Arriving When the Party Is Over

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Golf Umbrellas In The City

There's a reason why them call them "golf umbrellas." They are intended for use on a golf course. I know this sounds like oversimplification, but many of you out there just don't get it. This type of umbrella's purpose is described explicitly in its title, "golf umbrella." Perhaps you, the person who uses golf umbrellas in the city, do get the concept, but you just don't care that you are a walking hazard and annoyance.

While the purpose of all umbrellas is to shield a person from rain, behemoth golf umbrellas serve no purpose at all on a crowded city street except to block all pedestrian traffic, piss people off and show what a pussy you are that you need to hide under a tent out of fear of getting a drop of water on your Dockers and/or cheap-ass (yet oh-so-stylish) shirt you bought at H&M.

POP QUIZ: Look at the two pictures below. Name at least one similarity and two differences between the two.


Picture 1 Picture 2

ANSWERS:

Similarity

• Both Picture 1 and Picture 2 are places located on the planet earth.

Differences

• Picture 1 is a wide open and spacious golf course, whereas Picture 2 is a city street.
• Picture 1 shows a rational person using the proper tool in an appropriate place, whereas Picture 2 shows a cluster of fucks who do not know how to exist in a helpful manner in an urban setting, nor do they seem to care.

According to the 2000 US Census, the population density of the City of Chicago is 12,747 people per square mile. In large cities like Chicago, and I'm only stating the obvious for those who can't seem to grasp obvious things, a whole bunch more people live and work in a much smaller space than in most other cities and towns. The city of Kankakee for example is a town only about sixty miles South of Chicago, and its population density is 153.4 people per square mile. Big difference. Combine these sheer population density facts with an ever increasing lack of civility and common courtesy in society, then a living and working in a situation that is often tense under the best conditions becomes exponentially worse. Blocking pedestrian traffic and poking people in the eye with golf umbrellas is but one small example of the thoughtlessness exacerbating the day to day urban existence. The frustration is urban blight for the mind.

I do however give the benefit of the doubt to the city folk in that I'm willing to bet that the majority of people who use golf umbrellas in the city are clueless commuters from the suburbs. A winding, tree-lined suburban street or wide-open strip mall is a hell of a lot better place to use a golf umbrella than Michigan Avenue during rush hour. Many suburban subdivisions already look like golf courses or are actually located adjacent to one.

CASE STUDY: HOW BIG ARE GOLF UMBRELLAS REALLY?

In the photo below, note the gentleman heading into the Tribune Tower:

Look at the width of the stairs relative to the size of the the umbrella. Look at the picture again, but this time imagine it without the umbrella. There's a hell of a lot more space to maneuver on the stairs, isn't there! (Also, when I snapped this picture, it was barely even drizzling out, which makes this man a super puss.)

If the previous example doesn't show just how ginormous that golf umbrellas are in the concrete jungle, then look at the next picture:

This is a patio umbrella. Patio umbrellas are large, and are excellent for keeping one dry when one is on a patio. Now let's superimpose Mr. Tribune Tower in front of this huge patio umbrella:

Okay, I admit that I cheated a bit with the size and perspective of the original picture, but Mr. Tribune's golf umbrella really isn't that much smaller than the patio umbrella which is intended to keep four (FOUR!) people dry.

What's worse, is these huge umbrellas aren't an occasional annoyance anymore; for some reason, their numbers are increasing. They have become a trend. They are the SUVs of the sidewalk:


A completely blocked sidewalk.


While I respect that this guy has his hand on his wife's ass, people couldn't walk up or down the stairs.


Dumbass


The ܜber- Pussy

Okay, maybe I'm obsessed. I mean, running around the city streets while it's raining (with a normal sized umbrella, thank you) so that I could take pictures of golf umbrella people isn't exactly healthy. Am I the only one who has noticed this trend? Am I the only one who gets annoyed and pissed-off whenever I have to duck out of the way or plod behind these people?

Ku Klux Koffee

Dear Oppressed Black Woman at Starbucks,

I just wanted to let you know that the baristas passed you over by mistake. I was right behind you in line, and it happened to me also. At least two people who ordered after me were served before me. We both got screwed over a bit. I wasn’t too angry though, because I knew I wasn’t skipped on purpose. You, unfortunately, thought you were discriminated against because you are black.

It was a little after 8:00 a.m. The Starbucks was packed. You, me and a gaggle of other caffeine junkies were there to get our legal fix. With a line stretching out of the coffee shop doors, coupled with people ordering three-sentence-long coffee concoctions, it was a chaotic scene. Eventually you ordered your drink and moved over to the on deck area to wait to be served, then I ordered and moved next to you in the same area. After a few minutes, like you I noticed that people who ordered after us began to get their drinks, and this was when I began to feel your anger before I even looked at your face. We waited. And waited.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see you fidgeting and rocking on your legs like a kid who has to pee. You sighed, exasperated, at least a dozen times in the space of a minute. Finally, I had to look at you. I grabbed a newspaper from a stand behind us as an excuse to turn around and look your face directly. After seeing your face, I quickly threw the newspaper back down like it was on fire and turned around. You see, I was afraid that if I looked directly at you any longer I would turn to stone. I doubt your face is normally that ugly, but your palpable anger twisted your features into something so hideous that your visage made Medusa look like a chick I'd like to soul-kiss. Hell, I'd even like to fellate all the snakes on Medusa’s head before I’d consider looking at your anger induced ugliness. I’m just glad that your glare wasn’t trained on me, but I did feel sorry for the barista who was the object of your hate. I remember thinking, “She can’t be this mad because we got passed over. . .maybe the barista is fucking her husband.” Then, because I'm still naive sometimes in my desire to live in an ideal world, it dawned on me what your problem could be. Is this a "black thing?" I wondered. I glanced at you again. Your upper lip was now curled like a rabid dog's. You sighed. You fidgeted. You furrowed your brow up and down, up and down like you were exercising it. Yup. It was a black thing.

My heart actually skipped a beat when the barista called out your order, a caramel something or other. You walked up to the bar, slowly and deliberately, like a gunslinger taking his ten paces at a high noon duel. I thought the coffee was going to hit the fan. You reached the counter and to my surprise you didn’t freak out all over the place, but maintained control of your anger and focused it with laser-beam precision on the barista girl. As she was drizzling the final touches of caramel goop on top of your frothy "friend of diabetes" drink, the barista cheerfully asked, "Hi! How's you're morning going so far?"


“Ha!” Was your first reply, a bit loud, but quickly followed with a quiet and focused diatribe. You didn't want anyone else to hear what you were about to say. (why is that?) I strained to hear and caught most of your words. Through clenched teeth you said (and I'm paraphrasing a bit), "My day was going well. . .until you forgot about me and served three other people who ordered after me." The baristas smile dropped. Her face showed complete surprise. Then, oh oppressed black woman, you leaned in closer and whispered something else to her. I simultaneously wish I had heard everything you said, and am glad I didn't. Regardless, I did hear the word "discriminate." You also said something about “white people not liking serving black people.” Whatever else you said really shook up that poor barista girl, some idealistic, nineteen year old college kid who knows the landscape of racism as well as she knows the landscape of the planet Pluto. This kid was racist to the same degree that you, oh oppressed black woman, are a rational thinker.

While you quietly went off on the girl, her face turned to dread, and she was almost crying when she handed you your drink. You even had the bitchy-gall to add a sarcastic "have a nice day," to her as you walked out of the Starbucks like you just made a wonderful advance in the fight for equality.

I am not denying that racism exists or that you've been discriminated against in the past. I just had to let you know though that this did not happen today. You probably have been discriminated against in the past, perhaps simply for being black, but based on how you acted this morning over a situation that clearly had nothing to do with the color of your skin, I'm willing to bet that you're discriminated against a hell of a lot more for being a huge asshole than for being a black woman. Perhaps your past life experiences are now the filter through which you judge everything, and therefore many if not all unfair and bad things that happen to you are of course "racist."

You're no Rosa Parks. You're just a common bitch. In fact, you are the type of person who confuses being a "strong woman" with being a bitch. The only lesson that the barista learned that day is that people's own prejudices and fears can blind them from reality, and huge gaping assholes exist in the world.

I hope you enjoyed your coffee.

You're no Rosa Parks. You are a common bitch. In fact, you are the type of person who confuses being a "strong woman" with being an asshole and a bitch. The only lesson that the barista learned that day is that people's own prejudices and fears can blind them from reality, and huge gaping assholes exist in the world.

Heartburn and Fuzzy Monkeys.

My right hand is shoved up a monkey's ass. My left hand is holding a nacho chip, saturated with salsa that is now running down my wrist, forearm and ultimately dripping from my elbow onto the table.

The monkey is a stuffed animal, a puppet. There's a two year old boy to my left, and a woman otherwise known as my girlfriend, sitting across from me. The boy is hyper. The girlfriend is hyper because of the hyperactive boy. The boy is writing his own Seinfeld script that goes beyond "double dipping"; his chip is now floppy-wet from his quadruple, quintiple, sextuple dippings into the salsa bowl (It's looks like a Mexican version of Dippin' Sticks candy, if you remember those). Inbetween his dippings and drippings, he barks an occasional two-year old tourettism, like "WIGGLES!" The girlfriend sitting across from me reminds him to use his indoor voice. She then threatens him with--ooooh!--a "Time Out." I'm trying to entertain the boy with the monkey puppet while simultaneously trying to eat salsa and chips. The girlfriend is trying to get him to be quiet and eat without looking like Jackson Pollack at work on a new canvass. The boy is hyper. The girlfriend is hyper. I'm in hell.

You see, I took the day off from work today for two reasons: 1) To clean up our cracked-out apartment. 2) To have some "me" time away from situations as described above. My girlfriend didn't originally know I had today off, but as is ultimately the case in any situation where I try to take back some control of my life, things for me became one big fuck-a-roo: In a last minute scheduling change, she didn't have to be at work today until 10:00 a.m. She's a nanny, by the way. The little boy is her job.

I was going to surprise her tonight by having her come home to a clean apartment. Things were to be cleaned. Things were to be dusted. Clothes were to be washed, with April-fresh fabric softener mind you, pressed and neatly folded away into drawers. Furniture was to be moved because of the new flooring that is going into our place. It was going to be a nice place to enter when she got home. I envisioned her opening the door, preparing to avert her eyes, as usual, to the white elephant not in the room but the white elephant that has become our entire living situation. And then--Nirvana! Before her would be the urban vision of the Elysian Fields. A place one could open his or her eyes to and bask in the glory as if it was a warming sun from a friendly god. This may or may not still happen. But now that I'm back from lunch with her and the boy what am I doing? I'm Ranting-n-Rolling. From the time I woke up to now, over five hours of productive time has been lost. This apartment needs more than a good cleaning. It needs a blessing from God or a pact with the Devil to get it back up to habitable standards. With a lot of time, I could work some magic here. But now? Well, take a look:

Part of the living room


The dingy dining area


My desk. . . Looking pretty normal, actually

I will not show the kitchen, bedroom or bathroom. Some states still have strict anti-obscenity and decency laws. I'm not angry at my girlfriend per se. I really enjoy spending time with her. Her employer gave her the car today, so she called me up to invite me out to lunch with her. This was nice. I did warn her that I still had a lot to do (the cleaning "surprise" was basically fucked when I found out she was going into work later). No problem. It would be a "quick" lunch. When we arrived at a Mexican restaurant, from time to time I could separate myself from the table chaos and just stare into her eyes and enjoy the company of this human being that I love. On the other hand, when the little boy was really beginning to dig into the salsa, I ripped it away from him and made the following funny comment, "That's enough for you kid. You've got two selfish adults sitting at the table with you, and we won't stand for this!" Ha-ha.

Ha-ha? Yes. What's not so "ha-ha" though is I realize there was a lot of truth in this comment. The girlfriend, the soulmate, the one I have actually pictured having kids with. . . Now, I wonder. I wonder and worry that for it to be possible with her if I wouldn't have to give up everything that is important to me. I mean, just to make this relationship work at all, sometimes I feel I have given up a lot that I would never have compromised on previously. Things like "time." Married people: Is it always like this? I'm starting to think there is a "Time Monster" that finds you once you're involved (or entrenched) in a serious relationship. I picture this monster to look like a cross between the Tazmanian Devil and Woody Allen. Its ears are much larger and very sensitive. It can hear you say things like "I'm free for the day" from miles away. It's eyes are larger as well. I don't keep anything written down in a datebook anymore for fear that the Time Monster's large, bespectacled eyes will be able to see what my plans are so that it can fuck them up. I worry that it can also hear your thoughts and see into your heart. Another reason, incidentally, why I don't write anything down in a datebook anymore is because I would need to write everything in pencil and have ten extra erasers on hand because of how quickly unexpected plans and changes pop up. Honestly folks, I'm more frustrated than a hemorroidal Richard Gere on a gerbil farm. To mutate a John Lenninism, Life is what is "happening" to me while I try, and have just about given up on, making other plans.

Finally, I have horrible heartburn right now. I don't think it's from the Mexican food I ate for lunch.

Something's gotta give. Thanks for letting me vent here, and I apologize for posting such a self-indulgent entry.

And honey, if by chance you read this entry, please don't freak out about me posting the pictures of our crack-den living conditions.