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I ran across this today, and it made me smile. Love the animation; one of my fondest Sesame Street memories...
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11.19.2008
11.16.2008
I AIN'T SINGIN' CAUSE I'M HAPPY - PART II
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This is the last week for my first writing class in Chicago. I feel happiness/sadness at the same time. Happy to have a little more time to myself and to update my blog; sad because I genuinely enjoyed it. School apparently isn't all that bad when you love what you are studying. My next class will hopefully be in the summer of 2009, if/when I am admitted into the program. For now, look for more frequent blog updates...starting with my last assignment for the class.
ASSIGNMENT: to expand my character sketch assignment into a partial/full work of memoir or essay. If you read my character sketch a while back, keep reading, it goes on much further.
I AIN'T SINGIN' CAUSE I'M HAPPY
I wrote this on my way to work. It is my one and only love story.
It’s late Saturday evening and he sits perched on a stool out front of the old tavern, as he does most every night. His arms, half covered in a maroon button-up shirt rolled just below the elbows, are crossed, resting on his stomach inside his dark denim overalls, making his already broad, thick frame appear even bulkier. His kinked, frizzy, shoulder-length black hair is pulled back at the nape of his neck, held in place by an elastic rubber band. His eyes are masked by a pair of dark, round sunglasses that never leave his face.
He is a quiet man, approaching 60 years-old. He chooses his words and conversations sparingly, but he has seen things and has stories to tell. It is apparent by the deep creases on his face and roughness of his hands, but also by the way he grins to himself, on occasion, when he thinks no one is watching. His laugh is robust and genuine, but to make him laugh is a rarity. Achieve such accomplishment, however, and it resonates with you for hours.
"SERG, telephone!" someone yells from inside.
He tosses his cigarette butt to the ground, shifts his weight off the stool and stamps at the orange glow on the sidewalk with his heavy black boot. He shakes some imaginary embers off his overalls, which are worn and faded at the seat. He makes his way inside, letting out a deep, low sigh as he goes. His walk is heavy, almost forced, as if he is bothered by each step that no one has figured out a more suitable way to get from here to there.
Pulling the phone to his ear, he lets out a gruff "Yeah?" A series of affirmative grunts follow, and he slams the receiver down shortly after.
"You drove tonight, yes?" He says to me, with just a hint of a Mexican accent.
"Uh...yes, I did," I respond, not sure where this is leading.
"How about you throw me out at the Old Ale House? It's just a half mile down the road."
"Of course, no problem."
After we close the bar down, we drive down the street, in silence at first. Much to my surprise, he hands me a cd and says "Put this on number 19." I hit play and immediately recognize the voice that fills the car, which now smells of stale cigarette smoke, to be his. As he pulls himself out of my car, he nods in recognition to the bouncer outside the Ale House. He leans his head back into the car and says, "You keep that cd, ok?" Then, even though I can’t see beyond his sunglasses, I’m sure he winks at me.
And it stays with me for hours.
It’s Saturday again; my fondness for this day grows with each passing week. I walk up the sidewalk to the bar and feel a twinge of happiness to see Serge get out of the passenger side of an old, slightly rusted car. He wasn’t at work last week, and things felt bland without his presence.
It is a particularly slow-starting evening, and he is talkative. He leans on the bar, his attire almost identical to every other Saturday for the last few months. It could be considered his uniform, I suppose, although it seems more like an extension of him. Tonight, his dark denim overalls cover a deep orange, plaid collared shirt, rolled again to the elbows. One arm boasts a generous hole, the fabric frayed at the edges, through which I can see some dark material underneath. I stare curiously at the hole and wonder how long it took to spread so widely across his arm.
“You are gonna play me in pool” he says, suddenly.
“But I don’t really know how” I respond.
“Perfect, I’ll teach you, and then I’ll beat you,” he says with a chuckle and makes his way toward the table, whistling as he goes.
He is patient in his teaching, in a fatherly sort of way. He doesn’t belittle my inexperience and instead refers to me as ‘the future of pool.’ He provides commentary, playfully, as I sink the final shot for the win and almost convinces me that I deserve it. We play one more game, he wins easily, then we sit at the bar, waiting for the people. He flips a Cary Grant special on the television, and we are both engrossed. I almost fail to notice that a few customers trickle through the door. They know Serg, of course. I serve them drinks, two Pabst Blue Ribbons on tap and a Jameson on the rocks and ask if they would like me to put on some music. No, they tell me. They watch, too.
Sometimes Saturday is open mic night. When the first and only band takes stage, there are about twenty-five people in the bar. The band is dreadful, but their sheer enthusiasm outweighs the mistakes, and we applaud them, like proud parents, for being so fearless. During a break, Serg grabs a guitar and takes the mic. I am delighted at the impromptu performance; it is my first chance to hear him play.
He is a comedian, in his own right, and begins every song with “I wrote this song on my way to work. It is my one and only love song,” even though most are not. His voice fills the room, sweeter and more sentimental than one would ever predict by looking at him. A large group in the corner, they know Sergio. I watch as they sway and sing along with his words:
I ain’t singin cause I’m happy. But then again, I’m not too sad.
It’s a funny sort of feeling, not feeling good and not feeling bad.
Don’t you know I heard it said, that’s the way it should be.
Never tied down, always loose, to do as you please.
That’s the way, I heard it said, it should be.
No ties or bonds, to hold us down, we’re so free.
At the end of the night, Serg asks me, as he does every week, “Whatcha doing, girl? You coming out for a drink?” I begin to deny his invitation, as I do every week, “Just gonna go home, it’s been a long week…,” my voice trails off. He insists, “C’mon, first drink is on me. Come see some city.”
Curiosity trumps sleep; I go with him for a drink.
We walk into the Ale House, and I am reminded instantly of his most redeeming quality. Everyone knows Serg, and if they don’t, they want to and certainly have the chance by the end of an evening. As he introduces me to a myriad of people, I notice the whole room is festooned with portraits, painted by the owner of the tavern, of celebrities, local legends, politicians and other persons of note that have paid visit to the establishment. The air is filled with the snaking sounds of a saxophone. Coltrane, I think. As my senses struggle with overload, my eyes rest on a picture of him singing in a band, which covers a respectable chunk of a back wall. I comment, and he points out another right behind me. This does not surprise me.
Serg and I sit at the bar, shots in front of us, tequila and Jameson respectively. He asks, “What are you really doing here, girl? What’s so bad about St. Louis?”
I try to sum up, in a short time, the reasons behind my move. I tell him of feelings of stagnancy and wanderlust; a constant, insatiable, nagging urge to sprint away, far away, from the place I have always called home. I tell him of questions of belonging, often followed by answers of alienation. I tell him stories of opening a bar with friends and about the beginnings of relationships. I tell him about the slow death of our creation, and subsequently, relationships. I tell him that there was nothing keeping me there anymore, and that I felt abandoned, in many ways, by the only things that held me in one place for so long. I tell him about the ultimate realization that nothing is ever as sacred as I hope, despite grandiose efforts, many that surprised even me. I tell him, behind blurred vision, that I could not spend one more year in that place, for fear of watching myself dry up, crumble to pieces and blow away forever.
Maybe it is the Jameson or the imploring eyes of a hundred paintings or the impending arrival of early Sunday morning sun, but I tell him everything, and he listens.
“Ahh…such is life,” he tells me. “Just when you think you have it figured out, something, or someone, comes along and throws you right off track. You just have to try to remember one thing: always look out for yourself. Welcome people into your life, but realize that they are just here, running around this Earth, doing the same exact thing. This may sound like a negative, selfish thing, but it’s not. People come in and out of your life for a reason – a purpose – and all of these experiences we have, they teach us lessons that we must be open to learning. They change us, ya know, but they don’t stay forever. Nothing does. Just ask one of my ex-wives."
He laughs.
"But in all seriousness, that doesn’t mean they don’t make an impact that you will carry with you forever. You just have to accept it and move forward.”
He shoots his tequila, and looks at me. “You’re never gonna leave Chicago, ya know. Welcome home, girl,” he tells me.
Another Saturday, and I am in St. Louis, the place I used to call home. No windy city, no work, no Serg. I think about his words as I spend time with friends. All of these relationships, which once powered my days and shaped my character, are revisited. Things are different now; I am different now. Old feelings of antipathy and resentment, which I battled after my move, slowly melt away. I gratefully usher in realizations, awakenings and disbandments of old demons. I listen to what my friends say with new understanding. I can feel that they care, often more than can be expressed aloud. I silently thank them for giving what they can and wish them well - honestly and without reservation - and I hope my benevolence transcends all that has happened. I feel at peace, a sentiment that seemed completely insurmountable just a few months before. I move forward.
A week passes, and I am driving the streets of Chicago. I scribble some notes on the pad of paper I keep in my console; as I often do during the short waits at six-way intersections. I am singing loudly, gregariously even. Not because I am particularly happy, but not because I am sad either. I am singing because it’s Saturday, and I am on my way to work.
This is the last week for my first writing class in Chicago. I feel happiness/sadness at the same time. Happy to have a little more time to myself and to update my blog; sad because I genuinely enjoyed it. School apparently isn't all that bad when you love what you are studying. My next class will hopefully be in the summer of 2009, if/when I am admitted into the program. For now, look for more frequent blog updates...starting with my last assignment for the class.
ASSIGNMENT: to expand my character sketch assignment into a partial/full work of memoir or essay. If you read my character sketch a while back, keep reading, it goes on much further.
I AIN'T SINGIN' CAUSE I'M HAPPY
I wrote this on my way to work. It is my one and only love story.
It’s late Saturday evening and he sits perched on a stool out front of the old tavern, as he does most every night. His arms, half covered in a maroon button-up shirt rolled just below the elbows, are crossed, resting on his stomach inside his dark denim overalls, making his already broad, thick frame appear even bulkier. His kinked, frizzy, shoulder-length black hair is pulled back at the nape of his neck, held in place by an elastic rubber band. His eyes are masked by a pair of dark, round sunglasses that never leave his face.
He is a quiet man, approaching 60 years-old. He chooses his words and conversations sparingly, but he has seen things and has stories to tell. It is apparent by the deep creases on his face and roughness of his hands, but also by the way he grins to himself, on occasion, when he thinks no one is watching. His laugh is robust and genuine, but to make him laugh is a rarity. Achieve such accomplishment, however, and it resonates with you for hours.
"SERG, telephone!" someone yells from inside.
He tosses his cigarette butt to the ground, shifts his weight off the stool and stamps at the orange glow on the sidewalk with his heavy black boot. He shakes some imaginary embers off his overalls, which are worn and faded at the seat. He makes his way inside, letting out a deep, low sigh as he goes. His walk is heavy, almost forced, as if he is bothered by each step that no one has figured out a more suitable way to get from here to there.
Pulling the phone to his ear, he lets out a gruff "Yeah?" A series of affirmative grunts follow, and he slams the receiver down shortly after.
"You drove tonight, yes?" He says to me, with just a hint of a Mexican accent.
"Uh...yes, I did," I respond, not sure where this is leading.
"How about you throw me out at the Old Ale House? It's just a half mile down the road."
"Of course, no problem."
After we close the bar down, we drive down the street, in silence at first. Much to my surprise, he hands me a cd and says "Put this on number 19." I hit play and immediately recognize the voice that fills the car, which now smells of stale cigarette smoke, to be his. As he pulls himself out of my car, he nods in recognition to the bouncer outside the Ale House. He leans his head back into the car and says, "You keep that cd, ok?" Then, even though I can’t see beyond his sunglasses, I’m sure he winks at me.
And it stays with me for hours.
It’s Saturday again; my fondness for this day grows with each passing week. I walk up the sidewalk to the bar and feel a twinge of happiness to see Serge get out of the passenger side of an old, slightly rusted car. He wasn’t at work last week, and things felt bland without his presence.
It is a particularly slow-starting evening, and he is talkative. He leans on the bar, his attire almost identical to every other Saturday for the last few months. It could be considered his uniform, I suppose, although it seems more like an extension of him. Tonight, his dark denim overalls cover a deep orange, plaid collared shirt, rolled again to the elbows. One arm boasts a generous hole, the fabric frayed at the edges, through which I can see some dark material underneath. I stare curiously at the hole and wonder how long it took to spread so widely across his arm.
“You are gonna play me in pool” he says, suddenly.
“But I don’t really know how” I respond.
“Perfect, I’ll teach you, and then I’ll beat you,” he says with a chuckle and makes his way toward the table, whistling as he goes.
He is patient in his teaching, in a fatherly sort of way. He doesn’t belittle my inexperience and instead refers to me as ‘the future of pool.’ He provides commentary, playfully, as I sink the final shot for the win and almost convinces me that I deserve it. We play one more game, he wins easily, then we sit at the bar, waiting for the people. He flips a Cary Grant special on the television, and we are both engrossed. I almost fail to notice that a few customers trickle through the door. They know Serg, of course. I serve them drinks, two Pabst Blue Ribbons on tap and a Jameson on the rocks and ask if they would like me to put on some music. No, they tell me. They watch, too.
Sometimes Saturday is open mic night. When the first and only band takes stage, there are about twenty-five people in the bar. The band is dreadful, but their sheer enthusiasm outweighs the mistakes, and we applaud them, like proud parents, for being so fearless. During a break, Serg grabs a guitar and takes the mic. I am delighted at the impromptu performance; it is my first chance to hear him play.
He is a comedian, in his own right, and begins every song with “I wrote this song on my way to work. It is my one and only love song,” even though most are not. His voice fills the room, sweeter and more sentimental than one would ever predict by looking at him. A large group in the corner, they know Sergio. I watch as they sway and sing along with his words:
I ain’t singin cause I’m happy. But then again, I’m not too sad.
It’s a funny sort of feeling, not feeling good and not feeling bad.
Don’t you know I heard it said, that’s the way it should be.
Never tied down, always loose, to do as you please.
That’s the way, I heard it said, it should be.
No ties or bonds, to hold us down, we’re so free.
At the end of the night, Serg asks me, as he does every week, “Whatcha doing, girl? You coming out for a drink?” I begin to deny his invitation, as I do every week, “Just gonna go home, it’s been a long week…,” my voice trails off. He insists, “C’mon, first drink is on me. Come see some city.”
Curiosity trumps sleep; I go with him for a drink.
We walk into the Ale House, and I am reminded instantly of his most redeeming quality. Everyone knows Serg, and if they don’t, they want to and certainly have the chance by the end of an evening. As he introduces me to a myriad of people, I notice the whole room is festooned with portraits, painted by the owner of the tavern, of celebrities, local legends, politicians and other persons of note that have paid visit to the establishment. The air is filled with the snaking sounds of a saxophone. Coltrane, I think. As my senses struggle with overload, my eyes rest on a picture of him singing in a band, which covers a respectable chunk of a back wall. I comment, and he points out another right behind me. This does not surprise me.
Serg and I sit at the bar, shots in front of us, tequila and Jameson respectively. He asks, “What are you really doing here, girl? What’s so bad about St. Louis?”
I try to sum up, in a short time, the reasons behind my move. I tell him of feelings of stagnancy and wanderlust; a constant, insatiable, nagging urge to sprint away, far away, from the place I have always called home. I tell him of questions of belonging, often followed by answers of alienation. I tell him stories of opening a bar with friends and about the beginnings of relationships. I tell him about the slow death of our creation, and subsequently, relationships. I tell him that there was nothing keeping me there anymore, and that I felt abandoned, in many ways, by the only things that held me in one place for so long. I tell him about the ultimate realization that nothing is ever as sacred as I hope, despite grandiose efforts, many that surprised even me. I tell him, behind blurred vision, that I could not spend one more year in that place, for fear of watching myself dry up, crumble to pieces and blow away forever.
Maybe it is the Jameson or the imploring eyes of a hundred paintings or the impending arrival of early Sunday morning sun, but I tell him everything, and he listens.
“Ahh…such is life,” he tells me. “Just when you think you have it figured out, something, or someone, comes along and throws you right off track. You just have to try to remember one thing: always look out for yourself. Welcome people into your life, but realize that they are just here, running around this Earth, doing the same exact thing. This may sound like a negative, selfish thing, but it’s not. People come in and out of your life for a reason – a purpose – and all of these experiences we have, they teach us lessons that we must be open to learning. They change us, ya know, but they don’t stay forever. Nothing does. Just ask one of my ex-wives."
He laughs.
"But in all seriousness, that doesn’t mean they don’t make an impact that you will carry with you forever. You just have to accept it and move forward.”
He shoots his tequila, and looks at me. “You’re never gonna leave Chicago, ya know. Welcome home, girl,” he tells me.
Another Saturday, and I am in St. Louis, the place I used to call home. No windy city, no work, no Serg. I think about his words as I spend time with friends. All of these relationships, which once powered my days and shaped my character, are revisited. Things are different now; I am different now. Old feelings of antipathy and resentment, which I battled after my move, slowly melt away. I gratefully usher in realizations, awakenings and disbandments of old demons. I listen to what my friends say with new understanding. I can feel that they care, often more than can be expressed aloud. I silently thank them for giving what they can and wish them well - honestly and without reservation - and I hope my benevolence transcends all that has happened. I feel at peace, a sentiment that seemed completely insurmountable just a few months before. I move forward.
A week passes, and I am driving the streets of Chicago. I scribble some notes on the pad of paper I keep in my console; as I often do during the short waits at six-way intersections. I am singing loudly, gregariously even. Not because I am particularly happy, but not because I am sad either. I am singing because it’s Saturday, and I am on my way to work.
11.03.2008
BEWARE OF DARK ALLEYWAYS
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Alleyways + Big City + Darkness usually equals trouble, right?
I've learned one very, very important lesson when walking through alleys in Chicago: Always keep your eyes open and constantly survey the surroundings. If not, you could be making a grave mistake.
Yes, you could be missing out on prime opportunity to score some brand new stuff. Well, not exactly brand new, but certainly new to you and most importantly, FREE.
It's extremely common practice in this city to set all your unwanted 'junk' out next to the dumpster so that others can have a go at it. A practice I am certainly growing fond of thus far, and trust me, I'm not just talking cat-pee stained recliners here.
As my roommate and I were walking her dog a couple evenings ago, I spotted some fantastic vintage luggage sitting beside a neighboring dumpster. The designer dates back to the 1920's-1970's, and it's in surprisingly good shape. We also scored a beautiful ($%#*ing heavy) mirror that should take care of some of our empty wall space.
You know the saying, "One person's trash is another's reason to plan a vacation."
Au Revoir!
.
Alleyways + Big City + Darkness usually equals trouble, right?
I've learned one very, very important lesson when walking through alleys in Chicago: Always keep your eyes open and constantly survey the surroundings. If not, you could be making a grave mistake.
Yes, you could be missing out on prime opportunity to score some brand new stuff. Well, not exactly brand new, but certainly new to you and most importantly, FREE.
It's extremely common practice in this city to set all your unwanted 'junk' out next to the dumpster so that others can have a go at it. A practice I am certainly growing fond of thus far, and trust me, I'm not just talking cat-pee stained recliners here.
As my roommate and I were walking her dog a couple evenings ago, I spotted some fantastic vintage luggage sitting beside a neighboring dumpster. The designer dates back to the 1920's-1970's, and it's in surprisingly good shape. We also scored a beautiful ($%#*ing heavy) mirror that should take care of some of our empty wall space.
You know the saying, "One person's trash is another's reason to plan a vacation."
Au Revoir!
.
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