Lost and Found

Larry's Can Be Creepy.

I've been to Larry's maybe fifteen times, each with its own memorable experience. There was the time that I accidentally gave an Indian guy my phone number, and he called four times within the following 24 hours. And the time I went to see a new boyfriend's band play. We were walking outside and I said, "I really hope they don't suck." When he saw me, his face lit up and I tried to think of something to say other than, "You guys are, um, interesting." Another time, a drunk guy cornered me by the jukebox, asking me to help him start his new magazine, a Columbus version of Rolling Stone.

Last night I accosted the Larry's door guy because he recognized me. "Why didn't you card me?" I asked.

"Because I remember you, I remember the hair," he answered.

"But I don't come here that much. Mollie comes here all the time and you carded her."

"Mollie doesn't have curly hair."

Such are the times of Larry's. But the real fun happened after we left. Sarah and I squeezed into Gene's truck, for the ride home. My Malibu would have a slumber party on campus. During the drive, we discussed the possibilities of Wendy's being open, even though a) we didn't need fast food, b) I've read the book and know it's evil and b) we had no cash. It was closed. Gene dropped us off and we raided the fridge. I found the solution in the freezer: french fries and garlic toast.

It was in the next twenty minutes that things are fuzzy. I know I burned my arm, because I have a large, painful lesion. And I know that Sarah did not find the garlic toast very good, because there was an uneaten piece sitting on the coffee table this morning. The very confusing part is that I think that Sarah was staying up to watch the rest of an episode of Suddenly Susan as I went to bed.

Sarah, that's creepy.

Back In My Day…

I had an Able Roofing truck riding my ass at 80 miles an hour up 315 this morning. I took down the license plate number and considered writing a letter to Able Roofing to tell them that they might want to have their people drive more responsibly while donning the corporate logo on their vehicles.

And then I felt like an old biddy.

So. The Mates of State and Death Cab for Cutie show was wonderful. It provided another notch to my "Little Brother's Is The Best Venue to See A Show in Columbus Ohio" bedpost. We were standing right next to the bassist for Death Cab while watching the organ and drum duo of the married rockers of Mates of State. When Death Cab started playing, fans were actually playing pool with the dude from Mates of State. My only qualm about the evening was that it was an all-ages show. Sold out, yes. Full of kids, yes. Slightly annoying, absolutely. I actually felt old, like I was at the Indy Rock equivalent to a Brittany Spears concert. Is Death Cab a guilty pleasure? I don't want them to be a guilty pleasure. I save Neil Diamond and my Rent cd's for that category.

I am such an old biddy.

In other news, attached to my old biddy skin is my second installment of my dear friend, The Patch.

I'll try not to be a bitchy old biddy.

Morning Musings.

Usually I think about what I'm going to write in this, as I drive to work in the morning. Instead, I was thinking concurrently about three things, two that seem to be somewhat related: the "check engine" light that has felt to make its presence on all my drives in the last 24 hours, the upper respiratory infection flowing through my ears, nose and throat and finally, my Halloween costume. I'm going to be an elf.

By the time I made my way up 315, the light was off. I prefer it that way. I suppose that the God Of Chevy took pity on my sneezes and decided to give me trouble some other day. As for the infection, I get drugs tomorrow. The fun kind. Like cough syrup with codeine.

I will be an elf on codeine.

Today I hired a harpist to perform Holiday Classics in our store. We'll probably put her near the wine department, but if her harp is too big, we may have to throw her in produce or the paper plate aisle. A significant part of our conversation was centered on apparel.

"What should I wear?" she asks.

"Whatever you want. Something warm. You may be in the produce department. It's cold there."

"So should I wear something with Holiday Cheer?"

"Um. Whatever you want. Whatever's easiest for you."

"What are your store colors?"

"Green. Hunter green."

"Should I wear a black sequined top with a velvet black skirt?"

I imagine her next to a box of Frosted Flakes. "Yes. Wear that."

Stories of Cleve.

So, it was a good weekend, from handmade margaritas to pretty sloppy salsa dancing in the Warehouse District to one mean game of badminton. Although we got lost in the bowels of Hell, we made it out of Cleveland safely, with only one or two additional respiratory problems.

The drives to and from were, as they say, half the fun. Though the two-hour drive lacks purple mountain majesties, we appreciated the spacious skies, the amber waves of grain and the fruited plains. Also we enjoyed playing the "would your rather" game, the hypothetical Fear Factor. I will respect the unwritten rule, "What Happens On The Drive To Cleveland, Stays On The Drive To Cleveland," but we'll just say that I know a little more about my friends and their views on lactating, dry humping and baloney sandwiches.

The toughest question that I had to answer:

"Would you rather get all your clothes at Fashion Bug or go to Olive Garden for every date for the rest of your life?"

Which would YOU choose?

I'll Eat Baguettes.

It's only $269 to fly round-trip from Columbus to Paris. These airline e-mail things are wonderful and heart wrenching at the same time. They remind you that you can leave the Midwest for a weekend, if you want. Hell, you can even leave the country. But they also get you dreaming about Paris, when you know that a) you'd have no one to go with, b) you'd have no money to spend when you get there and c) if you went, you'd be racking up international frequent flier miles on yet another different airline.

Maybe David Sedaris could buy me lunch.

The Big Dead Fish.

I need to go to New York City. I can't go to New York City right now. So I'm going to Cleveland instead. Doesn't that sound like a good substitute?

Love Note to a Salty Drunken Day.

It was a Sunday, the first time I heard the new Death Cab for Cutie CD. He and I met Aaron for afternoon drinks at this dive in Seattle. A pint turned to pitchers turned to more. We talked jobs and marriage and New York and Seattle and snowboarding and then and now. When we left, it was dark and we were drunk. We walked to Aaron's apartment, just a few blocks away. He had one chair and one of those beds that tuck into the wall, the type reminiscent of those in retro hotels in Chicago.

Aaron's job had led him to an early released copy of the album. We sat on the floor of this art deco apartment listening to the melodic heartbreak. It reminded me of sitting on my kitchen floor in Athens, drunk and crying, listening to a live version of *Christmas Card from a Hooker in Minneapolis* by Tom Waits with Goth Brian. My next solid memory of the evening is boarding a ferry in Puget Sound. We would see the Sound as part of our return to Olympia for the evening.

I ate a hot dog; he had coffee. I spilled his coffee and I thought we were going to die. In my inebriation, physics told me that two dozen cars on a ferry in the dark salty waters of the Pacific Northwest were surely too heavy to allow the boat to continue floating.

That day of drunken chats, spilled coffee and a commute back to Olympia that lasted way too long is the basis for my Seattle reveries. Cool air on my face, PBR in my blood. And thus, Seattle, I romanticize about you.

As Death Cab for Cutie croons, "I need you so much closer."

'Til Death Do You Fart.

I've been asked to give a speech at a friend's wedding next summer. It's a Catholic affair, this one. Which means I'm forced to refrain from saying "fuck". They probably won't want me to say how they met, either. Grandma doesn't need to know that Amy dragged Eric out into the Andyman's Treehouse parking lot during the middle of a pool game to show him her new car and, well, a little Southern tongue action. Now, I think that this is admirable. Fucking hell, if you like a guy, show him. Nice move with the car there, too, chica.

The speech beginnings have all been scrapped. "We always called Eric and his roommate, Rob, the Gay Duo…" "Amy and I both shared the same first boyfriend. He has hips and still lives with his mom…" "When they gave up sex for lent, I thought they were crazy…"

I'm not appropriate for parents. (Note: never, ever, in my life, have I met the parents of a guy I've dated. Men sense these things.)

So here's my safe first line. Funny. Catholic. Cute. "Amy dragged me along on their first date. She was afraid that he might have 'other things' on his mind. Little did she know, all she had to fear is fart jokes. That's a fear she'll have to carry for the rest of her life."

They Understand What I'm Working For.

I know that writing two entries in one day is a bit much. However, I just have to say that I don't trust insurance providers. And I don't trust men in suits.

We just switched our coverage to a new company. We sat in a meeting with an insurance provider in a suit. I don't think that he trusts me, either. Mainly because a) I told him that I could sell him a box of Vioxx samples out of the trunk of my car after the meeting and b) because I applauded him and said 'good job' for his company's decision to actually cover birth control. I would have patted him on his head and given him a treat, had I not been on the opposite side of the table from him.

Today, though, I have learned that my life is worth twice as much as my co-workers. Boy, do I feel special.

Wholesome Sunday.

I went hiking in the Hocking Hills yesterday with two couples and my cigarettes* (a fabulous companion, I assure you.) The last time I was completely enveloped by nature was either in Stanley Park in Vancouver, Canada (as opposed to "The Couv" in Southern Washington State) or in the Redwoods of Northern California. It's a tough call, as I was 'hiking' in flip flops for the former and the latter consisted of getting out of the car and wandering around in the woods for an hour or so.

At any rate, while the Hocking Hills are beautiful, they do not provide experiences similar to those of the West Coast. For one, the path we were 'hiking' on Sunday had such natural entities as 'stairs' and 'bridges'. And while one could wander in the Redwoods without seeing another person for a good half an hour, entire family reunions were orchestrated in Southeast Ohio yesterday. It felt like we were waiting in line for a roller coaster, in our pursuit of the falls.

There is, though, one common link: Stanley Park, the Redwoods and the Hocking Hills all have areas that smell like Home Depot.

*I ashed in a water bottle that I was carrying, I'll have you know.

Dear NPR,

Oh, sweet NPR, how I love you. I'm sorry I wrote that nasty letter to you. You didn't deserve it. I was just being moody. You know how it is. And I understand that you need to do your thing. You allow me to do my thing. You don't get angry when I change the station during the school board meeting. I shan't get upset when you ask for money.

We've been seeing one another for years. We've had a passionate relationship, you and me. You've met my friends; they've met you. Hell, my parents even know about you. And in the last year, I've really started to commit.

But I feel like I haven't been able to commit enough. Thirty dollars? What sort of pledge is that? I don't even get a t-shirt for that. It's not even enough to save the receipt for a tax write-off (though you know my love is sincere - I would never keep you around just to save money.) I'm afraid that you need more. And I'm not yet ready to give that much.

But I ask you to be patient. Someday, I'll be able to give you what you need.

I love you,

Jill

I'm Coming Out.

I was on a soccer team when I was young. I don't remember playing, but I remember the hot dogs. Autumn and hot dogs go hand in hand for me. Some people think of bobbing for apples or the smell of mom's homemade apple pie in the kitchen, but the only apple pies existing in our household were the type that came from McDonalds. And our family didn't really do "activities" together.

I hated the soccer. It was always raining, they never let me play and it was cold, cold, cold. But I loved, loved, loved the end of the games, where we would rush up to the concession stand (I had a head start because the bench was closer than the field) and get hot chocolate and a hot dog. Bees guarded huge plastic tubs of mustard, ketchup and relish. But I pushed through them, eager to garnish my reward for all the hard work I put into watching Croton Egg Farm (our team) lose again.

I still crave hot dogs, even now. Even after having read *Fast Food Nation*, even after having multitudes of vegetarian friends. I've gotten over the fear of the phallic shape that I had in high school. (If your last name is Moorhead and you're a band geek, you do NOT under ANY CIRCUMSTANCES eat a hot dog in front of your peers. It's like not drinking the milk because it says 'homogenized' on the carton. You don't need to force any extra attention to yourself at the lunch table.)

I'm not embarrassed. I love hot dogs.

Take One and Call Me in the Morning.

It's that time of year again, time to figure out what you're going to be for Halloween. Frankly, between working at a card shop in my teens, going to OU and getting dumped immediately after the holiday one year, I'm not a big fan of the day. I loathe the plastic decorations and candy isn't nearly as exciting when you can buy it yourself.

Nonetheless, I have at least one engagement this year that requires a little holiday effort. My costumes in years past have included Hester Prynne, a Snowman, Plagiarism (with my friend Scottie - an idea he stole at Yale), Kofi Annan Dressed as a Woman, and an Amish person (reusing the Hester Prynne garb).

This year, I want to go as either a pharmaceutical or something requiring a pharmaceutical. Like depression, impotence or the shingles.

So, friends, I need your suggestions. The winner will receive an assortment of pills from my medicine cabinet.

"Are you tearing up our garden?" When I went outside to polish my shoes Sunday morning, there was a man pulling out all of the weeds and dead leaves that make our part of the apartment cause parents to hold their children's hands tighter and remind them not to talk to strangers.

"Yes. I like the yard to look clean. I'm going to fix the garage and change your windoes and eventually add central air and heat, as well."

The man is our new landlord, who is nothing like any landlord I've ever had. "Are you a full time landlord?" I ask. He's not. Pulling weeds and making our garage useful is 'a hobby' for him. I was confused.

"Can I ask you why you're doing all this, when you know that the tennants will still pay rent even if nothing gets fixed?"

"I want to increase the value of the property, I guess." He wasn't expecting this question on a Sunday morning.

"So you mean that you want to raise rent," I translate.

"Yes. I want to raise rent."

In that case, I want a garbage disposal, Mr. Good Landlord. I can no longer throw our food waste into the 'garden'. A garbage disposal would be really, really good.

Resolution & PBR.

Thank you for your responses. The outcome from a jury of my peers is the following:

Former Editor of Stanford Law Review: the Printer is the least-cost avoider
Philosopher: it's between me and the Post Office and small claims court
Bar Association employee: split the cost three ways
Girl Journalist: let them work it out
Designer & Editor: it's the retail store's responsibility
Random Person: I need to pay up

After this incident, I have continued to get freelance work from the retailer, though my prices are higher, as the printer refuses to do work for them. I have also continued to work with the printer, who still consistently offers me competitive pricing and excellent service.

My decision? I'm going to try to get the retailer to pay for the printed product and leave it up to the printer to get their money back from the Post Office.

And now on to PBR.

"Joel said they're shooting a PBR commercial at Byrne's tonight. Do you want to go?," Gene asks.

"Yes. But I'm not drinking. I'm on some antibiotics."

We get to Byrne's, a neighborhood Irish bar typically filled with a diverse group of people, though most of them fit into a sort of "post college but not ready to cut the fraternity/sorority umbilical cord" group. Which makes the place great for people watching. And listening. This is the place where the pick-up line is predictable and weird to respond to.

"I like your glasses." Um. Thanks.

The other line is, "You're ordering PBR? Wow!" Byrne's is not really known as the place to drink PBR. It almost seems sacrilegious to order up that cheap goodness when there's so many Americanized Irish brews on tap. So it seemed unfitting to me that PBR would pick this bar to shoot a commercial.

Sara, Gene and I picked a booth and waited. I used my marketing knowledge combined with my photojournalism knowledge to determine the best way to get on tape for this commercial. (Why did we want to do this? I have no idea. I'm still dealing with that, internally.) I asked myself a series of questions, that began with "Why Columbus, Ohio?" I decided that they're trying to do some sort of montage of real places with real people. PBR has been receiving some press recently for their marketing strategy of Not Marketing. So if they're going to advertise, it's not going to be using busty actresses getting into a fight in a water fountain. It's going to be people that their target group (which has been hipsters, quickly moving to mainstream) would relate to. So there's the strategy. The three of us looked the most "hipster" of anyone in the bar, and, I'd like to think, the most real.

Next came the photography part. We needed to make it easy for them. We were near light, and we had a lot of cans of PBR on our table. More than we could ever drink, actually. (I sipped at mine, though my real beverage was a coke in the corner.) We were the only people in the bar, save the owners, who had the product, logo and all, in front of us. We couldn't be obvious when the camera was near. We were able to enjoy ourselves - and our PBR - without all of that "I'm on t.v." nonsense.

The camera guy walks the bar, getting clusters of people, none of whom truly love the product as we do. He's completely ignoring us. Then Gene has an idea.

"Show more cleavage, girls." We adjusted and within seconds, there he was, documenting our very authentic, unaffected conversation.

How do you get onto (the footage for) a PBR commercial? Show your tits.

The Ethicist.

Here’s a situation for ya'll. Suppose you dabble into some freelance design and marketing. You're able to charge a relatively good fee, in part because you have a super-fabulous printer in Southeast Ohio that you've gone to for years. Said printer is a family-owned company and will fit you in at the last minute and charge 20% less (at least) than any other printer in the area. You love the printer and the printer loves you.

You do some freelance work for a small retail establishment in Chicago, some invitations for an event. The invitations never arrive. The printer has printed the invitations (and holds samples as proof) and mailed them through the U.S. Postal Service, bulk. The printer has receipts from the post office to prove this. All 2000 invitations get lost in the mail. The printer has not only used their time, labor and materials, but they've footed the bill for the labeling and mailing. They bill your client, the retail store, for services rendered. The client has already paid you for your work.

But the retail store has never seen the outcome, and doesn't believe that they should pay the bill, even though the printer has presented receipts and samples.

So, eleven months later, the printer calls you and tells you that the retail store refuses to pay.

Who takes responsibility for this tab? Note that no contracts have been signed at all.

1. The Printer: They work with the Postal Service and labeling company and should oversee all aspects of the printed piece.

2. You: The client trusted you and your decision to use an out-of-town printer. You are a professional and should guarantee the delivery of the product.

3. The Client: Things happen, and buy choosing to use bulk mail, there is no guarantee of a safe arrival of product. (Especially since Chicago Postal Workers have a history of dumping mail into the river.)

I want comments on this one. Scrape your brain for that stuff from Ethics Class. Use your law, philosophy, music education, marketing, journalism, English, interactive multimedia and entomology degrees. I need some guidance, here.

It's Okay To Listen To Garrison Keillor.

This is my long unanswered response to an argument I had in the streets of Park Slope with my friend José Ralat Maldonado in July. On a pleasant Sunday morning stroll, José took the love of my life and turned him into a monster, with three little words: White Is Right. I respect someone who will dare to have a side of politics with his coffee before breakfast. Nonetheless, my heart was temporarily broken when I thought about José's point, that Garrison Keillor of *Prairie Home Companion* fame could possibly be focused on all things white. For a brief second, it made sense. There *is* a lot of snow in Minnesota.

My thought progression: Garrison Keillor only writes about white people. I am a white person. I love Garrison Keillor. I must be a very sheltered and bad person. I was crushed. I thought I was open-minded.

I've come around, though. Here's my response, José.

1. You write what you know. It's one of the Ten Commandments in writing. And it makes sense. Your cultural surroundings and experiences will influence just about any expression of art you choose to make. Garrison Keillor writes about Minnesota. He writes about Norwegians, Lutherans, cocktails and an unnatural attachment to cold weather. That's because he lives in Minnesota. Garrison Keillor is documenting (albeit in fiction) a lifestyle that many of us are not familiar with.

The following is the census information from 2001 for the state of Minnesota.

89.4% white
3.5% black or African American
1.1% American Indian or Alaska Natives
2.9% Asians
2.9% Hispanic or Latino persons

It's pretty white up there, no?

2. You wouldn't expect Jennifer Lopez to take up folk music.

3. Anyone who listens to Prairie Home Companion would agree that nearly 50% of the shows have one or two gospel singers on them. Now, I haven't done the research, and radio is radio, but I'm going to say that those soulful voices escaping from my radio on Saturday evenings are not those of skinny white Norwegian girls in patent leather shoes and clothes from the Gap.

With that said, I agree that NPR, in general, may be a tad bit "white." But they're trying, José, they're trying.

From José's blog, http://leftfieldlengua.blogspot.com

The bonus word, which I am pleased to post as further proof of NPR's self-congratulatory white is right foundation vis-à-vis the 1960s radical feminism that was actually feminism for middle class white women, is: Lake Woebegon effect (n).

Dead Air.

Okay. So I wrote something about the Morrow County Humane Society, one of the grocery stores I work for buying a slaughtering the second prize steer at the Morrow Country Fair and the little girl in 4-H who had to pose with said steer for a photograph that now hangs in the entrance to the store, which is now selling her pet cow in the meat department. The story wasn't really good. But it got published twice and I tried to take them both off, and then they were still there...and yeah. It's not worth it.

I'll be better tomorrow. Promise.

Just so you know, Gregor D. Mendel, the Austrian monk, was not actually *in* my fourth grade Challenge class. I would think that one gifted enough to create the hybrid pea would at least be in the sixth grade Challenge class.

Thank you for your understanding.

Goodbye Summer.

I talked to a girl who is studying to be a midwife last night. Summer and I used to share many a boring afternoon in The Half Off Card Shop, restocking cards, making 'balloon bouquets' and stealing Russell Stover candy. We reminisced about the obligatory speech with every other customer: "No ma'am, it's just the CARDS that are half off. Everything else is priced as marked." Followed by the under-the-breath, "We're not called the Half Off EVERYTHING Shop."

The last time I saw Summer, she had shoulder-length dreadlocks and looked kind of stoned. An overview of her life in the last seven years: she dropped out of school over a discrepancy with science credits, got her GED, got way into drugs, became a wiccan, moved toward yoga, got way out of drugs, studied astrology and nursing and grew out her dreads. Now she's preparing to deliver your baby. She's Vh1's Behind the Music already, and she's only 21.

She voiced the joys that can come from delivering your baby in the warmth of your own home, with your husband and cats nearby to guide you through the miracle of life. The sheets would be a mess.

Summer and I parted ways with a hug, and as I stepped out into the cool autumn air, I decided that I'd want to run into her in another seven years. One can only imagine what she will have experienced by then.

Definitely Half Full.

I went to see Phillip Glass perform Koyaanisqatsi last night, and my life has changed. I know this because when I opened up the refrigerator this morning, to pour a glass of my 100% expensive freshly squeezed orange juice, sitting innocently on the top shelf of our cooling box, taking the space of my beloved PBR, was a six pack of Tecate. More accurately, there were five full bottles of Tecate accompanied by a sixth, half full bottle.

Culture multiplies itself; that's what I now know. You learn how to spell and pronounce a Hopi Indian word being chanted by musical genius, and the next thing you know Mexican beer finds its way into your home. Culture also jogs your memory. The following is an example.

The film ends and the ensemble returns to the stage, to bow before the standing ovation. (The standing ovation, according to Gene, my sometimes date for such high-browed affairs, was due to the one breast shown in the 80 minute film. I did not see said breast, but I am only a novice; Gene is a professional.) Standing on stage, second from the right, was a man that looked like Dr. Peter Jarjisian, my college choir director.

Which reminded me that I was in choir in college. Dr. Peter directed 150 of us as we lovingly sang, "Herr un cher, herr, un cher, he-er-er-er-er-er" from St. John's Passion. I once saw Dr. Peter sitting in a lounge in the lingerie section of Marshall Fields in Columbus.

I was only in choir for two quarters. I quit after Chinchester Psalms. The piece was written for little boys or sopranos. I was neither.

Back to the beer. Where is came from is not so much a mystery. I'm going to guess it was either Sarah or one of the three cats. Why a bottle has yet to be finished, is a whole other question. My guess is that Sarah was too distracted by the authentic Guernica painting that is now, curiously, hanging on our dining room wall.

Interactive Challenge.

Okay. So I feel like this blog is all about me. To change that, I'm creating an activity for ya'll. Help me figure out how to get the "edit me" links off the page on the right, and put in real links.

I'll give you a cookie.

Math Problem.

Do I go see Belle & Sebastian and David Sedaris, and skip out on Iron & Wine and Death Cab for Cutie? Or do I see Death Cab and Sedaris and read reviews of the others? Or do I go to all four and just not pay rent?

Also, it's getting cold here. Does anyone know how I can get out of driving in snow this winter?