Lost and Found

Guess Who I Found?

I was pushing a cart of cabbage, rutabagas and apples on a cart when I met the founder of Found Magazine this morning in the lobby of the NBC station. Part of my job is to pimp out my coworkers, and watch them squirm in front of the camera. Today the coworker was Jen. One of the women in the lobby thought we were farmers.

Today's show had four sets of guests. The Found Magazine guys (in town for their book tour), a grown woman wearing a bright red 60's style wig and a catholic school girl uniform (talking about a one-woman theater show about hair), a radio deejay who was talking about the upcoming country concert (I can't remember the artists' names, but I think my family likes them), and Jen and I, the farmers.

The wig lady was talking about her performance art, but I was more interested in the guy with the mismatched clothing and shabby man-bag full of papers.

"Are you guys from Found?" I asked. (There was a van out in the parking lot covered in Found Magazine stickers.)

I went on to tell them that I love the magazine and that I've heard their story on This American Life at least two or three times. I think the guy thought I was weirder than the woman in the red wig.

I wanted to ask him more, ask him about Ira Glass and the new book. But I had to go arrange gourds and remind Jen to mention the time and date of the next cooking class.

In a geeky way, meeting the Found magazine guy was way cooler than meeting Jerry Springer last week. Check out the site: www.foundmagazine.com

Recap & Grovel.

I ran into M last night outside of the funeral home. We broke up over two years ago. He made the mistake of breaking up with me while he was sober and I was intoxicated. It ended with his leaving my apartment in fear. I was crazy and full of drunken rage, and I was holding his Blockbuster Video copy of Frida as a hostage.

Back to the funeral home. I ran into him and it was awkward.

"So. How have you been?" I ask.

"Good. Good," he answers, hands in pocket, nodding and not making eye contact.

"Yeah. So I hear that you're engaged," I say, omitting "to the girl that you promised me was 'just a good friend.'"

"Yup," he says, turning red, "I guess I am."

"Well then. Congratulations," I pause before saying, "I guess your blockbuster account is safe now."

The conversation ended shortly thereafter.

* * * * * * * * * * *

In other news, if I have any readers in the SEATTLE area who would like to stand outside of a Tower Records for me on a Monday morning (October 4th, to be exact) to purchase a ticket or two for the Tom Waits show, I'll be eternally grateful. I will come to your house and bring you wine and steaks and library books and whatever else I can get my hands on. I'll cook you an oven-roasted chicken and risotto with asparagus and I'll buy a really nice dessert and I'll do whatever you want the day before the show. (Almost.) I'll even watch your high school choir concert videos. I'll give you two tickets to see the Radio City Rockettes dance in COLUMBUS, OHIO. I bet you never thought that you'd get to see THAT.

Please?

Things Unsaid.

When Laura called me before 8 a.m., I knew something was wrong. I didn't find out until Mollie pointed at the obituary, late in the afternoon on Friday. I'm not used to seeing obituaries of people my age. The piece named his survivors, his age, and details about the service. But it said nothing about him, how he passed, who he was.

I first met Andrew at a swing dancing class my freshman year of college. He had a fifties retro look about him and was excited to see someone from both his dorm and Columbus. We became friends in those early months of college. He was, perhaps, my first guy friend at Ohio University. He lived upstairs, and I'd go up there to hang out, listen to music.

He was the first person to tell me about Tom Waits.

As college progressed, we'd assimilated into our separate groups, and developed our personalities. He always made it a point to stand for something. I made it a point to party and meet as many people as possible. At some point our personalities clashed, and we stopped talking to one another, even though our groups often overlapped. For two years, we'd avoided one another on the streets.

When I moved back to Columbus, I knew he was around. Both Mollie and Laura spoke of him. A year and a half ago, at Mollie's birthday, we saw one another for the first time. We were at a gay dance club and it was late. He wasn't drinking, because of his heart condition. (He never really did drink much, and that may have been a part of our falling out. To someone as calm as he was, my energy levels could be construed as annoying in social situations. Or always.) I'd tired of dancing, and wanted to talk to him. We looked on at the dancers sweating the night away, and made one-line comments that if strung together without the pauses, could be construed as a conversation. At the end of the night, I felt good. I'd enjoyed seeing him, talking to him.

After that night, we'd run into each other, through Laura and Mollie. We'd talk a little and nod at one another at concerts, political rallies. We weren't as close as we were those early days of college, but we didn't really need one another as much as we did then.

Friday evening, Mollie and I talked about him. I told her my few memories, showed her a valentine he'd given me once. ("I had to make this for class," he'd said, with a gruff voice before throwing it at me, "Want it?") We talked about the last time we'd seen him. I saw him at a political activist party about a month ago. She was with him last weekend. And we talked about his and my falling apart and coming back together in the past few years.

"You know, he told me once that you were starting to grow on him," Mollie said.

Had we had another half a year or so, we might have exchanged e-mails, or even phone numbers. I might have invited him to a party, or called him for coffee. But it's a little late now; I'll have to take what I can get. Which isn't that bad. A valentine, Tom Waits and knowing that I'm growing on him. He'd grown on me, too. But I'd never tell him that.

Beer In Buckets.

I know that it's probably been going on for awhile, and I just haven't been to the right sports bars, but they've found their way into small, dark dives. Like the Treebar. Watching indy rock kids carrying around a bucket full of half-sized Miller Lites makes me giggle. If you're wearing a jersey for your favorite football team, you should be allowed to buy giant pitchers and order your beer by the six-pack. Same goes for people with thick necks and people who know what night appetizers are half price at Applebee's. But seeing skinny kids in ironic tee-shirts lugging around these buckets is a riot. The buckets weigh as much as the indy rockers do.
Guess what? The Treebar is not all that crowded. You'll most likely be able to order another beer when you're done with the one in front of you. And it will be cold. And you'll look less like an alcoholic.

Pay Attention to the Burning Bush.

My favorite neighborhood strip club, Club Secrets, got torched earlier this week. Although I've never been there, I liked it for multiple reasons. For one, it's pink and purple. Delightfully tacky. For two, it's right across the street from a shopping center with Target, Barnes & Noble and other corporate chains. I love the juxtaposition. On one side of the road, women are buying peach-scented body sprays. On the other side, women are showing their peaches.

This is the second business (that I know of) that's been torched recently. The other one was a Starbucks in a northern suburb. Looks like the conservatives launched a counter attack with the strip club burning. Which makes me wonder what's next. In theory, "crazy liberals" can pretty much win at this game. There are way more corporate retailers in Columbus than there are strip clubs.

Of course, the arsons could always resort to burning schools and libraries when they're done with strip clubs. Hmm…

It's Something.

It seems, these days, that as I go to bed, I cannot fall asleep because I’m writing a blog entry in my head. These are witty and poignant entries that get lost sometime between the hours of 2 and 3 a.m., when I can finally convince myself that my day is done. And then, morning comes, all too soon, and the brilliancy of the previous evening’s hard work is gone. This is a strange predicament, as not only am I losing sleep, but I’m also not posting entries. I’m physically paying for a service that I never use.

And during the day, all I can think about is the weather. And coffee. And boring work things, which really aren’t all that boring, but would take too long to explain.

So I’m going to take this time to recommend a book, a movie and a CD. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll be a better blogger.

The Book: Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs: a low culture manifesto by Chuck Klosterman. I borrowed this one from Sarah and cannot put it down. It’s one of those books that I want to buy for all of my friends, but am not rich enough to do so. The guy writes an entire essay on whether or not Billy Joel is cool. And his essays are actually moving. As, is, at times, Billy Joel.

The Movie: Garden State. Okay. I like this one because of the music. Nick Drake, Iron and Wine, and, of course, The Shins, grace the soundtrack. The movie’s not too bad, either, though the last scene irritates me. I don’t want to give it away, but all I have to say is: That Never Happens. I promise you. I’ve been there. Twice.

The CD: Rainy Day Music by The Jayhawks. This CD is not new, and it’s not mine. I borrowed it from Lainie about a year ago. (Note – never lend me anything.) It’s good, though. Tampa to Tulsa seems to hold a high place on my iTunes playlist.

Enjoy!

This is getting ridiculous.

Upon my newly-found singledom, I've recently rediscovered "music". In my relationship days, I'd find myself committing such atrocities as leaving Comfest early, leaving the Magnetic Fields early, attending Blues Traveler concerts.

I've spent my evening loading my music collection into iTunes and finding some jewels that I'd forgotten about. The Mojave 3 album. That mix from A. Neutral Milk Hotel. Click, click, click. They're all in my computer. I love every aspect of iTunes. The "most played" feature ("Tears Are In Your Eyes" by Yo La Tengo - 23 times). The rating system. And the "genre" field is always entertaining (Is Wilco "Alt Country", "Folk", "Pop", or simply "Alternative"?)

So I've been getting out, seeing local music, putting some shows in my calendar. And I've fully embraced my Powerbook. But the thing is, I'm carrying the thing around with me like it's an iPod. I lug it to work and use it solely for music. I take it to the Library job for the same reason. I set it up in my bedroom, in the living room. Some mornings, I'm tempted to set it up in my passenger seat to accompany me to work.

Simply buying an iPod could be an answer, yes. But this is a girl whose cell phone is the size of two iPods put together. The girl who thinks air conditioning is for wimps. The girl who hasn't ever plugged in the television properly to receive all three major networks. (Two versions of NBC are fine, thank you.) If I splurge on an iPod, the seal could be broken. A speaker system. Wireless internet. One of those cute little flippy phones that take pictures.

Gasp.

This is getting ridiculous.

Upon my newly-found singledom, I've recently rediscovered "music". In my relationship days, I'd find myself committing such atrocities as leaving Comfest early, leaving the Magnetic Fields early, attending Blues Traveler concerts.

I've spent my evening loading my music collection into iTunes and finding some jewels that I'd forgotten about. The Mojave 3 album. That mix from A. Neutral Milk Hotel. Click, click, click. They're all in my computer. I love every aspect of iTunes. The "most played" feature ("Tears Are In Your Eyes" by Yo La Tengo - 23 times). The rating system. And the "genre" field is always entertaining. (Is Wilco "Alt Country", "Folk", "Pop", or simply "Alternative"?)

So I've been getting out, seeing local music, putting some shows in my calendar. And I've fully embraced my Powerbook. But the thing is, I'm carrying the thing around with me like it's an iPod. I lug it to work and use it solely for music. I take it to the Library job for the same reason. I set it up in my bedroom, in the living room. Some mornings, I'm tempted to set it up in my passenger seat to accompany me to work.

Simply buying an iPod could be an answer, yes. But this is a girl whose cell phone is the size of two iPods put together. The girl who thinks air conditioning is for wimps. The girl who hasn't ever plugged in the television properly to receive all three major networks. (Two versions of NBC are fine, thank you.) If I splurge on an iPod, the seal could be broken. A speaker system. Wireless internet. One of those cute little flippy phones that take pictures.

Gasp.

Buckeye State.

Our produce manager is putting the Ohio apples out!

While big cities may be alluring at times, there are few places I'd rather be in the autumn months than the Midwest. The weather is no longer horridly "humid, hot and hazy". My hay fever is gone until next August. Marching bands are practicing. The leaves are starting to turn. The mornings and evenings are crisp and clear. And then there's the football.

Although I grew up in Columbus, and have always been a "Buckeye Fan", I've never attended a game, and until Saturday, had never ventured on to campus to tailgate. Hungover and trying to piece together missing parts of my previous evening, I woke up on Saturday morning chanting the mantra, "I don't want to tailgate" repeatedly in my head and out loud.

So what did I do? I found my only red shirt (it says "Cowgirl Creamery" on it), and walked to campus with Sarah. It took us about 45 minutes. It would have taken longer had we attempted to drive.

It's difficult to describe the tailgating atmosphere to someone who is not aware of the hysteria that accompanies OSU football games. Completely normal, sane people get up early, slap tattoos on their faces, wear necklaces with nuts on them, and drink as much as they can in the time between 10.30 a.m. and 3.00. (Earlier if it's a noon game.) Occasionally, someone will yell out, "O-H" and roughly 250 people will stop their conversations and drinking to scream back, "I-O". People also yell "Fuck Michigan" even though the team is playing Marshall, from West Virginia. None of this is in the stadium. This is in a parking lot, next to SUV's with coolers and grills set up behind them. People bring shade tents (decorated, of course, with Brutus the Buckeye), chairs, stuffed animals, flags, banners and red and gray cups. And then they disassemble everything to go actually watch the game. That's one option. I would call this the more tolerable option of the two that I witnessed on Saturday.

The second option is to attend a party called "Heinygate". Heinygate is everything that I hate all in one place: ClearChannel, Budweiser and Bush/Cheney stickers. Hundreds and hundreds of overweight OSU fans squeeze into what is essentially a pigsty, screaming into their cell phones trying to tell their friends that they're to the RIGHT of the BACARDI SIGN. Meanwhile a band called the Danger Brothers is playing covers of "Twist and Shout". While people were already shouting, I found myself praying that they wouldn't twist. (Any movement of any kind is likely to cause beer spillage. Mainly it's the bellies of the 40 year-old men singing "Hang On Sloopy" at the top of their lungs that knock over the beers.) Although Sarah and I found that it was remarkably easy to sneak your own beer into functions like Heinygate (and there's one called Kegs & Eggs, tpp - yukko) we decided to get the fuck out of there as soon as we could find an exit.

So, right. Football in the Midwest. It's wonderful. Especially when you're watching it from your own home or in a bar not anywhere remotely close to campus. Someplace where you don't have to drink Budweiser or Coors Light. Perhaps there could be apple cider and rum on the stovetop. And during halftime, everyone goes outside and tosses around a football in the fallen leaves. Sometime between the second and third cases of beer, people start screaming "O-H" at cars driving by.

And, because it's autumn in the Midwest, if the driver of the car doesn't honk or yell back "I-O", then it's okay to say "Fuck you" to them as they drive away, before you open another beer and slur the words to the OSU fight song.

For Me?

There were flowers in the apartment when I got home from work yesterday. I spent a few minutes wondering why they were there. Did Sarah buy them because the living room is clean? Did she buy them because it's been a stressful week for the both of us? Are they there to cheer us up?

Once upon a time, my family went to the lingerie department of Lazarus. I was probably 13 years old. There we were, perusing the white, beige and cream undergarments, my dad, step-mom, and two younger sisters. They weren't really talking to me, but I was excited. I was going to get my first bra. While I didn't really have boobs, they must have decided that now that I was a real teenager, I deserved one of those nearly-a fasten-in-the-front numbers. After a few minutes, I realized that we were there because my younger sister, Christina (who was 10 at the time) actually needed a bra. Saddened, and feeling left out, I spent the rest of the shopping trip looking at slips and flowered pajamas.

When I saw Sarah later last night, I asked her, "What's with the flowers?"

Turns out they were from Ryan, her boyfriend. He sent them from Ireland. I went to bed, trying to remember when I actually got my first bra.

Sometimes, I feel like I'm still waiting.

(P.S. Sorry for the long delay in updates. It's been one of those weeks.)

Voting Business.

When the Democratic National Convention aired, I attended a party to see John Kerry speak. I sat at the bar, by myself, and cheered on my candidate, applauding as if he were right in front of me. I didn't know anyone else around me, but it didn't matter; we were compatriots, believers. And I knew that these were good people, because their words matched their actions. Near the end of the speech, someone outside was hurt. Half a dozen strangers fetched water, called the authorities and sat near the fellow to guide him until he was in safety.

In contrast, I've watched or listened to the Republican National Convention in solitude. Being in Ohio, I couldn't feel more alone. Sarah and I rolled our eyes at the puppet that is Laura Bush. But somehow, eye-rolling only works in large numbers. And watching the Botoxed Ohio delegates wax poetic about Bush made me momentarily believe that I was only Kerry supporter in Ohio.

Ugh.

So, here's the plan. I will personally send a voter registration form to any person living in a non-swing state whose roots began in the Buckeye State. Your parents live here? Absentee ballot! I don't know if this is legal, but I'm sure I'll find out soon enough. I wouldn't be surprised if Bush has People looking into the business of anyone in Columbus who didn't show up to the arena yesterday to support him.

So. E-mail me your address. We've got a month to get you registered. New York won't miss your vote. I promise.