she moves she

It’s the last of the Chicago Days.  I’m soaking in as much of it as possible despite the fact that said “soaking in” left me Bug Bitten and Itchy after a jaunt at Belmont Harbor over the weekend.  For a moment or two I thought I might have the measles.  I once wandered into a situation involving a Blueberry Bog while wearing a skirt.  I was covered with more than 100 mosquito bites that swelled and blossomed for days.  Today is no different except instead of my legs it’s my hips and torso.  Antihistamines.  Smelly creams.  Ice creams.  Cream of SumYung Guy.  Guy Pierce.  Memento.  New Jersey. Papa New Guinea.  And let’s not forget, of course, Papa Smurf and…I don’t know…Italy.

I have a crush on Martin Starr.  You may know him as Bill from Freaks and Geeks, the Beard Guy from Knocked Up or High Guy #3 from Superbad.  Several of the fellas from Freaks and Geeks–Judd Apatow’s ephemeral tv series from the late 90s–have ridden the coat tails of Judd’s successes (Seth Rogen) or gone on to become super villians (James Franco) but all we’ve gotten of Martin Starr are the Who-Was-That-Dude roles. When will Martin get his shot?

How about Martin Starr and Michael Cera in a Shoot Em Up/Spy movie?  Their nerdy awkwardness juxtaposed with a suspenseful, quick-witted, new-fangled, action-packed script with the musical genius of David Shwartz and maybe a Tom Hanks cameo and love story involving Natalie Portman who stars as the Good Girl Turned Criminal, would make millions at the box office.

Tonight I’m seeing Pineapple Express. The trailer is genius but I’m keeping my expectations low.  What are the chances that it tops Superbad?  I’m sure PE will inspire laughter unfurled but I’m sure it would have been better if Martin Starr had been in it.

The sun did not wake me this morning as it has for the last two months. Even on the most overcast of days my apartment is full of blinding light by 6:30 AM. Today the sky is an apocalyptic yellow-green. Did the sun ever rise?

After schlepping through the rain and thunder and lightning to the red line I look for a seat on the train. The only one is next to a nice looking black guy with his bag in the empty seat next to him. It’s widely known that this is not acceptable on the trains between 8 and 9 AM. Every seat is sacred. People fight for them. “Would you mind moving your bag?” No response. He’s not listening to an ipod. “Excuse me? Would you mind moving your bag please?” He ignores me again. In less than half a second I know what’s happening and I decided long ago to not take shit like this. I pick up his bag, hand it to him and sit down. He looks at me like “What the fuck did you just do!” I look at him like “That’s what you get for ignoring me you rude asshole.” Twenty seconds of wierdness goes by. Everyone in the traincar has noticed this little confrontation. Then it gets worse. “Just for future reference,” he says loudly, “another brother would of hit you. I’m not that kind of person but I know people like that.” “I asked you nicely to move your bag and you ignored me.” “That don’t matter, I know people that would just hit you for touching they stuff.” The thing is: he’s right.

Reverse the situation. If I was sitting in that seat, my huge bag taking up space on a crowded train and a black man asked me nicely to move my bag and I ignored him TWICE. What then would happen? I guarantee a confrontation much worse than what I experienced this morning.

Did I do the right thing? I’m not sorry. And I’d do the same thing again but I do acknowledge that it wasn’t the smart thing to do. Though what is the alternative? Stand there and be treated like I don’t exist? Allow a stranger to completely disrespect me? Let’s not pretend that race didn’t play a part in this. If he was a white guy? He would have been less threatening and more of just a jerk on the train. If I were a black girl? He probably wouldn’t have ignored me in the first place.

I won’t accept that it was a stupid thing to do. I wasn’t on the south side, I was in Wriggleyville! Maybe I’ve just lived a life sheltered from violence but normally you don’t expect your life to be threatened on a train on the north side. Regardless…yet another reason why I’m glad to be leaving this city. Because he is completely right…another brother would’ve hit me.

This hot city is full of Lollapalooza goers and they annoy me. 1. because there’s a hundred thousand of them crowding the city streets and 2. because most of them are those hipster types and hipsters bug me. Chicks in the biggest sunglasses imaginable, neon leggings and ballet flats. And who can overlook those guys in skinny jeans. My grandma always used to say “Never trust a guy in skinny jeans, Lauren.” And Granny…you’re so right.

Skinny jeans have to be the most unattractive garment a guy could ever wear. (Well most guys…I had too many drinks recently with a guy who actually pulled them off…you know who you are.) In general, these jeans are emasculating. Whatever happened to the idea of being a MAN? Like, you know, someone who could scoop a girl up, carry her to the bedroom and rip her clothes off? You don’t have to be a sports fan or Wall Street Asshole to fall into this category. Where are all the men? Show me please–A debonair man: a Gregory Peck. A suave man: a Paul Newman. A rugged man: a Robert Redford. A cool man: a James Dean. An artistic man: a Johnny Depp. A music man: a Tom Waits. It goes so far beyond fashion and it can be said for women as well as men. Maybe I just have a super crush on Cool Hand Luke and Denys Finch.

A lovely friend just turned me on to Zooey Deschanel’s band, She and Him. I didn’t think I could have a bigger Chic Crush on her but I was wrong. They are wonderful!

All I wanted was to give my hair a little lick of luster but not at those salon prices nu-uh! So I picked up a box of Natural Instinct’s Hazelnut-Medium Brown hair dye. What they don’t tell you is that “Hazelnut” really means “Black as the Devil’s Soul.” And with the bangs I’m rockin’ these days I look like some Closet Emo. Under these slacks I have a tattoo of Conner Oberst and scars and scabs from my cutter habit and oh how I wish I was wearing my black and hot pink platform shoes right now instead of these adorable strappy sandals. I can’t look at a mirror without grimacing and hearing an involuntary “ugh.”

I can now announce to the world that I am moving back to Alabama at the end of August. Chicago and I have been on the skids for a while now (see all blog entries from winter) and–I never thought I’d say this–I desperately miss Alabama. This city and I have outgrown each other. Like in a relationship when you both know you have to move on no matter how much you may lose or how heartbreaking you know it will be. You just say “It was so lovely” and walk away without ever really turning your back, or forgetting, or ruling out any future entanglements.

After taking off, I’m transitioning with a three week jaunt in The Bahamas. Five days at a silly little all-inclusive resort and the rest of the time immersing myself in yoga and meditation at an ashram on an island in the middle of the Caribbean.

I’m quitting my job and going to The Bahamas. That just sounds so nice to say. And it’s true. It’s so true.

In a bewildering and inexplicable shift I have taken a sudden and quite in-depth interest in the economy. It’s surprising from someone who always looked upon Wall Street Journal readers as the Soulless of Society and assumed Accountant Types had an inability to appreciate anything in the realm of art and transcendence. Aren’t there two types? The Left Brains and the Right Brains? Probably. But the idea that Rubix Cube Geniuses and Attorneys at Law can’t appreciate a Cezanne or a sunset or a Whitman is ultimately laughable. A social construct that isn’t always truth.

If I had to guess what stemmed this conversion (other than my mother’s incessant lectures and banker genes) I’d say it is a direct result of a new philosophy of mine having to do with embracing fears. And since for as long as I can recall, the topic of money, business, mortgages, escrows, et all inspired something akin to nausea, I’ve taken a fresh approach.

We fear what we do not know. So the most obvious way to overcome fear of finances is to of course…get to know them, invite them round for tea. Befriend those buggers.

Astonishingly, I don’t hate it. I’m actually interested in the mortgage crisis, the status of the American dollar, profit margins even. It’s unprecedented. This American Life has a great episode about how this mortgage crisis evolved into what it is now. It’s enlightening. I definitely recommend it to know-it-alls and know-nothings alike. Listen.

It is officially official that I have a Masters of Writing. My final A appeared on my transcript sometime Monday night, propelling me into Master status. Make all checks payable to the Lippeatt Foundation.

“Spry” baby. That’s the word. Was the word. Was the name.

Past tense.

I arrived at 10 South Wacker, pencil-skirt clad and manila-folder laden. Up to the 40th floor to a lobby unmistakably chic with a view you only get if you’re a CEO or Batman. I sat down with two lawyers. One to advise me how to make this publication of mine a legitimate business (LLC please) and the other to draw up a contract for future freelance contributors in order to cut the risk of infringement lawsuits, and figure out this trademark nonsense.

The nonsense: The name “Spry magazine” has been taken. A company called PGA filed for application of the trademark a mere 33 days before I did. And because we’ve both been trying to register the same name at the same time it got stuck in the Trademark Jungle. Legally though, they have the name.

I’m ok with it. I had a couple months to get used to the idea and I see it as a blessing really. A chance to do it again but this time the right way. With contracts and mission statements and a creative director and money! Any ideas for names are welcome but don’t expect to own the rights.

I’ve become something of a Business Woman. And oddly enough…it’s empowering. Being an artist is a great thing. I am firstly a writer and thinker but to thrive…you have to have the business smarts too right? It’s a fact. Money is important and it doesn’t land at your feet or magically appear in your mailbox when your 40. So if it takes me cultivating my high-heeled, pencil-skirt, fax-sending persona in order to write what I want and still be able to take a luxurious vacation, I’m ok with that.

Two chemicals called actin and myosin evolved eons ago to allow the muscles in insect wings to contract and relax.  Insects learned to fly.  When either molecule is absent the wings grow but cannot flap, rendering them useless.

The same proteins are responsible for the beating of the human heart.

When I stress I tend to not eat.  My emotional brain is in my stomach and it won’t tolerate being satiated with digestives.  Though it loves the wine, red or white.

I’ve had zero days off of work in the last nine days and I have to move tomorrow.  Change apartments.  I cannot eat and I keep saying things like “booyah” and “sucka!” and calling people “brotha.” Possibly losing my mind.  There is a restlessness like churning lava running laps in my veins.  And listening to The Rolling Stones while contained inside a little box, while Chicago produces another unseasonably cold day is torturous.  Where do the excessive vibrations go?

In the last ten minutes I’ve adopted a new philosophy on life.  I’m going to worry about nothing from here to eternity.  Encased inside this day of blah and impending-move dread this approach seems completely possible.  I’ve always heard that whole Worrying Doesn’t Help thing and I’ve adopted it perhaps half way.  But today I feel the “I don’t give a shits” through and through.  It’s all going to happen anyway.  Somehow, whether I worry about it or not, I will end up in a new apartment by Wednesday evening.  I therefore cannot be justified in sitting here at work putting energy into worrying about an Absolute.

This philosophy of course is appropriate only for certain circumstances.  I certainly cannot live out my days not giving a damn about the State of Things.  Giving a damn breeds Passion, Passion breeds Action and I am a Child of Fire and Snow.

Whatever’s right.  Right?

Where’ve I been?

Listening to a lot of rock and roll, hanging out on porches, drinking beer and things, swaying back and forth, climbing mountains and riding a motorcycle through New Mexico.

I only wish that’s what I’d been up to. I really do have a penchant for adventure. When I daydream these days, I daydream of open roads and wind in my hair. I’ve lived most of my life defying my Red Neck Heritage. But my god, I can do it no more! I want to hop on a Harley, tie a Rebel Flag bandanna around my head and hit the road towards some Bonfire Party in Kentucky. My uncles…all five of them are the quintessential Southern Red Necks. Bar fights and Budweiser, Above Ground Pools and Sprinklers, Kools and Cars. My mother’s got the blood too. I grew up with Journey, Steppenwolf, The Doors, Kansas, The Rolling Stones, Led Zepplin, Humble Pie, Jimi Hendrix blasting from our colossal stereo system on weekends in Alabama. Guitar solos mean Saturday afternoons, jumping through the sprinkler in my front yard, drinking kool-aid on the back porch, digging around for worms under trees. Jim Morrison’s voice is a direct connection to sunlight streaming in through the living room windows on Sundays. The best way to experience music is still lying on my back, flat on the floor, staring up at the ceiling and listening for hours.

I’ve got the blood too. In our family, the phrase “Lippeatt Blood” means wild, quick-tempered, charming, emotional, manic depressive, fun-loving, charismatic, rebellious, opinionated, stubborn AS HELL! My mom’s side, the McCarty’s, are known for being intellectual, practical, rebellious, kind hearted, tough-as-nails, dangerously adventurous, risk-taking. When we talk about it, as we often do because someone in the family has always done something deserving of Furrowed Brows and Dropped Jaws, we attribute it not to the person’s sensibility but to the fact that they’ve been cursed with “that crazy blood.” How many times have I heard my grandmother say (and come to think of it, how many times have I said?) “It’s that Lippeatt temper.”

Being the black sheep of my family I’ve felt disconnected from these traits, as if I’m exempt from it all.

Let me tell you. I’m not. I’m a hybrid of Red Neck and Class and lately I feel like buying a ‘78 mustang, gettin’ greasy replacing the engine and speeding off into the sunset with “Born to be Wild” blowing out the speakers.

Yeah…something’s gotta give soon.