Nico's furrowed face is outlined by long curly dried-out locks the color of iron. His round body moves like that of a Beijing CP politico: smoothly, leading from the belly, and with a keen awareness of its own power. His demeanor is frightening a little, as he intends it to be. He has an excellent sense of showmanship when it comes to self-presentation I think.
He keeps two dogs - living props that provide image-support. Their square jaws and deep bellowing barks menace any passersby who stray too closely to the chain-link fence. He's a cussing, rowdy, son-of-a-bitch (this will be ironic later) whose tirades can last for several hours; his voice is my frequent companion on cool afternoons when the window is open. In Nico-lingua, the F-word is usually a negative adjective but it can also be a demeaning noun or verb. Last week, a triple-threat parts-of-speech f-bomb assailed my aural cavities as I relaxed behind the hedge. "Why the f*** are you f***ing with the f***ing windows? Just leave it the f*** alone!" I'm not the recipient of the curse-o-matic combo, so I can giggle from my seat.
Swearing doesn't offend me. It just sounds silly or cheap or uneducated. And sometimes ugly. But usually it makes me laugh because it's just so ridiculous. I'm not a swearer. Not since high school (now you see it).
Several months ago, Nico leveraged his Harley Davidson and his street-cred into an official Hell's Angels membership. He tromped out of the kitchen and into the yard, his new members leather jacket gleaming over his fluffy flannel man-jammies, spinning in front of me from across the fence. "Get a look at this," he bleated gruffly, like a child with his first home-made ashtray. "What do you think of that?"
I gazed at the Hell's Angels logo emblazened across the back. His face was a mixture of pride, teenage rebellion, and Christmas morning delight (the latter of which kind of ruined the whole Hell's-Angels-mugster-persona thing. No self-respecting law-flouter had any business looking that joyful). His shamefaced bravado as he awaited my response suggested that perhaps he wanted my approval, felt silly that he wanted it, knew that he probably wouldn't get it, was ready with his defense if he didn't, but still really hoped he would anyway. I smiled at this rough middle-aged man twenty years my senior. "Well, congratulations, Nico. Looks like that's quite an honor." He's so tickled he almost wiggles.
Now Nico spends his days feeding me Hell's Angels tidbits. He perches on his wood-latticed terrace, spraying his freshly-seeded grass, his jacket hung from a lawn chair as if on display (which it is). On any given day I learn that Hell's Angels is really just a nice club, filled with members who travel the world on their Harleys doing good, not evil. He expounds on the goodness of their deeds at great length, and also on their stoic silent suffering at the hands of society and especially, the police. They are benevolent do-gooders, misunderstood by the world because of a few bad apples. I smile and offer sympathy. It really is rough to be a down-trodden biker isn't it?
Yesterday I was in my usual morning out-of-sight hedge spot. Nico wandered out with his typical nonchalance for physical aethestics - his iron mane in wild disarray and his wife beater pulled up over his protuberant belly. He approached his fiercest dog, Chuckles, who was sniffing me through the fence links. Unaware of my presence, he leaned over the bulldog and ruffled her all over, talking to her in the gentlest of baby voices. "Is that my girl? How's my sweetie? Are you my sweet baby girl? Are you my girl? Who's your daddy? Huh? Who loves you most Chuckles? Who loves you?" I froze, not out of personal embarrassment but because I know that most humans resent even unwitting intrusions upon their secrets. I doubt Nico will overlook my witness to a trait he considers weak: vulnerability. Nico doesn't know that I see right through that facade of his. He may look bad; he may BE bad sometimes; but his innate nature is as soft and pliant as a newborn kitten. Somewhere, if he had a mother, there is a silent-home movie of scrawny little Nico with gentle pleading eyes handing his mother a bunch of dandelions.
Nico is exactly like Ozzy Osbourne from the Osbournes: a bat-head-eating devil-worshipper on display who spends his evenings sipping Earl Grey tea on the couch with his lap dog and looking overwhelmed by the antics of his much scarier wife and children. Nico spends his life biting heads in public but at home (between screamings) Nico spends most of his time tinkering on his bike, seeding the lawn, chatting with the neighbors, adopting a young protege he calls "Wonderboy" and passing out BBQ bounty like a meat-laden Santa.
Will I ever tell him that he's sweet and huggable?
Naw......it would be too cruel.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Going Carless
I don't have a car.
Well, at least, I didn't,
I don't want one you see. I've been living without one for over a year and I can count the times on one hand I've really needed one.
I bike. And El. And Metra.
I'm a reverse commuter. It takes me an hour and fifteen minutes door-to-door to my new job. I hop on my orange Trek in my black dress slacks, frilly taupe blouse, and over-sized silver hoops. My 2 inch t-strap wedges dig into the sharp-toothed pedals. And I go.
I hurtle through the early-morning traffic and snigger at the daily pileup at Roosevelt Rd. You poor slobs. I slip through the 12-inch opening. I meet the stares and smile broadly. Why is it so weird for a dressed up woman to bike? Men do it all the time.
As I travel, I smell things. In China, I used to name stinky smells: fried rotten tofu, gym socks smell, seeping sewage, chemical smells, burning coal, garlic-n-body odor. They were distinct smells - encountered on a daily basis. But there were other smells too (most of them food) - spicy mutton fat over an open fire, oil sticks, fried garlic, flatbread with chives, roses, magnolias, purple-y wisteria vines over the endless bike racks, diesel fuel. I smell things in Berwyn: magnolia trees, dill, basil, wet grass, french fries, exhaust fuel hovering above pavement, dead squirrel, and then the sharp harsh smell of some tree that I haven't yet identified. I love them all (even the squirrel) because they make me feel alive.
I pull up to a bike rack at my station and in one fluid motion, I dismount, set down my heavy bag, unhook my pant tie - and in a moment - I'm a professional. I wheel my black briefcase into the coffee shop, pausing to wipe the sweat with a tissue. And then I'm on the train.
I like the reverse commute. Who would ever drive this route? You're all crazy, just so you know. I listen to NPR and sip cinnamon dark roast coffee while planning my day on my Dell. My favorite conductor is Bill with the reddish-brown beard. He winks at me most days when he punches my 10-ride ticket. I smile and twinkle back - friendly.
I exit at a tree-lined station and walk the final mile. I smile and say "good morning" to every person I meet. They mostly like it, although some look at me like I'm crazy. But it makes me laugh when they do that. How did people get so disconnected anyways? I get lots of stares again: maybe it's because I'm still a little bit cute and not quite old or fat yet. Or maybe my fly is open. Who knows? Maybe it's boogers. Or maybe people just like to watch other people as much as I do. But I get stares every single morning - walking or biking. Maybe Americans aren't used to seeing active people in everyday pursuits. I guess I'm supposed to go put on a sports bra and spandex. But then, I'd still get stares, now wouldn't I?
I like this lifestyle. When I buy my house, it's going to be next to public transportation like now.
Well, at least, I didn't,
I don't want one you see. I've been living without one for over a year and I can count the times on one hand I've really needed one.
I bike. And El. And Metra.
I'm a reverse commuter. It takes me an hour and fifteen minutes door-to-door to my new job. I hop on my orange Trek in my black dress slacks, frilly taupe blouse, and over-sized silver hoops. My 2 inch t-strap wedges dig into the sharp-toothed pedals. And I go.
I hurtle through the early-morning traffic and snigger at the daily pileup at Roosevelt Rd. You poor slobs. I slip through the 12-inch opening. I meet the stares and smile broadly. Why is it so weird for a dressed up woman to bike? Men do it all the time.
As I travel, I smell things. In China, I used to name stinky smells: fried rotten tofu, gym socks smell, seeping sewage, chemical smells, burning coal, garlic-n-body odor. They were distinct smells - encountered on a daily basis. But there were other smells too (most of them food) - spicy mutton fat over an open fire, oil sticks, fried garlic, flatbread with chives, roses, magnolias, purple-y wisteria vines over the endless bike racks, diesel fuel. I smell things in Berwyn: magnolia trees, dill, basil, wet grass, french fries, exhaust fuel hovering above pavement, dead squirrel, and then the sharp harsh smell of some tree that I haven't yet identified. I love them all (even the squirrel) because they make me feel alive.
I pull up to a bike rack at my station and in one fluid motion, I dismount, set down my heavy bag, unhook my pant tie - and in a moment - I'm a professional. I wheel my black briefcase into the coffee shop, pausing to wipe the sweat with a tissue. And then I'm on the train.
I like the reverse commute. Who would ever drive this route? You're all crazy, just so you know. I listen to NPR and sip cinnamon dark roast coffee while planning my day on my Dell. My favorite conductor is Bill with the reddish-brown beard. He winks at me most days when he punches my 10-ride ticket. I smile and twinkle back - friendly.
I exit at a tree-lined station and walk the final mile. I smile and say "good morning" to every person I meet. They mostly like it, although some look at me like I'm crazy. But it makes me laugh when they do that. How did people get so disconnected anyways? I get lots of stares again: maybe it's because I'm still a little bit cute and not quite old or fat yet. Or maybe my fly is open. Who knows? Maybe it's boogers. Or maybe people just like to watch other people as much as I do. But I get stares every single morning - walking or biking. Maybe Americans aren't used to seeing active people in everyday pursuits. I guess I'm supposed to go put on a sports bra and spandex. But then, I'd still get stares, now wouldn't I?
I like this lifestyle. When I buy my house, it's going to be next to public transportation like now.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Blogging Amityville Horror
I am live blogging the original Amityville Horror. I thought it was time to see it. This post is filled with spoilers.
10:00 I hate scary movies. Why am I watching this?
10:10 The realtor looks exactly like this woman from my parents' church. Husband mentions it and I laugh.
10:15 Why does the evil house wait a month to get nasty? Doesn't it hate them immediately? Is it waiting for autumn?
10:20 What exactly is happening to the priest in the upper room when he tries to do his exorcism? Are they buzzing him to death? Sucking his breath away with their high-powered wings? Are they impregnating his lungs with thousands of larvae in some sort of evil twisted virgin fly birth?
10:25 Margot Kidder is doing partially-nude ballet in the bedroom. Do any women actually do this? Shout out if you do please because I'd like to know.
10:30 Husband posits that they had to pull on the black cat's tail to get it to yowl like that. This makes me think of 3rd world zoos, where you can usually slip a few extra bucks into the attendant's palm to get them to poke the lions with a sharp stick so they'll roar. "Look kids....lion!"
10:33 A nun with some flowers is seriously freaking out. Where are the flies, I ask you? She's driving away in a rusty gran torino look-alike and now, puking. Evil houses make people of the cloth sick. Got it.
10:40 Ooohhhh! Evil house can control cars remotely. It crashes with the priest. Ha! There's a fly on his windshield. It's those omnipotent flies again. Do they cause the trouble? Or do they only show up because of the imminent feedings?
10:40 There's a babysitter with full dental head gear! In broad daylight! In public! Hooray!
11:00 MIDPOINT: Jody is a spirit girl who can control flies toward malignant purposes. Through Jody, flies cause breathing trouble, puking, open festering wounds, and car brake malfunctions. Jody apparently doesn't like people in her house. But she also really likes killing them, since she waits to take any nefarious actions until well after the time when she might have easily kept people from her home. Jody can close doors, turn off lights, and do cheap disappearing magic tricks with grooms' pockets and money. I don't know where the money goes. She can also mess with phone lines, or perhaps aural cavities (not sure which). Jody befriends precocious cute little girls in order to eventually throw blame, presumably so that she can keep up her dirty deeds as long as possible. Finally, Jody incites adult male madness.
11:05 I'd like you all to know that James Brolin is wandering around at night in his tighty whiteys. This makes me very happy.
11:15 James Brolin (now fully-clothed) has chosen to steal a rare book from the library. Why in the world didn't he use his library card? And now Margot Kidder is praying for help, which God has answered in the form of her scrappy lumberjack neighbor........ Who has just disappeared......Hmmmmmm.
11:30 There's a secret room in the basement (which is "a secret passage to hell"). James has just seen his face with red Halloween plastic devil horns on his head. Oh.....the cross has turned itself upside down and is all oily. That mischievous Jody.
11:40 Jody, or perhaps her flies, are trashing the angels at the church while the priest prays frantically. Wait a minute, that clever monkey, she only made him think that it was being trashed - thus blinding him. (No that sentence doesn't make any sense but it's exactly how it happens). Literally he sees the angel falling and then he's blind - but the angel didn't really fall.
11:40 I want to know why Jody sounds like a scratchy old polish man when she yells at people to get out.
11:50 Why is the helper-priest so unhelpful? There's no reason to be surly. Wouldn't he want to help everybody out?
12:00 And now, all hell breaks loose. James Brolin with wild crazy eyes, stomps about the house with his sharpened ax. Jody, who kind of looks like a baby gorilla with red eyes, watches from the upstairs. Margot Kidder turns a hundred and two (kind of like what she looked like in superman). Windows burst, stairs bleed profusely. James Brolin gets the family out and then goes back for Harry. He is drawn to the basement which is seeping smoke. He falls through the floor (no, no Jody - naughty monkey) and into oil. He's rich! No, but almost dead, if it weren't for Harry the wonder dog, who looks menacing but really just wants to save him from the goo. They leave together with a now goo-free James Brolin.
The end
10:00 I hate scary movies. Why am I watching this?
10:10 The realtor looks exactly like this woman from my parents' church. Husband mentions it and I laugh.
10:15 Why does the evil house wait a month to get nasty? Doesn't it hate them immediately? Is it waiting for autumn?
10:20 What exactly is happening to the priest in the upper room when he tries to do his exorcism? Are they buzzing him to death? Sucking his breath away with their high-powered wings? Are they impregnating his lungs with thousands of larvae in some sort of evil twisted virgin fly birth?
10:25 Margot Kidder is doing partially-nude ballet in the bedroom. Do any women actually do this? Shout out if you do please because I'd like to know.
10:30 Husband posits that they had to pull on the black cat's tail to get it to yowl like that. This makes me think of 3rd world zoos, where you can usually slip a few extra bucks into the attendant's palm to get them to poke the lions with a sharp stick so they'll roar. "Look kids....lion!"
10:33 A nun with some flowers is seriously freaking out. Where are the flies, I ask you? She's driving away in a rusty gran torino look-alike and now, puking. Evil houses make people of the cloth sick. Got it.
10:40 Ooohhhh! Evil house can control cars remotely. It crashes with the priest. Ha! There's a fly on his windshield. It's those omnipotent flies again. Do they cause the trouble? Or do they only show up because of the imminent feedings?
10:40 There's a babysitter with full dental head gear! In broad daylight! In public! Hooray!
11:00 MIDPOINT: Jody is a spirit girl who can control flies toward malignant purposes. Through Jody, flies cause breathing trouble, puking, open festering wounds, and car brake malfunctions. Jody apparently doesn't like people in her house. But she also really likes killing them, since she waits to take any nefarious actions until well after the time when she might have easily kept people from her home. Jody can close doors, turn off lights, and do cheap disappearing magic tricks with grooms' pockets and money. I don't know where the money goes. She can also mess with phone lines, or perhaps aural cavities (not sure which). Jody befriends precocious cute little girls in order to eventually throw blame, presumably so that she can keep up her dirty deeds as long as possible. Finally, Jody incites adult male madness.
11:05 I'd like you all to know that James Brolin is wandering around at night in his tighty whiteys. This makes me very happy.
11:15 James Brolin (now fully-clothed) has chosen to steal a rare book from the library. Why in the world didn't he use his library card? And now Margot Kidder is praying for help, which God has answered in the form of her scrappy lumberjack neighbor........ Who has just disappeared......Hmmmmmm.
11:30 There's a secret room in the basement (which is "a secret passage to hell"). James has just seen his face with red Halloween plastic devil horns on his head. Oh.....the cross has turned itself upside down and is all oily. That mischievous Jody.
11:40 Jody, or perhaps her flies, are trashing the angels at the church while the priest prays frantically. Wait a minute, that clever monkey, she only made him think that it was being trashed - thus blinding him. (No that sentence doesn't make any sense but it's exactly how it happens). Literally he sees the angel falling and then he's blind - but the angel didn't really fall.
11:40 I want to know why Jody sounds like a scratchy old polish man when she yells at people to get out.
11:50 Why is the helper-priest so unhelpful? There's no reason to be surly. Wouldn't he want to help everybody out?
12:00 And now, all hell breaks loose. James Brolin with wild crazy eyes, stomps about the house with his sharpened ax. Jody, who kind of looks like a baby gorilla with red eyes, watches from the upstairs. Margot Kidder turns a hundred and two (kind of like what she looked like in superman). Windows burst, stairs bleed profusely. James Brolin gets the family out and then goes back for Harry. He is drawn to the basement which is seeping smoke. He falls through the floor (no, no Jody - naughty monkey) and into oil. He's rich! No, but almost dead, if it weren't for Harry the wonder dog, who looks menacing but really just wants to save him from the goo. They leave together with a now goo-free James Brolin.
The end
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