Again, I ran. Two weekend days in a row to make me feeling accomplished on a cellular level.
Passing by Hot Doug's, quite a popular hot dog joint in Chicago, usually only open two hours a day, long lines withstanding, there was indeed a long line. I've yet to go. Of course being out for a run I didn't have my wallet on me. I thought about proposing a "creative begging" to the last person in line. If I run up to Irving Park (Hot Doug's being just a couple of blocks north of Belmont) and back (just shy of 2 miles) before you get to the door, you buy me a hot dog, deal? But I chickened out, which is probably the more appropriate behavior here in how to follow through on such an idea.
I saw many others running, most listening to iPods through ear buds. I wondered if I'd feel more motivated while running if I were listening to adrenaline boosting music, I probably would, would probably last longer with pick ups. Though, if I were to look at running as a more therapeutic activity, which is a big part of why I'm running, I do appreciate letting my ears out in the open, to immerse in the airwaves of city sounds and the wisps of nature between voids of concrete. I get enough motivation from the echoing in my mind of my old cross country coach, Dan Campbell, saying "Come on Phillips!" I hear this and it helps me run faster. For you Campbell, balls to the walls! He was the inspiration for my "Coach" character in my novel Votary Nerves.
While running across the Belmont bridge over the river, I heard a sudden sound wave, like amplifiers being cranked by quick twist of the knob at a street festival. Coming from Western up by Mariano's and Lane Tech, where there was a carnival last weekend. I wondered if the carnival stuck around and what if a sound wave could be so amped that it'd knock a man down, a man running on a bridge, a man who couldn't react quick enough when the force bent his hip over the railing.
City sounds can move a man.
scribblings, jottings, scenes & stories of Jeff Phillips, writer/performer/producer.
Sunday, June 2, 2013
Saturday, June 1, 2013
Running Dickhead
Roughly a week ago, I recognized, I've been feeling older. A bit of high blood pressure going on (I worked that into a new short story, so it worked out as fodder). Been eating better, certainly doing a bit of walking. But my body could use a push, an upping on the cardiac flow, so I took advantage of the long Memorial Day Weekend and went for a jog.
At first, my body felt surprisingly good. It was refreshing. I even pushed some sprints. I went up and down a trail along the Chicago river, some of the fresh feeling was snuffed by the smell of sewage coming from the waterway, but that soon passed. Must have only been a pocket of sludge floating there.
The next day I ran a bit west, twirled around some diagonal, neighbor-hoody side streets. I thought; I do like this running thing. I've never been much into gyms. Running on treadmills, going from weight station to weight station, feels sort of stiff, non-inspirational for me as far as fitness goes. But having been a cross-country runner and cross-country skier throughout high school, activities I did enjoy, that sense of fast exploration was awakened. Running is freeing in regards to that. Checking out weird pockets of the neighborhood and surrounding neighborhoods without eating up a large chunk of the day as my occasional walkabouts would.
Wednesday, I was stressed about a work thing, and went for quite the run in the evening, pushing some sprints, even some pickups lasting several minutes. The endorphin buzz! Just what I needed. So the runner's high addiction may be something I'll be dealing with this summer and not willing to sway on, unless the MSG in knock-off potato chips gets me feeling even better!
This afternoon, a guy tried handing me a brochure for what looked like a pizza place to me while I was running. He may have read my mind because I was thinking about what carbs I'd have later, excited for them, but man, what do you think I'm going to do with a pizza brochure while doing my run? Clutch it and look like an irony of body work? I did pig out on beer battered onion rings earlier in the day, but that is a contradiction behind closed doors. Plus my hands aren't going to want any responsibility. What a weird move guy.
One of the things I've noticed while running is I see a lot of elderly people walking, or hobbling, with a cane, real slow. And I feel guilty, like, should I go help them out? I feel like I should. That my running around all young and peppy is flaunting something they lack right in their faces. But I also wonder, if I did stop and help them walk around to wherever they may be going, maybe that would be annoying to them, perhaps they just want to go for a stroll in peace and clear their mind. And it would take up a lot of time, for me, if I'm to note something selfish.
Once a few years back an old lady with massive swollen ankles asked me to help her to the grocery store, so I was nice, and did. But she creeped me out when she started offering me a quarter each for all these jobs around her apartment she wanted me to do, which sounded like a lot, and she wasn't asking sweetly, she was stating what she wanted me to do and then dangling a quarter like it would get done faster. Then I pictured myself becoming a permanent low wage employee in her apartment, feeling guilty about leaving her, and thus, never leaving her dark apartment, doing foot rubs and filling a jar with quarters. Because I felt so guilty in this imagined scenario, I panicked after she had me walk her around Jewel at the pace of a dying turtle, so I transitioned a Jewel employee in my place. In all fairness, I was already late for a film shoot, even later because I had tried to be a nice guy, so I felt compelled to get another young man to take my shift with her.
But I feel as though I need to look out more for old people. Maybe not stopping my jog to serve as a second cane, though it may be a dose of companionship. But I'd like to place this guilt and desire to help more efficiently, instead of just thinking it and going off as a running dickhead, waving off pizza brochures from some poor guy just trying to keep his franchise afloat. After all, feeling old is what made me want to get up and run around. Someday, I won't be able to run.
At first, my body felt surprisingly good. It was refreshing. I even pushed some sprints. I went up and down a trail along the Chicago river, some of the fresh feeling was snuffed by the smell of sewage coming from the waterway, but that soon passed. Must have only been a pocket of sludge floating there.
The next day I ran a bit west, twirled around some diagonal, neighbor-hoody side streets. I thought; I do like this running thing. I've never been much into gyms. Running on treadmills, going from weight station to weight station, feels sort of stiff, non-inspirational for me as far as fitness goes. But having been a cross-country runner and cross-country skier throughout high school, activities I did enjoy, that sense of fast exploration was awakened. Running is freeing in regards to that. Checking out weird pockets of the neighborhood and surrounding neighborhoods without eating up a large chunk of the day as my occasional walkabouts would.
Wednesday, I was stressed about a work thing, and went for quite the run in the evening, pushing some sprints, even some pickups lasting several minutes. The endorphin buzz! Just what I needed. So the runner's high addiction may be something I'll be dealing with this summer and not willing to sway on, unless the MSG in knock-off potato chips gets me feeling even better!
This afternoon, a guy tried handing me a brochure for what looked like a pizza place to me while I was running. He may have read my mind because I was thinking about what carbs I'd have later, excited for them, but man, what do you think I'm going to do with a pizza brochure while doing my run? Clutch it and look like an irony of body work? I did pig out on beer battered onion rings earlier in the day, but that is a contradiction behind closed doors. Plus my hands aren't going to want any responsibility. What a weird move guy.
One of the things I've noticed while running is I see a lot of elderly people walking, or hobbling, with a cane, real slow. And I feel guilty, like, should I go help them out? I feel like I should. That my running around all young and peppy is flaunting something they lack right in their faces. But I also wonder, if I did stop and help them walk around to wherever they may be going, maybe that would be annoying to them, perhaps they just want to go for a stroll in peace and clear their mind. And it would take up a lot of time, for me, if I'm to note something selfish.
Once a few years back an old lady with massive swollen ankles asked me to help her to the grocery store, so I was nice, and did. But she creeped me out when she started offering me a quarter each for all these jobs around her apartment she wanted me to do, which sounded like a lot, and she wasn't asking sweetly, she was stating what she wanted me to do and then dangling a quarter like it would get done faster. Then I pictured myself becoming a permanent low wage employee in her apartment, feeling guilty about leaving her, and thus, never leaving her dark apartment, doing foot rubs and filling a jar with quarters. Because I felt so guilty in this imagined scenario, I panicked after she had me walk her around Jewel at the pace of a dying turtle, so I transitioned a Jewel employee in my place. In all fairness, I was already late for a film shoot, even later because I had tried to be a nice guy, so I felt compelled to get another young man to take my shift with her.
But I feel as though I need to look out more for old people. Maybe not stopping my jog to serve as a second cane, though it may be a dose of companionship. But I'd like to place this guilt and desire to help more efficiently, instead of just thinking it and going off as a running dickhead, waving off pizza brochures from some poor guy just trying to keep his franchise afloat. After all, feeling old is what made me want to get up and run around. Someday, I won't be able to run.
Thursday, May 2, 2013
Gun Shit
I've been weaning myself off opinionated rants because, well, who am I to be speaking out on certain things. At times, I wonder if I've earned my perspective, so I've been focusing on doing that. Earning perspective versus rattling off stances.
But today, I feel reactive.
Ya know, for awhile I've been a bit moderate in my thoughts on the gun issue, pro gun-control in part, certainly background checks seem a helpful start. If that's an infringement on rights, well employers, landlords, etc run background checks and no one's barking about their rights there, so it's really not a "rights" issue where background checks are concerned with guns, is it? Nice try. But I've long felt a sense of respectful politeness towards nice people that enjoy hunting, want to have a protective device perhaps, or enjoy marksmanship. So, I was for finding a balance between the 2nd Amendment, sure, and reasonable gun control.
Reading this - http://www.rawstory.com/rs/2013/05/01/kentucky-5-year-old-gets-rifle-as-gift-and-shoots-2-year-old-sister-dead/ - it's a gut punch. And my thoughts now are: Let's just be done with guns. Let's just be done. Let's. Just be done. This whole thing is like watching someone use heroin because they enjoy it and we're afraid to jump in there because, well, it's his freedom of choice to do so. But if you love someone, you intervene right? There's some sort of intervention to say, you know what, time to stop, you're killing yourself. Substitute America for the junky and swap out drug of choice with guns, and it's the same scenario. Simply saying, fine let the junky die off is a little different now, because, we are all America.
When I was 8 and inspired by the movie Robin Hood Prince of Thieves, my friends and I fashioned our own bows and arrows in the woods using branches and string from our mom's sewing chest. Then one day a friend accidentally shot his little brother in the eye with an arrow and we all got our bows and arrows taken away from us. That was a good call on our dad's part. Kid's can aggressive with their toys. Adults can get aggressive with their toys too. America's founding fathers are long gone, their advice a little murky now. America needs a living father figure who has the balls to take away privileges when they are abused. Shit, some bad men, or misguided little boys are ruining it for everybody else. So what. Tough shit. The gun industry may have been a bad experiment.
But what really is at the heart of this gun addiction? Is it protection against the government gone tyrannical? Whoa, even these automatic rifles with hefty magazines won't take a down a drone or a tank or a missile. We've got to get little more creative if we want to keep the government in check, so let's not think the 2nd Amendment so crucial.
The thing is, we all want to feel cool, tough under control. Movies instill in us a sense of how to be cool. I'm not really one for censorship, so let's do a little free market exercise and stop buying into movies that pump our heads full of the imagery below:
One, it's not that entertaining. Maybe that's a snotty thing for me to say, but I'm going to say it anyway. It also feeds our subconscious with a weird, inappropriate way to respond when life naturally frustrates us. We see charismatic tough dudes taking matters into their own hands, and it can be a warped inspiration to a loner having a tough time. Or, if a cold blooded plan isn't floating in one's head, they may, though, be intrigued to play with guns. Like the 8 year me and my friends playing with arrows. We didn't really want to shoot each other, but accidents happen, because it's easy to get reckless when playing with toys.
Now, I'm not against violence in movies when portrayed as it is actually is: creepy, horrifying and stressful. The cool dude shoot 'em up also pumps up the arms industry, it's great advertisement, perpetuating a bloated rationalizing clutch on outdated wording, like the 2nd Amendment. So, how to be done with the physical guns themselves, let's be done with the gun culture. If we don't want the government to make this decision for us, then we the people, let's stop buying gun bullshit, and let the free market fade that shit out.
There. That's my gut. My gut opinion. Now, gun lovers. Convince me that my gut is way off. That my concern for the drug epidemic, that is shooting other people in the guts, is off base and tyrannical.
But today, I feel reactive.
Ya know, for awhile I've been a bit moderate in my thoughts on the gun issue, pro gun-control in part, certainly background checks seem a helpful start. If that's an infringement on rights, well employers, landlords, etc run background checks and no one's barking about their rights there, so it's really not a "rights" issue where background checks are concerned with guns, is it? Nice try. But I've long felt a sense of respectful politeness towards nice people that enjoy hunting, want to have a protective device perhaps, or enjoy marksmanship. So, I was for finding a balance between the 2nd Amendment, sure, and reasonable gun control.
Reading this - http://www.rawstory.com/rs/2013/05/01/kentucky-5-year-old-gets-rifle-as-gift-and-shoots-2-year-old-sister-dead/ - it's a gut punch. And my thoughts now are: Let's just be done with guns. Let's just be done. Let's. Just be done. This whole thing is like watching someone use heroin because they enjoy it and we're afraid to jump in there because, well, it's his freedom of choice to do so. But if you love someone, you intervene right? There's some sort of intervention to say, you know what, time to stop, you're killing yourself. Substitute America for the junky and swap out drug of choice with guns, and it's the same scenario. Simply saying, fine let the junky die off is a little different now, because, we are all America.
When I was 8 and inspired by the movie Robin Hood Prince of Thieves, my friends and I fashioned our own bows and arrows in the woods using branches and string from our mom's sewing chest. Then one day a friend accidentally shot his little brother in the eye with an arrow and we all got our bows and arrows taken away from us. That was a good call on our dad's part. Kid's can aggressive with their toys. Adults can get aggressive with their toys too. America's founding fathers are long gone, their advice a little murky now. America needs a living father figure who has the balls to take away privileges when they are abused. Shit, some bad men, or misguided little boys are ruining it for everybody else. So what. Tough shit. The gun industry may have been a bad experiment.
But what really is at the heart of this gun addiction? Is it protection against the government gone tyrannical? Whoa, even these automatic rifles with hefty magazines won't take a down a drone or a tank or a missile. We've got to get little more creative if we want to keep the government in check, so let's not think the 2nd Amendment so crucial.
The thing is, we all want to feel cool, tough under control. Movies instill in us a sense of how to be cool. I'm not really one for censorship, so let's do a little free market exercise and stop buying into movies that pump our heads full of the imagery below:
One, it's not that entertaining. Maybe that's a snotty thing for me to say, but I'm going to say it anyway. It also feeds our subconscious with a weird, inappropriate way to respond when life naturally frustrates us. We see charismatic tough dudes taking matters into their own hands, and it can be a warped inspiration to a loner having a tough time. Or, if a cold blooded plan isn't floating in one's head, they may, though, be intrigued to play with guns. Like the 8 year me and my friends playing with arrows. We didn't really want to shoot each other, but accidents happen, because it's easy to get reckless when playing with toys.
Now, I'm not against violence in movies when portrayed as it is actually is: creepy, horrifying and stressful. The cool dude shoot 'em up also pumps up the arms industry, it's great advertisement, perpetuating a bloated rationalizing clutch on outdated wording, like the 2nd Amendment. So, how to be done with the physical guns themselves, let's be done with the gun culture. If we don't want the government to make this decision for us, then we the people, let's stop buying gun bullshit, and let the free market fade that shit out.
There. That's my gut. My gut opinion. Now, gun lovers. Convince me that my gut is way off. That my concern for the drug epidemic, that is shooting other people in the guts, is off base and tyrannical.
Sunday, April 21, 2013
Ravaging the System
There's this sense of reward I feel whenever I heal from a hangover, or like my recent experience with food poisoning. It's as though my body has accomplished something grand, letting seep from my marrow a toxic sludge, any old sense of burden made a solvent in the literal poison, raised into a cacophonous crescendo of discomfort, until, swept away through a stream of hot, dark yellow piss.
Recently I grabbed a quick xxxxxxxxx at xxxxxxxx xxxxxxxx , and holy hell I felt like Rasputin in his final moments. I vomited once about 2am, again at 4am, again while taking a shower at 7am, again when I got to work. While hanging over the toilet bowl down the hall from the office, I realized this was worse than any intense hangover, and I've experienced plenty of those to compare. This was my body rejecting something that had penetrated deep. The greasy thing I ate at xxxxxxxx xxxxxxxx. After some vomiting, came explosive shitting. I'm leaving the place cryptic as I've long since enjoyed it, of any fast food, it's been my go-to for a cheap, quick bite while on the run around town. Of the hundreds of times I've chowed it down, this was my first internal attack. So, though it will take some time before I go back, I will forgive it. I will eventually come around. I'll write this off as a fluke. Could happen anywhere. Makes me rethink the culture of chef worship seeing how minor actions of a cook can smite one down, groaning.
I had left work early, laid in the shower because the warmth was somewhat comforting, distracting, and if I needed to vomit again, a good place to wash it away. And I did retch again, hot burning acid from my stomach ripping away my throat. I thought I maybe saw drops of blood in this latter round of upchuck. I wondered if I should go to the hospital? Did I have the energy to go to the hospital? No. I did not. I thought I could be dying. I thought that could be a relief.
But eventually my body rid itself of the poison and I felt like a new man. The ravaging, was somehow, refreshing. It reminded me of the monologue from Sam Shepard's La Tourista I had used for theatre auditions for many years. "Nothing like a little amoebic dysentery to build up a man's immunity to his environment." Perhaps I've internalized this philosophy a bit after so many recantations. I'm a fan of ravaging my system every once in awhile. The clarity after that storm, seeing thick tree roots of dull anxiety ripped up and laid waste.
But today I thought about ravaging, and society's equivalent. A body politic can digest things that are unhealthy too. And things like the Boston Marathon bombing, Newtown, Aurora, and let's not forget about variations of attack abroad. Yet the sigh of relief at the end of my nausea, where is the equivalent in this greater scheme of world retching? Well, there are bubbles of violence, we all settle back in, until the next event of malevolence pops. Just as I'm sure someday again I'll eat bad food, or drink too much, making this sigh of relief a blip in time too.
Civilization can get complicated. Problems fizz. When I see attempted solutions in the form of explosions, nicking apart flesh, aside from the horror, I notice there is a glaring lack of creativity in that approach. It's cliche. Someone's mad at the world and they hurt people, they make a mess. It's been done before, ineffective to a goal, it perpetuates cycles of sociological shrapnel, and literal shrapnel. A troubling lack of regard, empathy, and imagination. As I think about this, from the perspective of my body's cells, I can hear them say the same thing about my instinct in the face of my own problems to bombard my system with shitty food and drink. I'm a self inflicted terrorist taking down a little known party in power called my stomach lining.
As I laid out in my shower I began to feel a greater respect toward the living community that is my body, the trillions of cells trying to work together, to coexist and meet their needs. Problem solving should enlist much greater creativity than the nuclear urge to ravage the system. There isn't much in the way of critical thinking there, it doesn't address and balance multiple perspectives. It's shortsighted, without courage or patience, and courage and patience are considered virtues. Drunks and mad-bombers aren't considered heroes. Because they aren't solving problems.
Zooming out from the temporary wasting of my own flesh, the bigger body is yearning for an ocean size equivalent of a ginger ale jacuzzi.
Recently I grabbed a quick xxxxxxxxx at xxxxxxxx xxxxxxxx , and holy hell I felt like Rasputin in his final moments. I vomited once about 2am, again at 4am, again while taking a shower at 7am, again when I got to work. While hanging over the toilet bowl down the hall from the office, I realized this was worse than any intense hangover, and I've experienced plenty of those to compare. This was my body rejecting something that had penetrated deep. The greasy thing I ate at xxxxxxxx xxxxxxxx. After some vomiting, came explosive shitting. I'm leaving the place cryptic as I've long since enjoyed it, of any fast food, it's been my go-to for a cheap, quick bite while on the run around town. Of the hundreds of times I've chowed it down, this was my first internal attack. So, though it will take some time before I go back, I will forgive it. I will eventually come around. I'll write this off as a fluke. Could happen anywhere. Makes me rethink the culture of chef worship seeing how minor actions of a cook can smite one down, groaning.
I had left work early, laid in the shower because the warmth was somewhat comforting, distracting, and if I needed to vomit again, a good place to wash it away. And I did retch again, hot burning acid from my stomach ripping away my throat. I thought I maybe saw drops of blood in this latter round of upchuck. I wondered if I should go to the hospital? Did I have the energy to go to the hospital? No. I did not. I thought I could be dying. I thought that could be a relief.
But eventually my body rid itself of the poison and I felt like a new man. The ravaging, was somehow, refreshing. It reminded me of the monologue from Sam Shepard's La Tourista I had used for theatre auditions for many years. "Nothing like a little amoebic dysentery to build up a man's immunity to his environment." Perhaps I've internalized this philosophy a bit after so many recantations. I'm a fan of ravaging my system every once in awhile. The clarity after that storm, seeing thick tree roots of dull anxiety ripped up and laid waste.
But today I thought about ravaging, and society's equivalent. A body politic can digest things that are unhealthy too. And things like the Boston Marathon bombing, Newtown, Aurora, and let's not forget about variations of attack abroad. Yet the sigh of relief at the end of my nausea, where is the equivalent in this greater scheme of world retching? Well, there are bubbles of violence, we all settle back in, until the next event of malevolence pops. Just as I'm sure someday again I'll eat bad food, or drink too much, making this sigh of relief a blip in time too.
Civilization can get complicated. Problems fizz. When I see attempted solutions in the form of explosions, nicking apart flesh, aside from the horror, I notice there is a glaring lack of creativity in that approach. It's cliche. Someone's mad at the world and they hurt people, they make a mess. It's been done before, ineffective to a goal, it perpetuates cycles of sociological shrapnel, and literal shrapnel. A troubling lack of regard, empathy, and imagination. As I think about this, from the perspective of my body's cells, I can hear them say the same thing about my instinct in the face of my own problems to bombard my system with shitty food and drink. I'm a self inflicted terrorist taking down a little known party in power called my stomach lining.
As I laid out in my shower I began to feel a greater respect toward the living community that is my body, the trillions of cells trying to work together, to coexist and meet their needs. Problem solving should enlist much greater creativity than the nuclear urge to ravage the system. There isn't much in the way of critical thinking there, it doesn't address and balance multiple perspectives. It's shortsighted, without courage or patience, and courage and patience are considered virtues. Drunks and mad-bombers aren't considered heroes. Because they aren't solving problems.
Zooming out from the temporary wasting of my own flesh, the bigger body is yearning for an ocean size equivalent of a ginger ale jacuzzi.
Sunday, April 7, 2013
The Greatest Hamstring (Prank) Ever Pulled
This morning I was a running enthusiast and went down town to watch my girlfriend run in the Shamrock Shuffle. As I walked up to my intended post to spectate at the corner of Roosevelt and Michigan, a guy and his girlfriend rounded the corner.
The guy faked a hamstring injury and went down. His girlfriend slowed and went over to him. "You okay, you okay?"
Course Marshals hustled over to him as well. The guy waved them off. "I'm fine, I'm fine!"
Guy: I'm not actually injured. I just wanted an excuse to get down on one knee...
The girl didn't quite hear him. She had ear-buds in.
Girl: You alright?
Guy: I'm fine. I love you so much-
Girl: (gearing up to trot) Come on, let's go.
Guy: (a little louder) I just wanted an excuse to get down on one knee. I love you so much.
Girl: What's going on?
The guy reached into his pocket, pulled out a crumpled tissue. Inside that was a little black velvet pouch. He fumbled with the drawstrings to pull out a ring. The girl now took her ear-buds out.
Girl: Is this for real??
I think she said yes. I didn't hear her say it, but she kissed him and let him slide on the ring. The ring didn't quite fit, didn't make it past the knuckle. Though that can be fixed later.
An older couple by me took some photos of the proposal. The man shouted to the guy, "I got some photos, do you want me to e-mail them to you?"
Guy: It's okay, my parents are over there taking photos.
His parents were on the other side, a little further away. Then a bearded guy by us said "I got photos too! Congrats."
The girl noticed him. "Is that Brian!!?? What the hell!!"
The newly engaged couple started to run off, near the finish! A Course Marshal jogged over to them. "I should let you know, it's all up hill from here, haha." And all of the married couples watching got a good laugh at his joke.
I'm glad it was a successful proposal. I couldn't imagine one having to finish a running race with the weight of disappointment.
It was nice to see such a feel good moment. Prior to this, as the "Elite" runners were to be rounding onto Michigan avenue, a car somehow turned onto the road and everyone, spectators, marshals were flipping out at him. A cop car cornered him, two cops ran over to face down his hood. The driver stopped his car, "what do you want me to do?" You could hear his thoughts. Marshals came out from the crowds to unlatch a barricade so he could drive out.
I could see his flushed face and feel his embarrassment heat the windshield.
The guy faked a hamstring injury and went down. His girlfriend slowed and went over to him. "You okay, you okay?"
Course Marshals hustled over to him as well. The guy waved them off. "I'm fine, I'm fine!"
Guy: I'm not actually injured. I just wanted an excuse to get down on one knee...
The girl didn't quite hear him. She had ear-buds in.
Girl: You alright?
Guy: I'm fine. I love you so much-
Girl: (gearing up to trot) Come on, let's go.
Guy: (a little louder) I just wanted an excuse to get down on one knee. I love you so much.
Girl: What's going on?
The guy reached into his pocket, pulled out a crumpled tissue. Inside that was a little black velvet pouch. He fumbled with the drawstrings to pull out a ring. The girl now took her ear-buds out.
Girl: Is this for real??
I think she said yes. I didn't hear her say it, but she kissed him and let him slide on the ring. The ring didn't quite fit, didn't make it past the knuckle. Though that can be fixed later.
An older couple by me took some photos of the proposal. The man shouted to the guy, "I got some photos, do you want me to e-mail them to you?"
Guy: It's okay, my parents are over there taking photos.
His parents were on the other side, a little further away. Then a bearded guy by us said "I got photos too! Congrats."
The girl noticed him. "Is that Brian!!?? What the hell!!"
The newly engaged couple started to run off, near the finish! A Course Marshal jogged over to them. "I should let you know, it's all up hill from here, haha." And all of the married couples watching got a good laugh at his joke.
I'm glad it was a successful proposal. I couldn't imagine one having to finish a running race with the weight of disappointment.
It was nice to see such a feel good moment. Prior to this, as the "Elite" runners were to be rounding onto Michigan avenue, a car somehow turned onto the road and everyone, spectators, marshals were flipping out at him. A cop car cornered him, two cops ran over to face down his hood. The driver stopped his car, "what do you want me to do?" You could hear his thoughts. Marshals came out from the crowds to unlatch a barricade so he could drive out.
I could see his flushed face and feel his embarrassment heat the windshield.
Monday, April 1, 2013
April Foole
Our kitchen at work is stocked with candy. I made the comment to a co-worker that, even though I threw away Mounds candy bars accumulated during Halloween as a child, I thoroughly enjoy them as an adult. He reacted as though I confessed I enjoy licking piss from the rim of a toilet bowl. He made it clear how disgusting he thought coconuts to be in general. With April 1st looming, I thought this ammunition to fuck with him.
My first thought was to make coconut brownies, pass them off as regular brownies, get him to take a big bite. Though I didn't make it to the grocery store over the weekend. So, I bought some coconut water, and had plans to pour that in his water glass when he wasn't looking. I was concerned, because pouring some in my own glass, I was reminded, it's not too clear.
I prepped to try it anyway, but the guy didn't have a water glass at his desk all day. I tried to plant thirst in his mind, making my own frequent trips to the water cooler, proclaiming each time that I was damn thirsty for some reason, maybe something in the air. But he paid no mind.
Eventually he got a Vitamin Water and drank it real slow.
Sunday, March 31, 2013
Got Beat Up By A Chocolate Frosty
Pseudo Spring day, I went for a walk. After awhile I passed by a Wendy's, and this day feeling fairly Spring-ish, I wanted an ice cream cone, a Frosty would do.
So I went in, dropped some pennies on the sugar sticky floor by mistake as I filled in for the tax on top of the dollar, found a window seat and ate some spoonfuls of this treat.
So I went in, dropped some pennies on the sugar sticky floor by mistake as I filled in for the tax on top of the dollar, found a window seat and ate some spoonfuls of this treat.
After some twenty spoonfuls I got a rush of brain-freeze, and a sort of tightening in my throat that was sort of painful. I paused in my indulgence. Then I laughed. Haha, I got hurt by a chocolate Frosty. Harsh swallow. This Frosty hurt me a little bit.
After I finished, disposed of the cup, and left I started thinking, well yeah, this Frosty could actually hurt me some day in the form of diabetes if my endocrine system should so choose to spike me with this.
Americans are getting bullied by Frosties everyday, or more-so, taunted by our sweet teeth and left astray and poisoned by one of our own organs.
And it begins with what I put into my belly, which becomes a soluble in my blood, I know that, so I teeter between conscientious eating and snacking on tasty junk. It's a battle with craving. It begins in the mind, so before I go and give myself a blood disease, or technically an insulin miscommunication disease, I must reckon, I got a bit of mental one.
Therapists everywhere should keep in mind, sometimes a Frosty isn't just a Frosty.
And it begins with what I put into my belly, which becomes a soluble in my blood, I know that, so I teeter between conscientious eating and snacking on tasty junk. It's a battle with craving. It begins in the mind, so before I go and give myself a blood disease, or technically an insulin miscommunication disease, I must reckon, I got a bit of mental one.
Therapists everywhere should keep in mind, sometimes a Frosty isn't just a Frosty.
Saturday, March 23, 2013
Control Experiment
As I've delved more into learning how to code, my dreams have taken on a more intense sensory fabric. A couple of lucid dreams have weaved an occurrence.
But mostly just intense: the other night a book was released, supposedly written by aliens that went into the future a few years from now, found out the U.S.A goes bankrupt, because of Medicare. This book becomes the rage and incites a civil war. I forget which side I fought for but at one point in my dream I was pushing a cannon strapped with bungy cords to a shopping cart.
Last night, I was hanging out in a primordial geographical mess. Canada used to be a mountain in Mexico, but was picked up and flattened up above the U.S.A. Some farmers and fisherman were pissed because of the ocean displacement. Ooh, there's a theme, eh? In the two dreams mentioned, U.S.A. and people pissed are common threads. But these are things I live around day-to-day, so of course they will be absorbed and become backdrops.
As I first started to learn HTML a few weeks back, I'd of course cram lessons and do exercises in the evening before bed. My dreams brought me to a bright red brain machine in which I had to solve puzzles to maneuver through it. But this is life right? We learn to program ourselves and make our way through a blue/green sphere and overcome problems in order to keep on moving around on it?
Time to go meditate, and program my brain to redirect around conditioned responses to stressors, such as anxiety or glum dumpiness. Time to teach myself to further look at the problem as beautiful. That bright red brain machine was fucking gorgeous.
But mostly just intense: the other night a book was released, supposedly written by aliens that went into the future a few years from now, found out the U.S.A goes bankrupt, because of Medicare. This book becomes the rage and incites a civil war. I forget which side I fought for but at one point in my dream I was pushing a cannon strapped with bungy cords to a shopping cart.
Last night, I was hanging out in a primordial geographical mess. Canada used to be a mountain in Mexico, but was picked up and flattened up above the U.S.A. Some farmers and fisherman were pissed because of the ocean displacement. Ooh, there's a theme, eh? In the two dreams mentioned, U.S.A. and people pissed are common threads. But these are things I live around day-to-day, so of course they will be absorbed and become backdrops.
As I first started to learn HTML a few weeks back, I'd of course cram lessons and do exercises in the evening before bed. My dreams brought me to a bright red brain machine in which I had to solve puzzles to maneuver through it. But this is life right? We learn to program ourselves and make our way through a blue/green sphere and overcome problems in order to keep on moving around on it?
Time to go meditate, and program my brain to redirect around conditioned responses to stressors, such as anxiety or glum dumpiness. Time to teach myself to further look at the problem as beautiful. That bright red brain machine was fucking gorgeous.
Sunday, March 3, 2013
TailEndO'Winter
Sun's peaking out more: makes me want to brush off the cold rusted and rutted parts of my functioning. I've started learning a couple of things.
SPANISH! I have a base of this: 3 years of Honors and 1 year AP from High School. Largely unused over the past 10 years. I'm over being a monolingual. I'd be interested to read and even write in other languages. I've long been interested in what I've heard about Samuel Beckett writing in French under the aim that writing not in his native tongue would force him to truly think about each sentence. Within a year I'd like to attempt reading Don Quixote in espanol. I've lot of work to do here to get to that point, though I'd like to drum up some follow through and get on a roll to where every couple of years I'm finding myself fluent in another language, in particular ones with different alphabets that throw me into a different body of linguistics altogether, thinking it through from scratch. Though a challenge then becomes practicing these once learned; finding, creating, and maintaining opportunities to employ speaking and writing with them.
WEB DEVELOPMENT: As I find myself interested in language, I've become intrigued in the aspect of using language to create things and functions. In a way, this goes hand in hand with my exploration of self as a writer. Stories are a bit like apps: language frames sensory triggers that pull from a reader's memory banks, experience, imagination, and into participation. This may seem an over simplification, though both are different mediums for utilizing the power of language to set in motion an experience.
I designed a board game as a gift for various family members this past Christmas. I'm hoping I can attain the skills to adapt it into a web game of sorts. I'll keep you posted on that one via the long term.
With this TailEndO'Winter rolling by, I'm also getting outside and walking around the city more. My legs and cardiac health dig that about my current pseudo rejuvenation of mind and body.
SPANISH! I have a base of this: 3 years of Honors and 1 year AP from High School. Largely unused over the past 10 years. I'm over being a monolingual. I'd be interested to read and even write in other languages. I've long been interested in what I've heard about Samuel Beckett writing in French under the aim that writing not in his native tongue would force him to truly think about each sentence. Within a year I'd like to attempt reading Don Quixote in espanol. I've lot of work to do here to get to that point, though I'd like to drum up some follow through and get on a roll to where every couple of years I'm finding myself fluent in another language, in particular ones with different alphabets that throw me into a different body of linguistics altogether, thinking it through from scratch. Though a challenge then becomes practicing these once learned; finding, creating, and maintaining opportunities to employ speaking and writing with them.
WEB DEVELOPMENT: As I find myself interested in language, I've become intrigued in the aspect of using language to create things and functions. In a way, this goes hand in hand with my exploration of self as a writer. Stories are a bit like apps: language frames sensory triggers that pull from a reader's memory banks, experience, imagination, and into participation. This may seem an over simplification, though both are different mediums for utilizing the power of language to set in motion an experience.
I designed a board game as a gift for various family members this past Christmas. I'm hoping I can attain the skills to adapt it into a web game of sorts. I'll keep you posted on that one via the long term.
With this TailEndO'Winter rolling by, I'm also getting outside and walking around the city more. My legs and cardiac health dig that about my current pseudo rejuvenation of mind and body.
Monday, February 25, 2013
Lucid Slap
I've been wayward from posting, but I've been stricken with the common cold. It started in my throat, as though a switch had been flicked and boom: sore throat. The virus then toured around my nasal passageway, chest, sinuses, in that order. You know the story.
We launched our Pungent Parlour reading series on the 19th of February, and had a solid turnout, people are excited to come back to it, Gapers Block did a fine mention of our fireside ambiance, and we are booked for 3rd Tuesdays of the month going forward at Black Rock Pub and Kitchen. We're jacked to have a regular thing, so we can get off on oral lit. We had a wide variety of pieces; some humorous personal essays, some violent-esque, intense short stories, a fantasy story. I'm excited to see the range each future month to come.
On another note, I had a lucid dream last night:
I was elected senior class president. The sky was light purple, there was ice on the streets and hills, but we gathered in some stone tiled square where the weather was warm, like a pocket. From there we got on a bus, a nice bus with tinted windows and seats lining the walls facing in. I saw between two girls, J####### and A######. J####### was talking about some aspect of credit card processing. It excited me and I said "I can talk all about this, in the future I work in the credit card processing industry!" And I sort of realized, I wasn't back in high school from the future, I was dreaming. I decided to test reality. I reached out suddenly and slapped both girls on the cheek. They didn't react, and this was some how proof to me that this was a subconscious rendering. Whoa, shit, a dream. I looked out the bus windows at the ornate marble architecture of the town square were riding through and felt a weird rush, like I've stumbled on something big. And I realized the Godlike fabric of the dream was aware that I was aware, and it was tugging me out...
I drifted back to drowsy wakefulness.
I want back in to this lucid dream thing, it has been awhile since I had one. Might be time to pull out my "Lucid Dreaming in 30 Days" book be like a dude who's suddenly into camping who reads how to survive in the wilderness books, but with dreamland.
We launched our Pungent Parlour reading series on the 19th of February, and had a solid turnout, people are excited to come back to it, Gapers Block did a fine mention of our fireside ambiance, and we are booked for 3rd Tuesdays of the month going forward at Black Rock Pub and Kitchen. We're jacked to have a regular thing, so we can get off on oral lit. We had a wide variety of pieces; some humorous personal essays, some violent-esque, intense short stories, a fantasy story. I'm excited to see the range each future month to come.
On another note, I had a lucid dream last night:
I was elected senior class president. The sky was light purple, there was ice on the streets and hills, but we gathered in some stone tiled square where the weather was warm, like a pocket. From there we got on a bus, a nice bus with tinted windows and seats lining the walls facing in. I saw between two girls, J####### and A######. J####### was talking about some aspect of credit card processing. It excited me and I said "I can talk all about this, in the future I work in the credit card processing industry!" And I sort of realized, I wasn't back in high school from the future, I was dreaming. I decided to test reality. I reached out suddenly and slapped both girls on the cheek. They didn't react, and this was some how proof to me that this was a subconscious rendering. Whoa, shit, a dream. I looked out the bus windows at the ornate marble architecture of the town square were riding through and felt a weird rush, like I've stumbled on something big. And I realized the Godlike fabric of the dream was aware that I was aware, and it was tugging me out...
I drifted back to drowsy wakefulness.
I want back in to this lucid dream thing, it has been awhile since I had one. Might be time to pull out my "Lucid Dreaming in 30 Days" book be like a dude who's suddenly into camping who reads how to survive in the wilderness books, but with dreamland.
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