A few greasy looking smears
and next to them, written in soft pencil-
by a beautiful girl, I could tell,
whom I would never meet-
“Pardon the egg salad stains, but I’m in love.”
The New York Times had a great story recently about those who scribble in the margins of books. I hear a chorus of librarians groaning and lamenting the sanctity of bound material – but wait! You see, the idea of virginal pages is a new concept that came to power in the 20th century. Mark Twain, Charles Darwin and Studs Terkel all were proponents of the dirty deed.
There’s a fear among scholars that these valuable historical insights might be less preserved with the rise of e-books. But forget doodles; handwriting itself seems to be in grave danger. I can’t remember how to make a cursive Q.
My books are clean, I swear, but I’m tempted to rough them up a bit.
“On our first date, I was like, ‘Hey, why’d you stop being a vegan?’ And she was like, ‘What kind of guy’s going to date a vegan?’ And I was like, ‘You’re awesome.’ ”
-Jon Shook, an owner of Animal, the meat- and fat-centric restaurant in Los Angeles (full story)
I visit the dining car at 8 p.m., last call. For those unfamiliar with train etiquette, strangers are grouped with strangers in an effort to conserve space. Four to a booth, plastic dishes and a faux flower at the window. It’s a close enough approximation of glamor travel. Cary Grant may beg to differ.
My partners this evening are a woman a bit older than my mom and a man I will dub “Augustus.” The woman is pleasant, conversational and fun. And the man is… fat.
Our waiter brings menus and immediately we are doomed: “16 fucking dollars?!” bellows Augustus. He pulls out a spicy chicken wing he brought with him and loads it into his mouth-opening. It’s clever sleight of hand trick, and I’m desperately glancing around the dining car looking for sympathy. A sea of tables, each full of engaging and intelligent, sane train lovers.
We order dinner, veggie pasta for the woman and I, BBQ brisket for Mr. Augustus, and I quickly add a Heineken as antidote. Salads arrive, and I watch globs of dressing fly out of his mouth and onto his tattered, stretched polo shirt. His fork skillfully scrapes his shirt clean and pushes the wayward food back into his gullet.
Our main courses arrive; we begin the small-talk tango.
Me: “Have you heard of Lousie’s in Lawrence, Kan.? The place is famous for the giant “schooners” of beer.”
Lady: “Yes! Believe it or not, I’d go there regularly in the 60’s when I was a student at KU.”
Augustus: “Piece of shit phone!” He slams it into the table. “I should have known that {randomcellprovider} is fucking horrible!”
Us: Silence. Eat food, drink alcohol. Quickly.
Augustus: “I’m going to Concordia, Kan. That Greyhound bus better be there, because I’m meeting a girl from the Internet.”
There’s nothing to say, but eyebrows are arched.
This continues repeatedly: normal conversation peppered with nonsensical outbursts, laced with profanity. He attempts to join a conversation on hot peppers, but derails it with racist remarks on Mexicans.
We discuss the awful state of air travel and delays, and he regales us with a quick story about how he was in prison for about 8 months (or maybe 48, for the details were quickly expunged) and then he apparently senses our terror and adds a little more detail: “You know, I used to have a temper problem.” The older woman orders another drink and I turn my attention to the sherbet sunset outside our window. Darkness follows.
Augustus continues.
“You know those little darts that go in a gun to shoot at dart boards? One time, my friend and I tied this guy up head to toe against a tree and shot about 200 of them into his face. He hadn’t been good to a lady and her kid, so we made him promise to never do that again. I’m sure it hurt a little, because he had little blood marks all over his face. But we didn’t kill him, at least!”
I found myself spending literally a half an hour, 30 minutes, in the cereal aisle of the supermarket, trying to choose between boxes of Cheerios. That’s when I realized I had a problem.
When I saw this quote in an NPR story, I nearly fell off my chair. THIS IS ME! Maybe not with cereal, but with similarly frivolous decisions.
This very nature, no matter how poisonous it may be, has saved me from going into massive debt. Any purchase must be painstakingly researched, often to the point that an entire afternoon has disappeared and I’ve chased my tail over and over around the decision. This very MacBook Air laptop I’m typing on was a product of my dysfunctional study.
There are two pairs of hiking boots in front of me. It’s 8:45 p.m. and the store is closing in 15 minutes. I’m setting out at sunrise with some buddies to Starved Rock State Park, and temperatures are expected to be around ZERO degrees. There’s a good bit of snow on the ground, and it’s time I became an adult with proper footwear.
Only 40 bucks stand between the two boots. A salesman was no help, offering up several pairs of camouflaged, knee-high boots for my quick rejection. Not only a crime against fashion, but equally a crime against safety – mobile ankles are key when hiking.
Time is running out. Both seem serviceable, but only one has the magic word: Gortex. A closing announcement goes out over the store’s P.A. system. I call a life-line, someone more knowledgable. I even try a quick dip into Google with little result.
D-Day.
I chose the boots less traveled – err, less expensive. I drive home, open the box, and immediately regret my cheap ass.
Yes, it’s back by popular demand! It’s time for you to pick a new set of specs for the first time in nearly three years. I have a favorite, obviously, but I want validation that my impeccable taste is indeed still impeccable.
Now I know that these glasses are all awfully similar. They certainly cross the line into hipsterdom, but it’s a bullet I’m willing to take. I won’t fool anyone one way or another, so let’s just pick something different than my current pair. Unless you pick Option Six (The Unknown). It’s a risky choice, my friend, and I’m going to need some solid documentation for eschewing the listed five.
So let the great experiment begin! Phone lines are open now. Not valid for ofadam.com fans in the U.S. Virgin Islands or the microstate of Liechtenstein. For some strange reason.
LEAVES & BEANS, PEORIA HEIGHTS – The man across from me is a lawyer, I believe. He just simply has lawyerly looks. Patrick Bateman in the flesh, with his pressed suit and perfect fingernails. Or Andy Bernard from The Office.
I’m undecided whether this is a date or an interview. If this is a date, I don’t want to date anymore.
“I don’t know if you know anything about history, but…”
Interrogation-style questioning from the man, while the woman flips her curly hair a bit and giggles. She’s not stupid, though, just uncomfortable. There are white Keds on her feet, the rest of her blending into the shadows.
Odd topics are brought up; drinking and religious beliefs. “I usually drink one night a week,” he says. Religion is silly, both agree. He attempts relating to her, a Red Lobster employee. “When I worked at Jimmy John’s….”
There’s too much past being introduced into the conversation. He’s post-frat, I suppose, for I keep hearing “I respect…” in the conversation. Most stories revolve around the success of his other friends. And, of course, him.
“Most girls would be impressed by this….” I’m now thinking that this is a date. My god. An interrodate.
She’s 24. And looking to move to New York. “They’ll start wondering why you’ve been a waitress for three years!” he exclaims.
He’s using a voice that sounds like an Irishman underwater. This is his mom voice, I believe. It goes on far too long.
“Have you had enough conversation?” he finally asks. She mutters something, and after an hour of painful companionship, they are gone.
I hate melodrama. The only thing that I hate more intensely than melodrama and spinach is myself. You think perhaps that I am insane?I am. But I have my pen; I am in my element and I defy you. (Here there is a lengthy pause, a gusty sigh, and the indomitable Bellow rolls on in all his fullness and strength.)
<snip>
As of late there has been a noticeable rift between us. It seems that the incorrigible [Nathan] Goldstein is uneasy. It seems that in the presence of others you are too lavish in your affection toward him. The situation indeed is critical. (By the way, Yetta, make it a point to show this to Goldstein.)
<snip>
We may still be casual friends. But some day when I am in my dotage and you are many chinned and obese we may be reconcied. In the Interim be happy – if my notorious skepticism allows me, I too will endeavor to find contentment with Pearl.
So Yetta,
It is Good-bye –
You are at liberty to do as you like with this letter.
After staring at its 600-page heft for a few months, I’m diving deep into “Letters” by Saul Bellow. See you in April.
A massive tip of my hat to Travis Heying, friend and staff photographer at the Wichita Eagle. A box of old 4×5 negatives was recently dumped at work, so he decided to scan and post about a dozen to Facebook. He believes the the majority of the negatives are from long-time Wichita photojournalist Jerry Clark, who worked at both the Eagle and Beacon newspapers for nearly 50 years.
According to Travis, there are hundreds and hundreds of negatives from 1950’s assignments, including some from the devastating Udall tornado in 1955. Someone snagged the entire collection at an estate sale and thought that the newspaper might like to have it. “We’ll never know how those negs ended up in an old shoebox in Newton,” Travis said. It reminds me a bit of the recent Vivian Maier treasure trove.
The first shot is my favorite. And so is the second, but for different reasons. More photos after the jump.
via The Bengal Stripe (thebengalstripe.com)... a well-rounded daily routine from The Great Gatsby.
I’m leaning toward the “practice elocution, poise and how to attain it” bit. One hour a day feels too little, but you can’t shortchange studying needed inventions.
Like many, I did make a few half-hearted resolutions for the new year. Ready? In no particular order…
Respond to emails, phone calls, etc in an appropriate amount of time. Same day, ideally.
Stress less. Period.
Be more innovative at work. This could be much easier with editor encouragement.
Keep a clean apartment! And, while doing so, host parties. My place is too nice to keep under a bushel.
Strike up conversation when I’d usually just smile. I won’t rule out girls in this plan.
Take less photos, but post more of them. A lot more. There’s no point in hauling a camera around if the images just go on a harddrive to be forgotten.
Be more musical. More practice, more public performance.
Learn to cook, finally. And fish in a skillet doesn’t count.
Kill drama at every encounter.
Did I miss anything? If I can genuinely accomplish 15%, I’ll give myself a nice pat on the back.
I found myself sitting at the pipe organ console, a 3-manual behemoth with pedal board and pipes shoved in all areas of St. Francis of Assisi Church. I once was an organist there, from middle school through high school, and this was not the same organ. I remember an electronic beast, with speakers crammed where the pipes now reside, temperamental and constantly being struck down by lightning. Notes would stick, lights would flash ominously, and one could easily assume the whole thing was haunted. This was the organ I learned on, shrill and imperfect.
You might assume that over a decade of piano lessons would equip me for playing anything with keys – and you’d be wrong. I eventually took organ lessons at Newman University from an old nun (spunky, but what other type is there?) This was my first honest-to-god pipe organ, and it hurt to switch to something so inferior each week back at my church.
While in college, a few individuals decided that enough was enough. A pipe organ was purchased from a closing church, the entire thing shipped to Kansas and the building process began. It’s an Aeolian-Skinner, a marquee organ maker, and it’s shocking to hear how loud it can be. The architecture of the church twists the sound into something flat and uninspiring, but sitting at the console mere feet from the 16’ and 32’ pipes, you simply don’t care.
I still have music contacts in Wichita, and I was practically begged to try it out. So I spent 45 minutes flubbing around as my sister watched and occasionally shushed me when I’d open things up a bit. I brought no music, unprepared for the opportunity, but it served two important purposes. A reminder that the organ is deceptively similar to a piano: notes play forever, key action is unforgivably sensitive, and in addition to two hands, there are two feet to contend with and a bevy of stops and other mechanical switches to operate. But most importantly, I realized that I need to get serious about music again.
Music performance is a tug-of-war between perfection and passion. Combining the two results in intense moments of anxiety and joy.
LEAVES & BEANS, PEORIA HEIGHTS – The man across from me is a lawyer, I believe. He just simply has lawyerly looks. Patrick Bateman in the flesh, with his pressed suit and perfect fingernails. Or Andy Bernard from The Office.
May 28, 1932 South Harvey, Michigan
