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.

Whats the word?

I was just one of many, surfing the web and wasting time in the full computer lab today. I usually keep an eye on anyone coming in. Someone has got to do it. It is  usually a pretty calm, quiet place. The majority of the sounds being cell phones ringing and older people losing patients on computers they don't understand.
From the corner of my eye, I saw someone approaching. An older, Indian woman, who looked to be in her late 40's. She was frustrated and swiftly heading in my direction. I didn't think much of it because I had no idea who she was. But I still wondered why she was looking straight at me and walking towards me. What was even more odd, was that she began to talk to me.  She held her books and papers up in the air and was telling how confused she was.
"See, I just don't seem to understand it in the text. I don't feel I can say it. And even though I looked it up, it doesn't seem to make sense to me, still, that he chided them and they still respected him."
She showed me an open book, as if I knew what she was talking about and as if I understood. There was a small black and white photo of something. She went on...
"It says he chided the people. And that confuses me because the people respected him and changed their ways after he chided them. Why would he chide them? You know?"
I just looked at her face. -Looked her in the eyes, making eye contact and waited for the moment she realizes she does not know me, I am not in any of her classes and I haven't seen her before. Because of my own personal weakness of keeping myself together, in a situation as odd as this, I had to turn away because that moment I was waiting for never came. While I was away, I thought I'd humor myself.
"Whats the word?"
"Chided," she said.  I typed it in and got a quick answer.
"Chided," I said. "To scold to make better or improve." 
"But why would he chide them if they respected him?" she asked, looking me fearfully in the eyes.

" I think, because he wanted to better them. And if they respected they would changed their ways." 
-Of course, I had absolutely no idea what the hell I was talking about in reference to what she was saying, but I went along with it anyway because, I had a lot of time to kill. I also felt bad for her because she just didn't know what I knew.
"I really think it works," I told her.
"You really think so?"
"I do. I really do."
She then thanked me generously and disappeared almost as quickly as she came.

Daniel

As I roamed the great halls of community college today, an elderly Korean man got out of my way so I could get a drink of water. He smiled nicely and presented the fountain to me. I was just bored.  It was only a three-second take. I didn't want to kill the whales.  Even as I rose to walk away, I could tell he was following me. I stopped at the corner to let him walk past me if I happened to be wrong, but it turned out I wasn't. He stopped right in front of me as if to happily point out an embarrassing booger I had planted on my collar.

Daniel: You study here?
Me: Huh?... Oh, yeah.
Daniel: You like it here?
Me: Yeah, I do.
Daniel: What you like to study?
Me: Graphic design. Art. Web design.
Daniel: Oh, wow. So, what would you like to do?
Me:....What?
Daniel: What do you want to do (leaning in so I could understand).
Me:...Oh, well,  Web design mostly. You know, websites. Internet.

He nodded. 

And for the next twenty minutes, right there in the middle of the hallway at community college, Daniel preached to me about his conversion from Buddhism to Christianity; the Bible and all its teachings.  Through out the session I looked around, to either see who set me up for this, or someone I might know to get me out. But, there was no one. I had too few friends. So, I stayed still and listened, but let my eyes wander like they do at toy stores. Or Wal-Mart.  He left me with a couple sheets of Genesis Bible Reading Material. He also asked if he ever sees me again, if he could bother me. I told him he could, only because I was ready to be done. And now I am afraid he is waiting around every corner, ready to attack me guerrilla style, followed by a session of power-preach.

the pits

Apparently, I already asked Vanessa, who sits next to me in my Art History class, how long she could hold her breath, last week, because she told me I had. I felt like a first-rate dufus for forgetting.

Moka and Me

Last semester, in my film studies class, there was a girl in my class who didn't always know what was going on.  I'll call her Moka. She seemed nice and I actually felt kind of bad that she was weird and didn't know my language well. I didn't pity her, I just felt she deserved more attention because not being at the same level of understanding must be real tough. One day, I even saved a seat for her, just because it seemed like the right thing to do.  She had missed a few classes, and being the nice guy I am, I offered to give her my notes for the upcoming test we were going to have. I even copied them, so the transfer would be smooth and easy. We were going to meet up one day outside my art class, after it ended.
So, a few days later, I was in my computer art class working hard on a project. My back was to the door, so I could not see when someone comes in. I was not even paying attention to people talking because I was really "in the zone" and completely unaware of anything around me. Apparently, someone kept showing up in the doorway, causing the whole class to look, because of the shadow this person cast in our dark room. This person was relentless and my teacher, Jennifer, apparently was yelling at her that we were in class. Who was this mystery person that keeps popping their head in? It was almost as if they didn't understand. I happen to be turned away from my computer, talking to someone, when the disruptor was there. I caught a look. It was Moka. And this time, my teacher demanded what she wanted. "The guy," she said and then quickly disappeared again. I couldn't believe it and I also got Hot-Cheeks.  Jennifer, still pissed from being disrupted, angrily looked to the class after Moka booked it. "Who knows this person?" she demanded again. The class was looking at her. It was odd when Jennifer lost her patients with any of us, and so it scared us. Everyone was listening and and looking, but me. I was hiding, playing the fool card. When I did peek around my shoulder, she quickly saw me. "Matthew! Do you know her?!" she asked, pointing her finger to the empty doorway.  Holding my shaking hands up as if to plead for my life, I shook my head in most directions, so as to avoid a complete 'yes' or 'no' answer. It was true that I was the one she came for, for help because I pitied her. But there was no way I would admit it. Once everything had calmed down, I went out to visit the water fountain with hopes of running into Moka so I could ask what the hell she was doing and why she wanted to embarrass me so badly.  She must have hidden or something, out of fear, because I didn't see her. I still had Hot-Cheeks when I got back to my computer and couldn't make them go away. Shay, who sat next to me, some how knew that Moka had come for me, by the way I too-easily played off not knowing who she was. Also, my Hot-Cheeks probably gave her the hint.
I found her after class and tried to give her the notes without anyone from my class seeing, but was unsuccessful.   

Dream 3

There were tennis courts and people wearing white shirts and white shorts were were playing. Some poor kids, myself included, were hiding under a tent-like thing hanging over a closed, dark tennis court. We watched the people play closely, in the hopes of a thick, cookie disks they were hitting instead of balls, would fall close to the dark net that separated us. We were on edge and very hungry. When one did come by, we'd all run out like a wild pack of hungry hyenas and grab the cookie disk. It would crumble of course, but the chances were good that some of us would get a few chunks of it to eat. 
This went on for hours.
Later, we were doing the same thing.
After a while into our wait, a cookie disk finally came. This time, it did not shatter. I could barely contain myself because I was so hungry.  As I ran out to grab it, I realized it was not a cookie, but a large high-top shoe made of cookie.
That must be hard to hit around, I thought. As I grabbed it and got back to our saggy tent quickly, it felt warm and somehow I just knew someone had been wearing it. I could smell the sweat from the foot that was once worn by the cookie shoe, formally the cookie disk... I hesitated about the whole situation. -That I would soon be eating "foot" .  But hey, its food. When times are tough, you do what you can to survive.
And I tried not to think about it.

Sunny Afternoon Dealing

I was sitting in the sun today, downtown, just relaxing and listing to music before class started. Then, a guy walked right in front of me and gave the the, "aight'" thing where he dips his head ever so slightly. He walked passed me but stopped ten feet away and turned around. As he came in front of me again, he asked how I was doing...

Guy: How you doing today?
Matthew: Good. I like today. Its so nice out.
Guy: Yeah, its nice. Whats your name?
Matthew: Russ. Whats yours?
Guy: I'm Will. How you doing, Russ?

We did that "Bros" hand shake that good "pals" do, where you grab thumbs, change your grip as you bring it in close, and you never who is doing what, who is leading the cycle and where its going...I kind of went limp for Will, because I wasn't sure how this was going to go down.

Matthew: hhuh?
Guy: you doing good, man?
Matthew: Yeah.
Guy: You live in the area?
Matthew: Huh?
Guy: you live the area? Chicago area?
Matthew: No, not really. -Just for school.
Guy: Well I could give you a number to call if you ever want some weed, and I could get it to you.
Matthew: What?
Guy: If you wanted to buy some weed....
Matthew: Im sorry, what?
Guy: ...Weed. It'd be easy. You could just call.... You smoke this stuff?
Matthew: ...Huh? No. I don't smoke this stuff...

Then it got weird and a bit quiet. Will did not know what to say, because who knows if I'd be able to hear him. We enjoyed the sun.
The awkward silence between the drug dealer and the full-grown school boy who couldn't hear, was probably a lot more than Will had planned on. Seeing this, he panicked badly by doing nothing but hold his ground, look suave in the sunlight and be cool under pressure.

Matthew: Well... I think go to school now... Have a good one, Will.
Guy: Hey, you too, Russ. Have a good day.

The Ass-Biting Passed

A few weeks ago I made a new friend at school. I helped her with some art stuff in the computer lab. She is really nice and laughs a lot. I work a lot in the lab quite a bit and run into her often, now. I answer a lot questions about computer stuff she doesn't understand.  Tonight, I helped find pictures of doors and buses. Later, we stood outside the school not knowing what to do. She needed to eat and wanted it to be cheap. Her cheap though, was too cheap for me, apparently. We rode the train two stops to where I get on the bus. Once we got out of the subway and once again stood there, she hinted to me to come in and eat with her....But it was McDonalds.
"I am not going in that place with you," I said, pointing. Maybe I was a bit too forward, but she just did not know how much of a passed I have with this establishment.
"I don't feel comfortable. Too many people..." I think I went on about something, but its not entirely clear to me at this time. I was nervous.
"Maybe in another six months. I have a hard time breathing in there."
I saw my bus pulling up, so we said our good-byes. She wished me good luck on my journey.
...It wasn't until I got home and made a sandwich, that I realized I gave up the possibility at a nice evening, with a nice new friend, in a big city, where its hard for a guy like me to find a nice friend, all because I refused to step into a McDonalds for a cheap meal.

Stache' Sporting

I knew I was going to shave or at least trim my beard for some pictures for my photography class. However, I failed to be prepared for the feelings I got when I cut it it down to a mustache.
"Who is that man in the mirror, now?"
I could not stop laughing as I buzzed off all but the stache'.  I looked like a completely different person, like a real man.  When I had the beard, my face looked more narrow. Now, it looks littler and rounder. Untrustworthy. I walked out of the bathroom and they both laughed. Possibly out of fear, because maybe I had a gun in my pants or some candy I might use to lure into a garage or van. Paul liked it, and Brigid did not.
"For photographs, its fine, but get rid of it before you go out in the world, okay?" she gently pleaded. Something happened to me as we took those pictures. Some kind of power, like I knew everything in the world, including the cougar-attack facts and how to beat people up with (without even touching them). It scared me.
As I brushed my teeth tonight before bed, I worked on my faces in the mirror. Normally, they are just silly ones that make me laugh and other people ask if I am lost. These faces though, were new and I did not know them well.
They were dirty.
Mysterious. Like a sketchy salesman selling designer jeans out the back of his pick-up truck, behind the high school. Chicks, man.
I didn't trust him.....and yet, something about him, this person who was me, but not, at the same time, opened me up to the possibility of a new world. A new life of fortune and glory. A life full of corner-standing, chick-grabbing, Stache' sporting, adventure. -Something I have never had.
Maybe, when I go out into the world tomorrow,  people will fear me, or at least, not ask for spare change. Maybe I will hold my head up high and say,
"I dare you not to look."
Or, "Yeah, my pants are tight, my shades are dark and I have a man-bulge, what of it, jack?"
-All with the eyes, the stach' and the uncontrollable need for babes.

Thursday BMT

I walked into Subway and right away, they began making my sandwich, even before I could say anything. Its not surprising, because I always get the special.
She put the meat on the bread and I sprawled myself over the glass wall that divided us.
"Umm... I think I will try the BMT."
Of course, she didn't understand because she rarely ever does. Most of our communication lies between the roasted chicken and chipotle mayo. That, and their laughing and talking towards me in their native, Indian tongue, when I walk in.
She just twitched the corner of her lip. She always does that when she doesn't understand. That lip twitches a lot. To her,  I must do something right, because she always packs my sandwiches so full, I can barely wrap my lips around the damn thing.

All in all, the meal was a success, but I felt like popping after words, because I was so full.


Later...


As I waited for my Biology class to begin, my science teacher pulled out a bottle of water, juice, what have you. And we all know there are rules in science classrooms: No Food or Drinks.
"Hey... Hey! You can't drink that in here. That's not allowed," I told her and I gave it to her in black and white. We students, all (mostly) follow the rules.  I thought it was so silly how she began to make excuses to me, her student, about other people having drinks in class too, as she pointed them out.
"But... other people have drinks too."

According to Pino.

Monday. Art History.  I know it is a class that is all about participation and getting the thoughts of everyone who wants to give their opinion, but sometimes people need to just stop talking. Every class has those people.  -The same person that always has something to say. I have that in my art history class. He sits right next to me. I'll call him Pino. The worse part is not that he always has something to say, but what he says sometimes, is just ridiculous. Today we we were talking about how people have been socially taught how to know what art is and isn't. Pino raised his hand and said, "Yeah its just like that girl who really liked to dance. You know her? She was, like, in class and she couldn't stop dancing. You see, some people thought she was autistic, but her parents didn't know what to do...
My teacher, Ivan, just leaned against the white bored, trying desperately to follow and understand. "Yeah..." he said, trailing off, covering his mouth, not quite sure what to say. "Anyways," Ivan continued, "from a very young age we are taught that a tree is green and the trunk is brown. Why? Why can we not change that?" 
The whole class was quiet. Then, a hand went up. It was Pino's. "Yeah," he went on. "They found out that that girl loved to dance so much, that they put her in a dance class and she did really well, actually. She has been on broadway and she is, like, really famous now, sometimes." It took the class a moment to realize this guy was serious, and then across the room, someone began to chuckle, then someone else on the other side. It spread like wild fire, but under control. I had to turn my head 180 degrees away from him.
Pino didn't get it. In fact, according to him, we could all learn a few things that only he could share.   Famous dancers, doctors that send little girls to Broadway dance camps and urban button factories, are just a few thoughts the world needs to know, According to Pino.

I will never wear sweatpants in public. -Mostly and only because I care about people thinking I don't care. There will always be people who wear these clothes in public and, I'm sorry, we cannot escape them. Paul and I were thinking this the other day as we came across a sweat-suit coat. Like sweat pants and a sweat shirt, but in the form of a suit coat. "Now, those of you who have given up on society can look nice and STILL be comfortable!!" ...Maybe that was their slogan.
After that, I went to class. As soon as I sat down,  Pino walked in an sat his stuff down and hung his coat on his chair. He went out for a few minutes and I realized the coat he was wearing was the sweat-suit coat. -The very one Paul and I were looking at a few minutes before.  I checked the door to make sure he wasn't there making sure no one would touch it.  I grazed it with my hand. It was nice. Soft between my fingers. Part of me was repulsed by it.
...Another piece of me heard the coat calling to me. A feeling that stabbed morality in the heart.
I quickly pushed it away so it couldn't do me anymore harm.

Ferrari Walking

The weekends in Chicago are busy times for people who own expensive cars to drive them around, showing everyone they own and drive an expensive car. There are Ferraris, Lamborghinis, plenty of  Bentleys, BMWs, Fords, Toyotas, and Hondas. Most days these fancy people sit their fancy cars in the garage, waiting desperately for the weekend to come so they can drive around in meaningless circles. Paul and I were in the area, pretty much doing the same thing. You see, we were getting him an application to work at a fancy clothing store for fancy people to shop. Unfortunatly, they were closed. And we had gotten all dressed up to show off that, we too, could be fancy people, could enter a classy, expensive store and act fancy. Too bad. We walked down one street for a while, although we didn't do any loops so other people could take a gander.
Sure, we looked the part from far away but, come close and you could hear us bickering and pounding out ideas on our new business: Guided Tours of downtown Chicago. Provided by, "Best Kingsmen Top Tours."
"Hi, I'm Hooper Shaque and this is my buddy, Piper Colten. We'd like to thank you all for actually signing up to come on this tour. We are just so excited to show the real Chicago; the trades and secrets that make this place the greatest place on earth!... First, we need some coffee.  So, lets go sit down, fritter a few hours and just chit-chat like real Chicagoans! Okay everybody, now climb in this here wagon and we'll be on our way!"

Assortment and a 5th Grade Dream

A bowl of Beef flavored Ramen soup, a piece of pizza I forgot that I didn't finished from about a week ago, six chicken nuggets (with barbecue sauce), an Oatmeal Cream Pie with three-times as much cream in it, and a cellophane wrapped cinnamon roll, I found in the back of the cupboard.This was my dinner tonight. Never have I had such a sad, stupid, stubborn little meal. An overall tone of colors and hues one finds in desert drab, sickened me and called to me at the same time. "Eat me. Eat me, you thumb-bumping, never-good-at-any-sports-ever boy." Maybe it was 5th grade Matthew pushing to be known again. "You'll always get picked last and ignored in gym. You will always lose in four-square. Do not ever play basketball again, seriously. Love is not made of sand and plenty of gravel, Matthew. You cannot spray racism away, Matthew. And Matthew, dumping cola all over the teacher's grade book really was your fault...But, I accept you in my deliciousness of all that in unholy." 

chicken legs

Tonight, we made barbecue chicken legs. It only took us a year to finally put the baby grill together and use it. We waited too long, because it was so good. Too good, probably.
And thanks to Honduras- less food and hungrier people, I am able to eat at a higher velocity. Something like 2:1.
We don't talk much during eat-time. Unless it has to do with how good the meat is, other meat we should get, foods that would compliment the meat, waffle fries, cookouts in parking lots of games, joining the Chicago Community Football League, chicks, big speakers, brass knuckles, recent fights we were in, Fila shoes or Bugaboo Jeans. Anything else and its drowned in the chomping of meat because we are just a couple of guys trying to have a good time.

match, set.

The nice thing about having the sink so close to the toilet, in the bathroom, is that you can wash your hands while taking care of business, because you just got home after riding public transit and you don't want to wait until you get out to have those 2 oatmeal cream pies.

Lost In Transition

A few months ago I woke up itchy all over my legs. It was really bad. There might as well have been a homeless man sleeping with me, because I'm sure his situation is not any better. Although, he probably has them all over his body. In his mouth, in between his toes and crawling in and out of his anus hole like ants on parade. However, it was not from a homeless man, because when I checked every morning it was just me.
"Its Bugs!" I'd say the next morning. Convinced I was right, though I rarely was, even though this time was different, I began looking closely at my sheets, daily, with my desk lamp. Any little speck could have been a bug, but upon investigation, most turned out to be just skin, hair, or thread. No bugs, but not good enough. After I vacuumed the mattress all over, under the seams and in the crevices, I felt a little better. I actually thought I'd get a better sleep and not itch and scratch my itchy-ass legs. I woke the next day even worse and did not know what to do. The sheets were still new- only a few months old. "Still itchy," I told Paul and Brigid, walking out of my room late. "I just don't get it." They were already up. I had not slept well. Paul's eyes hardly moved from their steady position of "Steve Wilcos," on TV. " Have you washed them?" Brigid asked, looking up at me. " Yeah, but they are still new. - Only a few months old "
"When was the last time you washed them?" She asked.
"I don't know... like three months ago. I think?" Paul's eyes slowly shifted from Steve to me. They both looked at me like a was holding some kind of wild, jungle lizard.
"Hueso," Brigid began. "You have to wash your sheets every 2 weeks. -Sometimes every week."
"I haven't been doing that," I told them both. "I did not know this."
"Yeah, pal. Thats why you are getting the itchies," Paul finally chimed in.
Feeling better that maybe I had figured it all out, I tore them off the mattress and put them in my dirty clothes pile. Three weeks later we did the laundry and for the first time, I was actually excited to do it. That night, I put my sheets back on, feeling positive. And for the first time in a while, I got a good night sleep.
About a week later, I woke up with something feeling like a bug bite. It felt the same as before. Like bugs. I was itching. Maybe I didn't vacuum well enough, I thought. So, I washed them, yet again, feeling agitated about the whole thing. And it was the same thing.
After a group meeting, we came to the conclusion that the sheets must go. Maybe something in the dye was bothering me. Or maybe, it was that they were made in India. No one knew.
I found some loner sheets of paul's that were too small, packed away in a box and planned to use them through the weekend with plans to buy new ones the next week.
Three months later, I asked Paul to just go with me, because apparently I was having problems deciding on some. We found a home-goods store near to our previous apartment. they had a lot of options. At the time, I had been looking at K-Mart sheets and found some cool zebra-patterned ones I really liked. I hope this place would have them, but also tried not to get my hopes up too high. There were three mini-isles full of different kinds, colors and thread count. I began to aimlessly walk around, which is probably why I never got any before. One of the workers was in the area shelving some products. He was on a knee and grunting as he bent down. He was wearing some big red suspenders that I liked. They held his old jeans up, but boy, I wish I had those suspenders. His hair was long. It was some dirty blond color and unusually shiny. I continued to walk around, feeling the different, dirty samples that hung over the packaged ones. Paul asked me what I thought. "I don't know." Then, a low voice of an elderly man rang out, "can I help you two gentlemen find anything?" It was the person who was bent over grunting. This was no ordinary man, though . His hair was not shiny and dirty blond by the nature of our fellow man. It was fake and plastic. It was a wig. A head of lies. Soon, he stood right in front of us, describing the sheets that are, "really, going like hotcakes."
"Really?" I asked. "You must be kidding. At these prices, how could anyone not need more sheets?"
This was the most lost man-in-transition I have seen in a long time. "You see, the great thing about these sheets, is that they are are really stretchy." He made hand motions of being stretchy and the image of him wearing only a diaper popped in my head... "I guarantee they will fit." I saw his old, wrinkled hands as he mimed stretching sheets. They were too weathered to be working in a home-goods store. They belong on the field, harvesting corn or wheat...something like that. He had to have been in his seventies and trying trying to hide the wrinkles on his face with the hottest pink blush his beautician could find in the back of the boutique. It was blinding and really popped out with the deep blue shade of eye shadow, sloppily colored on above his bright blue eyes. He lathered on, what seemed like hours ago, a different shade of hot pink lipstick that differed not enough to his blush. I tried my hardest to not make any sudden movements and throw off his concentration enough to be found out. The "flub-jiggler" that comes with old age, swung to and fro under his chin with the emphasis of his phrases. That and his clothes, were all he appeared to have as part of being a man. I would like to say I wasn't thinking about the "flub-jiggler," and I would like to say that I was concentrating on his speech. I would like to say that. But, I cannot and I'd be a damn lair if I did say I was concentrating on what he had to say. It would only take two fingers to pinch, squeeze, slap and flap that thing all night. Time would fly, but unfortunately I came to work. I accepted everything he had to say, making the right amount of eye contact with him and panning of the store. "Thanks," I told him. It felt really warm in that store, as I backed up and headed in the isle Paul had abandoned me for, a minute before. "Those ones seem pretty nice," he told me. "Yeah. I just with they were softer. They seem stiff."
"They will soften up when you wash them."
"Are you sure?"
"Well," he said, "go ask her, him. Her...umm...hmm...." He stopped and just pointed. I went back to him and as I was about to ask him if they were the best choice, when a call came on his walkie-talkie. "Shelf help is section D," the voice said. Keep it together, Matthew and we will both get through this, I thought. Grabbing the microphone, I noticed his nails couldn't have been more prettily painted. "Stephanie here, I got it," he said to the voice. "Thanks Stephanie," it replied. "I have to get out of here very soon," I told Paul...and myself. I picked the sheets Stephanie told me to get, mostly because he said they were "going like hotcakes," and I know I like hotcakes and like to talk about them. As we headed toward the register to check out, we both stopped and saw Zebra-patterned sheets. "We will feel them?" I declared. I wanted them. Badly. Paul brought up the point that they were less threat count but same price. "But, they are a novelty. And I like novel things," I said, smiling like an ass-clown. "I know and novelty can cost a lot," he countered.
"Fine." So we walked out with my new sheets. Only took half a year!

...Thanks Stephanie.

culterize

I met a friend from my speech class a few semesters ago, today because we hadn't hung out in while. She is always so busy doing homework and studying and doesn't make enough time for TV. I remembered when we met before, she was not so good at directions once she'd come up from the train. She wouldn't know east from west, north from south. Before we met this time, I was sure to send her easy, phonetic directions:

"its on Washington and Dearborn"
"walk one block west on Washington"
"Walk 1 block on Washington AWAY from Millennium Park"

I was waiting for about 30 minutes before she shuffled in; her hand covering her face. She slumped down in her chair across from me. "Hey buddy, hows it going?" I offered. She did not smile. "I did not know where to go when I got off the train, and I walked over there." she pointed towards Millennium Park. "Well, I sent you easy directions. Why didn't you read them? You got here." She put her hands over her nose and asked me to get her a tissue.

I like to hear about her Chinese culture. She has only been in the states for about 4 years, and is still learning about everything that makes America the Land of Opportunity and the Home of The Brave. She told me about her job in a restaurant, south of Chinatown. It gets pretty shady as you go south of the loop. "Is it dangerous where you work?" I asked, knowing it is not in the safest neighborhood. "Uhh, yeah we are safe. You see, we have these huge walls of glass over the counter that protect us." She turned and motioned a wall with her hands all along the cash register counter of the coffee shop we were at. "So we are safe," she confirmed. "Is there a little metal tray under the thick glass for customers to slide their cash," I asked, motioning sliding cash in a metal tray to match her stride. "Yes," she said, nodding her head. "Well, i'm glad you are safe. I was a fool to think other wise."


As a prepared for bed tonight- brushing my teeth for 2, dentist-ordered, New York minutes, I reboogered myself into a staring contest with the man in mirror. "What have you done?" I asked him. Most people de-booger, you see, probably while they prepare for bed, maybe in the car driving to work. Some people just do not care, I have learned from personal experience, and they find it quite easy to dig for booger buddies on the public transit bus. I tried to re-step my tracks and find the SOB that ended up sliding down the pipe. Luck was not on my side.

time?

The hardest part of my day before I go to school at noon, is calculating whether I have the time to do 2. On the weekends, it is less of a challenge, But during the week, I need to use my college/adult smarts to keep me out of trouble. For the hell of me, I cannot go at school, at work if I had a job, or even if I am out out of the house altogether. Only when when I am home does it work. And even then, it is sometimes a challenge. I do know I have two minutes once the heater starts and makes its noise... Being an imperfect man is no easy task; especially when you only have two minutes to take care of something so precious.

Dream 2

Last night in my dream, a friend of mine won a million dollars. I saw her in the street, crossing the interesting with one of those big-ass checks. It was rainy. I thought about it a moment, then I realized that I almost won a million dollars also. "Oh, ankle burgers!" I thought. "I better do something about that." On TV, there are always people winning "The Jackpot" or "The Lottery" or "Winnings Town USA" ...what have you, and then the people who won are always having people come to them and ask for money. I thought of this, you see. So, just as precaution, we (me, Paul, Brigid and my sister Amy), moved into the trashiest, shadiest, falling-downiest, apartment in Chicago, to hinder any thoughts anybody might have ever, about asking me for money...all because I almost won a million dollars. Walking through the halls to our new home, huge pieces of gray paint chips lay on the floor below bigger ones hanging off the walls. There was a gun shot. It was quite surprising to find a somewhat nice apartment room once out of the halls and community space. -Nice hard wood floors. Although unfurnished, remnants of past tenants lay scattered throughout the entire place. There were baby dolls stacked in a huge pile in the closet. In that room, hanging on black poles, were black, leather, baby-sized masochist vests. "Whatever," I thought. "This floor is great for sliding on," as I ran and slide a few feet on my chest. As I was still on my chest, I heard police sirens and Amy ran in the room, scared with throw-up in her mouth, claiming the police are coming for us. "They keep panning the window," she said, worried. I saw more throw-up in her mouth as I stood up and I thought it looked like old milk or something like that. It began to drip out. "Okay Amy," I said, "lets get you out of here."

Dream

Last night I dreamed my mom and I were going to Honduras. Along the way, we stopped at a gas station for something to eat. I got a Margarita meat wrap/sandwich/roll and a soda. When we got up to the dirty, candy-filled counter to pay, the woman behind the register was very nice. If this little meal was going to set us back in spending, I could feel better because she has a knock-out smile. When our little bill came to about 29 dollars for two items, my mom sighed loudly. She hung her head and we waited there in front of the counter. Was she waiting for the woman to changer mind? Does my mom not know that its not up to her how much we pay, because she just works there? I looked around and found no one to be waiting in line behind us. There was no one yet. I reached into my pocket and fished out my wallet while my mom, still hanging her head, was looking at the counter as if her life was in the hands of this poor gas station attendant. Yet, neither woman budged. The women, cheerful as ever, happily kept telling us the price we owed and even told went into her spiel about other yummy products we might be interested in. -Like hell that would ever happen. I took out my debit card and handed it to the women, crossing the tension filled counter that lay between the women. My mom didn't say anything, but just turned and headed towards the door. In a fit of rage I was not quite sure how to explain, mom angrily grabbed one of the plastic-wrapped cups stacked in a pyramid on display, for sale. She tore the wrapping off it faster than I had ever seen. I looked around to see what commotion she was making, but on one was there. By the time I looked back at her and realized she was a thief, she was filling her new cup with ice and soda. Back on the road, I was really nervous at any moment, I would see red and blue police lights in the rear-view mirror. Although, it did not happen. However, The Bond family from many years ago showed up. All ten or so, of them. No sooner did it seem odd that they were actually running along side our car with the grace of a brisk walk, that I found they could turn into house cats at any moment they desired. And they did along the way. They wrestled and played and still kept up with us. "How the hell are they doing that," I thought. Then, I began thinking about how we would actually get to our destination of the little town of "La Villa de San Antonio," and I worried no one would pick us up from the airport when we arrived. It did not occur to me in that moment that we were driving the whole way. I do not know the streets of our arrival city, Tegucigalpa. What if we get shot driving through? That won't help us at all.
...And so we just kept driving and driving. The Bonds just kept turning into cats. My mom tried to enjoy herself but could not because of that damn woman behind the counter and I began drinking from her stolen cup on accident. When I drank it all, only leaving the ice, I looked at my mom. She looked straight ahead as if hypnotized by the oncoming road. "She's gonna be mad at me," I thought.

todays

Thursdays are really long for me because I go to bed really late almost every night. I have class at 9:30 AM until 1 Pm. That means I have to get up really early...like 7. Most nights I just cant fall asleep due to me racing mind. ....But last night, I went to bed earlier and actually felt tired. I was happy enough to be feeling tired, that I couldn't relax. But soon I was drifting
...I woke up at 2:30 AM because I threw up a little bit in my mouth. I guess I can't be that lucky. I mean, It felt like bees in my throat. Good thing I had that water bottle by my bed.

person notes

March 3, 2010
Personal notes, recommendations and ideas for the day:

with an emphasis as a light question, and geared towards (but not limited to) strangers or people I do not know so well...
Start more sentences with...

But,
Anyways,
Clearly,
But, you know...
Mark my words...
Actually...
Chiefly...
Yeah,
Because...

Scenarios:

A teacher asks if anyone has any questions or comments on the upcoming exam. Raise your hand and say something like, "No, I don't think so. I think we are all pretty ready."

"Hey Matt, how are you?"
" Actually, I got foot fungus athletes foot, what have you
...you believe that? ...Itches like Hell right now, right between the toes."

"Do you have any spare change, sir?" says the homeless man.
"Because, this bread dough Ain't gonna bake itself!"

thanks Marshalls

I often think about the time I left Art History class and headed down the escalator to leave. I had not gotten far before Audra, a girl in my class who sits on the other side of the room, caught up to me and told me I smelled good. She asked what I was wearing. Feeling as if I had to justify myself for reasons unconscious to me, I quickly told her it was called "Curve," and that I got it at Marshalls for only fourteen dollars. I went blank after that. She might have smiled and she may have walked on, going about her day just as any other. On the other hand, she may have stayed and continued to ask me questions about myself, my classes, or possibly lunch at Subway. But I happen to blank for five floors. It was not until I got to the bottom floor that it all came flooding back like a slap in the face. Only then did I realized that a simple, "Curve" and "thank you," would have been just fine.