I was passing the corner of Huron and Dearborn, and passed a panhandler. He had the same line for everyone that passed him, “Spare a little change? Please? Thank you anyway. Happy Easter, Ma’am.”

Hearing it several times in succession, it struck me how lyrical and rhythmic it was. I wished I had a tape recorder and even a speck of DJ mixing talents. My head scored the phrase, using the rhythmic syllables I learned in third grade Music class.

“Sparealittle” = 4 sixteenth notes, tikka tikka
“change? Please?” = two legato quarter notes, Ta … Ta

“Thankyouanyway” = 4 sixteenth notes and 1 quarter, tikka tikka Ta
“HappyEasterMa’am” = repeat of the above rhythm, tikka tikka Ta

“Spare a little change? Please?
Thank you, anyway. Happy Easter, Ma’am.”

That song’s been stuck in my head for over a year.

Friday

My bus driver was balls out fucknuts, or maybe just legally BLIND with a steaming side of severe anxiety disorder. People were thrown in and out of their seats as the bus, at the command of this cheerful but crazy conductor, who looked like an African American Carrot Top, jerked down the streets and narrowly escaped several different collisions with little automobiles that just didn’t know what they were up against.

I’ve never seen a bus driver lay on the horn so frequently, and with so little provocation. He made that bus into the crotch-rocket of the working class, abusing his power to make his passengers silently pray for the lives they’d unwittingly put into his Chicago-funded hands.

At one point, a large woman, after being jerked away from the window and thrown into the aisle, yelled, “You tryin’ to keell me? I’m already TIRED!”

I just loved how she said that. First of all, it’s just an absurd collection of words (which really don’t deserve the amount of thought I gave them). It’s like, “Pick on someone at your own level of wakefulness!” What the hell kind of argument is that? Everyone’s tired, lady, and everyone dies. I seriously loved her for putting those things together, as if there’s some connection.

More than that, though, I loved how she said it. It’s like she hadn’t been expecting to blurt out the last sentence, “I’m already tired,” but had tacked it on to the end of the first phrase because otherwise, it would have been musically lacking. Like something divinely inspired the nonsensical lyricism, so that something other than impending doom could ring through the minds of her fellow passengers. Or maybe it was just I who needed that concluding coda.

Cold Days

Well, not cold really. Not booger-freezing temperatures.

When it is less than fifty degrees outside, I tremble like a leaf. My body lies, shaking to communicate a cold disproportionate than what I actually feel. Cold doesn’t bother me; I’d go so far as to say I kind of like it. My shaking indicates otherwise, though, and for reasons unknown to me, I vibrate like the late Katherine Hepburn on fast-forward.

I suppose it’s my Victorian composition. I am such a delicate flower.

All the delicate flowers in the house, say “HEEEEEEY!!!”

It’s fun, though. When my breath is chopped up by the staccato divisions of my chattering teeth, I time my stride so that each tooth-to-tooth percussive drum hit marks 4 sixteenth notes for every quarter-note footfall.

CLOMP CLOMP CLOMP CLOMP…
chatterchatter chatterchatter
chatterchatter chatterchatter…

… And I become a one-woman parade.

Every Day

Well, there’s the white noise of the subway, under can be heard a steady trochaic rhythm. And there are repeated announcements found in every city:

“Please mind the gap.”
“Customer assistance. Is needed. At the kiosk. Customer assistance. Is needed. At the kiosk.”
“An inbound train … t’ward the Loop … will be arriving shortly. An inbound train … t’ward the Loop … will be arriving shortly.”
“THANK you for riding the MTA!”
“Por favor mantengase alejado de las puertas” (or whatever it is)

They provide cues for action, like a conductor raising his wand. Things aren’t quite so chaotic when they can be set to a musical score.

On a far more comprehensive note …

Thanks to everyone who chimed in with congratulations after my last entry. I have to say, I’ve had a wonderful experience with the “online community” since the inception of this page. I’m friends with some of the more notorious diarists you may read, and they’ve dealt with their share of total bullshit from readers. Maybe it’s because this page isn’t too widely read, and generally isn't contraversial, but I’ve somehow managed to avoid all of that crap. If one of the prices of having a really popular web page is the inevitable attraction of crazy, envious readers, well … you can fuckin’ keep it. Sometimes people take advantage of their anonymity to be weak and tasteless. I think that's crappy.

You guys are just so freaking nice. Believe me, I’m not sitting here thinking that my regular readers are totally infatuated with me and just sit around all day waiting for me to update. But, according to my stats, enough people to fill a small bar venue show up to visit every time I post one of my masturbatory monologues, and I’ve never gotten anything but support from any of you. That’s just awful nice. I don’t mean to sound like an asshole when I say these things. I’m not anywhere near famous or anything. It just never occurred to me that I could be interesting to strangers.

I’m aware that I don’t know most of you, but I still appreciate your presence. And I don’t count myself among the ranks of online diarists that claim to their readers, “You don’t know me.” Because, (even though I don’t tell you everything,) in so far as what I’ve said here has been the truth, you do know me pretty well. Also, however, I’d never insult your intelligence to say that you would know what to expect if we were to meet in person. Maybe this is naive, but I don't assume that you think you know me, and I don't assume to know those of you whom I've read but with whom I have never had any one-on-one interaction. I’m like a well fleshed-out protagonist in your minds. I present my life to you like a comic book. It’s nice to think that people are rooting for my character.

(Quick note: again, I’m not trying to convey that you think I’m really important or anything. What I’ve written above, I similarly feel for authors of my favorite diaries, those whom I’ve never met in person.)

Maybe some of you are thinking I’m totally geeking out, right now. But, let’s be honest; if I lived in a basement, never went out, and subsisted on fruit roll-ups, mac-n-cheese, and Star Trek, what the hell kind of motivation would that give you to ever visit? I wouldn’t have any stories at all. I go out plenty, I have plenty of friends, and I’m plenty busy. So, enough with the prejudice against online writing. I understand why these prejudices have come into being, but they’re simply not relevant anymore, unless you decide to make them so, or you just generally make bad choices.

As for online interaction, I’ve concluded that people don’t conduct themselves much differently online than they do in “real life.” That is, if you’re smart, it’s pretty easy to weed out the weirdoes, and, in contrast, to recognize a voice in writing as belonging to someone you’d love to hang out and have long conversations with in a bar. As with any new relationship, there are risks (such as attack or deception) that can't always be anticipated; I guess I'm speaking in general terms.

The friends I’ve made through this site are no less “real” than those I’ve made in plays, at parties, at jobs, in school, etc. Believe me, when I first started to make friends here, I questioned whether it was healthy or dangerous or geeky or whatnot. Bottom line, I’m so glad to have made these friends, and am as thankful for their presence in my life as I am for those local friends who are able to attend my shows and birthday parties. I don't put them in separate categories.

Whether or not I’ve met them in person is rather inconsequential. Online interaction is merely a relatively new way to socialize, and I, for one, because I am a social person, have been enriched through my participation in this medium.

It’s a pretty cool feeling to get to a point in communication with someone, when you realize that you miss that person, even though the two of you have never actually hung out. It’s like having a lovely secret that you wouldn’t be afraid to share. It’s fun, and it’s nothing to be ashamed of. You have to be careful, but, just like in “real life,” as long as you’re not a dumbass, you’ll be okay. You have to be just as careful with assholes you meet at a "real life" bar.

Wow. This got really long, and I have to go. Sorry to leave you with this graceless conclusion, but I’m a busy girl.

Anyway, I thank you again. You guys are so nice.

~ Last Five Entries ~

Arm-in-Arm Down Burgundy - 09.05.05

Motivated! - 08.25.05

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

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