ciara's best kitchen pic

Click on the picture to explore zoomed in. Jampacked with quintessential Haymarket moments and phenomena in this snapshot... plus, if you look carefully, you'll find Keith's nose.

battle of the breads

Two trays sat on the kitchen island, one on top of the other, sealed with aluminum foil.

"The kitchen smells delicious," I said, stumbling downstairs with my medusan morning hair.

"Keith is making bread pudding!" Sophia T. announced, and I saw Keith in her blue robe peering into the oven. "And Ciara made cinnamon rolls because she's a crackhead." Ciara had been discussing a new sticky rolls recipe yesterday, and she's prone to coming home, pulling a cone and preparing delicious snacks in the middle of her post-waitressing night.

I peeled the foil back and showed the contents to the crowd. Mmmm. "The dough's still rising," Lisa W pointed out. Aaah. My hunger would have to wait for the lemon timer to ring, cuing Keith to put down the Times and serve up his bread pudding.

Haymarket Sunday pick-up brunch rolled along, Lisa, Arianna, Sophia, Keith and myself chatting about the paper, the politics of diamonds and gold, and the 5 gallon bucket of ice cream I'd seen a man hand to Arianna in the hallway last night. We bid farewell to Sophia & Keith to get ready for a date to the aquarium.

Half an hour later, Ben wandered in and immediately went for the trays of rising cinnamon roll. Three of us spoke warnings at once, spilling on as Ben seemed both confused and intent on ignoring us.

Arianna: You shouldn't open that, it's Ciara's. Ben don't, no, that's rising. It was -
April: Don't use that, if you're hungry there is bread pudding over there. No! Eat the bread pudding, that's -
Lisa: Hey Ben, that's actually rising, you shouldn't open that -

Ben raised his hand to stop us. "You can't tell me what to do with this..." My shoulders squared and eyebrows raised. I opened my mouth to reply. "...Because I'm the one making it."

(Pause.)

Another rush of overlapping speech.

Arianna: Oh, we thought it was Ciara's baking project and it was still rising.
April: Oops, funny, sorry Ben, you're making cinnamon rolls?
Lisa: I wonder why Sophia thought Ciara made those?

Ben laughed. "But I do commend you on your serious safeguard efforts."

And we served up bread pudding.

Goodonya Keith.

dr. mario anonymous

David struggled to read the text on the blackboard above the dinner table, where we sign up for agenda items with approximate time allocations. "Vidergoblleiagkasdjsadg... err... Ben." He read.

"Um, ok," Ben began, searching quietly for words. "I know that many of us enjoy the nintendo. But, I have an addictive personality and I have been having a problem. Um. I've been staying up all night sometimes. I play and I can't stop, and just like an alcoholic shouldn't have alcohol in the house..." he looked around, "I would like to ask that you remove the video games. Their presence is detrimental to my work and scholarship." He said he was risking his job and college career.

It was later relayed to us additionally that the rumoured considerations to move out by Ben are in great part related to our easy access to the video games, ancient and wonderful, made accessible by Brian about 4 months ago and creating junkies on all floors of the house.

Brian volunteered to hide the controllers in a place that Ben couldn't find them, but others could know about. It was agreed.

...........

I just walked into the living room, lit by the new Christmakwaanzakuh Bush... and Ben's laptop. (Or someone's laptop. The last I saw Ben's was in the refrigerator on Sunday.)

"What are you watching?" I asked.

"Dexter. Have you seen it?"

"Nein," said I. "But I know Ciara and Sophia are both addicted and Glenn watched it and liked it a lot..."

Ben looked guilty. "Yeah..."

"This is because we hid the game controllers, isn't it?" I asked.

Only a silent, sheepful grin.

BJ's three rules of journalism

First, you tell 'em what you're gonna tell 'em.

Then, you tell 'em what you told 'em you'd tell 'em.

And in conclusion, you tell 'em what you told 'em.

our gift

At our Board meeting Corrigan and Ciara presented on NASCO Institute and the incredible energy stirred from exchanging ideas, stories, and resources with co-opers from around the country.

"It was heartwarming and affirming," Corrigan said, "to see that we aren't just a clever coincidence. There are more places and people like us, and it works, and we can help educate and finance to build more cooperative sustainable systems. It is a gift we can give to the community."

piecemeal

We discuss the co-op as a social institution to provide highly sustainable conscious living options framed in an alternate economic system, we discuss our lifestyle in terms of providing an energetic socially dynamic community, we mention the delights of chore load-balancing, or the therapy of constant laughter.

But don't underestimate the power of damn good food.

6 delicious nutritious dinners a week, brunch on Saturday; international vegetarian and vegan multi-course meals, fresh bread and desserts, home-baked granola for breakfast - and each of us only cooks (and cleans) twice a month. Forget fetching papa's pipe and slippers: I vigorously vote that the embrace of kitchen scents are the best greeting at the door in the evening. (Not to mention a nonsense conversation around the dinner table rating as the best painkiller ever.)

I love tasting the new foods folks try out, rejoicing to see my favorite flavours in new incarnations, and pushing myself to discover or develop new recipes for 14-person meals that strike me more as a celebration than a chore. Kate's famous meals took her all afternoon and presented us with the quandary of whether to photograph or dig into the intensely beautiful cuisine laid out for us. It wasn't just intensely YUMMY, it was intensely artistic.

But I must say, as nice as the lack of responsibility for food prep is... I have fun too on nights where we have a gap in the calendar and everyone gathers in the kitchen for an impromptu meal pieced together and enjoyed together.

email to the house, 5 august

Glenn came into the room tonight carrying clean laundry. "Would it be unusual to, like, have a squirrel in your house?" Apparently he accidentally scared off an unidentified scurrying object which skittered down the hall with more energy than our cats can muster. In honor of this exotic incident, I thought I'd post an email I sent in August. This has been a reoccuring battle, to BJ's dismay.

So this morning I chased a squirrel out a few times. The weird thing was he seemed to have paper in his mouth.

I said to him, "Squirrel, is THAT what you'e risking a trip into our house for? Get the fuck outta here you knucklehead." Admiring my guidance counseling, he zig-zagged over to the heater then agreeably leapt out the window where the fan is.

I went down the hall but a few moments later heard some rustling in the common room again. Walkin down the hall, I spotted no Haymarketeer in the social area... but zeroed in on the squirrel, who was (I kid you not) squeezed next to the board games beside the orange couch and tearing off Sesame Street wrapping paper with its paws and mouth. "All right you little bugger! Get OUT!" And I chased him out the window. He dropped his crumble of gift paper so I threw it out the window after him (I'm not being cheap about the paper, just enforcing the no-squirrels policy). He paused and looked at the paper with curiousity, but decided not to fetch it and bounced off.

I turned the fan on high, so the engine and noise would scare off squirrelly scavengers, and came to alert y'all via email. I made it to the second paragaph before I had to chase the creature out of the room AGAIN.

The squirrel can get in even if the window is open an inch. Please close the windows when you are not in the room.

Thank you,

The Squirrel Sheriff

Even vegetarians don't appreciate rodent invasion (Horton was a housemate):
the Rat Hunters last winter.

the new math

"You don't talk to me like that," Sophia said as Ciara strongly encouraged her to ruin her dinner appetite and taste the vegan lemon poppyseed dessert, "unless you have a whip!"

Ciara laughed. "I have cigarettes and a delicious cookie, bitch, that's equivalent to a whip."

autumn sunday

Glenn had never carved a jack o' lantern before.

Plus the carving knives came with a free glitter pen, hello.

sitting in a tree

sex therapist sophia, keith, ben, german lisa

There have always been couples in Haymarket, but similar to the wealth of scrumptious food we've been sharing this season, I think the couples scene is currently flooded with some particularly impressive, enjoyable extensions to the community.

I speak from the privileged position of recently acquiring a beautiful roommate myself.

news to me, matey

Community dinner was at Bowers the Wednesday past, a crowded affair. The seat I swooped into had been vacated by Rebecca, a woman with curly red hair and an interesting homework assignment left behind her at the dining room table. Initially scanning the text, I was engrossed by the time she returned from dish-washing to retrieve the paper; she agreed to lend me the first half since she didn't need it for awhile.

We should have required specific language defining "awhile," because I understood this as a loan of the paper, whereas she was perplexed when she started to write an assignment that night and I had disappeared back to Haymarket, her photocopied article in tow.

Asking Mike if he could help her contact the criminal who purloined the paper, she described the perp as "The really tall woman who talks like a pirate."

And -- Mike immediately rang me.

pastimes

"Have you guys seen BJ?" asked David.

"Yeah, he's in his room. Just knock," I suggested. I saw David hesitate outside the crayola-graffittied door.

"He's probably playing video games," I said. "Well either that or..."

Brian whistled suggestively to finish my sentence.

"Wow," marveled David. "BJ and I really DO like all the same things."

taste

Brian made a party music mix for the Evolution party that struck a fine balance of melody & rhythm, funky more indie tunes mixed with familiar sing-along songs for drunks.

We let the set list replay during Saturday brunch, while everyone sprawled lazily around our basement on the makeshift post-party dining area.

"You know Brian," I said, "you have great taste in music, for someone who likes Channel 101 [obnoxious-trippy internet comedy shows]."

"You know April," he returned, "that compliment on taste means a lot coming from someone who wears feather boas."

.......

I wore them as part of my Evolution scales & feathers costume, which was also slated to include fire-breathing until I remembered Grammy's birthday warning: "I'm glad you like the boa. I just... well... I removed a tag, but... where you live... what your sister's said about the house... I know it suits you... well... just... DON'TWEARITNEAROPENFLAMES!"

auf wiedersehen, lisel

Lisa is a wonderful intermittent Haymarketeer, although I am probably biased toward anyone who wants to write a musical on psychedelic cats for performance on Lauren & Corrigan's joint birthday.

She cooked up tonight's little fiesta, themed Evolution, as a farewell until her springtime german (re)invasion.

Apparently, evolved people enjoy cans of PBR and Special Export at a faster rate than Miller High Life (the champagne of beers), which is the sole remaining lager...

tenure

Corrigan's discussion about shaping the future of Q as a co-op wandered into the questions of community involvement.

Although service projects have been introduced as a pleasing vague concept, concerns about selection of specific projects arose in parallel. Projects completed, time and money donated in the name of Q, speak to the neighborhood ostensibly on behalf of the interests and values of Q members. How do we choose a project of any impact that encompasses (or at least acknowledges) the diverse positions of our membership? And what about members who prefer we not make such statements at all?

Bernard, once attending a board meeting at which these concerns were articulated, responded, "I think your resistance is to a very narrow definition of community service."

Personally, I feel a few service projects a year recruiting volunteers from our organization does not bind any disinterested members into obligatory statements of personal politics. In fact collaborative community outreach happens informally all the time, as those of us invite our extended co-op family into our activities and friendships outside the walls of our three houses. BJ and Lisa attended David's sermon. Lauren suggested I present bookbinding to her public middle school students. Crystal introduced her tutoring student, a young woman with FAS, to Megan, who befriended the girl and taught her guitar.

Some folks argue that service projects formally sponsored by the board present different implications. Others reply that social responsibility to emphasize community is inherent to the co-op or IC system.

The compromise is to form a Service Project/Community Committee made (hopefully) of non-board members to research, organize and advertise semi-annual projects for interested co-opers. Whether people volunteer is another story; we originally WERE an extremely neighborhood-involved co-op. Everyone likes the notion of volunteer work, but who has the time, eh? Yet how the heck ELSE will we get to know our HP comrades?

......

When someone's bike scratched a six-inch line into the paint of our neighbors' new Yukon this summer, the classic neighborly dispute was compounded by the ideological divide between Haymarket and the retired Ames couple.

In one corner, they were driving a new polluting eco-nightmare purchased to replace their former gas-guzzling eco-nightmare (which apparently was donated to their grandson, who shall doubtless rise to the challenge of hotboxing a vehicle the size of a football stadium).

In another corner, we are a group of weirdos who chat loudly on the porch about sex and organic vegetables, and who don't seem to give a damn about the aesthetics of our garage door whose crumbles aren't quite charming enough to euphamistically qualify as antique-chic.

Plus the faces are ever-rotating, any friendly hellos in new accents with every successive season.

In the end, the incident provided an opening for dialogue with the Ames', who in fact signed the original petition to allow our home to become Haymarket 15 years ago. Then, members were heavily involved in the Co-Op Markets & neighborhood meetings. The Ames' knew everyone by name. Now we are simply the crazy kids next door... two of whom brought a check for repairing the beast of a truck. Since Corrigan's name is so weird, I suppose, Mrs Ames latched onto Megan, who mentioned puzzles at random during a conversation. Since then, we've found bags of puzzles left on the house porch, addressed to Megan... who has also moved away by now.

......

To those of us living in Haymarket, the time is thick with adventure and the community tight-knit. Even a few months in the house either seems to coincide with or initiate significant change for all who live here; we don't think of our time as fleeting. But our membership is relatively short term.

BJ spoke up at the meeting, thoughful. "I'm not sayin' this isn't a good idea to get involved. But I wonder how realistic it is to believe our involvement can get very complex when we have such a volatile high turnover membership. Like, how worth it is it for a 40-year-old with two kids to reach out to folks who will be leavin' within a year or two?"

He paused. "After the first round of livin' here, you resist gettin' too attached again. It's hard."

I thought of Eli's recent questions: How are the new people integrating? Who is BJ closest to these days? And I answered about my new housemates but couldn't speak as to who BJ socializes with most, perhaps because he is protecting himself from socializing too much with anyone.

Resistance to social codependency does not produce a bad housemate. BJ is the opposite: a respectful listener and thoughtful friend to us all.

But there is a reason that Ed moved out before this year's major turnover, which would have marked his fourth shift in majority of housemates. There is a reason there are tensions and stresses as everyone defines their space and fits her lifestyle into the people puzzle of quirks, neuroses, and strengths. In this plaid pattern of personalities, it takes time and some awkward moments, to achieve balance... and balance then tips as we watch someone drive away and hang our next welcome sign.

We are relatively high turnover co-op. Whether we're deciding the relative worth of community service legacy, or determining how to respond to an imposing request of a new member, the questions are fated to be asked but never easily answered. Collective memory being so short term means we lose grasp of answers forged before us, but at least each generation gets an opportunity to try and hammer it out ourselves. This is the beautiful, brave, chaotic co-op spirit.

occam & me

** Kurt, you are forewarned. This entry deals with hippie hygiene. Mine.**

Tonight Brian was flipped upside down on the rocking seat while we chatted.

"Hey did you shave your armpits?!" he suddenly asked.

I laughed at his acute sense of observation; razor action is a rare enough happening, although I had vowed to return to the habit. Pheromones were overpowering my righteous indignance at the frivolity & belittling aesthetics of the so-called beauty industry. As I am not trying to attract a mate, I have no need for hormone-laced fuzz & dusted off my unopened blades to re-introduce my underarm skin to the autumn air.

"Shaving is just obvious when you have a conversation upside down," he explained. (However as this was our first upside down conversation, logic dictates he's observed my underarms while right side up.) "And I was thinking it is funny how women don't shave their armpits and that breaks the norm, and I do shave mine which breaks another norm."

Lisa, Arianna and I oohed and aahhed as he pulled up his work shirt sleeve to show his trimmed crop; the scene was undeniably co-op.

What Brian did not detect was that, going all out today, I also wore the Tom's lavender deodorant he gave me right after moving into the house. That's what new friends are for: organic deodorants.

the reports of his death have been greatly exaggerated

Rumor has it that the Cone is alive & trotting triumphantly around HP following a train-hopping trek through the Rockies.

Whether he actually crossed the Rockies or ended up in a Jewel factory yard in Eastern Illinois (again) remains to be verified.

mrs. nelson's column

Sunday night Ori, Annetay, Lauren, Corr and I are watching a Coen brothers film when the basement phone rings. thinking it might be megan announcing her safe arrival to her new co-op 900 miles away, I went to grab the cordless.

an accented voice greeted me. "is nelson christopher available?"

em...

no one exactly knows chris nelson. no resident in the last 4 years, nor the co-opers we've met from 6, 7, 9 or 10 years ago, have ever met christopher --- although everyone agrees the name sounds "familiar."

most notably christopher nelson is the name under whom our phone is registered. the bills come in his name, and haymarket (as haymarket) pays them. there is no check forgery, but there is also no idea where - or even who - christopher is, when exactly he lived here and whether he knows there are two phone accounts in his name. considering he has student loans for which he's never provided a forwarding address, the theory is that we are the best thing on his credit record.

and knowing how long he's been headlining our bills, no one is exactly hopping up and down to switch the account to their name.

so when someone calls for him, the proper response is not "there is no christopher at this residence" but a simple blurry truth "chris is not home now. may i take a message?"

sunday night, i settled on an answer to subtly, smugly, let this man know anyone who couldn't tell first name from last had telegraphed himself as a salesman, and a mediocre one at that.

"chris," i said, "isn't home."

"is this mrs nelson?"

"nope."

"may i speak with mrs nelson?"

"there is no mrs nelson."

"may i speak to a member of the family?"

"there is no family. what is this in regard to? may i take a message?"

"is this mrs nelson?"

he didn't catch on rapidly.

"no. this is a housemate of christopher nelson."

"well. today i have a wonderful offer for ADS, dish satellite."

"in that case, we have comcast and we're satisfied. we barely ever watch tv."

"so you ARE mrs nelson!!" he declared triumphantly.

"false," i rolled my eyes. "there's no mrs nelson."

"I don't believe you mrs nelson."

if he couldn't sell me dish tv he'll try to sell me an alter ego? cheeky! "what? NO! there isn't one."

"i don't think you're very nice, i don't believe you. you're trying to play with me, mrs nelson, by saying there is no mrs nelson."

"i am a housemate."

"suddenly i mention satellite and you know that you are satisfied with comcast, sounds like mrs nelson to m-"

breathing had paused on the couches in the movie area.

corrigan's voice floated over, "uhh, do you want us to pause the movie?"

"No," i said over my shoulder. then into the phone, "NO, detective! i am a housemate, a mate of the house, do you get it, a room mate, we share a house. there is no mrs nelson. we don't want satellite. NO THANK YOU, and no need to call back. Goodbye."

twilight picnic

Veggie skewers, burgers, tomato-mozza-basil pasta, and union songs to the strummings of guitar and mandolin. Twenty-odd joyous co-opers and a twinkling fire. Sweet September holiday: no labor in sight.

mysteries

Ben glanced at TMSN, recently back from medical volunteering in Africa, and noticed her jet black shirt with sporty yellow arm stripes, a small stitched on Ghanaian flag, and the bright Helvetica lettering reading GHANA.

"Hey," he asked. "Where'd you get your shirt?"

not yesterday

Propped topless in bed, typing on his laptop as I left for work this Tuesday morning, Eli asked if the Art Institute offers free admission on Thursdays.

"Yes," I said, "Thursday and Friday evenings from 5-9 during the summer."

"Perhaps I'll go," Eli said, nudging his glasses.

"You do know," I smirked, "That just because today starts with a T does not make it Thursday."

"Yes," Eli replied, sweetly set to thwart my smirk. "But every day starts with a T, April. Because each day is today."

dressing room, revisited

Andrew Cone: a man who once lived in the leaky apartment closet of Texan drug dealers to save cash. (And score hash.)



I should note that Andrew no longer sleeps in a closet. Or rather (there are always "or rathers" when struggling to describe Drew) he does once again now (another story), but for most of the past year he acquired a nice apartment once he moved out of Haymarket.

However... apparently in addition to keeping a stash of clothes in our boiler room to bike over from work and change every morning, he had whittled down an even more efficient routine.

He would come to our house, peel off his underwear, wash it in BLEACH, iron it to dry crispiness, and re-don the jocks. This pair of ironed bleached undies would be worn two days rightside-out and two days inside-out to get the most use out. Like an old frat boy joke.

One night at mealtime this routine was revealed to us; revealed narratively, in the third person, not literally revealed - thank your deity of choice. Depending on how well our diners knew Andrew Cone, this little tale produced a variety of reactions from shock, disgust, to resigned shrugs and doubt about ever letting our clothing touch the community ironing board again.

Corrigan, however, happily celebrated validation:

"I told you!" he shouted. "I told you I saw Andrew Cone ironing his underwear!"

the german calendar

Ben told Barbara that they'd have to gang up and convince me to come with Glenn to Berlin for New Years.

"I don't think we have to convince her," Barbara said. "I think they want to come over, right April?"

We definitely do. It simply depends on how to arrange the time off, and I might have to make a mad dash for a mere two-day stay in Berlin.

"It all depends on where the holiday falls, and how many days I get off work. I dunno... what day does New Years fall on?"

Barbara shrugged and smirked. "January 1st?"

Smartarsch.

commuter computer

Brian suggested we watch footage of the first solely machine-operated commercial demo flight, with not a soul on board, as it gracefully flew its route to the commentary of its inventor, came in for a landing, angled itself, and kept on going right into the trees before exploding in an "oh no oh no OH no no no"-soundtracked fireball. A masterpiece of comedic destruction, science and technology gone wrong.

"I don't know if I'd get on board a plane with no human back up," I said cynically. "Even before YouTube footage."

On European airplanes, Corrigan & Lauren explained, a computer actually takes over from the humans in the case of an emergency. On US flights the scenario is opposite: a robot is flying unless there is drama, at which junction a human retakes control.

I questioned the notion of a computer taking the helm in unfamilar emergency circumstances. What if it screws up and we all end in an "oh no no no" fireball?

"That's why there are TWO computers," Corr said. "The emergency back-up, and the super computer for the emergency back-up back-up."

Even dumber, says I. "Why not just build the plane out of the black-box material and pilot it with the super computer to begin with??"

"Yeah," agreed Brian. "If you have a capable super computer, why do you bother to employ dumb computers?"

Which Corrigan duly explained...

"They're non-union."

tofu

As I spent Sunday afternoon in the kitchen puttering about attempting an ambitious meal in too little designated time, Ciara contributed her dicing and conversational skills to help the process along.

We discussed what she would make for her first meal, which would include kick-ass tofu from her mom's collection of tofu recipes.

"Wow, is your mom vegetarian?" I asked.

"No," Ciara shrugged. "She's just Japanese."

we owe you one, haymarket

Sitting in the kitchen last night eating cherries and watermelon with Kate, I told Glenn that Kate and I had spoken many hours about serious things while leaning on the kitchen island... that the Haymarket community had kept me stable.

"What would you have done without Haymarket?" Glenn nodded.

"Broken up with you, for sure," I confessed. I know with the dramas our relationship wouldn't have survived without my house as an outlet for discussions.

"Well," said Glenn quite seriously. "I owe a lot to Haymarket."

Kate smiled. "I think we all do."

an email from Sultan after finals

hey house,

I am officially back to the surface.

Sorry for my occupied existence in the last two weeks. But now its over (all the misery, too, eli!) And I am reallylooking forward to enjoy the next days with whoever is around and wants to hang out with me. And I am really looking forward to our house party, even though I know I will have a moment of revelation that this is the official day out of my lovely haymarket.

I will miss cleaning the fridge, freaking out in thekitchen, watching BJ reading the morning comics, wonderingabout ED's gumbo soups, April's sex jokes, Megan's pajamas (squared design pants), Kate's sudden attacks to bake cupcakes, Andrew Cones sudden attacks to plunder the kitchen,Corigan's animal sign language and and and...

best, sultaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan

love & absorption

Sophia was in town for a few weeks, which is cool as her presence inevitably inspires crazy, spinning, laughing conversations that are more like a Beat poet's re-mix of the English language than a coherent dialogue. (For her August visit I'll just go ahead and order black berets and turtlenecks for our entire cast, and we'll pick up the Bowers habit of snapping for what we appreciate.)

For the few months prior to Sophia's move to New Orleans, she was dating Andrew. They are still affectionate when she stops back through Chicago.

Standing in the kitchen, Sophia gave Andrew a broad but quick hug this morning and Andrew looked pensive.

"Does anyone else," he asked, "ever get confused all the time when you think someone is attracted to you but really they just need to dry their hands?"

bangled spangled tangled and spaghettied

Check out this rockin' photo of Corrigan (and his hair) back in October. Imagine another seven months without haircuts and you'll understand why even our Finance Officers look like dirty hippies. In fact at the board meeting last night when I was voted as the third check signer, it was also suggested I adopt the scraggly facial hair and wily-locked aesthetic of Corr and Mark Peopolis. Maybe... Glenn said I looked good in my Wild Thing whispy facial hair... or maybe not.

I work at the same office as Corrigan.

We support system tech administrators and users of a software that analyzes lifestyles and media consumption habits. Heard of Nielsen sweeps week or ratings? We assist people who want to use this in combo with qualitative research to target a certain demographic with particular viewing habits and a fat wallet.

Corrigan and I are good at our jobs, but we try really hard not to look at the reports cataloguing the number of minutes we've spent coaxing, coaching, getting cursed at, and empowering the commercial part of the media industry that is ugly to the sort of person who lives in a co-op & doesn't shave. We work on different floors and actually don't interact frequently. (During my interview I was told almost apologetically that I wouldn't be able to sit next to Corrigan. Gosh, it was almost a deal breaker.)

Although Corr and I work with different sets of people, folks generally know that we are roommates. So today Sandy said to me laughingly, "So the big discussion upstairs is all about Corrigan's hair. I didn't see it in person yet."

"Neither did I!" I exclaimed. "What about his hair?"

"He cut it all off," Sandy said. "Carrie is really upset because she loved it. Everyone at the desk in the lobby is discussing it."

I don't know if Corrigan will lose his strength to topple columns now, but I confirmed a few hours later that he was both clean shaven AND given what my mom would call a tennis ball cut. (Like my irish roommates used to give themselves - they all know offhand what number blade they use on the shears, and I was consistently shocked that during Rehoboth summers a hair cutter was second priority, above food and after beer.)

It might be a shocking aesthetic shift, definitely not top secret, but I was slightly surprised to think that my co-worker (who doesn't really even know Corrigan) more or less moved the monkey regarding a Haymarketeer. Huzzah!

PS Corrigan it makes you look more like a canteloupe than ever.

why he was chanting "ulan ude"

"I like to take country names and see if they fit in the Woody Woodpecker song."
-Floyd

rock stars

Eli: BJ is a rock star because he looks good.

April: I believe the words you're searching for are "striking good looks."

(BJ looks overwhelmingly confused.)

April: (fawning) So if that's the standard, tell me Eli why do you conclude I am a rock star?

Megan: Heroin chic...?

(pause. i acknowledge i set myself up.)

Eli: Congratulations Megan. That was one of the few times that you successfully balanced humour with meanness.

camp haymarket

This is one will be more of a journal entry than a story, so crank up your voyeurism and fade out your literary criticism.

Barbara organized a camping trip to the Dunes last weekend, and I was rubbing my palms in anticipation even when the forecast said that Saturday night would require eskimo-style pajamas or at the very least cuddling. We managed to gather a set of tents and sleeping bags for our crew, and Ed gallantly agreed to drive the cooler full of leftover birthday barbecue goodies for the foodies... plus a bit of cerveza (here's to Yazzan).

Ben, Megan, Sultan, Barbara, Lisa J, Gabi and I caught the early arvo South Shore Line. We didn't look quite like the swimsuit clad lighthearted woman looking over her shoulder in the old classic South Shore posters, since almost all of us wore rucksacks... but we were a fine-looking crew. We split up on the train to grab seats where we could, and the guy next to me asked where we were headed with so much gear. "We're going to camp," I said, and he thought I meant going to A CAMP. Like the summer variety. A troop of Dirty Hippie Scouts. (And what do we sell door to door?)

When we arrived at the campgrounds, we had a few priorities: set up the tents, look at all the awesome dogs, buy some marshmallows, and go for a walk. Yazzan and Ed arrived in the car after their tour of various exits mentioning the Dunes. The whole gang took a stroll before dinner - the woods were gorgeous but the wind off the lake was intense... we split up and I headed back to help build a beautiful wood fire. With a few intermediate emmm strategies (charcoal or wood? lighter fluid or rubbing sticks? pyramid or kindling cross-piles?) until we at last had a roaring grill. I honestly think that nothing hits the belly better than food when you're camping.



We had foraged the woods for kindling and extra fuel for the fire, and kept it burning past midnight. Megan played mandolin and everyone chilled, drinking from cans hidden inside of jacket sleeves... for a brief time we scrambled up the hill to a dunetop clearing and played tennis beneath the star speckled sky.



Over the weekend I dealt with the consequences of my personality with varying intensity, the most amusing moment of which might have been Ed at the campfire announcing the sponsor of Closed Captioning for the Subtext Impaired. (He is a spectacular sport about the shit I give him.) The more tragic moment personally was discovering, with great embarassment, that my pathological honesty and brash sense of humour have hampered someone's comfort. Renew my subscription to Closed Captioning for the Sensitivity Impaired.

Still, the overall atmosphere filled me with joy and energy (enough to keep me warm enough on a cold night, but also too much to really allow me to doze off). The next morning we stashed the bulk of our gear in Ed's car (you're a legend Waz!) which lightened up the remaining portion of our group to go for a hike through the woods then along the dramatic ridge of the dunes. I kept nearly falling on my face staring at the little aquilegia flowers along the woodlad path. Then you ascend, loop back and the dunes sweep down a soft sandy cliff to the beach on one side, and the view soars across springtime treetops on the other side.

Breathtaking.



And doubletaking, when we saw the evolving mirage of the city skyline, inverse and repeated side to side.



We checked with some old ladies to make sure the view was not the result of hippiness.



I heart Camp Haymarket. We're set for a reunion in mid-June.

a la peanut-butter and psychically-cut-banana-sandwiches!

(shout out to anyone who recalls the Amazing Mumford on Sesame Street)

It is difficult to sustain a bad mood in a co-op.

Monday evening, for example, I retired to my room after greek pasta salad and rhubarb pie (complete with perfect lattice). I had managed to stay moody even through the pie and ice cream... I intended to stay put in my room, arms crossed and lips pouting, but then Barbara came trotting down the hall.

"MAGIC SHOW! MAGIC SHOW!"

Shreeyash was delivering on our requirement that he perform a magic show for us if he came back to stay for a week. Having just finished the revisions to his dissertation (following his defense last week) he was in fine form. Most of our conversations having consisted of cultural analyses and articulate explanations, it was delightful and strange to see him slip into a magician's persona complete with bumbling "I don't know if this will work" comments strategically placed before the fantastic breathless shock of a delivery. What a talent it must take to blend unruffled confidence with the joy of apparent surprise at your own tricks!

(Gracias a Glenn's influence about musical theories of the written word, I studied the rhythm of the magic show as a musical structure... generating modest insight only, probably of most interest to you, dear readers, when you're under the influence.)


(shreeyash celebrates his doctorate with dignified magic... & a foil blindfold)

Shreeyash performed card magic, thought predictions, and the psychic cutting of an unpeeled banana (quite a sight). He threw cards through a piece of newspaper held up by two lovely talented assistants in mini-skirts. He juggled a bottle, hammer and knife. He pushed a glass through the table (or did Kate?!). His pen kept ending up behind people's ears. He ended up performing a good hour long show, all improvised with some of the objects around the house... what a Monday night event for one's living room.

What impressed me most was his ability to command our attention and awe, even in the midst of a group of VERY antsy, smartass people. Kudos to, errrr, The Great Shreeyashini! Nay, DR Shreeyash. Congratulations.

kate's story

When I was in sixth grade I had this really good-looking boyfriend. He was Italian, named Rafael, and for our age he had really amazing dress sense.

We had been going out for three weeks - which was an incredibly long time of course - when I approached him before play rehearsal and asked him to go to the deli. That was what we did, we always went to the deli.

He leaned over, kissed me on the cheek, and said, "I hereby dumpeth you."

Then with no explanation, he walked away. Almost immediately we had play rehearsal, so then he had his arm around me in character and all I could think was that the jerk had just DUMPED me.

My best friend told me that he had PLANNED to come up to me, give me a long full kiss and then ask, "Did you like that?" And when I said yes, he'd say, "Well it was your last one. I hereby dumpeth you" but my friend heard and had convinced him that was too mean.

So I got, "I hereby dumpeth you." Awesome.

By high school I found out that stylish good-looking Rafael had come out of the closet -- and that made me feel a lot better about the whole thing.

never discuss masturbation with a woman

I explored downtown festivities solo, and during the bus ride home after midnight, I endured a loud, obnoxious and sexist conversation by several university students about masturbation and how women would never understand it because of crazy female insecurity. Two young kids were sitting right there the whole time, which made this conversation inappropriately timed, as well as sexist and generally idiotic. Plus their specific complaint about "One must never broach the question of masturbation with one's girlfriend" was pretty ludicrous, considering with fair certainty these particular guys had a high ratio of handjive compared to breathing female dates.

As I left the bus, one of the group stepped off to the side to allow me to squeeze out of the back bus door. I thanked him, then said, "Hey..." and delivered my insight.

"Here is your enlightenment for the day. Not all women are insecure, and not all women are averse to masturbation - we just don't discuss it in front of community children. In fact I had it on the agenda tonight until a sexist conversation completely dampened my desire to touch myself. (pause, smile, touch the brim of my hat in farewell salute) Spread the word."

And as he stuttered "O-o-okay," I sashayed off on the midnight winds of the cheap-but-effective rhetorical approach of getting in the last word.

first impressions

When Cat told her mother back in merry old England that she was seeing someone in Chicago, namely our housemate BJ, her mother was quiet for a minute.

Finally, she spoke.

"Does... does it mean the same thing over there?"

dressing room

So Andrew has been appearing at our house in the mornings. He slips into our basement boiler room, changes into a clean set of the clothes stashed therein, and heads off to the bio lab where he does programming.

"This is what is rumoured," Megan said of the odd closet choice.

"No. He told me this," Beej said.

Andrew's reasoning behind this is that he can't get the fresh clothes back to his apartment after washing them in our machine.

Which begs a certain question, considering the laundry had to arrive AT our house somehow.

hells angels fart pot

Another appetizing story and infamous dish from the annals (insert gastrointestinal joke here) of Haymarket History would be the attempted dish that dear german Lisa intended to conjure up for our Heaven & Hell potluck. Alas, it went "in the pants" (insert another gastrointestinal joke), a German expression that doesn't have an exquivalent in English but you probably get the basic idea from those gastrointestinal jokes so generously inserted by our audience members.

Fortunately or un-, the beans Lisa had soaked in advance were not in particularly delicious shape by the time she tied her apron strings. Peruse the email that Lisa sent the house just prior to the potluck.



Dear Friends and Neighbors,

When I just got to the kitchen, anticipating to prepare the brilliant dish "Hell's Angels Fart Pot" for the "Heaven and Hell" potluck tonight, I realized the beans had started fermenting, due to the weather... Now, I was told this is a delicacy in some areas of the globe, but unfortunatly I am not familiar with the recipe and am weary whether it would carry a name poetic enough to contribute to something to crucial to our life as "Heaven and Hell".

Ergo: My dish went in the pants. Mighty in the pants. Or should I say in the trash. And an overfilled trash bag in combination with my practical sense, left a long slug trail over the driveway... I tried cleaning it as good as possible, but just in case the neighbor can't find the art in this ...well work of art, you can refer him to me...

Lisa

if only our convos were as savory as our menus

I cooked last night: pasta alfredo, grilled cheese, carrot & cilantro soup, tomato slices with basil, and a nice salad with strawberrys, pears, radish and mozzarella.

Cooking for Haymarket is always a pleasure as it becomes more of an event than a chore, and the rotation allows me to be extravagant when I do make meals. My last brunch: paella, quiche, tomato with sage, garlic mushrooms, citrus & spinach salad.

Informal press conferences answering questions about our lifestyle for mystified co-workers have given must of us a lineup of regular suspects, question-wise, and some of the greatest curiousity surrounds our feeding set-up. Who cooks and how often? Who chooses the grocery list? And a reliable "VEGETARIAN food? I couldn't do it." Although generally once I rattle off the last meal I had cooked then even the meat-eaters of the bloodiest variety acknowledge that they might be able to survive a proper vegetarian meal.

Kate takes the title for absolute culinary royalty, and in the old days I'd say Craig rocked the refection as well, although his withdrawal over the last lonely months in the house resulted in some dishes along the lines of "lentil casserole" or some such chaw and glutch. (Craig, I desperately miss your dicing prowess.) One of the most vivid memories I have of Floyd's application was the mouthwatering bit about earning his voyage on a boat off Africa by cooking for an international crew.

Don't get me wrong, there are some bummers of meals. I recently "roasted" a tray of veggies that looked more like ashes then asparagus by the time I remembered to take them out. Or Ed's infamous gumbo prepared with 4 CUPS of butter that only enhanced the naturally slimey qualities of okra.




Sue me - the texture of body fluids is just not a turn-on to my taste buds.




Plus we all have our lazy cooking nights. And in fairness spaghetti and stir fry are valid, delicious dishes. I even crave macaroni and cheese sometimes - may deities forgive tastes developed during the nutritional indiscretions of my youth - which means I lick my lips at Megan's "Tex Mex Macaroni Surprise" that looks like a school cafeteria lunch but turns out to be quite tasty.

My true test will be when Glenn visits, whether I can serve up tofu in a tasty form that doesn't make his eyes cross - or whether he'll ask the omnivores in the house to smuggle him out to Ribs n' Bibs.

corrigan's retirement plan

"When I become feeble and senile, I think I will write headlines for the Red Eye."

(above: playing Scrabble with Zoe, Corr, Sam - Corrigan's dad)

the haunting of the wooden mexican

Moving into my room entailed all of a 6-foot trek into what was, prior to my move-in, Andrew's abode. I'd been subletting while Eli spent the summer in France, and with his impending return mid-September I left my room change to the latest date possible to accomodate Andrew's impulsive move-out that hovered according to fluctuating availability of the apartment he'd chosen. (This was a place for which he made the down payment, literally, in cash to some men who drove by an appointed spot in their pick-up truck and had no id on them to prove that they were, in fact, who they claimed.)

Drew planned to move in with two other programmers, Trevor and Mr. Purdy, who had more or less lived on our couches for the past few weeks despite both having addresses where they received mail, owned beds and so forth. The living room was littered with family size jars scraped almost-clean of peanut butter, empty diet pepsi bottles, and hand-rolled cigarettes as they worked round the clock on a program to beat the stock market. ("No, this one is different.") The Mountain Goats played on loop over our stereo, a retro appliance demanding the occasional bitch-slap to calm the buzz when the wires might loosen, and housemates snuck in once or twice to febreeze the orange couch which had begun to adopt an ever-ripening eau d' purdy.

Although these weeks hearkened the return of a girlfriend for Trevor, who headed the project and sketched hyper scratches across the common room blackboard, he found time to move. And Mr. Purdy, whose intense concentration reduced movement to a speed generally requiring stop-motion to record efficiently, also managed to shift his belongings to the new place they'd call home.

But Andrew was having some difficulty extracting more than a box or two of belongings from his room. Considering the modest square footage of the place one would assume that moving out would take one trip. But Andrew planned to move by bike, which meant more trips regardless, and somehow his room proved a clown car of junk. So I began packing his shit into boxes while he spent the last 48 hours before Eli's return and my eviction... well... in the front yard building a bike attachment. This contstruction job took more concentration (not to mention petty theft) than actually moving his stuff would have.

He and Mr. Purdy spread the materials across the front yard. They first stole a cart to use, but deciding that it had too much wiggle to its wheels, elected to hacksaw off the wheels and attach them to a new structure. (My parents were visiting this weekend, and of all moments to connect to someone of my generation, my Dad elected this as his opportunity, donating engineering advice as Drew proceeded to disassemble the purloined trolley and connect it to scraps of wood from our shop to build a cart-like device.)

Mr. Purdy has been described by some as a mathematical genius. Below witness him sawing over his own legs and crotch. (This is a sort of self-selective evolutionary step, right?)


The sum result of the weekend was a cart Andrew called the Wooden Mexican "because it will haul stuff for cheap all day long." (Although it did not pack Drew's belongings, load itself, or clean the mold and dust from his room.) Andrew holds the peculiar and stubborn belief that as an ethnic member of a once-persecuted people, he is granted the right to make politically incorrect comments against the metaphorical "new jews," any marginalized folk, namely, in this case Mexicans.

Most of us rolled our eyes and left Andrew to his politically incorrect business, seeing as despite his racist humour he was the one who washed the laundry for and nursed several of the neighbourhood homeless men, most of whom happen to be black men in this neck of the woods.

No one was treated for shock when the Wooden Mexican was broken/abandoned/disassembled not long into its scandalous lifetime of hauling laundry and a week of groceries.

However one poor woman who was visiting at the time, Ben's girlfriend Lisa, absorbed Andrew's influence a bit more than the rest of us. She had several key circumstances: speaking German as her first language, having the US American half of her family residing in the colour-conscious land of Kentucky, and perhaps not knowing quite how full of shit Andrew can be at times.

Time progressed, Lisa returned to Berlin. But in the winter she returned to stay in the co-op, and this time for a lengthier residence instead of a brief visit. She was folded into the cook cycle, assigned a chore, and quickly assumed a comfortable and beloved role in the co-op as "crazy Lisa." She amused us with wacky plans to make lots of money, observations about people in fridges being super funny, and outlines for musicals about psychedelic cats. And when she referenced using "a wooden mexican" in an email to the house listhost, we figured it was simply wild and crazy Lisa joking around if a little colourfully.

But she wasn't it turns out.

That night at dinner she was very rosy-cheeked, but not of joy. I somehow convinced her to discuss what was on her mind, and it turned out that she had used the term "wooden mexican" thinking that, while it was clearly racist, it was an accepted term in American English, which sweeps so many other bigoted terms under the rug. And how did she learn of her mistake? A helpful email from Ed.

Ed, who is so earnest it hurts -- particularly those of us whose veins run with sarcasm -- had taken it upon himself to send Lisa an email letting her know that she'd used a racist word, unique as the expression might be. This edification was a thoughtful, if stilted, slap on the wrist... but the email also included a list of ethnically booby trapped terms to avoid, such as that hot button term "paddy wagon."

Lisa of course was mortified that she'd made the gaffe, embarassed that she'd been called out on it in such a pedantic way, and likely surprised that only one person had spoken up.

This story is usually mentioned in reference to Ed's complete straight-laced reading of everything around him, his blindness to subtext, subtlety and irony. But really, about whom does it speak the most?

luxury

sinking ships

"Didn't you say you had a blog?" asked Eli.

"Um. I. Wha - whydoyouask?" Eloquent and unsuspicious as always.

"Well," Eli answered with one eyebrow raised, "you mentioned it last night."

I still insist I did not. Certainly I would not have mentioned it, after struggling at such length regarding to decide whether to share its presence and concluding that alerting the house to these pages might curb my written honesty. So I cut the publicity budget and went about my business recording everyone else's business.

But last night I stood transfixed in Eli's doorway, wondering how the hell he could coincidentally know about my nascent project. His explanation was simple enough: there was no coincidence, I referenced its existence on Walpurgis Nacht.

So I betrayed my own secret? Was a few beers on a Monday night all it took? I can't even trust myself?

(Since Eli basically deduced I had this thing I allowed him to read it... and in 4am pensiveness that followed already found my enthusiasm for the project curiously dampened. The significance there is enigmatic.)

Henceforth: I shall type this blog blindfolded so I won't spill the contents herein to others.

she's a girl and she's my friend, but...

Hyungkoo makes extremely clever observations and comments when he speaks in English, but he is still shy in his conversation. There are occasional slips in his vocabulary - such as the time he thought I called myself the Treasure of the House rather than the In-house Treasurer, or when he mixes up whether to call his relative his cousin or his sister. (She is his cousin, but specification of gender can be confoundingly absent in English for neutral words.)

So when he has referred to the young woman visiting him interchangeably as his "friend" or his "girlfriend," no one's questions could quite ascertain whether Sol is his romantic partner or a female buddy.

I thought I had my answer this morning when I heard the sounds of sex eminating from Hyungkoo's room as I passed through the second floor hallway. The masses shall be enlightened! The monkey shall be moved! I thought, thinking of the stuffed monkey in the kitchen that housemates are obligated to move when a secret is spilled around the cutting boards and tea kettles.

Which is approximately when I realized that the sounds I heard were simply the dips and rises of conversational Korean being spoken in woman's vocal register.

Stay monkey, stay.

the bike and the skirt

I spent Sunday sitting in the co-op booth at Version Fest. That's VERSH-UN. The gig is an arts festival for radical communication and activist artwork that has nothing to do with notches on your bed post, but is not well enough known to prevent raised eyebrows at the mention of my plans, accompanied by comments alluding to (at the tamest end of the comment spectrum) maidens in white for sacrifice to the gods.

The festival was a fascinating mezcla of prints, patterns and piercings. I browsed through the installations in the generous donated basement space of a gallery, attended a lecture on converting your diesel engine to run on vegetable oil, chatted with artists and chewed my first block of Bubblicious since grade school: WHY did we ever want that much gum in our mouths?? (Know the old saying about borrowing a cup of sugar from the neighbour? I think one might simply try wringing out one of these gum cubes. And after a few minutes of jaw-strengthening cud-churning, the stuff proved to lose its flavour without even being left on the bedpost overnight. Another patch of petina on the hallowed Temple to Nostalgia.)

By far the nicest element of the day was the bike ride there and back in the company of Lisa Junkin. The weather was ideally warm for two-wheeled adventures through South Chicago. I felt the urge to select layered skirts as I was dressing for the arts fest, and had already donned a summer dress when it occurred to me that my grand adventure might be hampered by fabric in spokes, or dramatic flashing of happy Latino children playing in the yards of Bridgeport.

I frequently biked wearing skirts during Rehoboth summers. I would double them up and tuck the hems into the waistline and this suited successful trips up the length of the boardwalk to work. But Chicago is a city where I'd never ventured off bike paths. I decided it would be prudent to ask Eli his opinion in case my wearing a dress on a bicycle (even with a precautionary pair of underwear) was an altogether foolish idea.

I stopped myself before I stepped next door to inquire. Wait, why should I ask Eli? Why was he the expert? Oh shit - was this some ridiculous stereotyping based on the fact that he occasionally wears dresses? Although "occasionally" still tops the dress-sporting frequency chart in Haymarket terms, it was probably unfair for me to saddle with Eli as the go-to guy for answers about riding bikes in skirts. Presumptuous on my part. A rude generalization. I'll not ask then, I decided.

"Good morning April," said Eli as I passed his door in our alcove. I looked over to nod greetings.

He was wearing a pink paisley dress.

BJ's Story (the Solemn Georgia Truth)

narrated in a gentle southern accent

I have a friend who's a med student. Once he was performing a check up on a large woman with sizeable and pendulous breasts. He needed to hear her heartbeat so he said kindly, "Ma'am, I'm gonna listen to your heart with my stethoscope. I just need you to lift up your breast for me."

So she did, and as he went to press his stethoscope to her chest, he noticed, stuck beneath her breast, was a slice of bread.

Naturally he wasn't sure what to say, so he went about his business as if the bread weren't there for a second before suggesting perhaps he could hear better from the other side.

Relieved as she let down one breast and lifted the other, he reached down -- only to find ANOTHER slice of bread slapped to the skin beneath the second breast.

At this point, he couldn't ignore the situation.

So he goes,"Eh hem, Ma'am, are you aware that there are... pieces of bread beneath your breasts?"

And she explanatorily exclaimed, "Child, you know I be sweatin!"