Guess I Won't Be Working There

Here's my irked response to a impersonal company advertisement. Ah, the joys of a job search. Scroll down to the bottom if you want to read the email string from the very beginning. For the record, the only responses to this point I'd gotten out of the company were identically scripted as follows:

"Thank you for your interest in applying with Creative Circle. You have a
very strong work history. Unfortunately, at this time, we have no positions
available that are a good fit for your background. We will keep your
information on file. Should we find a project that is a good fit for you, we
will be in touch. Best of luck in your search!"

Getting this response once is fine. Getting the exact same response to a different job app at the company is not so fine. Anyway, to the irked response:

Dear [name removed],

Thank you for your personal response to my inquiry. While I understand the load of receiving hundreds of emails per day, I feel it is bad form to talk of wasted time and threaten someone with the label of "serial applicant" when I have only applied for three positions in the past week and five positions in the past six months, and the only responses I have received are indentically scripted emails to two applications. As I said, a personal response such as yours is preferable to the carbon copy email responses I have received as it demonstrates some actual attention to my application. In addition, I'm quite certain that your office does have a tremendous workload of sifting through responses, inquiries, and hirings that do not always allow for individualized responses. Nevertheless, if my resume is "on file" as the carbon copy email responses from your company suggest, then there should be greater time taken to filter your job alerts to cater towards potential applicants that are "on file." To be fair, my body of work does not contain the advertising background mentioned within the ideal candidate, but your job alert said that "Your conceptual skills (good headlines and ideas) are valued above all else," and I was hoping my concepts and ideas might be applicable to this position. In the future, I will take more care in looking for a better match to job opportunities at your company, but it would help if I felt that responses to my inquiries about your company will go beyond identical emails generated by a mail server instead of someone who could help me figure out whether my skills are a potential match. Don't waste my time and I won't waste yours. Thank you again for taking the time to respond to my email and for reading this one.

Sincerely,
Colin Milroy

On Mon, February 27, 2006 5:15 pm, [name removed] said:
> Colin,
>
> Please make sure to apply only to the listings that are a fit for you.
> This
> posting is asking for someone who has come from mainline advertising. It
> will not benefit you to submit to every listing we have. We continuously
> have to sift through hundreds of emails a day. We feel that it is time
> wasted when we open an email from a candidate who doesn't fit the
> description we have carefully crafted. When we see your information on
> such
> a regular basis, we flag you as a serial applicant. In order to avoid this
> category, please make sure to read the postings thoroughly. We want to be
> a
> successful resource for you!
>
> Sincerely,
>
> [name removed]
> Creative Circle
> 233 North Michigan
> Suite 1960
> Chicago, IL 60601
>
>
> -----Original Message-----
> From: Colin Grant Milroy [mailto:cmilro1@uic.edu]
> Sent: Monday, February 27, 2006 4:40 PM
> To: [email removed]
> Subject: Re: Junior to Mid Level Copywriter (Fulltime)
>
>
> To Whom It May Concern:
>
> Thank you for sending me a notice of your Junior to Mid Level Copywriter
> opening. Please see my attached resume for consideration toward
> copywriting positions at your company. I'm anxious to learn more about
> your company, its mission, and your use of creative business concepts.
>
> A little about me and my job experience: I earned my Master’s degree in
> English from the University of Illinois at Chicago and my Bachelor’s
> degree from Baylor University in Theatre with a History minor. I
> currently teach English as adjunct faculty at DePaul University and also
> at the International Academy of Design and Technology. This past year, I
> also taught Composition as an adjunct at St. Augustine College.
> Previously, I worked at DePaul University in academic advisement, degree
> auditing, and administration at the Registrar’s office. I have an
> extensive background in the arts and performance production as well as
> composing creative, academic, and technical writing. I work very well as
> a team player in all environments and my diverse work background readies
> me for many contexts: professional, academic, corporate, and creative.
>
> I sincerely hope that we can combine our creative energies. Please
> contact me via this email or call my cell phone at (773)519-3162. I look
> forward to hearing from you!
>
> Sincerely,
> Colin Milroy
>
> On Mon, February 27, 2006 11:11 am, Creative Circle said:
>> Hello Creative Circle Copywriters. We are currently seeking a MID-LEVEL
>> copywriter for a unique opportunity. Here are the details.
>>
>> Position:Copywriter
>> Location: Chicago
>> Duration: Full-time
>> Salary: DOE
>>
>> Job Description:
>>
>> We are looking for a strong conceptual copywriter at the Junior to
>> Mid-level
>> point in your career. The ideal candidate will be interested in making
>> the
>> switch from a traditional advertising background to the interactive
>> space.
>> Your conceptual skills (good headlines and ideas) are valued above all
>> else.
>> .
>>
>> Skills/ Software Requirements:
>>
>>
>> If you feel you are qualified for this position please send your
>> materials
>> to chicago1@us-circle.com with a copy of this posting.
>>
>> To view additional job opportunities through Creative Circle please go
>> to
>> our website at www.us-circle.com.

Don't Add to My Anxiety Monday

Nothing like a really badly behaved classroom to add to anxiety on a Monday. Colleges, revise your student handbook to include the following: there will no, repeat, no whining about classwork and homework if you do not do your homework in the first place. You do not take 30 minutes for the ten minute break and you turn goddamned cell phone off and don't whine about being cut off from the world because you have to turn off your cell phone during class. I'm still learning the ropes as a teacher and haven't grown my balls out enough to yell and throw students out of class, but I can see that day coming. Right now, all I can do is fall back on the "I'm disappointed in you" tactic and garnish it with "this was a really sloppy class" and "you're really hurting your grade if you don't do your work." A few bad apples really did a number today. Luckily, bad class was followed up by well-behaved class that was focused and did their work. Still, Monday mornings are tough, and thinking there will be more Monday mornings like this one doesn't give me happy thoughts. Thank God for tonight: I get to watch Jack Bauer give some horrible sadistic treatment to bad guys threatening our country. 24 has a strangely calming effect on me, despite being a show that involves one nerve-racking world crisis after another. Maybe it's perspective for stress: a bunch of badly behaved teenagers is nothing compared to being faced with corruption, security threats, and death every hour of a day. Or is it?

UPDATE: Here's a follow up to this post.

Some More Pulp Friday (PF 4)

I really, really do want to make a regularly scheduled time of this, but that's proving difficult. This next week should see an actual Friday of pulp. Now, on with the show...

Previously on Pulp Friday:

PF 1
PF 2
PF 3

"Well, goddammit if there wasn't a helluva lotta hollering by some guy and moaning by some woman the past 20, 30 minutes," Brian says. "My kid started screaming ten minutes ago and I started pounding on the ceiling, but you just made more noise. Sounded like you had three people up here having a wrestling match."

My downstairs neighbor Brian is chewing me out for making a racket above his apartment. My only contribution to the racket was getting clobbered by the three intruders in my apartment who are really responsible for Brian's screaming kid. Brian's kid is notoriously light sleeper, but Brian would say I'm a notoriously heavy walker. It's a neighborly mutual disagreement that we don't deal with too well in this building of creaking floors and thin ceilings. This time, I'm hoping the standard Brian tirade will help me figure out what three unknown people were doing in my apartment.

I say, "I haven't been yelling and I certainly haven't been talking about honeymoon plans, like you said I have, but I sure as hell have money problems. So I don't know where you're-"

"Well, someone was hollering and some woman was crying and mumbling about how she didn't do it and you were only making more noise-"

"How do you know it was my voice? You always chew on me for my heavy feet, not for my conversations."

"Well...okay, but who else could it be but you?" Brian says. "You're the only one who lives up here."

"Yes, and I never have company, and I'm at work until this time, so it wasn't me you heard yelling."

Brian's face goes bewildered. "That doesn't make sense."

"I know," I say, "so can you help me with that? What exactly did you hear?"

Brian's bewilder-face gets tighter. "I don't know, you can't hardly tell with noise from upstairs."

"Yes, but you mentioned something about a honeymoon and money."

"Yeah," Brian says, "You, or whoever, was saying that the honeymoon was supposed to be where you left something. That Maui was the spot and she failed and was going to be really sorry."

"Who failed?" I ask.

"I guess whoever that girl was who here. Ginny or something."

I take a beat. "Ginny?"

"Yeah, something like that," Brian says.

"Could it have been Jenny?"

Brian frowns and says, "I don't know, maybe. Why does it matter?"

"My ex-wife's name was Jenny."

"So?" Brian asks. "Pretty common name for women."

"We had our honeymoon in Maui."

"Oh." Brian takes a breath. "Still, that's nothing, I mean-"

"Did you hear anything about Kihei?"

"Key-HEY?" Brian says, "What the hell's-"

"Did you?"

Brian stares at me and says nothing, so I add, "It's a place in Maui. It's on the middle of the island, but still on the seashore."

A little something clicks and Brian says, "Oh, that was it. Okay. Yeah, now that makes sense. Yeah, I did hear that word a few times."

I say nothing because I hope this doesn't mean what I think it means.

Brian finally says, "You're not actually thinking your ex-wife was up here arguing with someone else, are you?"

"Couldn't be," I say, "She's dead."

"Huh?"

Just then, there's a huge crash from the landing below. It sounds like something big just plowed its way through the front door to the building. As the sound of the crash and tinkling glass end, there's a high wailing sound that fades away after a couple seconds. The sound could be from a car's tires or engine, but it could come from a person, too.

Brian and I run downstairs and see that four chained together cinder blocks have broken down the front door, causing quite a bit of damage. There's no one in sight outside.

"How the hell did that happen?" Brian asks. "That must weigh a few hundred pounds."

I'm not thinking about this because I'm staring at a large photo taped to the center of this cinder block missle that somehow came hurtling through our building. I want to look away, but I can't. It's a familiar photo, but there's something strange and different about it that I don't want to investigate.

Brian gapes at me and the cinder blocks, then finally removes himself from his transfixed state and tears the photo from the cinder blocks. He looks at it and then holds the photo to me.

"You know this girl?"

I do, but there's something very wrong with the picture.

My voice does something weird as I speak. "That's my wife."

"That's your dead wife?" Brain gawps. "Did she always look like that?"

"No," I say, "but I know that's her. I just have no idea how she got that way or where this picture came from."

The wind gusts through our smashed door pretty hard.

This will continue...

Next on Pulp Friday: PF 5
PF 6
PF 7
PF 8
PF 9

Ice Fishing: Heavy Drinking Required

Okay. So I spent twelve hours snowmobiling last Saturday and then about four hours ice fishing on Sunday. Ironically, there was heavy drinking involved before, during, and after snowmobiling (a not-so-safe practice) and no drinking whatsoever during the ice fishing. Dear Lord, what I wouldn't have done for some liquor during ice fishing. ANY liquor. Schnapps and Schlitz would have been heaven. Ice fishing is boring. Heavily boring. I know I said there was a walleye with my name on it, but that was not to be, and even if it was, I still would've needed booze to fill the empty space between the fish. Catching a fish is mildly exciting, but what thrill there is lasts a few seconds, sort of like a Victoria Secret catalogue with bra sale. Snowmobiling was good and that wasn't just because of booze, although booze improves many a thing. Maybe someday I will have the heavy booze to go along with the hours of nothingness in ice fishing, but there'd better be a few dozen walleye for me to catch.

Pulp Friday Delayed

A little trip to Minnesota for some unsuccessful ice fishing necessitated the delay. Now, on with Pulp Friday, even though it's Tuesday...

Previously on Pulp Friday:

PF 1
PF 2

It's absurd.

It doesn't make the slightest lick of sense.

How could I find a photo of my dead wife sewn into a damp handkerchief I just found on the floor of my apartment after I'd just been clocked in the head by own front door by some unwelcome visitors?

Things are just getting too weird when there's a knock on my front door.

On instinct, I go to open the door, but the large identation in the wood reminds me I've just had intruders. I snatch up the baseball bat from the floor, put on my gruffest voice and say, "Yeah, who is it?"

"It's Brian. You wanna keep it down in there? My kid's trying to sleep."

My downstairs neighbor. Him and his loony wife don't believe in babysitters, and like everyone else in the building, they're a long way from wealth. So one of them works days and the other works nights so that someone's with their child all of the time. I don't think it's helped the kid's development any and it's certainly damaged the parents. Brian works from 4 a.m. until 3 p.m., so he's always grouchy by early evening when I return to the building. I'm inevitably disturbing some combination of him and/or his kid, so this is nothing new.

"Sorry, Brian. Bad day at work."

"That's no reason to take it out on my ceiling and my kid's nap. You and your old lady just work out your bad days some other way."

"My old lady's been gone a while now, Brian. Thanks for the painful reminder."

"Yeah, you and your new girlfriend have been doing lots of damn painful grieving the past 30 minutes. Enough's enough. Quit pounding on each other."

"I don't have a new girlfriend, Brian."

"Whatever. You and her and her pals been making can stop your thumping and screeching. No one cares about your honeymoon plans and money problems anyway, so stop yelling for all the building to hear."

I take a moment and, still holding the bat tightly in my hand, crack the door open and ask, "What exactly did you hear, Brian?"

This will continue...

Next on Pulp Friday: PF 4
PF 5
PF 6
PF 7
PF 8
PF 9

Headed for the North Country

I'll be driving to Minnesota this weekend, where the temperature will range from -26 to 4. There's a Walleye with my name on it.

Work sucks (Long time gone)

Newsflash: work sucks!!! Well maybe not so newsflash. The reason work sucks now is because I can't get any. I wasn't offered additional teaching work for the spring quarter, so now I need to find something else while still looking for full time work. Anxiety Monday has turned into extreme anxiety Wednesday, Thursday, Friday. Last night was the worst kind of freak out. Yeah, yeah, I'm working on my damn positive attitude. I've been in this situation quite a few times, but it's never enjoyable. Whatever. There's been lots going on this week, so the posts to the blog have been a few days gone. More's coming soon. I just thought I'd post some things to keep the flow (of crap) going. Clarity in Amsterdam will conclude soon, so I'll see what series are coming up next.

Anxiety Monday, Feb. 13

Previously on Anxiety Monday

It happened again. Morning panic, though there doesn't seem to be a need for any. Yeah, it's day before Valentine's Day (yeesh), but I think I got something good planned. There's a truckload of school work, but this is movie project week, so it shouldn't be overwhelming, yet I'm still feeling the sense of something wrong, something amiss. Don't know why. With that in mind, here's the next free write based on the scary story my students started with fear of the unknown being the operative impetus.

It was raining really hard. The blonde girl looked behind her. She saw the man creeping from across the street. She crossed the street and ran down to the subway to get away. At the bottom of the stairs to the subway, there was a hispanic woman on a pay phone, speaking angrily in spanish to whoever was on the other line. The blonde girl looked behind her, seeing the rain clearly on the red-rose light of the streetlamps at the top of the subway stairs. She shivered, expecting to see the outline of the man following her against the street light. However, the man was not there and did not appear for several moments. The blonde girl thought she might have escaped the man, but she was calling the police anyway. She turned to see if the hispanic woman was off the pay phone. The hispanic woman was staring directly at the blonde girl and not speaking. The hispanic woman's brow furrowed and her teeth flashed as a deep male voice boomed out of her. The blonde girl's eyes widened in terror as she heard the man's voice coming from the hispanic woman's mouth: "I am going to get you, little girl, no matter how much you run." Immediately, the hispanic woman dropped to the ground, her neck contorted, eyes rolling, and fingers clawing. The blonde girl screamed and ran into the subway station, hoping that someone would be there, or anyone could hear her screams; anything to help her escape. The station was deserted.

That's just a first thing off the top of my head. A free write I looked over once for clarity and errors. Maybe that will continue, maybe not. I'll see if anything works with it and I don't know where to go from there. Hope the mornings get less jumpy.

Pulp Friday Continues...

Previously on Pulp Friday: PF 1

I finally sit up from my floor. Both the front and back of my head both throb. I smell pepper and there's a black spot in my vision for a few seconds. I start to think it would have been easier if I had been knocked out completely. Then I think about how I ended up this way after coming home expecting some relaxation time with a much needed drink.

Several people had been in my apartment. No way of knowing how long. One of those persons got dragged out while the other few (or was it several?) left in a hurry once I came home. Why were they here? The one with the sneering mouth, who pounded me with my own door, said something to me before I left. Or he left. It's fuzzy.

I decide I've really earned my drink by this point. I make sure front door is locked and walk slowly back to my kitchen. There's nothing in the fridge to mix with vodka except mayonnaise and soy sauce, so I just splash some water into the full tumbler and call it even.

Who were these people? How did they get in? What did they want and why was one of them being forcibly removed?

Sipping my drink, I walk back down the hallway to the front. There's a crack in the door where my head kissed it. I'd call it shoddy carpentry if my head wasn't so hard and thick.

There's one overturned chair in the living room, but nothing else has been disturbed. Nothing's broken or missing. There's small pieces of paper on the floor, but that could just as easily have come from the cats in one of their crazy playtimes. If it wasn't for the chair, I wouldn't think anyone had been here.

I drink some more and walk through the living room slowly. My head's starting to feel better. I stop when I see something poking out from under the couch.

It's a little white piece of cloth. I pull it out from under the couch and turn it over in my hands. It's about the size of a handkerchief. It feels damp, but even stranger, the cloth is more like paper than a handkerchief, even though it's made of cotton. The material doesn't bundle when I hold it in my fist. There's a slight crinkling sound and I can feel something other than cotton. My slightly bruised brain asks me what the hell this is.

I find the answer as I spread the cloth out flat on my table. There's something inside the cloth. I can see the outline of something square and dark inside the white material. It must have been sewn in there.

I use scissors to cut open the cloth and find out what's inside. I rip off one layer of the cloth and see something that looks like carbon paper with crumpling creases all over it. I pick it up and turn it over feeling that shudder in my spine for the third time today as I do so.

It's a photograph of my dead wife. Jenny's smiling and creased face looks up at me. There's no sound but I hear high-pitched noise from somewhere.

This will continue...

Next on Pulp Friday: PF 3
PF 4
PF 5
PF 6
PF 7
PF 8
PF 9

Clarity in Amsterdam, Part Four

Continuing writings from travel about a year ago...


PART ONE
PART TWO
PART THREE

As Edmond and I walk to the bar for our chat, I wonder how drunk I should get before I start spilling my guts about all the bad things that have happened alongside my dubious choices. Edmond and I have known each other over twenty years. He was the only friend I had for a couple of those years. We've both done our share of drugs and other such misdemeanors and have told each other all of our hits and misses, fuck ups and illegalities, joys and successes, and everything in between. I haven't told anyone some of the things that happened over the past year; my work, my marriage, money, family disintegration, mounting debt. Hiding all of my mistakes has given them a sort of invincible mystique in my mind. I feel that these things are too personal and too incriminating to divulge to anyone, but I also feel that I have to share my fuck ups to let go of them.

I decide I should get very drunk before sharing all of the things I want to tell him. I feel that our friendship will be quite different after this conversation, either from what I tell him, what he tells me, or both.

We drink Heineken, the easiest drink to find in Amsterdam. We sip, making small talk about various lingering memories from childhood, how we’ve changed since our teenage years so long ago, and the wonderful experiences of the trip so far. We only get through two Heinekens. Finally, one of us starts the confessions.

“So, you know how there were things I’ve been wanting to tell you.”

“Yeah, same here.”

“Well, it’s been hard to think about talking about it, because I haven’t told anyone. You’ll be the first person to hear about these things.”

“Same here. Did you know that I hadn’t broken up with my last girlfriend before I started seeing my wife?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“I mean, obviously she wasn’t my wife yet, and I didn’t even know she was going to become my wife, but Margaret and I hadn’t ended our relationship.”

“You were seeing her for a long time.”

“Yeah, I was. So, I cheated.”

“Maybe, I suppose. But look where you’ve ended up.”

“I’ve always felt bad about that. I wasn’t done before I moved on. It was really dishonest.”

"It's really not so bad. I mean, I stole money from my job.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I had no money at the time. There wasn’t enough money coming in to support us both because she was looking for work for months and we were living off my salary, and there just wasn’t enough. We didn’t have enough for the bills and food. I didn’t steal to buy myself something nice. We were living off peanut butter and tortillas for weeks. I finally couldn’t take it anymore. I took money to get us food. Now that’s dishonest.”

“Yeah, but what choice did you have? You did what you had to do to survive.”

“That’s the rationalization, but it’s still stealing.”

“That was what you had to do at that time. I think you did what a lot of other people did would have done in your situation.”

“Maybe. It doesn’t excuse me. I ended up taking over $500.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I never bought anything nice. It was just for food.”

“You needed it to survive.”

“I don’t know. Sorry I cut you off. You really don’t need to feel bad about what happened with you and Margaret. It’s what was meant to be.”

“What kind of person does that make me? Someone who does that?”

“I can’t say. All I know is that you were ready to move on. Don’t beat yourself up.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah, fuck.”

"You and me both."

“Fucking cheers.”

“Fucking cheers.”

Beer glasses clink.

“Thanks for listening to my shit.”

“Hey, thanks for mine. You've been my best friend for over 20 years. I couldn't tell this to anyone but you. James and Dan wouldn't understand.”

“Yeah. You were my first friend in L.A. and you've always been there for me over the whole time. To me, that says you’re loyal. You don’t need to feel bad about not finishing one girl before starting another.”

"Jesus. Well, don’t think about all the other shit. Think about your wife and how you can help each other. All that other shit will work itself out."

"I’ve made such a fucking mess. I don't know what anyone else would think of me."

"Same."

No changes yet.

The shit will continue.

PART FIVE
PART SIX
PART SEVEN

Clarity in Amsterdam, Part Three

Continuing writings from travel about a year ago...

PART ONE
PART TWO

The previous two days were spent in our group of four getting the layout of the city. We walk to the most highly recommended coffee shops, we learn our way around the downtown area near the Luxer. After Barney’s, we needed an unexpectedly long time to recover. We try to put the blame on the jet lag, but we also remark that we’d probably be doing a lot more in this city if we were here in our twenties instead of our thirties. We visit many more coffee shops and bars, and we browse through the Red Light district.

The prostitution I witness in Amsterdam is a carefully crafted business. In the Red Light district, prostitutes stand in glass doorways outlined in pink neon lights, creating the impression of a mystical portal into another realm. Some of the girls tap the glass and smile enticingly. Others are more aggressive; they’ll lean out of their sci-fi portals and call for customers. There are bartering sessions in open doorways to discuss business, and all other windows have white curtains covering whatever is within.

What surprises me most is the organization. Depending on the location in the Red Light district, all the prostitutes could be Asian. Another street or alley might have only white girls while the adjoining street has only black girls. Another might have only heavy set women or older women. I’m impressed but a little disturbed by the meticulous sectioning of flesh by taste. The women range from grotesque to very alluring, but then again, that’s also a matter of taste.

During our first walking tour of the District, Library Girl catches our eye. She wears a white button-down shirt with very few of the buttons in use. The tails of the shirt are tied snugly around her flat stomach, pressing tighter around her breasts which are further crushed into glorious cleavage by her clearly visible black push-up bra. Library Girl’s tousled brown hair hangs long from her oval face, sharpened by the thin glasses perched low on her nose. The pearls around her neck go slightly lower than her hair, drawing the eye downwards to the black underwear and thigh-length stockings enveloping her long legs.

As people pass her door, Library Girl tilts her head downward, her eyes penetrating outward above the thin-rimmed glasses. She gives small smiles and sways her hips slightly. It’s a well-crafted look, and the four of us, like the other nearby onlookers, stop for few moments to admire the view. Library Girl is a very good temptation.

The central parts of the Red Light district have sex shops alongside the glass prostitute doors. A female friend of mine recommended Sexyland, claiming that it was the best shop in the district because of the selection of videos and live shows. James and I are all for going in, but Edmond is hesitant. He still feels the newlywed pull. James and I kid Edmond because he’s been married the shortest amount of time. We give him crap about feeling so closely tied to his wife and guilty about looking at naked girls. “Wait until you’re married a few years like we are and you won’t be so hesitant,” we tell him. Edmond politely declines and leaves with Dan. James and I eagerly go in to browse.

Sexyland does indeed have an impressive video collection. It’s easy to spend a bundle because the viewing booths work by time limit and there’s always more to see. The presence of tissues and the smell of strong cleaner in the booths doesn’t enhance the mood. Still, James and I decide to browse the shows without using the booths to their full facility. We comment to each other that the booth cleaners in Amsterdam have really shitty jobs.

We wait for the scheduled live show, just to experience the novelty. As the window screen rises to show the round stage within, I think of the “Open Your Heart” video that I saw dozens of times as a teenager. None of the three women on the small, revolving stage beneath the short ceiling remotely resemble Madonna. They’re don’t look bad physically, but they look very tired. They pull a leg to their head, shift around and arch their backs, lie backward and forward spreading their legs and grabbing their breasts every which way, but there’s a feeling of fatigue to what they do. There’s a sense of having gone through these motions too many times. I don’t find a sense of sexuality; the whole event feels drawn out and sad. All the girls look like they should be elsewhere.

James and I leave for the hotel to meet Edmond and Dan. We talk briefly about the awkwardness of the booths, the visibly exhausted dancers, and how hot Library Girl is. We don’t say much after we leave the central district. I think again what my reaction to all this would have been even five years ago. Maybe I’ve aged myself out of certain enjoyments.

The shit will continue.

PART FOUR
PART FIVE
PART SIX
PART SEVEN

Kind words from an intelligent peer

I don't know how she found it, but my good friend Wendy already took a look at my fledgling blog and offered some good reviews. I have barely advertised this blog and don't generally expect anyone to read it, so that was a pleasant surprise today. As I said previously, Wendy knows how to blog. Even better, Wendy knows how to write well. She's also joined a blog conglomerate that does good stuff. So, if anyone is reading this, do check out Wendy's blog (see also the links on the right) and her group Oh My, That's Awesome. They CAN blog for shit and are an inspiration to people who have no business blogging, like myself.

The shit will continue. Thanks, Wendy.

Anxiety Monday

Monday mornings are always bad for me. Not just in the start of the work week way; I get bad anxiety on Monday mornings. It's part of the self-consciousness of being a new teacher (freshman comp, by the way), having an uncertain financial existence, and the stupid habit I have of arranging all my problems in my head so that I'm thinking about all of them simultaneously. I'll call it lumping, this ridiculous practice I can't seem to shake, though I know I'm just freaking myself out. In honor of this, I'm starting a new series for Mondays dedicated to horror. I'll start with a free-write my students did together as a class.

I wrote the first sentence ("It was a dark and stormy night") on a piece of notebook paper and the students passed the paper around the class. Each student wrote only one sentence to add to the story. They were instructed to add on to the previous sentences so that the class built a story together. Sort of like the telephone game, if you're familiar with that. After all students contributed, I took the paper and wrote the results on the board. Here are the results:

It was a dark and stormy night. I began to head for the vault. It was raining really hard. The lights went out in the house. All of a sudden I heard a loud noise. I went to check to see what the noise was. It was a scary man. From fear of the scary man, I crossed the street and ran down to the subway to get away. I saw the man creeping from across the street. There was a mysterious phone call and he said, "I am going to get you, little girl, no matter how much you run." She kept running and went into some church. There was an old priest lighting candles. He was dancing to Black Eye Peas "My Humps." When he turned around, he saw other people dancing to the same song.

I think it's a good starting point. I like the mysterious phone call. I would definitely be anxious about being followed by a scary man, and I would certainly feel horrified seeing a priest dancing to "My Humps." There is room to build here, and there are more stories waiting to be told from this beginning. Anxiety-Horror Monday begins.

The shit will continue.

Pulp Friday, Part One.

The Pulp:

It's impossible to breathe through the lingering smoke of fifteen intimate years with tobacco. Still, the cigarettes really gave me joy when they were around. The smoke still lays on my lungs, choking me, drowning me in my own junk, and I wish I could have another cigarette and smother myself some more.

The problem is, my wife Jenny made me quit them a couple years back. She died a few months later. I'd still love to grab a pack and smoke my way to bliss, but that would feel like cheating somehow. Either that, or I believed my wife when she told me she'd haunt me if she died before me. I feel that she may be watching, probably waiting to catch me the moment I light up.

I still feel like grabbing that one magic pack as I walk by the dim and dirty general store on my way home. I stare at the cigarette posters in the window that beckon with attractive women and smiley men clutching their tiny white rods of joy and death. Christ, how I'd love another drag.

I feel a shudder in my spine and I wonder if that's Jenny giving me the nudge home, even though she's no longer there. I shove my hands into my overcoat and walk faster.

Today is wet. As I walk to my back door, the dreary drizzle continues, adding to the cobalt puddles littering the alley's asphalt. Beads collect everywhere; on the surface of my coat, the brim of my hat, the wire mesh on the buildings in the alley, even on the bare branches of former trees and shrubs between buildings. My feet squeak as they hit the bottom step of the stairs to my apartment.

The wooden stairway to my apartment is covered, but the water has managed to squirm its way through every slat, and slow drips fall, adding to the dark lines that run down all sides of the stairs. A loopy image of a weeping building flits through my mind, making think I've waited too long to have my first drink today.

I shake a little layer of water off me and put the key into my lock, feeling that shudder in the spine again. I silently tell Jenny to quit it and slosh inside my dark apartment and close the door.

Then, I'm feeling something else. There's a shift in the air, like someone's thrown a thick blanket. I turn around, hearing a faint huff from down the hall as I do. Now there's a larger, stronger shudder going through me. I step carefully toward the hall, wishing I had a weapon on me to greet whoever's come in uninvited.

I hear a low groan, the creak of wooden floorboard, then shuffling and dragging. Feeling ice in my fingers, I reach for the hall light switch. There's a baseball bat just inside my bedroom door partway down the hall. If I can surprise whoever's in here with a sudden light, I should have time to grab the bat and start swinging with the strength of holy murder.

As the hall light comes on, there's certainly surprise, but it's mine as I see a pair of legs being dragged out my front door by two others. I grab the bat from my bedroom and head towards my door. It's being pulled shut from outside by one of the three pairs of legs. As I reach the door, it suddenly swings inward again, catching me square in the forehead. The door wabbles back and forth, I slip and go down on the back of my head.

I wince and grab my forehead, opening my eyes to see a head peeking around my front door, a wide rimmed hat obscuring all the face in darkness except a thin, sneering mouth.

The mouth says, "You're home early."

The door slams shut with whip-speed. I don't know how long it takes me to pick myself off the floor.

This will continue...

Next on Pulp Friday: PF 2
PF 3
PF 4
PF 5
PF 6
PF 7
PF 8
PF 9

Clarity in Amsterdam, Part Two

Continuing writings from travel about a year ago...

PART ONE

In the weeks leading up to the trip, Edmond buzzes with excitement. He emails all of us at least once a day for three weeks leading up to trip, giving us websites to visit, making travel plans, or just keeping track of the countdown to leaving. He calls me every few days or so, and we share our joy of anticipation. During several conversations, we remind ourselves that we’ve got serious things to talk about. We both cryptically remark that there’s some things that we can only talk to each other about. For me, there’s a lot of bad shit that's happened in the past couple of years, and I’m hoping this trip will be a needed relief from constant anxiety and panic.

Though we’ve remained trusted friends, Edmond and I rarely see each other. Edmond lives in Boston, I live in Chicago. James has seen more of Edmond over the years than I have, because they went to New Mexico State University together. Edmond, James, and I all grew up in the same town, but the years away from home have separated us in more ways than one. Edmond’s wedding and this trip serve as a bridge across the years. In one way, we’re reacquainting ourselves, but in another way, we might as well be complete strangers.

On the third night of the trip, as all of us are coming down from a heavy haze, Edmond knocks on the hotel door of the room James and I share, and tells me its time we had a beer in the lobby now that James and Dan are napping.

The shit will continue.

PART THREE
PART FOUR
PART FIVE
PART SIX
PART SEVEN

Strong Bad is alive!

A couple of years ago, I used to religiously check for Strong Bad email on homestarrunner.com. The website's silly absurdity and intelligent humor combined with nerd appreciation was very compelling. Plus, it was cartoony. The SB emails stopped thrilling me about a year ago and I only checked ever few months or so, not really finding anything. Today was a rebirth. This single bit of hilarity restored my faith. Maybe it's the death metal, maybe it's the decoupage. Regardless, it's like finding an old friend again. Let the shit continue.

Clarity in Amsterdam, Part One

Here are some writings I did while traveling about a year ago.

James and I pull our luggage out of Centraal Station onto Damrak street, the main thoroughfare near the train station. Streetcars roll smoothly along, attached to electrical wire strung a few feet above that runs as far as the eye can see. The cobblestone streets are busy. The sidewalks are at least twenty feet wide, but they’re clogged with people. Cyclists whiz by in tailgating groups of three inside skinny bicycle lanes on both sides of the street. There are two canals that run parallel to Damrak with bridges every few hundred feet. James and I head for the first bridge, drawn by the lime green fluorescent lights that shine on every floor of the Grasshopper coffee shop-restaurant-café just across the canal. We’re looking for the Luxer hotel, and we know its general location, but we quickly discover that navigating won’t be as easy as we thought. I take out my laminated map, looking and acting like the tourist I am. A small, dark-haired man in a jean jacket approaches me. “You need some help?” he asks in a kind and helpful voice. “No, thank you,” I reply brightly, still excited to have arrived after almost ten hours of travel. The man’s face changes into a snarl and his voice turns into a growl. “Faahck you!” he hisses at us and stomps off. James and I look at each other, then down the street at Myrna’s Sex Palace. Amsterdam.

My best friend Edmond arranged this trip to celebrate his wedding, which James and I attended four months ago. Edmond and his friend Dan flew in from Boston a few hours before James and I flew from Chicago. We’re meeting them at Barney’s coffee shop as soon as we find the hotel to drop off our luggage.

This trip is a post-wedding bachelor party, but since James, Edmond, and I are all married (though my marriage has been teetering on rocky slopes for months), there is a general assumption that we won’t debauch ourselves too much. We think. I’m looking for comfort and stability in my upheaved world of no money, fragile marriage, and questionable life choices. The logic of searching for what I need in Amsterdam is flimsy at best, but I’m hoping that drugs and the advice of my best friend will help me find my way.

James and I miss the Luxer completely the first time we walk past it, mainly because the street is very thin, roughly the width of a compact car, but also because of the exhilarating congestion. There’s so many shops, bars, cafés, and restaurants jammed into this narrow space flowing with people, bicycles, and cars. We pass over two canals and a dozen streets, feeling lost. I decide to examine the map again. I hate looking like a tourist, but James says that probably everyone in this city is a tourist. Within seconds, there is another man assisting us. The man directs us to our hotel after chastising us for not staying at his hotel. We promise to come have a few beers with him and leave. After checking in to the Luxer and finding our accommodations more than adequate, especially for the price, we meet Dan and Edmond at Barney’s to enjoy our first Dutch coffee of the trip. The next several hours descend into a pleasant blueberry haze.

The shit will continue.

PART TWO
PART THREE
PART FOUR
PART FIVE
PART SIX
PART SEVEN