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Month: October, 2013

Fried things and me.

Tomorrow morning I leave for Texas until next Wednesday. I missed the State Fair by less than a week, dangit. I wanted to eat fried Oreos – among other fried things- and see what’s become of Big Tex. First the man behind the voice died and then he went up in flames. I sure hope it wasn’t done on purpose so that the community would feel loss instead of anger at there being a new Big Tex.

Texas Toast

Texas Toast

There’s always next year. At least I will get to eat at Norma’s. I just hope the gentrification of young hipsters hasn’t completely rendered where I grew up unrecognizable and a totally annoying place to live let alone visit.

Oh, and my Etsy art and photography shop is coming along about as well as to be expected: Arts . Farts . Crafts

Early evening yesterday I went to Parson’s Chicken and Fish and finally ordered something besides beer. I had the hush puppies, and boy, were those dogs delicious. The bartender was even super nice and started working with me on my crossword puzzle of sorts.

not [i]my[/] puppies, but identical

Not my puppies, but identical

When we reached a dead-end he said he’d buy me a shot if I figured any more out; I got it in less than a minute. I think I’ll go there more often. And it doesn’t hurt that it is right up the road. See ya soon, Parson’s.


Racism by any other name would smell as sour…

So today I purchased the Chicago Tribune and read this sugar-coated little gem on the front page:

“Jobless rates average 6 percent in the prosperous parts of Chicago, yet reach 35 percent in desolate neighborhood. This global city of world-class companies and business schools hasn’t learned how to revive areas where industrial sites once employed by the thousands.”

In other words, poor minorities don’t get jobs while rich white people do. It sure doesn’t help that Rahm Emanuel (who I wish someone would assassinate) closed 50 CPS schools which are underfunded and neglected in the first place and comprised of:

African-American: 41.6%

Latino: 44.1%

White: 8.8%

Asian/Pacific Islander: 3.4%

Native American: 0.4%

I hate this city so much. I also used to intern in the Austin neighborhood at a youth center and I can guaran-fucking-tee there is no street-cleaning scheduled. Meanwhile affluent areas are clean as a whistle. And no, rich people do not litter any less.


I hate Sunday, and I don’t think I’ll ever get over it. But I’m going to try.






(not ‘Sunday’, but the sentiment remains)


Holes Everywhere

I went to bed last night feeling excited for today, but now I can’t remember what I wanted to do and even if I did I wouldn’t feel up for doing it.

I s’pose I should make some coffee even though I’m home alone and don’t ever feel like making coffee unless it’s for someone else, too. I’d probably die of dehydration and ┬ástarve to death if i didn’t know anyone (yes, “i”). although, coffee itself dehydrates you if i’m not mistaken – that’s been known to happen on occasion.

today i want to paint a picture of swans and cats and one of richard ramirez to make-up for a photo manipulation i made 12 years ago of him at disneyland.

saturday i went to home depot and bought joint compound and stinking wall patches to finally fix the hole in the bedroom from my head. i saw another much smaller hole tim insisted was from my head, but i really don’t know how that got there. now they’re both filled, but now i have to re-paint the whole wall, but if i repaint one wall i’ll want to paint all of them. if i paint all the walls, i’ll want to rearrange furniture. and then if i do that, i’ll make want tons of others changes as i am wont to do. all that work will make me hungry…

if you give a girl a spackle knife…

One of my plans was going to the Benjamin Moore store. Or maybe Sherwinn Williams since i found a 25% off paint purchase in yesterday’s paper. Oh yeah. Now i remember all the other junk i gotta do. And some things i actually want, too! Bye, no one.


Picture me rollin’ with Eddie’s hair

It’s 5 in the morning and I am awake. But I did sleep from 7p.m until around midnight so I don’t feel very tired. I could sleep- sure- but I want to have some coffee and take pictures with the sunrise.

Lately the camera has gotten more use and I’ve subsequently opened an Etsy (I’m a little late on this train, I think) shop to start selling a few prints to make some side skrilla while I get better at photography. Eventually I want to pay for snooty classes where I can learn new photography and manipulation techniques.

I have some photos I took years ago I gotta find, too. So far all I have up at my “Etsy store” are some paintings only a mother could love and a few things. Oy vey.

There is an elevated train track near my apartment that isn’t in use. From certain points and parks in the neighborhood, one can climb onto it and walk from one neighborhood to the next along the tracks. It’s pretty cool save for the broken beer bottles and strewn cans. I guess it’s not so bad.

Yesterday our usual get-on spot was blocked by signage with stupid sayings like ‘no trespassing’ and ‘do not enter’. I went over it and ducked onto the tracks only to see construction men to my left and my right. Feeling silly, I dropped to my stomach and took photos of them before leaving.

I ended up walking to Humboldt Park with an adult juice-box in hand and taking pictures of flowers and plants and squirrels and shit.

There are two more finished rolls of film ahead in the queue so I may not see the fruits of my labor for a hot minute.

And another thing.

Why do I feel as though Eddie Vedder has never been justly recognized or revered for being as hot as he was, is, and will continue to be? (George Looney and Barf Pitt are over-rated blowhards.) Good grief, he is gorgeous. I can only imagine burrowing that neck like a little rat and caressing my face throughout his lush mane.

He’s always been easy on the eyes, but now it’s just impressive and makes me feel funny in my bathing suit area. I recently sat through the ‘Hunger Strike’ video from Temple of the Dog a whole bunch of times just to see him; I especially am keen on the way he moves his mouth in it. Can’t take this…

See for yourself:

“La Chevelure”

Long let me inhale, the odour of your hair, into it plunge the whole of my face, like a thirsty man into the waters of a spring and wave it in my fingers like a scented handkerchief, to shake memories into the air.

If you could know all that I see! All that I hear in your hair! My soul floats upon perfumes as the souls of other men upon music.

Your hair contains an entire dream, full of sails and masts; it contains vast seas whose soft monsoons bear me to delightful climates where space is deeper and bluer, where the atmosphere is perfumed with fruit, with foliage and with human skin.

In the ocean of your hair I am shown brief visions of a port resounding with melancholy songs, of vigorous men of all nations and ships of all shapes outlining their fine and complicated architectures against an immense sky where eternal heat languidly quivers…

In the glowing fire grate of your hair I inhale the odor of opium mingled with sugar; in the night of your hair I see the infinity of tropical azure resplendent; on the downed banks of your hair I inebriate myself with the mingled odors of tar, of musk and of coconut oil.

Long let me bite your heavy, black tresses. When I gnaw your elastic and rebellious hair it seems to me that I am eating memories.