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.