America or Burst..
Whew.
Well I made it. Driving from Florida to Illinois was an adventure. I slept very little, so when I hit morning rush hour traffic on Lake Shore Drive in a large moving van, my wits were as sharp as muffins. Despite my screaming and weaving, I got us to the apartment and things have been surprisingly smooth since then. The apartment is nice, and as of yesterday, air conditioned. I'm loving the whole restaurant thing. I saw a woman get puked-on on the bus my first day here. When going to bars and what-not, people are actually friendly! I knew that Tampa was a little undeservedly pretentious, but I had forgotten what friendly bar time is like. I have a steady stream of netflix coming into the mailbox and a steady stream of bit-torrented television coming into the computer. There's a temp job in some big building downtown waiting for me to start next week, and (fingers crossed) a perm job maybe, possibly, hopefully waiting for me the week after that. I'll have the curliest head in all of London!
It's weird, but so far... things are actually going well. I almost don't know what to make of it. I got my ATM card in the mail today. It's shiny. I'm learning who to order delivery from and who to avoid. I had kick-ass pizza last night from a place that served me a shitty hamburger last week. I think I might go out tonight. I've already hit the two strip bars. They're not quite trashy enough, but maybe if I make a wish on the first g-string I see tonight, my dreams will come true and I'll witness a little digital manipulation that would make the blue fairy go red.
I've figured out why I like strip clubs. Or maybe I always knew but hadn't verbalized it until recently. Strip bars are as honest a venue as we can legally get in this country. Men with money want youth, sex, and affection. Men with youth, sex, and affection are selling it for money. There's no bullshit. No moron in docker pants standing next to a pool table who says he wants a relationship but has fucked half the line waiting to get in. No hustler who has convinced himself he's attracted to older men, but has recently received his third sports car as a "gift". No drag queen who was thrown in dumpsters as a little boy and now gets off on making fun of college girls in the front row. If a guy walks into a strip bar, he knows exactly what he's doing there. He's not bullshitting anyone else, and more importantly, not bullshitting himself.
So why do I go? Well, for one thing, I talk about strip clubs a lot more than I actually go to them. I'm a married man, I need some ventilation. I'm rarely attracted to the strippers. I go to watch the exchange. I love seeing a guy in a corner with a blank stare shoot arrows of desire at some kid who doesn't want to work at Taco Bell. Maybe that makes me feel better about myself. I'm not above admitting that it's possible. But I'm not judging these people. I'm relishing my own absurd backdrop for the moment.
Speaking of backdrops, this city is pretty kick-ass. Everyday I see a strange and interesting person doing something odd, scary, or both. It's kind of like living in a Vertigo Comic Book. The characters riding the train are drawn with harsh lines and hard-lived faces, like any minute they're gonna pull out a big shiny pistol and blow a bright red hole in the head of the person sitting in front of them. Take this past weekend. I saw two characters on the train that were perfect. One was a large middle aged black guy who looked gone to the world. One eye was lazy, the other was almost rolled back in his head. He was constantly on the verge of drooling. Here's the best part. He had a teddy bear sticking out of his shirt pocket. The bear was groomed, wearing a shirt of his own, and charming. It was a living photograph. The second character was a well dressed man in his twenties. He was wearing a tie and reading through papers, like he had just got off work. He spent most of the ride talking into his hands-free unit. It was an argument with some girl about the plight of the black man in the 21st century, and apparently she didn't know what she was talking about. As he goes to get off, I notice.. there is no hands-free unit. There was no cell phone. This completely convincing and passionate debate was all in between his ears.
For about a minute, I tried comparing Chicago to New York. It's not really doable and the more I try, the more I realize there's no reason to try. To do so would be to cheapen the subtle characteristics of either with broad strokes made for comparison. To say, "Oh, New York is dirtier" or "Chicago is more small town" doesn't give either city it's due. I like the idea that soon I'll have my own version of Chicago. And when I feel like it, I can go visit my own version of New York. My own version of Orlando still sucks.
So will I be Cousin Larry or Balki? Eh, fuck that. I'll be Ernie Sabella's character. Call me Twinkie!
Well I made it. Driving from Florida to Illinois was an adventure. I slept very little, so when I hit morning rush hour traffic on Lake Shore Drive in a large moving van, my wits were as sharp as muffins. Despite my screaming and weaving, I got us to the apartment and things have been surprisingly smooth since then. The apartment is nice, and as of yesterday, air conditioned. I'm loving the whole restaurant thing. I saw a woman get puked-on on the bus my first day here. When going to bars and what-not, people are actually friendly! I knew that Tampa was a little undeservedly pretentious, but I had forgotten what friendly bar time is like. I have a steady stream of netflix coming into the mailbox and a steady stream of bit-torrented television coming into the computer. There's a temp job in some big building downtown waiting for me to start next week, and (fingers crossed) a perm job maybe, possibly, hopefully waiting for me the week after that. I'll have the curliest head in all of London!
It's weird, but so far... things are actually going well. I almost don't know what to make of it. I got my ATM card in the mail today. It's shiny. I'm learning who to order delivery from and who to avoid. I had kick-ass pizza last night from a place that served me a shitty hamburger last week. I think I might go out tonight. I've already hit the two strip bars. They're not quite trashy enough, but maybe if I make a wish on the first g-string I see tonight, my dreams will come true and I'll witness a little digital manipulation that would make the blue fairy go red.
I've figured out why I like strip clubs. Or maybe I always knew but hadn't verbalized it until recently. Strip bars are as honest a venue as we can legally get in this country. Men with money want youth, sex, and affection. Men with youth, sex, and affection are selling it for money. There's no bullshit. No moron in docker pants standing next to a pool table who says he wants a relationship but has fucked half the line waiting to get in. No hustler who has convinced himself he's attracted to older men, but has recently received his third sports car as a "gift". No drag queen who was thrown in dumpsters as a little boy and now gets off on making fun of college girls in the front row. If a guy walks into a strip bar, he knows exactly what he's doing there. He's not bullshitting anyone else, and more importantly, not bullshitting himself.
So why do I go? Well, for one thing, I talk about strip clubs a lot more than I actually go to them. I'm a married man, I need some ventilation. I'm rarely attracted to the strippers. I go to watch the exchange. I love seeing a guy in a corner with a blank stare shoot arrows of desire at some kid who doesn't want to work at Taco Bell. Maybe that makes me feel better about myself. I'm not above admitting that it's possible. But I'm not judging these people. I'm relishing my own absurd backdrop for the moment.
Speaking of backdrops, this city is pretty kick-ass. Everyday I see a strange and interesting person doing something odd, scary, or both. It's kind of like living in a Vertigo Comic Book. The characters riding the train are drawn with harsh lines and hard-lived faces, like any minute they're gonna pull out a big shiny pistol and blow a bright red hole in the head of the person sitting in front of them. Take this past weekend. I saw two characters on the train that were perfect. One was a large middle aged black guy who looked gone to the world. One eye was lazy, the other was almost rolled back in his head. He was constantly on the verge of drooling. Here's the best part. He had a teddy bear sticking out of his shirt pocket. The bear was groomed, wearing a shirt of his own, and charming. It was a living photograph. The second character was a well dressed man in his twenties. He was wearing a tie and reading through papers, like he had just got off work. He spent most of the ride talking into his hands-free unit. It was an argument with some girl about the plight of the black man in the 21st century, and apparently she didn't know what she was talking about. As he goes to get off, I notice.. there is no hands-free unit. There was no cell phone. This completely convincing and passionate debate was all in between his ears.
For about a minute, I tried comparing Chicago to New York. It's not really doable and the more I try, the more I realize there's no reason to try. To do so would be to cheapen the subtle characteristics of either with broad strokes made for comparison. To say, "Oh, New York is dirtier" or "Chicago is more small town" doesn't give either city it's due. I like the idea that soon I'll have my own version of Chicago. And when I feel like it, I can go visit my own version of New York. My own version of Orlando still sucks.
So will I be Cousin Larry or Balki? Eh, fuck that. I'll be Ernie Sabella's character. Call me Twinkie!