Why I Never Don’t Love the New Yorker

When I was twelveish, a friend of my mom’s brought us a thick stack of back issues of the New Yorker.  This was kind of a weird thing to happen in small-town Kentucky.  But it happened.  And, as a twelve-year-old, I mostly just read the cartoons and then flipped to the next issue.

Today, as a working adult with a self-paid subscription to the New Yorker, I still read mostly the cartoons.  But I also read Shouts & Murmurs, Talk of the Town, the movie reviews, and many of the interviews and feature articles, and while I feel I’ve outgrown many magazines that I enjoyed in my high school and college years, the New Yorker never gets stale.  It’s.  Just.  Always.  Good.

Take, for instance: this week’s Talk of the Town featured a piece on Michael Shannon, the actor from Lexington, KY who is currently doing some work on Broadway and who you may have seen in a few Hollywood flicks.  The article was split, kind of, in two parts: Take One, in which Shannon takes the reporter down to the local grocery store in Red Hook and talks about his life lately; and Take Two, in which they revisit the grocery after Hurricane Sandy has ravaged the place.  There’s destruction all around, naturally.  But you see it through the eyes of a semi-famous actor, a guy who knows the grocery’s security guard by name, a guy who seems to take a sort of blue-collar approach to the lofty work of film and stage.

Here’s the pure genius of the piece: it’s not about the hurricane, and yet it so obviously is.  By now you can’t talk about the heartbreak and loss and tragedy of Sandy, because you’ll lose your impatient, easily distracted audience of People Who Were Not Affected and Therefore Care Very Little About the Hurricane.  But what you can do is offer a glimpse into an actor’s life—an idea that came to you, the reporter, maybe in September, before anyone knew anything—and use it to demonstrate what life is like, now, really, in places like Red Hook.  Back in September, you thought, hey, this Michael Shannon is interesting, he’s got some stuff going on, let’s do a bit on him.  Then the storm hit.  And you thought, there’s no way I can do the piece I was going to do.  So you talk to your editor.  You call Shannon back.  You say, I’ve got this idea.  And he goes for it.  And now you have a tiny little masterpiece, that maybe won’t seem like a masterpiece to everyone, but you know it’s good and you’re going to be secretly smug about it forever.

That’s what I thought, anyway.

Or, you could say that the New Yorker is wonderful simply because of sentences like this one, buried in an article about the TED conference:

MAN TOWN: And Other Holiday Suggestions

I think most of us would agree that in general, gift-buying is easier when you’re shopping for a woman than for a man, yes?  Even for the woman you’re clueless about, gift-wise, you can generally do well with a pair of earrings or a cute little trinket.  But for dudes?  It’s hard to come up with a one-size-fits-nearly-all gift for dudes.  There aren’t even enough men who wear ties regularly to make that a reliable fallback.

Apparently, Yankee Candle Company noticed that too, and has come out with a new line of candles with man-friendly scents, including the following:

“2x4”: smells like sawdust.

“First Down”: smells like a leather couch.

“Riding Mower”: smells like grass.  The kind on your front lawn, obvs.

And, my personal favorite, “Man Town,” which smells like men’s deodorant and is good for a few hours of saying “MAN TOWN!” in your best manly voice and making your friends laugh.  Seriously, Man Town?  What happens in Man Town?  I bet all the dudes go around mowing their lawns, and then they play football on their freshly mown lawns, and then they go hit things in their woodsheds and then they go sit in their dens and smell the sweet smell of a deodorant candle.  Because that’s what men do.

Bring it, world.  I WILL MOW YOU.

Anyhow, I’m glad that the candle industry is accepting the fact that dudes like to smell things, too, but their attempts to market accordingly are limited thus far.  I have a few suggestions:

“Joystick”: smells like rubber, plastic, and thumbprints.

“Wrench”: smells like a hardware store.

“Taxidermy”: smells like pure animal.

“Blazer”: smells like elbow patches and success.

“Snowshoe”: smells like winter with a hint of wolf pee.

“Moustache”: smells like whatever you had for breakfast.
"Middle Management": smells like starch and disappointment.

“Sausage”: speaks for itself.

You’re welcome.  Give me a call, Yankee Candle Co., I could do this all day.

Restaurant Words

Have you ever noticed that the fancier the restaurant is, the number of words in the menu gets lower and lower?  It's like they know they don't have to prove anything to anyone, because you know whatever you get is going to be spectacular, so all the items are like "charcuterie" and "paella," no explanation.  Maybe they'll throw in a couple of the sub-ingredients, like "vidalia onion glaze," but that's it.  And then the price is just a number: 28.

Whereas when you go to Shoney's or TGI Friday's, they really have to sell that crap to you, so they have to use words like "sizzlin'" and "ooze."

Remember The Plane (Or, A Lesson in Decisions Made with Poor Oxygen)

So I just got back from a weekend visiting my friend in Phoenix, which is one of the hottest places in the entire world as far as my conditioned-for-lake-effect-snow body is concerned.  Getting there and back to Chicago required flights of at least three hours, and sitting in that recycled air, watching the sun set and the lights in the cities below come on made me wonder if that was a real thing when on 30 Rock, Carol broke down in front of Liz and then apologized for his uncontrollable emotions, saying that it’s a condition that regularly happens to people who change altitude more than four times a day.

I once dated a guy who had some major behavioral and emotional issues, which I gamely ignored until I couldn’t any longer, and at one point during our short relationship we flew together from my hometown in Kentucky back to Pennsylvania, where we were in college.  We’d already had plenty of ups and downs by this point, but during that flight together, somehow, things were just right between us.  We snuggled up to one another, watched the clouds outside our window, and at one point one of us (probably me) said, “Whatever happens in the future, let’s just say, ‘remember the plane,’ and everything will be okay.”  And the other one of us (probably him) agreed.

Maybe a week later I broke up with him.

The point is, never make any big decisions on a plane.

I didn’t, in case you were worried.  I’m just looking out for you.

 

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Beach

The heat wave we've been having finally burst on Sunday and temperatures were in the frigid 80s, so I thought I’d finally take myself down to the beach.  All summer long I’ve been wanting one simple thing: an afternoon of reading on the sand, falling asleep with the sound of waves crashing a few feet away.  Insert your own Oprah moment here.

Last summer I found the beach pretty quickly, and that was back when I knew pretty much zero about Chicago geography, so I didn’t even bother Google-mapping my trip this weekend.  I figured I’d just wander until I got to the shore, like I did back when I was a greenhorn.

Well, I did wander, and that’s how I ended up the Lincoln Park Zoo for the first time.

I generally dislike zoos.  They’re inevitably hot, crowded, and full of miserable animals who are all like, Why am I heeeeeere?  I want to be chomping on my prey in the African plains/Arctic dessert/other awesome place, not sitting in this cave, eating this piece of grass, watching you watch me. 

But stumbling upon a zoo accidentally, when you’re by yourself and can go wherever you want, is much more pleasant. 

I found this black rhino chilling in the shade.  He got up and ate part of a tree branch and all the kids squealed.

I also found some wild African dogs, and after that I pretty much left because all of the big cats were off sleeping somewhere cool, and zoos are no fun if you can’t see any big cats.

The point is, I was so glad this happened.  I hadn’t been to the zoo before.  And without meaning to go there, I was there, and I didn’t even let myself be like GET OUT OF HERE RIGHT NOW WE’RE GOING TO THE BEACH HURRY UP.  What did it matter?  It didn’t.  Insert another Oprah moment here about spontaneity and accepting the present.

Then, as I continued on my way to the beach, I found several women’s rowing teams.  I think they were racing:

Wow, you can really tell what I was taking a picture of, right?

They made me want to start rowing competitively, just so I could wear a bikini top and look super hot and muscle in it, and I could get in a boat and start screaming and people would listen to me.

Anyhow, I made it to the beach, finally.  And I fell asleep on the sand.

It was a good day. 

What Windows Do

I owe a lot of the last few weeks of my life to east-facing windows.

Specifically, the east-facing windows in my bedroom.

In the morning, when I wake up at 5:45 to get ready for work, the sun has already risen.  Outside, the birds are chirping.  There’s no sun to watch rise, because it’s already risen.  It might as well be 9:30 on a November morning.

As a result, two things: one, I had to buy one of those eyeshades to keep myself from waking up at 5 on the weekends.  And two, my circadian rhythms are all thrown off, and now my body thinks that it’s always daytime and I should always be awake and I should never be tired.

It’s fantastic.

Something has shifted in me with the advent of a Chicago summer.  I go on dates with boys.  I go out to bars with friends and stay for hours and have more than just one drink.  I let myself stay up past eleven.

I’m not being irresponsible, but I am having fun.  Fun is something of a new concept.

In college, I did well, I made friends, I had a good experience.  But I was almost always the good kid.  Now I’m trying to let myself go a little bit.  So I haven’t been running in over a week.  So what?  I’ve been traveling and socializing, which are healthy in their own ways.  My calluses can be built back up later.  Plus it’s a million degrees outside right now.  So, I don’t have to run, and I don’t have to feel bad about not running.

So what if I only sleep four or five hours a night?  I’m not going to look back on the nights I was out with my friends, laughing, having a ball, and wish I’d gone home a little earlier, slept a little longer.

I spent the first nine months of my time in Chicago going to work, going to class, coming home, and being good.

And I suppose I’m still being good.  But I’m living a little bit more.  I’m less worried about doing everything exactly right.

The life that exhausted me a few months ago seems hopelessly boring to me now.  I want to be outside with a bunch of people, just enjoying things.  Anything.  I’m 24, and have decided that being 24 is the very best age to be.

Thank you, east-facing windows, for giving me a wonderful start to my Chicago summer.

En Route

Recently, in honor of SUMMERTIME!!!, my hours got changed slightly at work.  Not dramatically—I just come in and leave a half-hour later than usual—but it’s enough to give me an extra half-hour’s sleep, and it required me to learn The Rules of my new commute. 

During the rest of the year, I’ve pretty much had my commute down to a science that involves a healthy combination of reliance on the CTA Tracker and my own experiences with each bus and/or train.  I’ve also gotten to know some people quite well, even though we are strangers.  Seeing them for a few minutes every day is enough for a lifetime.  Know what I mean? 

Here are a few of the characters I’ve gotten to know, and whose faces I doubt I’ll see again until September when my schedule returns to normal:

The Ceremonial Smoker.  Middle-aged woman, slight, with a dark, bobbed haircut.  Every morning we get off the bus together and she makes a beeline for the awning of the Chase Bank, where she lights a cigarette and huffs it down before getting to the train.  I can just imagine her being like, This is MY time, dammit.

The Boy Next Door.  Nicely-dressed young professional.  Muscle Milk drinker.  Totally adorable.  One time this other guy drove by while the Boy Next Door and I were waiting for the bus at 6:30 a.m. and demanded directions to Magnolia Ave.  Boy Next Door said, with the slightest Southern drawl, “Magnol-ya?  Ah don’t know.  Ah apologize.”  My heart died of happiness.

Peanut Butter.  A thirty-something nurse with a Peter Pan haircut who rides a crowded bus eating a peanut butter sandwich on a regular basis.  Kudos on a healthy breakfast, but that early in the morning, in a crowded space, there are few smells more nauseating.

Rat’s Nest.  Older woman, petite, rides the bus to Hyde Park.  She reads books on a wide variety of topics and seems utterly normal except that her hair is always a gigantic mess.  What’s going on?  Does she not brush it?  I don’t know.

Angry Face.  I used to think this guy who rides from Hyde Park to the Loop every afternoon was a musician or something because he likes to gesture emphatically with his hands and face, and I thought he was conducting music in his head.  But now I think that he’s just having a fantasy argument with someone he hates.  Probably one of his coworkers.  I feel bad for Angry Face because I think he hates his job.

The Bear.  My favorite bus driver of all time.  I usually catch him on the way home from Hyde Park.  He’s a big guy with dreadlocks and a drawling voice.  When you say thank you to him, he says, “Uh-huh, watch your step,” really adorably.

Farewell til September, commuter friends.

Why I Eat Meat

Today I bought some ground bison and some hickory-smoked turkey bacon and some wild-caught salmon fillets, and I got to thinking about meat in general.

Oh man.

OH MAN.

A while ago the New York Times ran a contest of sorts where people could send in essays about their ethical reasons for eating meat.  Obviously, there are plenty of ethical reasons NOT to eat meat.  For some people it’s a religious thing; for others it’s political; for others stll, it’s environmental.  For a lot of people it’s a health issue.  Some people just plain don’t like it.

I get all those, but if I don’t eat meat, I feel like a sad little anemic red blood cell.  My insides have frowny faces if I don’t get a regular dose of hamburger.

Also I’m training for a 10K, and while it’s totally possible to be vegetarian or even vegan and have a really hardcore athletic lifestyle, it just wouldn’t work for me.  I promise.

I don't know when the Times' contest closed, and honestly I don't really have a good ethical reason to eat meat; I just need to eat meat.

I’m also not sure why I feel the need to defend my omnivorism.  I suppose it really only comes down to the fact that I wouldn’t mind eating steak for breakfast.  In fact, I have eaten steak for breakfast.  And I feel like a lot of people would judge me for that.

Here’s a poem I wrote a few years ago about the process of cooking a whole chicken: 

Dinner for Two

 A knife, and you: the bird lies in the sink

A pair of shears, the yellow, mottled fat.

Insistent hands tear bone from shiny pink

Muscle, and I toss some to the cat.

I never knew a “tender” was a part—

I just thought fast food chains devised the name.

You show to me the kidneys and the heart,

 The wishbone sits to dry, our little game.

The Pope’s nose cut away, the spine thrown out,

The pieces, two by two, lined on a pan.

Defrocked, defiled, the skin is strewn about,

We scoop it up, we dump it in the can.

By ten o’clock, our dinner’s nearly done.

I don’t mind eating late—my heart, you’ve won.

(I don't love this poem but some people have told me that they do.  So whatever.)