looking to the helper woman to his right for agreement pity, for me) Wow, that is worse. (Then a breathy, pity laugh).

Matthew:  Yeah, my roommate. He is a crazy guy.  (Had this actually been a joke of Paul’s, it probably would have been good, have substance and really be a joke, rather than an obvious realization of just a truly bad moment.  But, it was mine and I am damn proud of that joke).
We all laughed uncomfortably together, gradually becoming more and more aware of each others nonexistent awareness of social boundaries.  -As if someone reputable, like the President, told a hilariously racy joke.  What do you do then?  Do you laugh?  Yes.

David:  So, what do you do, Matthew? (For the second time)

Matthew:  Oh, I’m in school for graphic design…I write too.

David:  How do you make money?

Matthew:  I have it saved up.  I used to work for…Starbucks.  (Which is true.  But, also what the everyone wants to hear)

David:  Oh.  I am defiantly not opposed to going to …Starbucks.

Matthew:  …Yeah…

David:  Are you poor, Matthew?

Matthew:  …No.

David:  You know, Matthew, I like this stuff. These (cinnamon rolls) are so good, but you know, you can only eat so many before you feel sick.

I shook my head to show I agreed with him, but inside I knew perfectly well my ability to easily clean up, even a six-pack of sugar buns, cinnamon rolls, silly buns, sticky cinnamon big buns, what have you, was unsurpassed.  He then folded the box closed and placed it gently in a clear plastic bag Borders provided. As he slid them across the table, explaining that he wanted me to have them, enjoy them and live, my heart raced liked the victim of a rabid dog.  It got really hot all of a sudden and I knew this was my moment to relish this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. 

Matthew: Okay, since you are giving me your big cinnamon sugar buns, I think it would be fair for you take my letter.

I folded it back up and flicked it across the table like a frisbee. He smiled and put it in a little pile with other nick-knacks near the edge of the table. I grabbed the bag, similar to the way a man, sans friends and shelter would if a can of beans rolled in a trashy gutter, where he reined.

At the same time, Matthew: You know, this is so great!  Before you, the famous person I met was a weatherman!  (Paul Magers for Minneapolis weather and before that, Donny Osmond)


The two of them shared a genuine chuckle I will remember forever. No one can take that from me.  I made David Sedaris laugh, probably out of compassion for my bad joke and nervous behavior.  Me, who he thinks probably only took his lips off the end of a barrel and climbed out of the dumpster just to take a bus and a train to see him, David Sedaris, famous writer.  Celebrity.
As I headed out, walking passed all the eagerly, bushy-beavery waiting semi-fans, I smiled with pride, hating everyone I could see.  “Awe, you got David’s cinnamon buns, you lucky duck!”  
I accepted their jealousy, smiled and firmly implied, "Goodbye!"

That's Par

I got on the train the other morning and smelled taco meat. 
But I bet there were no tacos or meat.

I thought it quite ironic listening to a homeless man in the subway play and sing Michael Jackson's, "Man in The Mirror," on guitar. 
It kind of angered me.  It was no justice.

As I entered the train to go home yesterday, a man sitting down by the doors who had on an old black  suede jacket, droopingly sat, his head bobbing but awake. On the left breast of his old jacket was a generous proportion of refunded vomit. Looked like oatmeal and carrots poorly blended together with dirty fingernails and maple syrup.  I can only assume it was vomit, but if he's the healthy type who makes blended drinks/meals to keep from spending easy money on fast and unhealthy food, more power to him. 
But, he probably isn't.  And I enjoy assuming.
Thanks Chicago.

Norms

The other day, I saw a guy being taken out of my school in hand cuffs. He was accompanied by two of Chicago's Finest. Who do these people think they are, thinking they can sport a popped collar and get away with it. Its about time they start getting arrested.  I don't even know who reported them. I should have asked the front desk.