I'm an Urbanite Snob

This post was supposed to be about something else. Then it turned into what it is. Which is not very good. Oh well. Blogs are supposed to be off the cuff, fast and dirty. They can't all be winners.  I'm saving the really good stuff for The Paris Review  or my neighborhood newspaper. Same diff.

I recently started a new job. It's great. I love it. I couldn't be happier. But.
     Jen and I now work in the same building, for the same company, at the same job. No, literally Jen and I have the exact same job. She does the job full-time during standard business hours. I do the job part-time, typically starting at 1 in the afternoon. It's wonderful to have my mornings free. But
     I now take Jen to work every morning. Then I typically drive back home before driving back up to the office at 1:00. I don't mind it, but it's maybe not totally practical.  See, Jen and I only have one car. I know that's un-American. We are commie-urbanite-snobs. Why don't we just move to New York (City, not Buffalo) with all the other commie-urbanite-snobs? Well, judgmental reader, because, Life is expensive. Until recently, we couldn't afford to. If we could've afforded to do that, we could certainly have afforded to have 2 Pontiac Grand Ams with 128k miles on them in our fleet, instead of just the one. Also we didn't need two cars when I had my old job. Also we like it in Columbus. Also, did I mention we both have jobs here? Try to keep up.
     Now, back to my point (which I'm painfully aware I never established in the first place).
     When I worked at my previous job, I was within walking distance of my office. Having just one car was perfectly perfect. Jen drove the car 15 miles north everyday on a highway she hates to work at the cool job that I coveted, and I walked 1.7 miles through a neighborhood that I love to a job that I hated. Well now everything is right in the world. It's been 2 months since Jen has almost died trying to merge onto the highway and it's been almost 2 months since I've nearly been run over by some d-bag from the suburbs who doesn't know what a crosswalk is. (Wow, I'm starting to understand why you might think I'm a commie-urbanite-snob. For the record, I'm actually a socialist-urbanite-snob.) Anyway, this way everyone wins. Everyone except the aforementioned Pontiac. But.
     Let's be honest. We live in a place where a two adult family needs to be a two car family. Let's also be honest that the real reason Jen and I haven't yet bought a second car is not because we're so principled in our snobbery. Sure, we're conscious (but not concerned) of our carbon footprint. And, we do like to leave the car at home and walk to local restaurants for dinner (except when we drive 20 miles into suburbia for Turkis/Mexican/Chinese). No, the real reason Jen and I haven't bought a second car is that I'm a child. I would rather spend the money we should be saving for a down payment on a vacation, or great seats at a Notre Dame football game (insert laughter here), or 40 really good dinners out. Ongoing debt makes me twitchy. Paying someone interest makes me irate. It's why I don't buy a house, or a car, or a master's degree. The thought that someone else should make money off of me just because they happen to have it to lend and I don't have enough of it afford things that, at least in this country, are considered necessities--well that just pisses me off. Did I mention that that job I just recently left was at a bank? You could say it was a bad fit for me.
     I realize that according to my ideals, most people would never be able to own houses (hello, Mother  Russia.), or new cars (I'll sell you the Grand Am for $1500.), or educations (We don't need no...).  I'm not asking anyone else to live by my ideals though. I'm not even expecting to live by them, myself. Someday we'll buy a house (I'm not spending my Saturdays mowing the lawn, sweetheart.). We'll have a second car by Christmas (Sorry, none of you will be getting gifts this year). And I already have a degree (that I'm still paying for and will be until I'm forty, and I wouldn't trade it for all the tea in Communist China). But.
       
   
   
        

They Don't Make Panhandlers Like They Used To.

Jen and I approach Columbus' homeless population very differently which is to say--I approach them and she walks the other way. I've seen homeless people scream obscenities at passersby. I've seen them chase after pedestrians with the jagged necks of broken beer bottles. Scariest of all, I've seen the homeless sneeze on people who are fishing in their pockets for spare change without even attempting to cover their noses. Given all this, Jen's method for dealing with panhandlers is, at worst reasonable, at best, wise beyond calculation.

It's a wonder Jen will even leave the house with me. I'd like to say that the reason I'll gladly stop and listen to the story of any panhandler I encounter is a sign of altruism. This is nonsense of the, politicians really love babies, and, therefore, kiss them at every opportunity vein. I fear being disliked to such an extent that I put myself in foolish, even dangerous, situations. I'll take a drink out of someone else's beer when they offer me a sip, for fear of offending them if they should think my refusal is an indication that I think they may have a dormant case of mouth herpes. I'll run off to Canada and marry a drug addict out of concern that one more rejection in her life could be the thing to finally convince her to inject a lethal dose of class 3 narcotics. I'll stand on a street corner and listen to a man who may very well have an Alien-style alien growing inside his stomach, because the thought of being labeled an uppity bitch would put a serious damper on my day.

A few weeks ago, Jen and I were leaving our hair salon in The Short North (Columbus' gallery district). Having just successfully finished an hour and a half long flirting session with our Kuwaiti hair stylist (exotic looking, laughs at all your jokes, touches you when she's talking to you--you get the idea), I was feeling pretty full of myself. If I'd been wearing a hat, I would have doffed it at everyone I passed--including the charming homeless fellow who approached us about a block from the salon. As you should have assumed from my earlier commentary, when this gentleman called for our attention, Jen smartly kept walking. I, on the other hand, didn't want this guy to think I thought myself too good to stop and talk to someone down on his luck. After all, aren't we all just one or two missed paychecks away from the streets?

There are a few types of beggars. There are the guys who stand on the side of the road at the end of exit ramps who let their "Hungry veteran. Anything will help. God bless you," cardboard signs do the talking for them. There are the honest, friendly drunks standing outside the gas stations who'll tell you straight, "Look buddy, can you spare a few cents? I really need a drink," and there are the story tellers who seem to exist everywhere else. I was able to take one look at this fast talker with the bouquet of red, white, and blue cloth flowers and know which type of he was. The conversation went thusly:

"Pardon me ma'am. I just need a minute of your time. Ma'am I don't mean to bother you, but I am homeless, and, praise Jesus ma'am, I do have cancer . . ." At this point my new friend crossed himself and lifted up the front of his t-shirt to show me what could only have been one of three things. Three very distinct tumors, three very painful hernias, or the head and two fisted alien claws of the otherworldly being gestating in this man's stomach waiting to achieve full maturity at which point it will A) burst through this man's stomach and wreak havoc on the city I love or B) high kick down the street in a straw hat singing "Hello My Baby" at the top of its little alien lungs. Obviously, I prefer the Mel Brooks version, but either scenario would be unsettling at best.

There are times in life when it's inconvenient to have an expressionless face. "Honey, we're having a baby," isn't one of them. "Ma'am please take a look at my cancerous baby alien stomach and give me some money," is. It would have felt rude to show outward disgust or fear or the sort of curiosity that could only be accompanied by the phrase, "Can I touch it."

When I looked unphased by this man's stomach. He continued. "I'm trying to save up some money for treatment. Now, I am selling these flowers today." (Thank God. I was really hoping there was going to be an opportunity to buy these flowers in this for me.) "Now I'm asking five dollars for them, but I would be grateful for anything you could afford."

I had about $40 in my pocket. "Aw buddy, I'm really sorry. I don't have much cash on me, but I can give you a dollar, just to have. You don't have to give me any flowers."

At this point Jen was ten paces south of us, looking at me like why are you giving this crazy person our grocery money, and this is where things turn ugly. While I'm digging in my pocket, Baby Alien Head Man looks up at Jen and says, "Hey what about you?" Now, Jen and I have been together for a couple years, and we're so together that I assume it's obvious to anyone who happens upon us that we're together, and, therefore, when one of us acts, we're acting on behalf of the whole unit. Even if one half of the unit is 30 feet away. Because of this, there are some things that still take me a bit aback (at least when we're in Columbus, where you can't swing a dead cat around without smacking at least one half of a lesbian couple upside the head). For example, there's a moment of confusion if we're at a restaurant and our server asks us if we want the checks separately? Really? Similarly, I find it a little jarring when I'm getting ready to hand a panhandler cash and he calls up to my girlfriend, "Hey, what about you?" At this, Jen, similarly surprised, ignored him. "What's a matter? You don't talk to black people?" And this is why someone should start a nonprofit that teaches successful selling techniques to the homeless.

"Whoa man, that's not cool."

"Well look at her. She looks scared."

"I'm sorry. I'm not going to be able to help you out today."

"Oh come on."

"Look I'm standing here trying to do you a favor and you call my girlfriend a racist."

"I wasn't calling her a racist."

"You said, 'What's a matter? You don't talk to black people?' you don't think that's the same as calling her a racist?"

"I'm sorry. Look, here, have some flowers."

"Sorry man. Have a good afternoon," and I walked away from the host of what could be the scariest thing ever to descend on Columbus and toward one pissed off girlfriend who was more displeased that I'd stopped to talk to this guy in the first place than she was charmed that I'd tried to defend her honor.

I'm fully aware that I'm the one who comes out of this story looking like the asshole, and part of me still feels bad about not giving him money. Not just the one dollar I promised him, but all of it. It's not like we wouldn't have bought groceries anyway. I just hope that he survives the tumors or the hernias or the explosive abdominal alien syndrome long enough to have the last laugh. Something tells me he will.

Let the Looting Begin

I know we in Columbus, OH don't have much to complain about on the shitty weather front. There's no flooding. We haven't had any tornadoes this year. We're too far inland to worry about hurricanes. But fuck me if we didn't have some crazy-ass lightning tonight. There were downed trees everywhere. I'm not talking a branch here and a limb there. I'm talking entire 30 ft tall trees scattered throughout my neighborhood. When I came home after the rain, more than a few streets were blocked off due to the fact that there was a big fucking tree laid out in the middle of the road. The park by my house looked like a disaster area; however, as a sign that everything would be okay, the local juggling club was outside the rec center tossing and catching various blunt objects. It's like I always say, if the Columbus Juggling Society doesn't get together and practice on Thursday nights, then the terrorists--I mean Thor-Norse-God-of-Thunder has won.

Before I even got to the park, I was shunted all around Third Street which was closed for a couple blocks due to waist-high water. When I drove back through a couple hours later, the water had all gone, but the street was caked in mud, and the poor bastards who'd been parked along the street when the storm came were either having their cars towed off the sidewalk or trying to will their newly fried electric to correct itself.

After driving through town for a bit, I would say that roughly 50% of the traffic lights are out. Speaking of which, I'm sure my educated readers know this, but just in case someone else stumbles across this blog, when a traffic light is out you are supposed to TREAT IT LIKE IT'S A STOP SIGN! I can't say how many people I saw just barreling through busy intersections without even slowing down. See, when people do that, THEY CAUSE ACCIDENTS!

When I finally came back into my neighborhood it was dark. Lots of power out. Not mine, but just about everyone for the 10 blocks north of me. I live in a part of the city where it's never completely dark. To see it that way was a little creepy. Creepier still was the little old shopkeeper I saw standing outside his storefront, sweeping and looking at the big hole in the front of his store where his window used to be. For the first time in my life, I'm glad I sleep with a loaded gun under my pillow--did that fool anyone? I'm trying to practice my bad assness in case there's trouble tonight.

I'm in a German Village State of Mind

For those of you born after 1976, that title's a reference to a Billy Joel classic. Also, in the interest of full disclosure, it should be noted that I've been drinking. Six pints (the American 16 oz. and not the British 20 oz. that is) of New Castle are coursing their way through my bloodstream. What I'm saying is, this is the drunk-dial version of a blog post.

I hate snow. I have always hated snow. I don't hate the situation it puts people in.

Today, I didn't even bother putting underwear on until 6:00 p.m. I had Ramen Noodles for lunch, and couldn't bear the thought of having them for dinner. I was hungry. "Mom, you don't understand. Where I live, the people working in the restaurants live close enough to walk. They will be open, because the people eating and drinking there also live close enough to walk. I will not starve to death." My mother, who lives in a suburb of Dayton, didn't sound convinced.

It took me fifteen minutes to walk two blocks. The snow was up to my knees, and, even though I was wearing my Dr. Martins, I was sliding all over the place. I peered into the Easy Street Cafe and saw dozens of folks drinking and laughing and eating (in that order). Thank God, I thought.

Sometimes people feel sorry for the pathetic single person sitting at a table alone, pretending to read a book. Fuck that. People watching is so much easier when you're by your onesy.

As I sat and read, The Other Paper, Columbus, OH's free newspaper, I saw all the heads in the bar swivel to my left. At the traffic light outside, not one but two trucks were stuck in a 2 foot ridge of slugde. The man in the second truck got out, realizing that he was in a, "we're-in-this-together" situation with truck driver #1. As truck driver #2 pushed the other truck into one of the worn down, icy track marks on the main road I asked, okay, now who's going to help driver #2? The answer was, no one. Ten people, at least, stood up and pressed their hot moist noses up to the window of the bar, just watching and laughing and placing bets as to whether the poor sonofabitch would ever free himself and asking why in the hell he was driving in the first place. I thought, "this is so Seinfeld, I should help." As I thought this, another woman from the bar stepped outside. My thoughts changed. She's kind of cute, I thought. The two of us watched, she from outside in the cold, me from inside holding a newspaper, waiting for the man to rock back and forth, building the momentum to free himself. This failed and I thought, how pissed would I be if that was me and no one was helping? Then I thought, that girl is cute, and she'll think I'm a wonderful example of a human being if I go help. I shot up and walked outside. I looked at cute girl and said, "let's go." It was very, super-hero. The short version of this already too long story is, we unstuck the guy. It took us a few minutes, and I fell twice, and the other woman fell and hit her chin on the last push, but we got him out. We got him out while a bunch of men stood by and watched. Chivalry may not be dead, but it's the women picking up the slack in German Village. I spent the next two hours considering how cheesy it would be for me to buy the mystery good samaritan a drink. I can't lie though, I was also thinking, this was a two woman operation; she should buy me a drink. My point is, we shared a moment.

I'd never met anyone in The Easy Street Cafe, but blizzards have a way of bringing people together. "I live in Reynoldsburg," said the girl next to me at the bar, "but I saw that a storm was coming in, so I drove into German Village last night knowing, at least I'll have a bar to go to." This weather may be a little annoying, but the only inconvenience that derives from it is that people get a little more familiar with their neighbors.