dont be caught in the headlights (a cheatin repost from july 30)

weather... its the first thing we talk about after the weekend, and its the first thing we talk about before the next weekend. when did 'the weather' become the topic du jour?

sometimes talking about the weather can be alot like watching porn - its not (necessarily) something that you like to do, but inevitably you find yourself doing it more than you would care to admit.

in chicago, talking about the weather can be a bit of a faux pa (especially if youve been having a summer like we've been having). this summer has been high 70's - low 80's practically right up until this weekend - perfect weather for going out (flip flops, jeans and a t-shirt).

its perfect weather, but its NOT genuine 'summer in chicago' type of weather. it's not the kind of weather that makes you want to tear off your clothes and head down to north avenue beach. it's not the kind of weather that makes you want to flock to weekend streetfests in droves. it's not the kind of weather that makes you want to sit on a patio bar discussing barack obama's ascent into the national spotlight. granted we still do these things, but its just not the same.

dont get me wrong, i dont miss the sweat dripping down my back, the wall of hot air that seems to hang over the city (in defiance of our city's namesake**), or the 200% jump in my electricity bill. but having said all of that, it just hasnt been a real chicago summer. hell! i didnt even put in my air conditioner this year!

thus as we cross over into august, its inevitable that chicagoans begin to ponder the imminent pitter patter of falling leaves, the donning of jackets (socks and shoes), and whether or not the cubbies will secure a spot in the playoffs.

fall is just around the corner.

with a summer like the one we've been having, and our unreasonable fascination with discussions about the weather, it should be natural for people to talk about summers inevitable transition to fall - it should be natural for people to talk about chicago's jump from from humid 90's to crisp 60's faster than you can say 'the cubbies curse'.

nope. this topic is off limits.

despite our inane propensity to talk about the weather, nobody wants to admit that our summer weather is going to end... its going to end very soon.

our entire city is in denial.

because as much as we love summer for the parties, the drinks, and the clothes (or lack thereof), we also love it for its significance. because summer in chicago is the season for singles.

here in chicago we 20somethings operate on 4 very well-defined seasons. as ive previously mentioned, summer is the season for singles. to most this would seem self evident. but follow this thought all the way through: summertime is bliss. its a time for going out and having fun. its a time to meet new people, make new friends, play new sports, find new bars. it is an entire year of socialization crammed into 3 months. its good to be single during the summer, because there are opportunities EVERYWHERE.

Even though summer in chicago is short, people begin to burn out as fall sweeps in. too much new, too much fun. and more importantly its getting too fucking cold out! which translates into the next chicago season - the season of settling (otherwise known as fall). sure there was plenty of time for hooking up and mixing it up during the summer, but as fall wraps its arms around our fair city, these encounters tend to gather more and more emphasis. winter is looming and everyone is getting ready to hunker down. as a result, world-renowned 'playas' quickly become serial monogamists faster than the cubbies can say 'there is always next year'. its time to stop playing the field, and grab (and hold on to) the best option that you have (or had). chicago winters are long and cold (not as cold as minnesota, but they have a different social system) and its always better to have a warm body to snuggle with.

this seasonal transition often leads to some very funny occurences (if you're into people watching). those of us who have been around for a while, know that there is a game to be played, and how to play it. but there is always a couple uninformed people who just dont get the memo. usually these people are new to the city -or- (even worse) they know the game, but have become too enthralled with it. they're almost like a deer in the headlights; they know they should be chasing some cute fawn (or buck), but instead they end up standing in the middle of a highway waiting for a semi to make them a hood ornament. these are the people who arrive at their favorite summer bar, and wonder where everyone went...

as this transition period progresses, and people pair off for winter, less and less quality options are available to choose from. as things wind down, you will inevitably find pockets of 20somethings who are obviously very hot, but who are also obviously settling for some serious sloppy scraps. like i said, it gets REAL cold during the winter.

for those of us who are ugly, this is our chance to shine. ha!

winter is cold - hibernate. its time to grab hold of your nipples, sit in your cave and fatten up. hopefully youve chosen wisely, because you're gonna be stuck with that person for a long time. you KNOW it must have been a horrible relationship, if people would rather break up than stay together during the middle of winter.

a breakup during the winter is a recipe for a cold ass and an empty bed, however a breakup during the spring is just par for the course. spring is the season for breakups. its time to start shedding that winter fat (including that louse of a significant other) and get ready for summer. gyms begin to fill up and you might even see the occasional brave soul running on the path - its spring time.

as spring crests into summer, we emerge single, fit, and wearing no clothes. we might be blindingly white, but its practically summertime - its time to mix, mingle and do it all again.

on that note, i'm headin' down to the beach. god i love chicago.

** chicago may be called the windy city because of our politicians, but there is no denying the fact that our city is indeed VERY windy. nothing is funnier (or 'meaner') than sitting in a cab (snug as a bug in a rug) and watching people on the street get blown into lamp posts and street signs.

*** as we bid adieu to january and round the corner into february, i cant help but reflect on this particular post. i dont regret not grabbing hold of someone sooner, but i certainly feel like the pickings are SLIM in the midst of our winter wonderland. ha!

take a picture (it will last longer)

‘wait, are those milk crates?’

a million and one questions were flingin flangin off of the empty walls inside my head - but that was the question that came out first.

in hindsight it probably wasn’t the most important question to ask, but it certainly seemed to be pertinent at the time.

i think i may have been in shock.

no answer came back to me – apparently they had their own unanswered questions pinballing inside their heads – so i took it upon myself to find out the answer.

its not like it was rocket science.

‘holy shit!… those really are milk crates’

again a blank screen greeted me.

but eventually a beavis and butthead snicker (heheheh) snaked its way out in response.

‘damn dood, that’s fucked up’.

and indeed it was.

way fucked up.

way way way fucked up.

‘who is that in the picture?’

which is the twenty four million dollar question.

when i went to bed last night, people still didn’t know.

which is probably a good thing.

considering that the 'who' in question is a she, and she’s naked.

naked and tied to two milk crates.

technology really is a bitch.

at least that’s what she’s probably thinking right now.

that’s assuming that she knows.

that’s assuming that she knows that somebody took pictures of her spending some quality time with a guy.

that’s assuming that she knows that somebody uploaded ‘nekkid’ pictures of her onto the internet.

that’s assuming that she knows that everybody has seen her naked and tied to a makeshift closet made of milk crates.

unfortunately ive seen them, and if ive seen them… EVERYBODY has seen them.

because im usually the last one to know about this type of thing.

not because i don’t want to know, but mostly because im usually too far-removed to hear anything but the same regurgitated old news.

usually i hear the ‘so-and-so just got engaged’ kinda old news.

or the ‘we broke in and stole their keg’ kinda old news.

and maybe even the ‘guess who got arrested for pissing on a cop car’ kinda old news

in other words, the same ol boring shit.

this was not boring shit.

this was something else.

at first glance the IM that i received appeared to contain a link to some cheesy XXX girls-gone-wild porn site.

at first glance this link just so happened to have a montage of pictures that just so happened to feature a very pale ‘college’ coed engaging in some pretty standard paris hilton activities.

which on its own would be pretty boring shit.

even the part about being ‘tied to two milk crates’ .

except for that fact that one of the milk crates contained a sweatshirt that prominently featured my house’s letters on it.

which would still be pretty boring (because there are plenty of places with the same letters) if another milk crate didn’t also prominently feature a tshirt that i had helped design while i was in school.

suddenly this website wasn’t boring anymore.

in fact it was damn near as far away from boring as you can possible get.

because these pictures may have been taken by someone that i may have known.

because these pictures may have been taken in a place that i may have lived in.

because these pictures may have been taken of a girl that i may have met.

‘who is that in the picture?’

i must have gotten the link towards the tail end of the daisy chain because that was the question that everyone was already asking. IMs, emails, IRC's were flying fast and furious.

fortunately i didn’t know her.

because i wouldnt have known what to say to her if i had.

part of me cracks up at the sheer audacity of whoever these pics belongs to.

‘damn dood, that’s fucked up’.

part of me snickers at the girl for 'volunteering' herself for such a bad situation.

‘wait, are those milk crates?’

and part of me shudders with revulsion - this girl is probably just like any other girl that i could meet out there. she’s had a history. she’s had a boyfriend. she’s engaged in intimate acts with her boyfriend. and she’s trusted him.

asking someone about their history is one of those awkward, often glossed over moments that every person faces when they begin a new relationship. a person’s ‘number’ used to matter. a person’s ‘number’ used to be important. you could tell a lot about a person just by their ‘number’.

supposedly a guys number was always double his actual number plus one or two for good measure. supposedly a girls number was always half her actual number minus one or two for good measure.

go figure.

after today i could care less about a persons number.

instead i just might concentrate on dating someone who’s past doesn’t include:

‘holy shit!… those really are milk crates’

transit pictures compliments of thisisgrand ~ hear jen's womanhood roy ~

swimmer girl - 'i love you'

it really sucked this morning when my sun was eaten whole by the shrill voice of a prissy high school swimmer girl.

she was standing close to my beach chair while bragging to her friends about some aussie swimmer guys that she had just met, and her nasal valley girl voice was larger than life.

it was as if her finger microphone was so far down the back of her throat that she was a human megaphone extolling the virtues for how 'blondes have it better'.

it was as if every one of her words was inside a bulbous pop-up comic book comment floating over her head, and each word was boxin' out my sunlight like shaq at a BALCO convention.

my pasty winter skin was cowering in the corner mumblin over-and-over, 'i need some sun... where is my sun... i thought hawaii is supposed to have sun... i need some sun...'

but she continued as if she couldnt hear me. in her best 'oh-my-god-these-pink-uggs-are-so-hot' voice, she proceeded to tell her friends (and the entire world around the pool) about her newly minted boy toys.

apparently she thought that they were so 'hot' and so 'nice' and so 'blond' and so 'into' her.

apparently i have more self restraint than i thought i had, because i didnt interrupt her diatribe by shouting 'so fuckin what' at the top of my lungs.

apparently everyone else around the pool had more self restraint too.

because she. wouldnt. shut. the. hell. up.

not even when her friends started giggle-squealing at each and every 'scintillating' detail.

thankfully i couldnt hear them anymore once i had begun holding my head underwater in the pool.

fortunately patience and discipline are a virtue(s), and my unborn tan had the last laugh.

everything was 'golden like butta' when my favorite breast-strokin bimbo got chastised for spending too much time bakin (at least not fakin) it out in the hot sun.

apparently her swim coach didnt want her 'screwin up her meet... and blowin her ride' all because of a lousy sunburn.

ah, to be young again.

the days of and varsity sports and 'make-or-break' athletic competitions.

the days of parents and team chaperones who think they know (and told you) right from wrong.

the days of meetin' and greetin' nubile young girls (and strappin young boys).

in otherwords, the days of potential that we (more often than not) squandered away.

i loathe that girl as much for her voice as her ability to experience all of those days and the unwritten future ahead of her.

yep, im a hater.

but at least (now) im a hater with a tan. ha!

gympumpkin makes a good point ~ anchored nomad had me at garbonzo beans and grapenuts ~ Thunder roadie's a reality genius

txt msgin 4 dumiez

i love being home for the holidays.

because i get to watch cable tv.

i dont have cable in my own apartment. im never there. its stupid to spend 30 bones a month for something that i would barely use. not that i wouldnt use it if i was there. in fact, thats another reason why i dont have cable in my apartment - i would never go out if i did!

which is why i like being home for the holidays.

because i get to watch cable tv.

i love cable tv because i have multimedia ADD - i have difficulty sticking with something that does not interest me. what can i say, i know what i want, and if im not interested, i exercise my god-given right to change the channel.

booyah. click!

click! click! click! click! click! clickclicklclickclickclickclickclickcliiiiiiiiiiik.

amidst all my holiday clickin', i almost missed a text message on my phone:

'just got back from costa rica, where john proposed! we are engaged!'

to which i thought to myself, 'hmmm... should i continue watching the navy S.E.A.L training mini-series on the discovery channel, or switch over to good eats on the FOOD network? ill be damn'd if that good eat's guy isnt pretty fuckin' funny, but i sorta feel that i need to stick it out with the S.E.A.L's. i owe it to all those crazy mofos stuck in iraq.'

click... click! click! click! click!

its a sad SAD day when your wedding announcement is upstaged by the antics of a bunch of masochistic skinheads who have a penchant for water sports. ha!

(all joking aside, i highly recommend everyone to watch the discovery series on navy S.E.A.L's. it gave me a hearty newfound respect for the men + demi moore who have passed the S.E.A.L training regimen).

maybe its because im a guy. maybe its because im single. maybe its because im not good friends (anymore) with the bride-to-be. but i was having serious problems mustering any interest or energy regarding this momentous event.

i just didnt care.

which is harsh. hell, its super harsh. but its the truth.

so i vowed to fake it as best i could.

which was a bad idea, since i dont fake ANYTHING very well.

i could never be a woman. (ha!)

but i tried.

so after another grueling hour of S.E.A.L calisthenics and mental abuse, i called my friend up to wish her (and her fiance) a big congratulations.

i got her voicemail.

so i left a peppy sounding message and told her to call me back with all the details. i said i couldnt wait to hear all about it.

but its a good thing that i was 'faking' it and i could wait for details, because she didnt call me back.

she didnt call me back at all.

in fact i didnt hear anything more about the engagement until i saw her two days later.

good thing i was 'faking' it.

maybe i could be a woman afterall. (ha!)

two days and three hours later, my friend bounds into my house flashing her bling all over the place.

'check it out! look how sparkly it is!', she crowed as she did the obligatory outstretched left handed finger waggle that all newly engaged woman do.

my first thought was one of relief. at least i didnt have to squint to see the rock (i hate when i have to do that) - in fact i didnt have to fake anything about the appearance of the ring.

the bling bling was exactly as it should be (i.e. very VERY bling).

phew! dodged that bullet. or so i thought.

because my friends sparkly comment, the finger waggle, and my relief all happened in the instant before i said,

'if sparkly is all you care about, im sure cubic zirconium would be just as nice as a real diamond...'

which apparently is NOT what you should say to someone who is newly engaged. (doh!)

thankfully my sister swooped in and saved me (but not before kicking me in the shin and giving me the look of death).

its times like these that make me realize that i may NEVER meet someone and get engaged (for their protection as well as my own). ha!