I'll Roller Blade You!

Yesterday

Walking to the lake I came across a mob of children. Children in mobs, as you can imagine, do not know how to proceed in a linear fashion and enjoy dilly daddling around the sidewalk in no hurry to get to their final destination—which sounds beautiful in theory, but is awful to encounter in person, especially when there is a big chunk of them in the way.

Anyhoo, in this group two of the boys were on rollerblades. Rollerblades. Now, what mother in their sane mind believes it appropriate or even half-way safe to put wheels on 10 year old boys’ feet? And who was in their sane mind to invent wheels on shoes? Sure they’re great on bikes and work decently well on automobiles, but do we need them on the bottom of our feet? Don’t most humans have a hard enough time walking properly to begin with? Do they need extra encouragement to proceed down the path of destruction and pain?

Because that is exactly what happened to this ten-year old child. He didn’t quit know how to blade in the rollers and was more stomping the ground like an angry meek monster than moving at any type of flowing pace. He saw me coming. But there was a mob remember and I couldn’t exactly move out of each and every one of their ways. They were coming AT me I tell you. And, of course, he fell down, right on his elbows. It was rather an eloquent thump to the ground and he didn’t even cry, he was stunned, and I believe slightly embarrassed. I just looked at him like he was crazy and attempted to keep walking as if I didn’t see it, but the mob just stopped in its path. They were frozen, starring at a friend lost to the dooming antagonistic sidewalk.

The “grown-up” of the group (obviously not grown-up enough as to allow ten year old boys to put wheels on their feet) ran over to reassure, protect, and comfort him. It was one of those philosophically brain numbing events where I play it back in my head over and over thinking how rude I was to just watch him fall and not even ask if he was okay; but then again I don’t like children.

They frighten me, the worst thing would have been if we had to have a conversation and if that conversation led him to wanting to be my BFF. Or if he would have said it was all my fault because he saw me right before he fell, then the “grown-up” would try to sue me, when all I was doing was trying to go to the lake and get a little fucking relaxation, which alas can never happen because to get to the lake I have to walk by hooligans with wheels on their feet or homeless people who want 50 cents for a hamburger, for which I wouldn’t give for multiple reasons besides the fact that I never have 50 cents on me when I’m going to the lake for the very reason so I don’t have to give my money to homeless people and so I can’t feel bad about it because I don’t have it on me. Whoo.

And so that is what happened yesterday.

Oh and speaking of rollerblades, the other day when I went for a walk, another woman thought it was a good idea to put her 4-year-old boy in rollerblades, never mind the fact that he could barely walk or keep his pants above his ass. Plus she had to push him as she was holding him upward; it was in every sense of the word awkward.

I can't see my fingers...Goose Island Tour

When I get drunk I like to do things that I normally wouldn’t do when I am sober because they’re too chill. Like listening to music without moving. Or just sitting looking out the window. I couldn’t do those things sober because I would think about all the other “important” things I needed to accomplish, for example, writing on my blog, which is what I’m doing now, as I’m drunk, which then makes me contemplate whether or not I am actually drunk because I am attempting to accomplish something. As any Frat boy would observe, I must not be drunk ENOUGH, for they do not feel obligated to turn on their rape machines (popped collars) and bother me. I’m drinking a PBR right now, this after an afternoon of the Goose Island Brew Tour, which included six different samples of beer plus my own stylish glass for only $5. We tried the popular 312, as well as a wit, a RyePA, a red, a porter and a stout.

I have to be honest. I’ve been on this tour before. In fact, I’ve been on it more than most people. Why? Because it’s $5 for 6 different types of beer and a glass… and it’s interesting. This time the tour guide attempted to be funny. And he was for the most part, but then the tour and the questions began to drag on when all I wanted to do was drink beer—hence the problem of beer tours—we all actually just want to drink the beer and would generally not care how it’s made unless you’re sitting right in front of us telling us the process while we drink it. In any other circumstance our feet get tired. Hence, why I generally like the Goose Island tour, the guides never talk too long.

This guide though, he tried to make it all fancy and shit by making us do all the things connoisseurs would do if they were sipping wine or whiskey or something. First we had to attempt to look through it in an attempt to see how clear it was; then we had to smell it over and over again, then we finally got to taste it, once to ‘clear our pallets” the second time to really take in all the flavors. Usually I have the nose of a bloodhound; scientists call this evolution, those with extreme smelling capabilities and low hair content are supposedly evolving faster than others (and since I have both skills I must be ahead of the pack) but after smelling a billion different scents and inhaling and imbibing too much alcohol it was hard to decipher what was supposed to be what. By the end we couldn’t see our fingers, which was either a sign that the beer was too thick or that we were.

I have to admit that I really enjoy the tour, but I feel that the food and beer menu is over-priced, which is how they lure people in to their chamber; tempt them with a tour, make them stay because the beer is so tempting. Rarhar. I wouldn’t not recommend the tour, I would just attempt to be less alcohol-tempted than I am and leave when the tour is over instead of staying for a beer or two or three…

Naked July

Last night I was invited to do two of my favorite things at the same time 1) get naked 2) dance. Unfortunately I declined both. Ryan and I were at the National Pastime Theater in Uptown for their Naked July: Art Stripped Down event titled The Living Canvas: “Nocturne” directed by Lisa Adams. “Nocturne” was an interpretative performance danced completely in the nude. I don’t go to a lot of interpretive dance performances and I’m glad that the one I did go to happened to have lots of people sprawled about all naked like or I may have fallen asleep. Not that is was boring; I was just really really tired. The show was actually quite intriguing, though the originality came through more in the choreography and lighting than in the story-line which happened to follow the basic plot-line of the Giving Tree as well as takes from Alice in Wonderland, Where the Wild Things Are, and others. The main character shed his business attire and drifted off into a world of enchantment and captivation where twelve other humans met him in a long trippy dream.

The performance was based on emotionality rather than rationality; yet it did flow in a rather linear order as the main character grew older. The choreography was intense; I mean with T&A and B&A in your face the whole time, how could it not be? The most illuminating aspect was the lighting; they used slide projectors to cover the stage and the naked bodies with different textures, colors and shapes. It was one of those shows that could have been absolutely ridiculous, but the actors gave it their all and were completely solid throughout the performance; though you could tell which music numbers had had more practice, especially during a Tori Amos song--there were only three dancers instead of the usual 13 and it just seemed jagged and out of place compared to all the other ones, which were fluid and stream-line.

Overall the experience was beautiful and suffocating. Beautiful in the elegance of the movements to the music and suffocating in the sense that there was absolutely no air in the building. Once the lights went out I thought I was in purgatory and it didn’t help when one of the first songs was Pink Floyd’s “Welcome to the Machine” and there were naked bodies stacked up on one another like strange centaurs or hellish catholic nightmare strippers, but alas I survived the show. After the applause the main character went into some monologue about every body being beautiful, which is great in theory especially when you’re built like a Greek God like he was, but then he invited us all to get naked and dance with them to a song. I didn’t decline because I disagreed with him, I declined because I was lazy and didn’t want to take off my clothes just so I could put them on again. Perhaps that just means I am getting too old for mind-opening exploration and adventure… or perhaps my rationality has taken over my emotionality and I can’t let go on my outer-skin.

Whatever the case may be “Nocturne” at least got me thinking about balance and beauty and it turned out to be a rather enjoyable experience. I mean it’s not everyday you get to see balls and boobs dancing freely and happily to the joys of music and complimentary lighting.

The Art of Being an Alien

I didn’t write yesterday because I was being brainwashed by an alien from outer-space. She happened to be at the same art opening as me and introduced herself as Carla (not the most alien of alien names but whatever). Carla looked so much like a regular human that the only thing that gave it away was the fact that she had no fashion sense and she was short. Her hair was long and wavy; she was so skinny her dress fell off her bones. Carla was wearing a long white moo-moo style with little pink flowers on it—a dress you’d see in 1993 on a mother in the south sweeping her porch, but not this woman this woman was not from the south, she was not even a woman technically. She was from some planet lost in space ran by an alien known as Beap.

Carla was the incarnated soul of Cleopatra but she really just believed whole-heartedly in Beap and did no longer care to be associated with Cleopatra though she enjoyed talking about Caesar. On the planet ran by Beap the aliens and all the alien-like followers believed in Friendliness and Love. When Carla talked about Beap she changed her vocal pitch to sound like she was a 5 year old girl with a lisp, even though, according to her, she was 53. She would pronounce Beap like Bleap thus making the entire conversation difficult to decipher. Carla told Ryan and I that we were meant to get married. I told Ryan later, for an Alien, she didn’t really think outside of traditional values. Carla and I became BFFs in a matter of minutes. She started hugging me. I thought she was going to try to steal my soul. She began talking about her friend Henry (or somebody) who introduced her to Beap; Carla began wailing because she missed Henry so much; he had died of cancer. I suggested that Beap wasn’t a very good leader if it lets all its followers die, especially of cancer. Carla didn’t like that suggestion.

The best trait about Carla was that she needed Moon-juice to survive. In human speak Moon-juice is free alcohol, which is why we met at an art opening. Luckily, though since one cannot attend an art opening every day, she can also survive on PB & J. When she landed on Earth in Humboldt Park that’s what the people who found her feed her and thus it’s became her favorite Earth food. Carla said that I was beautiful and Ryan and I were meant to be together, even though we just met and we’re both scared, (perhaps in Alien terms 3 years is not a very long time) so even though she was from outer-space I agreed with her methods of friendliness and love and was happy to encounter an alien who believed in Beap rather than an alien that liked to probe peoples bottoms. So, as you can see, I was slightly entertained last night; luckily though, I don’t get brainwashed easily, if so I’d own a magic bullet and have started my own pyramid scheme.

Carla is performing tonight at some bar; I wasn’t really listening to her, but if you’re in Chicago and happen into a bar where a woman doesn’t quite seem like a woman, it’s probably Carla, follower of the Alien Beap.

While We're Renaming Buildings...

Well, since pretty much everyone in the U.S. knows the Sears Tower has been renamed Big Willy and because it's the HUGEST phallic symbol in Chicago I thought while they were renaming buildings I'd go ahead and rename the HUGHEST VulvaCentric building in Chicago ,the Smurfit Stone; it's new name will be Super Snatch!

Big Willy and Super Snatch
Chicago's Great Monuments...to our Great Human Anatomy.

People Walking or Vulvacentrism?

Not only is it diamond-shaped it also has a human being inside it. How Vulvaccentric!

Krystal Clear Advice: Sex Toys

If you were a sex toy, what would you be and why?

This is quite an intriguing question, but first I think we need to go over what sort of sex toys are available for me to be, if I were magically turned into one. My first reaction was to become the sex toy I use most often, which is a vibrator. My favorite vibrator of all time, was (and I am using it in past tense for a reason) the very first vibrator I ever received. It was blue and sparkly. It was hard plastic—the kind they say you shouldn’t buy. It was cheap, but it did the job. It did the job quite well, actually. That blue sparkly vibrator made it through almost five years of hard work. I do miss it. For the past few months I’ve been having a go with something called the bullet, not the magic bullet—that was copyrighted by a company who blends fruit drinks. The bullet is attached to a motor. I don’t like this. It’s too much for my hands to do. I have to hold the bullet in place with one hand and change the speed with the other. So, I generally stick with human interaction now, which most people would argue is better anyhow. But what other sex toys are out there that I do not actually own. At first I thought—maybe I’d be a butt plug, I mean I can easily be a pain in the ass for some people, but then that’s too cliché. Maybe handcuffs? I could be both dominating and submissive at the same time—hhmmm? I would never be a dildo because frankly, that’s too boring. And I would never be a sleeve because I am more than just some thing a dick goes in. Honestly, ff I had to pick one thing, I’d pick a book full of erotica, because the way to get off starts with the mind. I would want to be the initiator of desire, not just the tool to get the job done.

Send your sex/relationship advice questions to stalher03@yahoo.com and I will answer them as quickly as possible.

Move Over or I'll Plow You....

My biggest pet peeve is people and since that’s vague my second biggest pet peeve is people who do not understand sidewalk etiquette. They drive me absolutely mad and it happens on a daily basis. I cannot leave my apartment without someone being incredibly and totally obnoxious. Since I find this so problematic I decided the best way to release my anger-filled energy toward them is to write about them. Sometimes funny, weird or interesting things happen as well so I’ll include those to even things out. I plan to do this as often as it occurs but here are the ones from the last few days.

July 11 2009

I was walking to the Devon market (the best grocery store for fresh products around) and as I was crossing the street and I ended up behind this woman about my age in a bright red dress, she had big curly brown shoulder length hair and was drinking a cold coffee beverage. Everything seemed normal at first and she was walking a decent pace, but then she started singing to herself. She didn’t have a i-pod, she was just singing and walking in really loud flip flops.

Now perhaps I’m prejudice about people who sing to themselves in public without any music, but I’m pretty sure everyone who does it is crazy. Singing alone in the privacy of your own apartment while cleaning the dishes or taking a shower makes sense, but out in the open is too Disney Princess for me.

Finally I got around her thinking she was just weird and perhaps too happy, but then all I could hear was her swooshing flip flops following me and my brain about imploded with the sound and the idea that birds and squirrels may actually follow her around until she marries her prince.

I made it into the safety of the store and was saved from a flip out from her flip flops.

July 12 2009

Everything so far had been peaceful. Ryan and I were walking along the lake front in the evening all the way from Granville to Bryn Mawr. We got on a trail to turn around and happened to end up behind two little old ladies. Every time one of the women took a step she farted. And it was loud. It was impossible not to crack up laughing. We had to turn around and go the other way.

July 14, 2009

I was coming back from a long run. I was tired and just trying to focus on my breathing. For some strange reason the sidewalk on my return journey off the trail was completely packed with people, but they were generally respectful of the other people around them; except these two women perhaps a few years younger than me who were walking on the sidewalk like they were from England or something. They weren’t moving to the other side. A step away before I plowed over them they finally moved; but that wasn’t the end. Right as I was passing the woman furthest from me she stuck out her arm and tried to stick her hand in my face. If I wasn’t utterly taken aback and exhausted I probably would have confronted her. As I told Ryan upon my return, interruption of my personal space has gone too far; before I leave Chicago I know I’m going to punch someone in the face. I’ve never actually punched anyone. I’ve done a lot of double time taebo practice though so they’re going to regret f-ing with me. Word.

The beginning of the Vulva Takeover!

I decided that everyone focuses to much on phallic imagery thus it is my goal to find the opposite of that, hence Vulvacentric. It is my mission to discover unknown objects around the world that possess a distinct vaginal or womanly likeness. Today I'm posting the diamond rock plant holder located near Thorndale and Lakeshore in Chicago. The most interesting concept about Vulvacentric is finding the shapes in places one would never imagine to look; which directly relates to the power of a woman--it's there, yet sometimes it's not as obvious as some big giant cock sticking out of the ground may be. This flower holder is one of my favorites because the diamond is almost hidden yet at the same time out in the open. Also it's symbolic in two ways, the diamond on the outside and the very idea of an object growing and giving life through the entire container.

The Art of Settling

I wouldn't want my salad dressing to do it or my orange juice so why should I? If I begin to settle I hope someone will shake me so all my parts are evenly distributed again. I know I'm getting older, but I don't find that to be an excuse to be boring. I also don't find it excusable to blame children on the settlement. Why do all those activities in youth like piano lessons or soccer to better yourself for the future if all that’s going to happen is a separation from what you may have loved from who you have become? Having children is not the end of the world; people just want them to seem like miraculous burdens to prevent them from creating or being who they could have been and I find that disgusting.

It seems to be cyclical this settling---why the midlife crisis, why the anti-depressants, the Ambien, the vodka…perhaps it’s because you’re separating from yourself and no one is there to help mix you back up again. You can really only shake yourself.

I don’t want to float to the bottom of a jar and just lay there. I want to always be moving, creating, innovating, loving life. Sometimes it’s more difficult then it should be. Sometimes it’s as smooth as chocolate pudding (which doesn’t ever settle but gets that weird filmy stuff on top, another thing I don’t want to happen to me).

So my Deers, we should all work together to keep each other fresh and delicious because who wants to drink limeade without the lime?