Chicago + SoBe

First, i finally saw emily wednesday in chicago. we talked for awhile at cafe ennui, where the second male barista was power-tripping my ass. are you using that, he asked, pointing to my g4 that was plugged into the outlet, no right now, i said, it's recharging, but are you using it? he asked, yes, i said, well then can you unplug it please? it was bizarre. i just didn't his point. i didn't get his issue. okay, i said, laughing, i don't understand why, i added, but fine, whatever man. . . so we left that place. fuck that dude. sometimes, guys get really bitter when you're a cute dude and you're with a really attractive shorty. that's not my problem though.

Anyway, em decided to boycott cafe I'm-so-bored after that guy went all judge-Kafka on me. so then we walked, picked up eithiopian food to go at the Ethiopian diamond and hopped on the el.

--We have 5 stops, she said.
--Okay, quickly, tell me everything, I said.

We talked until the lawrence stop, and then she kissed me on the lips to say good bye, and i kissed her back, slowly lingering between her lips before she stood up to leave.

--i love you, she says. and then she was gone, just like that.
Yup, everytime i see em, it's magical.


So i've been procrastinating writing assis's 3rd chapter in my novel. i really don't want to write this chapter cuz this is where Hassan dies. i wish he didn't have to die, but i've known for months now that he has to go. it's the only way i can show the random abuse of power that les flics have in france, particularly over arabs. but still, it breaks my heart that i have to kill one of my fave characters. i've given him all the time in the world to say his last prayers. i hope he has.


I ran into t and colby at the cambodian joint last night. it was nice seeing them. we talked about our plans afterwards, lamented about the sparks prize and the vague criteria, then we speculated about shero's sexuality, took apart the department and talked about living in leland someday. t is the first man i've ever seen who basically ordered, and took down, 3 separate thai soups for dinner, before nibbling on colby's chicken pad thai. one of the soups was technically curry, but still . . .he drank it like soup.


Even though i've only hung out with erika once, i think about her all the time. i really need to see her again. i really want to know if she could be my next chemical inbalance, my next maze, my next exercise in simple present. but i won't know until i talk to her again. i won't figure out how i feel until i know how her tongue tastes in my mouth.

Café Boredom Is Not A Sartre Play

I'm now sitting, sipping hella yum green tea and just existing at another one of my fave chicago cafes. cafe ennui. it should be noted, however, that i'm anything but painfully bored with my existence. what good is l'être et le néant if all it does is make you shudder? jean-paul sartre, with his gibblet chin, platonic relationship with simone de beauvoir and thinly schematized characters, is hardly the poster child for joie de vivre. i think i'd make a much better existentialist. it's just that whole life is absurd thing i can't seem to stomach.

Yo, the social make-up of this cafe is totally different now. it used to be the exclusive haunt of ailing college students, angsty à la carte poets, and pathological chess players. now, it's older, alot more gay, and more cultural and racially diverse than i remember it being: not that i'm counting or anything--but ok, i am--there's two arab guys talking. Lebanese, i think. there's a black woman kicking it over there. i see two people with gray, thing, stringy hair near the sandwich sign, several Loyola students, grad students, i think, working on papers, and to my right, one middle-aged woman is filling out papers, and another is drawing colorful looking symmetrical designs that remind me of compasses. and then there's a fair share of intense looking gay guys, some of whom are checking me out right now. . . it must be the lip ring. i guess it's hard not to sexualize people when they're so good at hurting themselves. when you're a little self-destructive, you're always partially erotic, because your pleasure is connected to the imminent loss of life, to your mortality, to your fear and loathing, and,i mean, what IS eros without emptiness, pain and loss? and what is a lip ring if not those very things? i mean, could i fetishize myself anymore than i already have? i deserve all the unwanted intense gay male attention i get basically, even if i don't like it.

On a more uplifting note, it feels so good being back in Chicago. did i mention that already? i'm sure i did. yesterday, chicas came out in droves on Michigan Avenue. It was a short skirt parade. . .

Talking to my brother, i have to say, it's confirmed a feeling i've been having for awhile, which is, that though i know i'll humbly accept my next assignment from the universe, wherever it takes me, there is a larger and larger part of me that really wants to move back to Chicago in a couple of months. but in order to do that, i have to either find temporary adjunct teaching positions here in chicago--which is doubtful but possible, or win the sparks prize--1:7 chance, depending on the aesthetic biases of the judge, mood and temperament when s/he reads my manuscript.


I stayed at my brother's apartment last night. it was the first time i slept right NEXT to a bale of hay. i'm serious. there was a huge brick the size of a large chest, of fucking HAY inside my brother's apartment, right next to my his "bed," which was basically some blankets on the floor. and then, my brother showed me his compost bucket, RIGHT NEXT TO HIS REFRIGERATOR, which just happened to be right next to his WORM BUCKET, i'm not joking, my brother has a plastic bin full of second stage compost that he feeds to worms. oh, that's fun, i thought. while other people have cats, my bro has WORMS. after i helped him cut his hair last night, i saw him dumping some of his old hair into the worm bin. what are you doing? i ask. oh, he said, they like hair.

Everytime i stay with my brother, it's like i'm transported into the third world again. there's no food in the fridge, there's no toilet paper, there are piles of clothes, little or no furniture, no snacks, but dammit, there's lots of soil, lots of dirt, there's cob balls on the altar, there's a bale of hay, and there's compost, decaying fruit, old hair and worms. god bless this boy. he hasn't lived in the gambia since 1997 and yet he STILL lives like a peace corps volunteer. who forgot to return to civilization.

Okay, it's time to get back to my novel.