Chicago Adventures

"Why you looking at me like that?! White bitch!" The short, stocky man was barreling in on me. He shouted rapidly, not all of it words that I could completely understand, getting "all up in my face" as I like to put it.

I had been innocently eating an oat and honey granola bar on the sidewalk in front of the Harold Washington library. I must have been concentrating pretty hard, because I tend to look angry when I do so. The man came out of nowhere, obviously enraged at the assumption that I was "looking at him wrong." Naturally, I glared and walked away, around the corner toward the brown line Library El stop. I sighed and raised my hands to my sides, palms up in a shrugging motion.

Instantly he was racing toward me again, shouting garbled words and repeating "white bitch, white bitch!" I turned to face him and thrust an outstretched finger in front of his face.

"Hey, you get the fuck away from me!" I yelled. I had lost my temper, but I felt strangely calm, and what probably was a sense of release. He paid no attention, but did not advance or back down. He did not lunge forward or grab my finger and break it as I had feared. He shouted after me as I turned away and kept walking, down the street and around another corner, craning my neck only once to look over my shoulder. He hadn't followed me. I avoided State and Van Buren, taking a less populated street to sit in the plaza in front of Barnes and Noble. I breathed in the cold air, tranquil and satisfied with myself. I smiled.

"I finally got to yell at someone in Chicago," I said quietly. My smile grew wider and I laughed.

I haven't updated in ages.

I even took the "updated weekly" out of the tagline for my blog. Actually, I did that a long time ago.

I haven't been completely unproductive. I've been reading, at least. Short stories for Creative Nonfiction and The Alchemist for Magical Realism. The latter was good, but not mind-blowing or life-changing like some people have claimed.

I also started re-reading Fat Girl by Judith Moore. I have realized that there is almost no dialogue, and it reads like she started writing, memory leading to memory, and continued that way for the rest of the book. It is still probably my favorite memoir.

I especially like the introduction.

"I am fat. I am not so fat that I can't fasten the seat belt on the plane. But, fat I am. I wanted to write about what it was and is like for me, being fat."

(There's a paragraph in between)

"I am not a fat activist. This is not about the need for acceptance of fat people, although I would prefer that thinner people not find me disgusting."

Also, the first sentence of the first chapter is "'You're too fat to fuck.'"

Pretty good stuff.

Also, I read a story at a reading, which was terrifying, but worth it.

Talkin' about Megan Baker

www.mbakerphotography.com
So, I know this girl. She's pretty good at photography, if I do say so myself. Maybe I don't know much about photography, but I can talk about what I feel when I look at her photographs.

Her live shots of musical artists show their love for what they do, their intense happiness and passion on-stage. While backstage, her portraits express the artists' dedication to their music. Admittedly, I have been with her on some of these photo-shoots. While trying to make myself as small as possible backstage, I watch as she flits around the room, capturing the excitement of these musicians at the coming show, or the satisfaction they feel after a job well done. Megan loves what she does as well, and talks about it often. She loves being involved in the lives of these musicians.

Know what else she loves? Road trips. Since she now knows someone (other than her mom) who can drive (that being me), we talk about going on a road trip someday. Probably to New Orleans. Hopefully it will be a food-oriented road trip, because I enjoy food a lot.

On previous road trips, she has done some photo-series, one called Little Boxes and one called Decampment. They are mostly pictures of broken-down houses and other structures. They have an almost eerie, dream-like quality to them. Anyway, you should check it out. I can't say I'm exactly an art critic, but I've said my piece. Now go to her website! www.mbakerphotography.com

A note on girly manga

I've been reading so many girly manga lately, it's disgusting. The plot is practically the same in every one. Unless they somehow have a good gimmick, I rarely even remember whether I've read it or not as I go back over the list a couple of months later. Anyway, there are some common things that are really starting to bother me.

The girl often can't stand up for herself. She is sometimes picked on incessantly by the really bitchy girls in her class (we're usually talking high school here), until SURPRISE! The guy stands up for her and saves her. But wait, she hates this guy! He's a total asshole to her! He's always forcing her to do things she doesn't want to do (some of these sexual in nature)! But she can't help but feel drawn to him.... She can see his GOOD side.

Some things to think about, girl. When a guy forces you to kiss him, whether it be physically or by a form of manipulation, that is called SEXUAL HARASSMENT. Same goes for when he's always grabbing you and bringing you in close. Maybe it makes your heart go "doki-doki!" but if you weren't really cool with him doing that in the first place, you have the right to turn around and smack him, especially if he does it more than once. And if he tries to rip your clothes off or forces you down/against a wall? Please, call the police.

So ladies of the fictional Japanese comic book world, know that you can stand up against harassment. Tell a teacher! Or at the very least, please for the love of God tell him to fuck off.

I know, it has been a while

But I don't know what to write about. I've been editing things that I'm not going to post here, so that's out. I haven't had any interesting things to think about lately. I went home (to Minnesota). I ate. I went shopping. I watched anime. I worried about my cats. I came home (to Chicago).

What an uneventful life I lead. I've been baking potatoes in the oven, since the microwave is broken. They taste even more delicious this way. I rub vegetable oil on them, poke holes in them, and salt them. Then I just put 'em straight into the oven. I found the recipe here: http://howtobakeapotato.com/
Just ignore the "tips to cut down on belly fat" ads. Only problem is they take forever.

Maybe next time I'll have something important to say.

Silvertongue reading

I read a very short story tonight at this reading series called Silvertongue. It was about my cousin Jennifer's autism and how it's dealt with in the family. Surprisingly, I managed to keep my nerves under control until I was up at the podium. Then my face turned red and my voice started shaking a bit, but I finished it! Then afterward, a couple of people said they liked my story, which made me very happy!

Silvertongue was combined with Verbatim tonight, which is a poetry reading thing. The only other guy reading a short story instead of poetry was very good. He pulled off a difficult form, and his words almost sounded like poetry. Much better than me and my purely straightforward writing style. I wish I could muse more beautifully.

Here's a piece of what I read. The topic was "keep it in the family."

When I was a kid, I always got pissed off when Jennifer and her family came to our house to visit. It meant that I had to put all of my important things at the top of my closet or bookcase so Jennifer couldn't get to them. It meant that she would eat my mother's tall, beeswax candles, although that was more funny to me than it was to my mother. It meant that I had to constantly stay in my room, or keep an eye on it at all times. If I left, I would come back to the door cracked open.
"Jennifer," I would growl, bursting in. And there she would be, on the floor in the middle of a mess of my clothes and toys and CDs and secret stash of makeup.
"Sorry!" She'd screech. Then she'd run out, muttering in a voice garbled with other half-words, one of my family's video tapes in hand.


Then I went to this photography gallery opening thing, and it turned out that it had been canceled and there were very few people there. It was kind of awkward, since I brought wine to share, and ended up hiding it and keeping it for myself. Now I'm drinking it and it's pretty good, so it all evened out. It's Hirschbach and Sohne Riesling.

Until next time!

Shit, it has almost been ten days since I last posted!

I've been writing, though, I swear! I wrote a piece of flash fiction that I want to submit to the Story Week Reader, so I'm not so sure I want to post it here. Although there are a few short shorts that are already on this blog that I may submit as well, like the "Changes" story. Those of you that aren't reading, give me some feedback! I will post the first paragraph of this new story that I wrote.

She had eaten nothing all day. Flashes of light from neon signs pushed themselves into her consciousness, their bright pinks, greens, and reds demanding, “pay attention to me!” She wondered if they were hot to the touch, and was disappointed when she stretched up both arms and found the lights too high to reach. She figured that the burn of the glass on her hands would distract her from the ache in her stomach. She looked up at the sign, slowly reading the words that advertised food and warmth inside.

But she couldn't eat. Not just yet.

She was starving the baby out. A hunger strike against her own flesh and blood.

I kinda like the story as a whole. I wrote most of it on the train on the way home, it was awesome. I just got an idea and wrote it all out. If you wanna read the whole thing you can tell me or something.

Okay, bye.