The New World Order
People like to call the late 1990s halcyon because of all that sweet Fantasia cooler in the kitchen foosball table in the rec room buying cash.
I don't think of them as halcyon. I only worked five months as a content strategist. But I do think of them as the era when I first learned about Loving More magazine. It was on NPR. Sexy!
On the cover of the dog-earred copy I found hidden in the woods that fateful summer day was a cartoony calendar. Scrawled hither and thither was a scramble of appointments underlined and exclaimed with points:
Monday, Deborah; Tuesday, Marnie; Friday, Samantha; Sunday, Greg.
Sunday, Greg!? Sure! It's Loving More!
The cover story bore a stoic message of breaking free and bowing down to the relentless gods of recurring reminders.
"Time enough for love?" So simple and so true.
And I realized. That's the big snarl in polyamory. The scheduling.
 A positive attitude is important
Sweet Grass-scented lessons from the summer I worked retail in the East Village
1) Wearing a "Gap Shoes" pin instantly qualifies you as an expert. Customer: "I don't know. Can I really wear moccasins in
the summer?"
Me: "See, that's the great thing about moccasins. You
can wear them whenever!"
Customer: "In the winter?"
Me: "When-ever!"
2) Greet guests with energy and enthusiasm.
"Welcome to the Gap."
"Welcome to the Gap."
"Welcome to the Gap."
"Hey, chief, welcome to the Gap."
"So who's got a cigarette for me at the Gap?"
"Hey, boss. Looking good at the Gap."
"Help a sister out at the Gap?"
"All I need is $2.34 to get my family on a bus to Detroit from the Gap."
3) When a guest returns a greeting, followup is paramount. Customer: "Are there any payphones nearby?"
Me: "Look who picked a fantastic day to come in. We
just got some great sale stuff. Celery-colored bootcuts are half off!"
4) Undercover security guards don't talk much. Me: "What's shaking, Bernie. Catch any shoplifters
today?"
Undercover security guard: “I’m on break.”
5) Never stand idle with the folding board too long. Assistant store manager: "Get over here, girlfriend.
Rawwr. Fun outfit. Looks like someone could use a project?"
Me: “I was helping customers. Isn't that a project?"
Assistant store manager: "Nice try. Let’s find you
something good. How does re-folding the sweatshirt display sound?”
6) Women are friendly.
Customer: “I can't decide. Do we like this one or this one?”
Me: “We don’t like either."
7) Men are friendly, too.
Heavy-breathing customer within an inch of my face: “Do
you have any shorter shorts? I’m looking for some really short shorts.”
Me: “No.”
 The fall
It's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
Best sense of urgency and/or indignity found on craigslist this summer: Free posters ***still some left***!!!
The Depeche Mode poster has not yet been taken. Moving out Thursday pm. Pls. email before it is too late.
 Bear buddies
A small diamond earring and a velvet patch
My father now signs his cards "Jer." For a while, post-divorce in 2001, he had cranked it up all the way to "Daddy," a name that I hadn't called him since I was a kid. But now it's Jer.
Jer is engaged to Jan, and together, they are: Jan and Jer.
Jer taught me many things about writing. He is blind, and when I was 16 I won a big English contest describing how he taught me many things about writing.
"I silently dedicate what I have written to the man who taught me the necessity of words to convey beauty in the absence of pictures."
Never one to waste a good line, I also managed to work it into:
-college essays
-internship applications
and
-in-person interviews, complete with hair toss and smile
"As yearbook editor, assistant newspaper editor, and an active member of the Spanish club, I silently dedicate my writing to the man who taught me the necessity of words to convey beauty in the absence of pictures.
"And, you know, there are so many things, but it's probably the vibrancy of the intellectual community at Cornell that appeals to me the most."
Hair toss. Smile.
Jer is not one of those people who was born blind. He was shot twice in the face in Vietnam, a pretty defining incident if ever there was one. He was 21, and it was about as horrible as it sounds.
In 1997 after a pitch to write about my relationship with Jer for The Washington Post, I interviewed his plastic surgeon on the phone for background. It was uncomfortable in every way that an interview can be. The girlish tittering and "uh-huhs" I normally used to loosen up sources felt exceptionally out of place.
On one such conference call to get the details of the bullet wounds and points of entry just right, the surgeon exhaled sharply. "Well, Jerry," he muttered, "it seems your daughter has developed a rather ghoulish interest in your injury, hasn't she?"
I did hours of interviews, but I didn't write the story. It was in late 2001, right about when Clear Channel banned "Imagine" that I found the 22 pages of single-spaced transcript. And as I read it, I let myself actually feel the details of the experience, rather than thinking about them as details of the experience.
Jer had been in Vietnam for just one month when he was caught in the sniper attack. He was the only one to survive. A few days before, his best friend had been killed. A few weeks before, his mother had died. And when Jer finally returned home to San Diego, his girlfriend ended the relationship when she saw what he looked like. She couldn't handle it. Others simply passed out in the hospital corridor.
Throughout those interview sessions, Jer would often address me directly, and, like a good reporter, I faithfully typed every word.
"Oh honey," my dad said.
"It was really, really bad."
 Alf and creepy Rabbit
The 1960s
I drove along Chicago Avenue this morning with the express goal of parking as far east as possible and then catching the 66 to the lakefront. As I looked for a spot, I noticed one, two, three, four, five, six buses passing westbound but nothing headed east. Despite my odds, I decided to park before hitting all meters and valets in Streeterville.
At Ada, I paced out into the street and back onto the sidewalk, knowing full well that a bus wouldn't be coming for at least 20 minutes. I looked at the full cabs passing by, and I decided it was time to hitch.
First I thought about actually holding out my thumb, but as adorable as this seemed, I just couldn't bring myself to do it. It seemed akin to actually having a handkerchief on a stick when running away from home. Instead I went to a stop sign and verbally got the attention of the first non-psycho I saw who didn't have his window rolled up. You can always tell the non-psychos because they never have their windows rolled up.
"My name's Dennis," said Dennis of the old red Honda. "I'm only going as far as Orleans if that will help you." He wore dreadlocks and decorated his car with backpacks and a pack of Marlboro Lights. His safety belt beeped if you didn't lock it. I did. On the way, we discussed the merits of Humboldt Park, home ownership, and San Diego being great.
We reached Orleans. I hopped out. "Thanks again," I said.
"Good luck to you," he said.
I made my fortune for the next several years selling hand-crafted soaps and native jewelry.
 Primary source text
Scenes from Hardy Elementary School, circa 1983-85
Cherry drops on the monkey bar
School-wide tag
Nancy Drew from the library every damn time
The waiting list for the recipe book with tic-tac-toe pizzas and Sprite smoothies
A play about litter bugs
Unfolding my napkin into four squares for each food group
Passing a note about Mariselda in the pencil sharpener
"Babysitting" an egg throughout the entire school day to learn about the impact of teenage pregnancy (we were 10)
Building a flying machine for our egg the next day in science class to learn about the impact of terminal velocity (we threw it off the roof)
Mrs. Atkinson with her sarcastic winks, purple eye shadow, and mid-class cigarette breaks
Base math
 29 in 1 month, 3 days
Sold, ship now
My books have been selling like hotcakes. The ultimate guide to successful meetings, corporate events, and fundraising galas. Gone, motherfucker, gone. The business of event planning. Chapter 11, bitch.
I completed the transaction today at the post office. I am no longer an event planner. I never was an event planner. But for kicks, here's something they won't tell you in any book: Rich people love kaleidoscopes. And that's all you ever need to know. Just engrave something on the side.
Now, the post office. This was an event.
The postal worker behind the counter laughed out loud with his first customer, baring all his teeth. "I love money," he said. "Give me my money." He and the customer laughed and laughed. The next customer did not.
He looked her up and down. The next customer was pasty, like oatmeal, with glistening black hair and green eyes. He was deep brown, bald, with black eyes and two gold hoops in his right ear.
She: gesture, gesture, gesture, mumble, GESTURE.
He: "Supervisor? I told you there wasn't no supervisor. Shoot. Why you come in here asking again for the supervisor?"
She: mumble, gesture, gesture, MUMBLE.
He: "Yeah, you do that. Shoot, why don't you call 911 while you're at it. Shoot."
She: gesture, mumble, GONE.
He: "I have to wait in line my whole life. I'm a black man, and I still haven't gotten what I wanted. I'm still waiting. Where's my 40 acres and a mule? Shoot. Come here, get my name, get my DNA if you want, there's still no supervisor."
...DON'T WORRY, guys! I immediately demanded one, too. Just because he never got his acres OR WHATEVER, this became our problem how. Exactly.
 San Francisco, 2003, 82 degrees
Haiku from the seventh grade
Curiosity
Questioning eyes of the cat
Staring into mine
 Can you find DRAGONFLY?
Sensory memory
When I interviewed for a job at The Des Moines Register in 1997, one image stayed with me for years afterward. I attribute it to the color orange, and possibly to a font palette employing googly eyes. It was a cool day, still early in the afternoon, and an editor was driving me to the airport, providing one last tour of the city from the confines of his SUV. He was talking about the vibrant youth scene, the many possibilities for reporters, and the great stories to be told. All the while, on the horizon, blunting out everything else in a 10-mile radius was a sign urging us to consider that this was our last chance to visit Hooters.
At the time in his pitch, he had reached culture and the arts. "That outrageous radio guy," he said. "The new Howard Stern. I can't think of his name right now, but he's coming here in a few weeks." "Mancow?" I asked. "Yes, right, Mancow," he said. "The Rolling Stones came through here, too."
I took the job, but never visited the Hooters. I had never been inside one until last month in Chicago. My bike was being fixed across the street, and the time just felt right in my life. The hostess, a healthy woman in her twenties, wore shorts that were just spunky enough to give me a taste of the nude-nyloned cheeks to come. All the cable television was down, so she seated me in the center of the action. Closest to me were a suburban family celebrating a daughter's entry into college, and two burly off-duty cops with sparkly, spaghetti-strapped dates in tow.
Shortly after I settled down to my buffalo chicken salad, a striking black woman in her thirties wearing an African headdress came in with two small children, who squirmed and giggled in their seats. A few waitresses cooed over the kids, and one brought them Hooters activity books and extra straws. When the waitress returned with my second Bud Light, I asked for my own activity book. Inside of it, I found a drawing of a Hooters waitress depicted as a mermaid, flanking the ever-popular word-find game, which included, appropriately, the words: HOOTERS and MERMAID.
A wood-carved sign hung near my table with some framed black-and-white pictures of Hooters girls throughout the years. "Our waitresses," it read, "are flattery-operated." I finished my beer, perused the "Let Freedom Wing" sales merchandise, and decided to leave a tip instead.
 Not 100% UV protection
Incognito
My best friend when I was 13 topped out at 5'2". I was already 5'10" at the time, peaking at 6'2" a few years later in high school.
We hardly ever shopped together, but when we did, I usually ended up blowing all my paper route money on timeless items such as leopard-print tops at Clothestime and Technotronic tapes at the Wherehouse. Karen opted for plastic chain-link necklaces with jangly charms instead.
Once, when we were at a real mall—Fashion Valley, we decided it would be riotous for us to shop at a Petite Women's Clothing Store together. Once inside, I made a big show of examining merchandise. "Will this fit?" I asked, very pleased with the joke. "What do you think about this?"
And while the sales girl watched, I took down a neon-splattered pair of white overalls (with matching electric blue socks) from what appeared to be a steady black cork display. Not more than a few seconds later, the entire wall came crashing down, clearly unhinged by the sheer force of my heighth. We cracked up, then ran out, and kept running the length of the courtyard until we hit the Orange Julius stand.
"It's pretty fun," Karen said later when my mom picked us up, "when you break a whole store."
 Bookshelf revealing Dan Clowes
Most embarrassing books I have purchased, and not always in the name of research
1) "Why Good Girls Don't Get Ahead...But Gutsy Girls Do"
Synopsis: Tell your boss to suck it. Leave at 5.
2) "Feel the Fear and Do it Anyway"
Synopsis: Feel the fear. Do it anyway.
3) "Comedy Writing Step by Step"
Synopsis: Memorize Bob Hope monologues. Get job as Bob Hope head writer.
4) "How to Act Like a CEO"
Synopsis: Take the job with the most money. Allow time for jogging, cigars, and Shakespeare.
5) "Summer Sisters"
Synopsis: Consider sleeping with sexy best friend girlfriend. Sleep with sexy best friend's boyfriend instead.
6) "Killer Content"
Synopsis: Web sites offer e-pportunities. Make content "sticky" with new e-pproaches.
7) "The Rules II"
Synopsis: Still don't tell your shrink about "the rules."
8) "Just Promoted!"
Synopsis: Approach management with an exclamation mark!
9) "How to Say it at Work"
Synopsis: Whatever you do, don't say it at work.
10) "Funny Ladies"
Synopsis: Gams—and gags!
 Light as a feather, stiff as a board, light as a feather, stiff as a board
Only 46 days to go
Last year I achieved a critical mass of trick-or-treaters for the first time since moving to Chicago in 1999. Part of the success has to be attributed to my carefully arranged Mom-gifts of floppy door skeleton, witchy cat wood carving, and plug-in jack-o-lantern.
My favorite visitors were the masked kid who was also collecting candy for his baby cousin in a huge shopping bag, and the grinning street-clothed teenager who talked on his cell phone during the entire transaction.
Halloween is also a good excuse for busting out "The Craft," which I sadly haven't seen since my day-and-half-long "Craft"-a-thon in 2000. Say it: Red room, red room, red room, red room, red room. Stop.
 The future
With opening acts like these...
It was a packed house at Phyllis's Musical Inn last night with a line-up that included me and a quiet, bespectacled fellow doing poetry. I preceded the poet, whose act consisted mostly of impassioned odes to his bald, black head glistening from sizable quantities of pussy. Highlights are probably too big for the Internet, but I'll try to cover a few. This is my stuff, not the poet's. ...I miss being young. But you know, I still wear a teeth-guard at night, which, let me tell you is a huge turn-on for men. It's very big with the whole awkward youth fetishist crowd. The same guys who like it when you still get zits or wear a training bra for those newly sprouted breasts. It's amazing. They've got all these magazines now targeted to the whole hot, fashionable teen demographic: Teen People. Teen Vogue. Teen Hustler. I saw an article the other day: "Barely Legal: Enjoy it While You Can."
It's hard to imagine being a kid today. My sister just became a mom. She married a guy with two kids so it's kind of an insta-family thing. I asked her recently, what the good shows are for kids, expecting a "Blue's Clues," or maybe something slightly racier like a "Teletubbies." But no. She tells me that the show they gather around the dinner table for is actually "Fear Factor." She said, that finally, it was something the whole family could enjoy together. And unfortunately, that is a quote.
I'm not sure if I'm going to have kids. I got married kind of young, and what I've noticed is that a lot of young married people are kind of hornier than other folks. Have you noticed that? Suddenly the most mundane errands become hyper-sexualized. Going to the post office. Picking up your dry cleaning. Visiting your lover. Please imagine the badda-bing after that last one. I certainly was.
 How tall? How tall?
Top pickup lines in Humboldt Park this month so far
1) A song, belted with gusto: "White girl/ Won't you come into/ My world." 2) Something about someone being an ox. 3) "Hey, hey, hey, what's your name?" "Oh, hey, I'm married, actually." "That's your first name? Married?" "No. But I really have to pee. Goodbye."
 Sand in beach
Split ends, unite
I arrive at the hair salon 20 minutes early, but Bettye is ready for me. I have not seen her in a year. She asks me about my hair goals. I’d like it chunky, I say, but not too chunky. Layered. With body. I don't want it to just hang there, but I don't want it to be too difficult to maintain. Bettye understands this. We have a relationship. She asks me questions, and I respond. Have I gone on any good trips lately? “New York,” I tell her. “I've never been there,” she says, “but I hear they have great shopping.” She asks me how long it has been since I’ve washed my hair. I tell her about Saturday, the Pert Plus in the Pine Ridge Motel in Dodegeville, Wis., before a day of canoeing. I tell her how I tied it into braids, and how now it has an almost natural body wave. I giggle, saying that this is a fun slumber party hair styling technique. She half-smiles at me. The client is always right, but everyone has their limits. She asks me how long it has been since I’ve last trimmed my hair. I have to confess that I went to a friend’s stylist since my last visit. I ask her if she is going to use a razor on the ends to give it shape. A razor on long hair causes frizz, she says suspiciously. Did the other stylist use a razor? Bettye skips a hairwash for me and flat irons instead. She explains the chemistry of expensive shampoo versus store-bought. The pitfalls of a 2-in-1 product. She studies me carefully as she works. “Wow,” Bettye practically chokes. “Did you know that your hair is half an inch longer on the left side?” I cast my eyes downward. “No,” I say. “Well, maybe, I did.” Bettye lifts my hair and tugs it. Neither one of us says much after that.
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