Hungover, I had to skip this morning's set of thrust-crunches, 4-count burpees, and plyometric medicine ball training. Right when I was just starting to get buff again.
A neighbor boy poked a vuvuzela out his window and blew a swarm of sour flatulent bees at the end of the year school traffic.
"What the hell was that?"
Work was stupid. It always is when you're hungover.
"Duh. Look at me. I'm having trouble forming thoughts."
Also, the weather was being a dickhead.
All 88 degrees and Nam humid.
The simple ingredients for a trying day.
Earlier in the week, I had agreed to do this nightmare run for today.
I took out the seats in the van, and went down to 35th and Sacramento to pick up 72 boxes full of individually wrapped granola bars. It filled the entire vehicle.
The 800 pounds of granola bars are to be delivered tomorrow morning by 7:30am at a street festival in a douchey part of town.
No problem!
In the meantime I'll just keep them in my van overnight.
Oh wait.
Oh shit.
Godammit.
Tonight I have a show with The Nurse Novels.
In a crime-ridden part of town.
A van full of boxes sitting unprotected in the ghetto is not my idea of awesome.
It looked as if I was going to have to bring them all into my apartment.
The first five trips up the four half-flights of stairs with my two-wheeler weren't too bad.
The heat only made me grimy and cranky.
Around this time, Lauren and her smart ass friend Mike were walking home from their lunch date when they spotted my ornery asshole. Mike had just spent four months living on a cruise ship, performing two shows per week and getting paid handsomely. He eyed me and my two-wheeler stacked with boxes.
"Are you moving out before she gets home?"
It was a good joke and I laughed as best I could.
Lauren peaked into the van, now half full of boxes.
"Oh, it's not as bad as I thought it would be."
A drop of sweat stung my eye.
In the apartment they were greeted by a wall of boxes that now lorded over the kitchen. I was only halfway done. Mike, who smelled hard work ahead, immediately vanished. Lauren was kind enough to help me with the remaining five trips up and down the stairs in the nauseating heat for a bunch of fucking granola bars.
"Controlled by a grain. A fucking grain," Rollins yelled.
At least I was getting some exercise though. I'm sure Henry would respect that.
Salty kisses were Lauren's only reward as I needed to head back downtown to deliver two more stupid envelopes to some Loop jagoffs. Then I could immediately begin the never-ending night. There would be no shower.
Lauren and I drove up to Canada to pick up Tom from Nurse Novels. As there were no seats in the back, he sat on the floor as we drove toward the sun for an hour in sticky traffic.
The PRF BBQ was being held at an art space on the west side.
Thanks to Chicago's mandatory segregation laws, this neighborhood was almost entirely black and poor. The mayor likes it this way. I'm not sure if the residents do, but that's their problem.
Chicago Avenue was torn up and alive with activity. It was the hottest, most humid day of the year. So everyone was out walking in traffic. It made me think of that old Chinese proverb: Heat make people think they're car.
We received many stares and glares as my inherited late model soccer mom van shuffled through the ghetto. The van was left uneasily on a side street full of people admiring it.
I met up with the organizer of the BBQ, a guy known on the message board as Marsupialized.
Marsup is an outspoken man with a wicked sense of humor that has pushed many forum members' buttons in the past. He has since mellowed out over the years, and is more selective about the use of his bite.
Worried about the safety of the van, I made this observation to him:
"This is kind of a rough neighborhood. I'm parked on the side street over there."
"It's not so bad. I've parked here a few times before."
"In a 2006 mini van?"
"Well," he said underneath, "then don't drive a mini van."
It was nice to see that Marsup's still got it. Hopefully I'll still have it, the van, by the end of the night. Hopefully, I'll also have it, some dinner, too. And soon!
Lauren and I didn't eat, figuring we'd do that at the barbeque.
To our befuddlement, no one was grilling, nor was there any food to be grilled that evening.
Just a spread of two large eggplants, a bag of salad, some strawberries, four bags of Doritos, some hummus, and my contribution: a tupperware of burnt almond-stuffed, bacon-wrapped dates that cost me $30 to overcook. I grabbed a few handfuls of chips, and a baby carrot.
And 26 beers.
Fuck it.
Eat later.
Die now.
Live forever.
Skate or die.
No fat chicks.
Dr. Zog's Sex Wax.
If you're too young, you're too old!
Mark Shippy's new untitled side project played a broken opus to the smoky, sweaty inverted church. I watched from behind the drummer, watched his feet a lot. And Shippy's noodles, his fingernails capped with little finger condom picks. I liked their mess the best.
Before karoake, The Nurse Novels played. We did alright. A guy fell off of a ladder during "War". The kids slow danced to "Sea Day". Some straight guys kissed each other until they crashed onto the sketchy floor. It seemed like there was some ironic sex in the air, or whatever that stuff was we were breathing. We left the stage dripping and dehydrated. People seemed to cheer about it.
I would have like to have stayed for the remaining foodless barbeque festivities, but I had double-booked myself that night. Chris Bower had asked me to write something inspired by Death In Yellowstone, a literary mis-masterpiece of cautionary death tales from Yellowstone National Park. Reading it was a grim treadmill of facts and finger wagging, covering deaths from falling into geysers, bear attacks, stove explosions, and stagecoach tramplings. I was assigned the chapters on accidental shootings, murders, suicides, along with missing and presumed dead.
The venue for the reading was a spot called Ray's, a speakeasy of sorts. The only old man in the old man bar was Ray, who shook my hand with the one that wasn't smoking a cigarette. Lots of people smoked in the small bar adorned with...well, I don't know. I had been nervous all night about performing and put on my pre-show blinders. I don't remember much about the decor other than I liked it and I felt comfortably terrified.
Having missed the first half of the reading while at the BBQ, I just sort of winged my reading. Lots of friends were there, including The Bitter Tears and friends, allowing for a supportive environment.
The pieces went over well, I thought. I revived my crotchety cowboy character for the chapter on murders, and people seemed to laugh at him (to his dismay). I learned a lot while reading my own material aloud to a group of people.
I learned that:
* I should read through the piece aloud more than just once or twice behind the wheel of the van
* I judge my performance while it's happening and take myself out of it
* I sometimes rest my gesturing hand in a position that makes it look like I'm taking a piss
* my hair, when it's humid and wet, resembles Hitler's hairdoo
But I did it, right?
Completely exhausted, we got 1am Wendy's from a drive-thru, dropped Tom off up north, and crashed at home around 2.
In four hours I would have to get up for some more of that fantastic manual labor.
Verdict: Win
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