Friday at the Ritz
Buzzing with the hip-hop stylings of Prefuse 73 (courtesy of my co-worker Wadsbone), a chicken panini, and a large coffee, here’s what’s on my mind as I let a Friday afternoon pass by with the free wireless at the Ritz Coffeehouse on a particularly bleak stretch of Ashland Ave., Chicago:
How is it that I can become a fan of a band after one song? See “Fight Test”, Flaming Lips, which I adore but for which I have yet to find a worthy successor for the Flaming Lips playlist in my mind. See “Bubblehouse”, MMW, which is hooky and funks the house down and your mom will like it the first time she hears it, yet is nowhere near as avant garde or abstract or challenging as anything else I’ve ever heard from them. Funny then, that I avowedly “like” these bands, not just these songs. I’d love to see the Lips, even though I have little patience for Pilot Can or any of their other old stuff, and I’ve seen MMW a couple of times and thrilled to an excited listen of “Bubblehouse” and a lukewarm listen to the rest of Shack-Man just last night (though track 6 has some pretty fine moments). I suppose I can look at this with either the half-empty or the half-full glasses on. Empty: I’m always looking for something new to like, but I do that because I want to get the zing that comes with being enthusiastic about some carefully-selected thing to my own stash of zing so I can take it out and impress those closest to me with how much zing I have. Full: I’m always looking for something new to like, because being enthusiastic about something is the funnest way to be.
I don’t understand how people in the city give their dogs a decent life, and I tend to try to impress this on my canine-coveting city friends quite zealously, perhaps overzealously. You’re never home, I say. It’s a lot of work, I say. You’ll have to walk it all the time, every day, even when it’s cold out, and that’s really a lot of responsibility. Are you sure you’re ready?, I say. Eisa thinks my attitude is silly, and she’s likely right. I’m not sure why I react so strongly, why I try to impart upon my friends how binding the contract they’re entering is into when they let themselves dream about adopting that cute little schnauzer-terrier mix at the local puppy pound. We had dogs when I was a kid, and I have nothing but fond memories of them, but don’t think that I’m speaking from experience when I warn of stern doggie responsibilities. I observed my parents walking and shoveling up after Rollie and cute little George and big ol’ Spencer, but I was never responsible and almost never even had to help. I suppose I just don’t like the idea of Rollie II sitting in an apartment in the city from 9:00 to 5:30 every day, sleeping and trying not to chew the carpet or to pee, supposedly happy because s/he has a bladder trained to go into sleep mode during daylight hours. Of course, I’ve never stirred worrying about children left alone after school, or even dogs facing sure extinction if left unadopted at the Humane Society for another week. But, goshnabbit, none of my friends and neighbors should be party to making a dog’s life lonely. I won’t stand idly by and let that happen.
The police officer across the street frisking the kid in the baggy jeans and the hoody is short. She’s old. She’s very fat. I can see her large (really large) and droopy bosoms heaving with exertion after a slow, slow walk across the street. They look like huge balloons anchored to her belly. Not only can’t she see her feet, she can’t see her gun or her pepper spray at her belt, and I’m pretty sure when she gets into the squad car, she won’t be able to see over the dashboard. I wonder if she can see anything; her gray hair is coming loose from under her policeman’s cap and blowing all over her face. The cap looks too big for her head regardless. It’s off-kilter and must be covering part of the field of view her left eye should be providing her. This woman does not deter putative criminals with her physical presence. I wonder what her strengths as an officer are? Can she, using English, Spanish, or Polish, talk a lunatic with a gun into peacefully turning himself in? Does her obese and waddling exterior make the kids outside the high school she keeps talking to feel at ease and more likely to collaborate with the police in some sort of community watch scheme? Maybe she’s an amazing shot with that pistol, some kind of police sniper: she can’t move quickly, but crane her up into the right spot and she can live off her own body mass for days and won’t ever miss the gangsters coming out of their hideout. Maybe it’s Bring-Your-Elderly-Relative-To-Work-Day at the local precinct, but why would they give her such a real looking fake gun? Mysteries never cease. Our paths will cross again someday, Officer Old 'n' Pudgy. I’ll learn your story yet.
How is it that I can become a fan of a band after one song? See “Fight Test”, Flaming Lips, which I adore but for which I have yet to find a worthy successor for the Flaming Lips playlist in my mind. See “Bubblehouse”, MMW, which is hooky and funks the house down and your mom will like it the first time she hears it, yet is nowhere near as avant garde or abstract or challenging as anything else I’ve ever heard from them. Funny then, that I avowedly “like” these bands, not just these songs. I’d love to see the Lips, even though I have little patience for Pilot Can or any of their other old stuff, and I’ve seen MMW a couple of times and thrilled to an excited listen of “Bubblehouse” and a lukewarm listen to the rest of Shack-Man just last night (though track 6 has some pretty fine moments). I suppose I can look at this with either the half-empty or the half-full glasses on. Empty: I’m always looking for something new to like, but I do that because I want to get the zing that comes with being enthusiastic about some carefully-selected thing to my own stash of zing so I can take it out and impress those closest to me with how much zing I have. Full: I’m always looking for something new to like, because being enthusiastic about something is the funnest way to be.
I don’t understand how people in the city give their dogs a decent life, and I tend to try to impress this on my canine-coveting city friends quite zealously, perhaps overzealously. You’re never home, I say. It’s a lot of work, I say. You’ll have to walk it all the time, every day, even when it’s cold out, and that’s really a lot of responsibility. Are you sure you’re ready?, I say. Eisa thinks my attitude is silly, and she’s likely right. I’m not sure why I react so strongly, why I try to impart upon my friends how binding the contract they’re entering is into when they let themselves dream about adopting that cute little schnauzer-terrier mix at the local puppy pound. We had dogs when I was a kid, and I have nothing but fond memories of them, but don’t think that I’m speaking from experience when I warn of stern doggie responsibilities. I observed my parents walking and shoveling up after Rollie and cute little George and big ol’ Spencer, but I was never responsible and almost never even had to help. I suppose I just don’t like the idea of Rollie II sitting in an apartment in the city from 9:00 to 5:30 every day, sleeping and trying not to chew the carpet or to pee, supposedly happy because s/he has a bladder trained to go into sleep mode during daylight hours. Of course, I’ve never stirred worrying about children left alone after school, or even dogs facing sure extinction if left unadopted at the Humane Society for another week. But, goshnabbit, none of my friends and neighbors should be party to making a dog’s life lonely. I won’t stand idly by and let that happen.
The police officer across the street frisking the kid in the baggy jeans and the hoody is short. She’s old. She’s very fat. I can see her large (really large) and droopy bosoms heaving with exertion after a slow, slow walk across the street. They look like huge balloons anchored to her belly. Not only can’t she see her feet, she can’t see her gun or her pepper spray at her belt, and I’m pretty sure when she gets into the squad car, she won’t be able to see over the dashboard. I wonder if she can see anything; her gray hair is coming loose from under her policeman’s cap and blowing all over her face. The cap looks too big for her head regardless. It’s off-kilter and must be covering part of the field of view her left eye should be providing her. This woman does not deter putative criminals with her physical presence. I wonder what her strengths as an officer are? Can she, using English, Spanish, or Polish, talk a lunatic with a gun into peacefully turning himself in? Does her obese and waddling exterior make the kids outside the high school she keeps talking to feel at ease and more likely to collaborate with the police in some sort of community watch scheme? Maybe she’s an amazing shot with that pistol, some kind of police sniper: she can’t move quickly, but crane her up into the right spot and she can live off her own body mass for days and won’t ever miss the gangsters coming out of their hideout. Maybe it’s Bring-Your-Elderly-Relative-To-Work-Day at the local precinct, but why would they give her such a real looking fake gun? Mysteries never cease. Our paths will cross again someday, Officer Old 'n' Pudgy. I’ll learn your story yet.
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