E-mail: Brian7Morris "at" hotmail.com

Blogs

Mandapants
farkleberries
Uranium City Records
The C.M. Sienko Foundation
Storyteller Musings
Solotarian Views
Lynne Wiora
Tek
Poker News Blog
Some Biscuits
Evil Eye Emporium
Niggling Doubts
Pressure Release
Sara as Mommy
runswithscissors
Defective Yeti
Afternoon Delight
trancejen
The Terrarium
Bird Nird
Slipperily
Tofu Hut
Stereo Gum

House of Noh!

Wednesday, August 28, 2002

For at least the last ten years my Grandma’s never been short of gentleman suitors. There’s always at least two old dudes jostling each other to put their Salisbury steak heaped plastic trays down next to my Grandma’s at the Senior’s Salvation Army dinner every Thursday night. Especially now that she lives in a HUD senior’s apartment building, there’s no shortage of old dudes. But up to now, she hasn’t been that interested in dating. I mean, she does just fine by herself. Also, dating at her age seems rather different from the sort of dating that younger people are accustomed to. For instance, a second or third date usually involves my Grandma driving some old guy to his doctor’s appointment, and “going steady” usually translates into sitting by an old guy’s hospital bed even after visiting hours have passed. However, even given the difficulties of elderly dating, I’ve just heard word that my Grandma may be interested in a certain old dude that recently moved into a senior’s apartment on the third floor. The other day the new hot old guy invited my Grandma to listen to records in his apartment. My Grandma prefers her Zamphyr on vinyl (you know, master of the pan-flute), but she said that the hot old guy was a big fan of Big Band stuff like Lawrence Welk. I gathered that my Grandma intended to PRETEND to like Big Band records - that’s how much she liked this new old guy. But here comes the sad part: The hot old guy invited my Grandma to his apartment in the lobby and my Grandma saw, over his shoulder, the building’s biggest gossip and gadfly, Mrs. Gertie VanMeerle (damn her!), sit upright in her chair and turn the gain on her Miracle Ear up to “10.” The fact of the matter is that the hot old dude is a full four years younger than my Grandma. I didn’t think that kind of thing mattered when people were over eighty years old but I guess it does. My Grandma, afraid of her reputation being tarnished by the pernicious gossiping of Mrs. VanMeerle, declined the invitation. I hope the hot old dude’s feelings weren’t hurt and he asks again.

Brian 5:01 PM

Tuesday, August 27, 2002

Chicago has a park along the lakeshore. For the most part it’s pretty cool – it’s open to the public and so people can go there to ride their bikes or go jogging or swimming or just enjoy the lake. It’s a good place for people to take their little children for a walk or push a stroller for free. However, around the Irving park exit area there’s a golf course in the middle of the park. There’s a big chain link fence around the course and so park goers, to get around the golf course, have to walk either down a path along the lake or a path along Lakeshore Drive. A while ago I was walking past the golf course along the lake and I heard something that made me think at first that somebody was throwing rocks at me. A golf ball had landed in the path just in front of me. Just a few days ago I was on the Lakeshore Drive side of the golf course (by that little fountain where hippies wash their dogs until cops on ATV’s tell them to piss off) and a golf ball plummeted out of the sky and struck a tree trunk just a few feet from the path where people push strollers. A few minutes later some smug golfing dudes approached their side of the fence and addressed me. “Hey man! Did our golf ball land over there?” They asked through the fence in their typical self-congratulatory manner. “Yeah.” I told them. “It totally did.” “Did you see where?” They asked. “Yeah, I did.” “Could you throw it back over here?” one asked with a complete lack of remorse for bombing a golf ball onto a crowded public pathway. I couldn’t believe it. “No.” I told them. “Definitely not!” They muttered about what an asshole I was as they walked away from the fence but if they think I’m going to help them get their golf ball weapon back they’re crazy. After they walked off I thought about the fence that separates me from the golf players. The fence that’s there is about six feet tall. It doesn’t do anything to stop golf balls from shooting over to where people not playing golf walk, that would require a lighter but taller net-like fence. The fence there was clearly designed to keep people off the golf course, not to protect the people walking along the path from golf balls. A fence like that says a lot about the community. I’m embarrassed for Chicago.

Brian 3:40 PM

Sunday, August 25, 2002

I haven’t left my apartment today. I don’t think that I even touched my doorknob. But that’s. . . .okay. Besides, I had a chance to get used to my new apartment and drink cup after cup of cappuccino and do all my favorite stuff. Here’s a list of my favorite things to do in my apartment alone on a Sunday. 1. Never shut the bathroom door 2. Pee in the sink (it’s not bogus if you run the water afterwards) 3. Write journal entries about pooping and peeing. Oh, I also made some hummus last night. It’s really easy. You just need some chick peas. Then you add some lemon juice, soy sauce, salt, garlic and blend it all up. If it stings your tongue you put too much garlic in it. You can still make hummus if you don’t have a blender, you just put the ingredients in a bowl together and then go apeshit on the chickpeas with a sturdy fork – that’s how they used to make hummus back in the day in Mediterranea, the country where hummus was invented. Cooking something easy was good for me, it helped me get my confidence up after my TERRIBLE EXPERIENCE with wheat gluten. That shit’s not even water soluble! I don’t know how I’m going to clean it up – maybe acetone, I don’t know. Another thing that I discovered about my apartment last night is that after dark, if I turn on the lights in my living room and leave the shades open, people can see me really clearly from the street. Last night I had quite a crowd gathered around watching me practice num-chucks in my boxer shorts – I’m that good. Seriously. I totally kick imaginary ass. I see that night has fallen. The lights are on in my living room and my shades are up and so I must bid you adieu. . . my public awaits.

Brian 9:55 PM

I don’t care what they say. I use paper towels for my ass-wiping needs whenever I run out of toilet paper and it WORKS JUST FINE. But you can’t just use a whole piece of paper towel to wipe with – that’s how a fool wipes their ass. The trick, I’ve found, is to tear each individual paper towel square into four separate pieces. That’s what I do and I’ve NEVER HAD A PROBLEM with my plumbing, and I’ve been doing it for years and in all sorts of toilet situations, even under pressure sometimes.

Brian 7:37 PM

Friday, August 23, 2002

I came back to Chicago today. I’ve got about a week before work starts and my vacation is pretty much over. Before I left my parent’s house my Mom took me aside to address an issue that had been bothering her while my Dad watched TV in the other room. Mom: (delicately) Both your father and I were thinking. . . well, what with your new job and all. . . we were thinking that maybe you should start dressing, you know, professionally. Me: Oh, I know. I will. Mom: I’m not sure you will. For instance, a shirt with a hole torn in the back – that’s not dressing professionally. Me: (with feigned hurt feelings) But that’s my favorite shirt, and I tape that hole up with invisible tape after I wash it. Dad: (shouting from in front of the TV in the other room) He needs a sports jacket!! Me: What’s a sports jacket? Mom: I’m not sure. (pause) Mom: Hmmmm. Also, Chicago gets cold. What are you going to wear this winter? Me: (humming disco and doing exaggerated pimp walk) I’ll be pimping it in my toasty warm Zero King, of course!! Explanatory Note: For the last seven or so years my Grandpa has been helping me out by mailing his surplus clothes to me every once in a while. For instance, at the first firm I worked at he sent me one of his old suits in a cardboard box after people at the office started recognizing the nacho cheese stain on my one suit and started hinting about places where I could buy another, or at least get it dry cleaned. That’s pretty much how I got the Zero King. It came in an old cardboard box from my Grandpa one fall. It’s a 1970’s knee length beige coat with big brown buttons and a fleece interior and a big lamb’s fur collar. The Zero King’s been keeping me warm for the last three years. And isn’t that a cool name for a coat? The Zero King is, like, who I am. Mom: Wouldn’t you like a nice leather jacket? That’s what everybody else will be wearing. Dad: (shouting from chair in the other room) “He needs a sports jacket!” Me: (pimp walking) “Dude, Zero King!” Dad: (shouting from his chair) “Why won’t anybody ever listen to me! I know these things! He needs a sports jacket!” Me: “I’ll be fine, Mom, I’ll wear the kind of clothes that I got the job in.” Dad: “Sports jacket!” Me: (quietly to Mom) “What’s a sports jacket?” Mom: “I’m not exactly sure.” Dad: (leaning forward in his chair to shout louder) “Sports jacket!! Dammit! SPORTS JACKET!!!” I still don’t know what a sports jacket is.

Brian 7:06 PM

Tuesday, August 20, 2002

I’m back from canoeing. It was a great trip but at times sort of an ordeal. I turned twenty-seven wrapped in hefty bags to stay warm in a raggedy old tent in the cold morning alone on a remote bank of the Fox River in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. As I lay there and shivered listening for bears approaching my campsite I couldn’t help but feel that this was totally an appropriate situation for me on my twenty-seventh birthday, it was, like, who I am. I’ve got a big bushy beard now. I look like one of those gentle satyr guys that are shown in the photographs in the book “Our Bodies, Ourselves” – you know, those bearded hippie guys they show standing on an ottoman in a living room playing a saxophone to an infant so as to provide a nurturing environment. I spent four nights alone on the river, and I got a lot of my magic powers back that I had forgotten about while I was dealing with so much bullshit lately. Also, it was cool because during those five days I didn’t wear shoes, deodorant, or that terrible means of groinal oppression, underwear. But I did go . . . crazy (If you pause before you say the word “crazy” at the end of a sentence and say “crazy” in a high pitched voice then the statement is way more convincing, I’ve found). I’m having a hard time adjusting to life in “civilized” society now. For example, take this recent conversation between myself and a local store clerk. Me: (wild eyed and shouting) “Where am I?” Taco Bell counterperson: “You’re at Taco Bell, can I help you?” Me: (still shouting) “What year is it?” Taco Bell counterperson: “Would you like to try a combo meal today?” Me: “Who am I?” Taco Bell counterperson: (suddenly experiencing a startling realization about me) “Ugh! You’re not wearing any pants!!” Me: “Do I . . . have . . . a name?” Taco Bell counterperson: “I’m calling the police!” Me: (reaching for some napkins at the condiment bar) “No need for alarm, I’ll just swaddle my loins with these.” Taco Bell counterperson: “Hey! You can’t have any napkins unless you buy a taco or something!”

Brian 11:11 PM

Monday, August 12, 2002

I saw a guy carrying a boom box on his shoulder today. I didn't know that people did that anymore. He was dancing jerkily and beep-boxing as he walked his way through stopped traffic. All I could think of was how many D batteries that boom box must have required. I also saw a woman with her underwear mostly on the outside of her clothes, and I saw an old guy with an eagle tattoo on his forearm who always sits on a bench cross-armed so his tattoo shows, and I saw a guy practicing his tennis swing with a ping-pong paddle taped to a stick. All the weird people I saw today were walking or waiting at bus stops, and everybody I saw walking or waiting at a bus stop today was weird. I’m still at my parent’s house, where I grew up, and it’s in one of those towns built around eight lanes of traffic that flow down an asphalt strip lined with fast food restaurants and Bed Bath and Beyonds and Circuit Cities that are completely built for car-people. It’s all paved and everybody is driving, except for the weirdos. I noticed all the weirdos today due to my recent and startling metamorphosis from “that guy who is always having car trouble” to “that guy without a car.” I was walking right alongside of them. Back when I was growing up, I only was aware of the most visible pedestrians, like my childhood hero, the guy who collected half full bottles of hand lotion out of the trash and stood on the side of the main street flipping the bird at cars passing by during rush hour. Now that I’m among the pedestrians I’ve realized that there’s a sense of camaraderie among them here in Drivethru-town, probably because of all the hardships we endure. To get across the street we have to push a filthy button strapped to a telephone pole and wait for a light across the street that flashes white through a pedestrian-shaped stencil that mocks walkers everywhere. We have to wait so long for that damn light to cross the street that we might as well be waiting for a bus. So anyway, there’s a sense of camaraderie but I held myself a bit aloof today. “All these dudes are really weird!” I thought to myself. Then I realized that all the pedestrians were weird, and I was a pedestrian, so I am probably a weirdo too. I don’t FEEL like I am weird, but I think that part of being a weirdo is not realizing it. Take Boom Box guy, for example, his erratic dancing demonstrated a complete lack of inhibition – and from this I conclude that Boom Box guy is not aware that he is weird. I mean, more power to Boom Box guy, I think it’s cool that he’s dancing, but again I admit, I am probably weird. Anyway, I’m a walker so I’m pretty sure that I am weird, but what I’m really interested in is IN WHAT WAY I’m weird. Because I’m not really sure. Maybe it’s that fact that while I’m walking I put my plastic bags full of groceries down on the ground about every fifty feet so that I can compulsively jot down notes for entries into my weblog that makes me weird. I don’t know, that’s just a guess. I considered holding a caucus of weirdos at the bus stop to answer my question. “Item number one on the agenda!” I imagined myself shouting to the assemblage of weirdos. “Am I weird?” “Item number two on the agenda!” I’d continue, “and IF I am weird, then in what way exactly am I weird?” I eventually decided against calling a meeting to order because I wasn’t sure exactly how far I could trust my colleagues in weirdness’ weird sense and we didn’t have quorum anyway. I’ll be driving a car again tomorrow though. I’m renting a car to drive up to the U.P. and do some canoeing, and I’ll be gone for about a week. But still, as I was walking along today and watching all the cars drive past me I began to feel contemptuous and my middle finger began to flex just slightly. I didn’t have the guts today but it won’t be much longer, I’m sure, before I accumulate a reasonably respectable collection of half filled bottles of hand lotion and I take my place at a busy intersection, flipping the bird to the world!!

Brian 9:32 PM

Friday, August 09, 2002

One of the things that is good about being home for a visit is having people around that I really connect with. I like meeting new and different people but it’s also good to go home and visit the people I grew up with. I feel this way the most just sitting around the dinner table, eating dinner with my family. Mom: “Brian, could you pass the . . .” Me: (interrupting) “Poop?” Sister: (laughing) “Good one, Brian!!” Me: “Thanks Andrea.” (uncomfortable silence) Mom: (gesturing at the open window) “Andrea, that wind is getting kind of cold, could you shut the . . .” Andrea: (interrupting) “poop tube?” Me: (laughing) “Pure Brilliance! You’re a genius Andrea! But what’s a poop tube?” Andrea: “You know, that thing that poop comes out of, I forgot the name of it.” Me: “You mean the colon?” Andrea: “No.” Mom: “Anus?” Andrea: “No.” Dad: (gruffly) “I think that she’s talking about the large intestine. Right, Andrea?” Andrea: “Whatever.” (uncomfortable silence) Dad: (suddenly thinking of a conversation topic) “Hey Brian, I might be able to get the afternoon off from work tomorrow, do you want to go . . .” Me: (interrupting) “Pooping? I don’t know, I usually try to poop in the morning but how about I pencil in a bowel movement around two-ish?” Andrea: (laughing) “Brian! High-five!” (we slap hands above the table) (uncomfortable silence) Andrea: “That’s really funny.” Me: “Talking about poop is always funny!” Andrea: “I know.”

Brian 8:26 PM

Tuesday, August 06, 2002

I’m still visiting my parents at their house. My Dad, brother, and I are going sailing with some friends tomorrow. My Dad is the skipper, and my brother is the navigator. It’s my job to operate the radio because I failed that Ham radio class- that was the class that delayed my college graduation. Yeah, we can’t forget about that Ham radio class, can we Dad!! But generally, my radio competency is typical of our combined sailing competency. And the boat, in general appearance and maintenance, resembles Uncle Jesse’s pick-up on the Dukes of Hazzard. I’m also the cook. My famous recipe is “spaghetti balls.” The secret to forming spaghetti into balls is trying to cook the noodles in luke-warm water, oh, and also forgetting to bring any sauce, that’s also an important part of the recipe. So anyway, sailing always brings up an old argument in my family. How many times does a crew have to be rescued by the Coast Guard before they should start to be embarrassed about it? My Dad says three times and my brother thinks it’s more like five times. I think it’s infinity times, because hey, that’s what the Coast Guard is for, rescuing dudes like us. I mean, it gives them something to do. However, the Coast Guard helicopter crew that rescued us the last time has a completely different take on the whole thing. They told us after the last rescue that any time we had to be rescued after the first time we should be pretty embarrassed about it. I just think they were a little upset because there wasn’t any beer left in our cooler. My Dad prefers classic rock to Lake Michigan weather reports. I tried to turn on the weather channel one time but my Dad got all upset, saying that the “robot chick” gave him a headache. Consequently, we were caught unawares in a storm with ten foot rollers about a year ago. The Coast Guard couldn’t launch any boats in rough seas like that so they flew out a helicopter that lowered a man in a harness who picked each of us off the deck of our boat. I didn’t think that the Coast Guard would risk a man’s life to make a separate trip back down to the boat to get the cooler. I guess they have a firm policy to only go down for humans. The trick to getting the Coast Guard to get your cooler for you is to tell them that there is a human kidney in it that you need for a transplant. Cripes, the Coast Guard and my Dad were totally pissed off when, after the Coast Guard got the cooler back up the helicopter, they found it was empty. No beer!

Brian 11:32 PM

Monday, August 05, 2002

I've been home visiting my parents in Michigan for the last couple of days. You know what that means . . . lots of embarrassing personal questions. Dad: "Why don't you get some new pants?" Me: "Dad! You know that these are prescription pants!" Dad: "What do you need prescription pants for?" Me: "You know." Dad: "What?" Me: "You know . . . my problem." Dad: "What? What problem?" Me: The problem I need prescription pants for!" Dad: "Oh yeah, that problem." My Mom found out that I've been writing a web-log. She expressed concern that I would write embarrassing things about her. I promised not to write about that time she picked a booger out of her nose in the local grocery store and hid it in the bulk peanuts bin. Okay, she really didn't do that. My Mom is a very wonderful woman and very scholastic. Just today she was telling me about some robots that she had read about somewhere. Mom: "Did you hear about those robots?" Me: "What robots?" Mom: "Some scientists tried to make some really intelligent robots!" Me: "Yeah?" Mom: "Yeah. They made the robots so smart that one tried to escape!" Me: "No way!" Mom: "The scientists had to go on a robot hunt. They found the robot in he driveway, trying to roll away, and they recaptured him." (pause) Mom: "Yeah, that was a really smart robot."

Brian 12:28 AM

Sunday, August 04, 2002

I got a lot of compliments on my blue shorts today. Well, I mean, nobody really said anything but I know they were thinking good things about my blue shorts. People really had their eyes trained on my buttal region. And I know that they were looking at my shorts, and not, say, trying to scope out my butt because, and this is embarrassing and I probably shouldn't have waited so long to say something about this, but, I don't have a butt. It's true. I was born without one. Doctors told my parents when I was born that I might grow a butt as I aged but I never developed one. However, it's a common misconception that the non-butted can't live normal, healthy, productive lives just like the butted. In short, not having a butt is a medical condition that can be managed. I've learned to take things one day at a time, and with some adaptive techniques, like a special rope belt that I made myself to hold my pants in a position where a butted person would wear them, I can engage in most activites that would be normal for a person my age. So anyway, people were checking out my blue shorts. I made them myself out of a pair of old polyester blue pants - the kind with the metal hook inside the waistband instead of a button - yeah, you old dudes know the kind of pants that I'm talking about. The kind of pants that have cuffs that hang an inch and a half above the top of your penny loafers so that women can see you had the good fashion sense to wear very shear black hose-like socks. I had the pants around because I dressed like Joseph Estrada last Halloween. Jospeh Estrada is my favorite president ever. He was first a film star in th Philippines. He played a Charles Bronson-like character - getting drunk and punching people in the face and squeezing women's butts unremorsefully. People thought that he was super cool so they elected him president of the Philippines. Then, like a month later, when the economy was all in trouble, people looked around and were like, "Dude! All our president ever does is get drunk, fight, and squeeze women's butts!" And it was true. I read that Estrada, as acting president, would stay in bed until about three in the afternoon. Then he'd spend all night in the disco clubs squeezing butt and drinking. The totality of his domestic policy consisted of tax concessions to the disco clubs where he had fun and the condemnation of clubs where he didn't get enough squeeze. The funny part is that I read that Estrada, when he saw how dissapointed his countrymen were in him, tried to get his act together. I imagine Estrada sitting around in his office drinking tomato juice for his hangover with a bunch of Phillipino heads of state around him bombarding him with policy choices and affairs of state until, like an hour later, Estrada would have his head in his hands and be like, "Fuck it! I'm going out drinking and butt squeezing!" I had a friend in college that was like that. Joseph Estrada was only president for about three months when he was removed from office. But also, please don't read this entry like I'm trying to harsh the Phillippine's mellow. Because I'm not, and maybe I don't have so much room to criticize, being from the United States. We're not exactly known for having a really stellar record when it comes to picking presidents, and, unlike the Philippine's, our bad presidents almost always finish their term.

Brian 2:46 AM

Friday, August 02, 2002

Okay, you can probably tell from that last journal entry that I was kind of depressed today. I was so depressed that I walked down to the grocery store in flip-flops, the kind with the uncomfortable in-between-the-toes piece. I bought some herbal energy drinks and a pineapple. I was too depressed to eat the pineapple at first. Then I was so depressed that I ate a lot of the pineapple. Now my stomach hurts and it’s depressing me. I know what you are thinking. Pineapple!? That’s the fruit of oppression! And it is, I agree. I’m ashamed. I was mawing on the pineapple like a cartoon crow eats corn on the cob and now there’s a big mess of pineapple husk and stickiness all over my desk. I deserve that big mess. I guess that Hawaii wants independence from the United States. I don’t really blame them. My old jurisprudence teacher, the infamous Francis A. Boyle, drafter of the Palestinian declaration of statehood to the U.N. and perpetual lawsuit filer against the United States government, goes over to Hawaii and lectures on secession. He advocates non-violence. “Ghandi’s Satyagraha [effecting social change by convincing one’s oppressors that they are wrong (pronounced sacha gra)],” Boyle proclaims, “is not inconsistent with the Aloha spirit.” Sometimes people kind of think it’s funny that Hawaii wants independence from the U.S. but it’s really a serious thing. Hawaiians have gotten the poopy end of the stick for a lot of years. I mean, even today there are about fifty old rich white dudes that own most of Hawaii and so Hawaiians can’t even buy land for themselves, even with their hard-earned U.S. dollars. The rich dudes “own” the land and keep it so that the Hawaiians will have to continuously work on pineapple plantations and in the tourism industry to pay rent to just have a place to sit down. From now on I will not buy or consume pineapple products.

Brian 2:10 AM

Thursday, August 01, 2002

I was up early this morning so went down to the pier to sit on an upturned pickle bucket next to the old dudes and fish for perch. After I sat there fishing for a while a young kid showed up on the pier, he was maybe between sixteen and twenty years old. He strode up and down the pier with all his unchanneled youthful energy and frustration and cast his lure into the water with wild swinging motions accompanied by grunts. Before long he started tangling old guy’s lines and the old guys started yelling at him and the kid started making excuses for himself, and when that didn’t work, yelling back at the old guys. Then they all finished yelling at each other and the young kid went back to fishing and the old dudes went back to sitting there. One old dude, maybe he felt bad about the altercation, I don’t know, anyway, the old dude started giving the kid some fishing advice. After a while, the kid started listening to the old guy and even asking some questions. I watched the kid try out the old guy’s suggestions and he really seemed genuinely appreciative for the help. The whole thing might have been one of those archetypically heartwarming human interaction stories, where the old wise man takes a boy who is becoming a man under his wing and shows him how to do something or be something successfully – you know, that crap they feed us in movie theatres. However, in real life it never works that way. I had been sitting there on the pier long enough to know that the old dude giving the youth the fishing lesson was the one guy not catching any fish. The old guy who really knew how to fish was sitting at the end of the pier, a little off by himself, he just sat there scowling at everybody and not saying a thing. Neither the kid or his old dude mentor caught any fish and eventually the kid wandered off. When I walked home I passed the spot on the harbor where hungry people fish for the big carp that they see swimming under the yachts. I saw the youth from the pier standing in the middle of a group of them, repeating the tutorial that the old dude had given him on the pier. “I’ve caught trout, bass, perch. . . all that shit!” He bragged to his audience.

Brian 9:17 PM

<< chicago blogs >>

Archives