The Apartment Blog

I was two months in my new place before I could finally start unpacking. I didn't even get the chance until a few weeks ago, but by then I couldn't unpack because I had been promised a new apartment to make up for the maintenance issues I've had here.

Then I had the opportunity to actually see the place I was supposed to move into next—and I didn't like it. It's on the 10^th floor instead of the first, so there's a remarkable view of the lake, but the walls were so thin I could hear normal-voiced conversations through them. Hardwood floors meant I had to walk gingerly not to echo to my below neighbors, and I couldn't risk setting my speakers on the floor. It's a little bigger than my place, but the addition of a dining area breaks up the space more than I'd like (senseless since I have no dining table).

And perhaps the biggest turn off? Once my lease is up, I know for a fact that the new place isn't worth an extra $300 a month. The lake just ain't that pretty.

Where I am now, I don't share a wall with anyone—my closet and bathroom are along the laundry/storage room, my living and bedroom share with the lobby/mail room, and the other two walls go directly outside. I've never heard a neighbor, and no matter how loud I've had my stereo or how late at night, I've never been heard (or complained on, anyway). I never have to wait for an elevator; I have lots of air flow and sunlight opportunity since I'm in a corner apartment. And I bought a couple of bad ass barstools to go against my kitchen counter/table thingy. Pictures are coming once I find the cord that connects my camera to my computer. And maybe when I finish cleaning up.

My hole in the wall is finally, blessedly, starting to turn into a home. One of the pitfalls of a vintage building, however, is the lack of plaster walls—they're all concrete after about 1/8 of an inch, so I can't even hang a picture without a drill. Luckily I know someone willing to spot me one. Once my things are hung and I find a spot for all the crap that just doesn't seem to go anywhere else, I'll be settled somewhere I can be glad to come to every night.

All I need is time.

The Job Blog

Back in February I decided to bite the bullet and apply for a permanent position with the media company for which I'm currently temping. It was a little soul-crushing. I've come to enjoy working in an office environment, and found I can even excel in a way I didn't think I could. Being given a project to work on (or manage, as the case may occasionally be) and making sure it's done efficiently and accurately is something I came to appreciate. I went to bed every night with a satisfied sense of pride and accomplishment.

Nonetheless, working for media advertising is a machine I have no interest in perpetuating. I'm given a job to do and I do it very well, thank you, but I have no interest in the field. Indeed, it churns my stomach a little, the thought of trying to make people believe they need to spend money on things they neither need nor want. Yet with other job prospects falling through, I knew I needed a safety.

So a month ago, smiling, I put on my best suit, slicked my hair, and gave to four people one example after another why I'd be a tremendous asset to their company. And I would, too. Several folks I've worked with wrote letters of recommendation to the human resources department singing my praises (one of these was shown to me. I showed it to my parents, who hung it on their refrigerator. I was honored). Though the company never stated it during the process, I had been warned that a requirement for the position was a GPA of at least 2.75. I knew I was shy of that, having been a poor (though not unintelligent) student, but I believed the months I've spent working for this company would overshadow my work ethic of ten years ago. I was wrong.

A form letter of rejection came to my email a week ago (three weeks after the interviews, mind you). Speaking on the condition of anonymity, I was told that it was my GPA of 2.651 that eliminated any hope. I graduated college seven years ago, and have now spent seven months working closely with (and from time to time, saving the asses of) peoples within this company using my intelligence, work ethic and creativity on a daily basis. The man I am shares only a face with the boy I was (that and my taste in music), yet my troubled past follows me even today. Choices I once thought inconsequential have returned to haunt me long, long after I left my college days behind.

I'm not so upset at failing to get this particular job. I'm upset because I have repeatedly proved my worth. I have sacrificed more of myself and the things I hold most dear than I ever have before, all in the hopes of perpetuating my life in a new direction. An adult direction. I went through much pain and loss making certain I was a most worthy asset, and to them I work with directly, this has been witnessed and appreciated. I have been trusted above others to be efficient and accurate. But no matter the sacrifice, no matter the quality, speed, or professionalism I have embodied, a simple litmus test eliminated me with no regard to who I am today.

It is insulting.

I'm over it, though. I didn't want this job to begin with, and now that I've been guaranteed not to get it, I can say so out loud. What I need is a job at all, one that isn't likely to end in the foreseeable future, one that provides me with stability enough to pursue my career goals as an artist. What scares me is that I won't be able to find one, and it'll be because of who I used to be—not who I am.

So for now, I'm still a temp. It has its benefits—overtime pay, my own office with a 28^th floor view of downtown Chicago, the ability to watch TV or listen to music while I work. I'm also still bouncing in Wrigleyville whenever the Cubs are in town, so I have a solid fifty to seventy hours of work each week. My cat gets upset, but at least we have food on our table and a roof over our heads.

I guess the necessities are in place. Now it's time for the spice.

The Turning 30 Blog

"I came up with a new game-show idea recently. It's called The Old Game. You got three old guys with loaded guns onstage. They look back at their lives, see who they were, what they accomplished, how close they came to realizing their dreams. The winner is the one who doesn't blow his brains out. He gets a refrigerator."

--Confessions of a Dangerous Mind

Working at Magic Time Machine I saw thousands of people—no kidding—celebrating their birthdays. Sometimes they were happy to be celebrating; sometimes they seemed to have been dragged by an earlobe and forced to get a little love from friends and family. Of the people who didn't feel like celebrating, sometimes it was because they didn't want the attention (which I can support), and sometimes it was because they were feeling old.

A trend I noticed is that nobody feels more upset about their age than someone in their early 30s. Ten years younger someone may say "I'm getting so OLD!" but without the heart of someone who feels the desperation associated with failed life goals. Ten years older people tend to understand the progress and pitfalls that accompany age, and they're more capable of accepting where they came from and where they're headed.

Many people have an idea where they're headed by their early twenties. They have some idea of what they want to achieve in a career, in a relationship, and many of them seem to think that by the age of 30 these plans will have at least begun to take shape. It is, after all, 50% of their lives away. Why can't they do that much in that amount of time? And if they should happen to fail what they once thought they could do, their view of the world can distort beyond their ability to accept and adapt.

Eventually I came to realize that people in their early 30s are, for the first time, able to see the sheer scope of their time on Earth. For the first time they can clearly remember things that happened 20 years ago. Perhaps they thought themselves adults at age 20, and now 20 year-olds seem like children with no idea of what the "real world" is like.

And now I find myself on the precipice of my 30^th birthday. I always felt rushed in life, like things needed to come to me NOW. 30 is just around the corner, which isn't far from 40, which is really close to 50, the age things should start slowing down, the age you have more days behind you than ahead of you, and if I don't have it by then I never will. But a few years ago someone said something to me that calmed me down immensely. One of my TKD instructors, in the middle of a conversation, randomly asked me my age. I was 26. "That's amazing," he said, "you're exactly one half my age."

I saw the scope of things to come in a new light. Looking forward things had always been just around the corner; but looking back seemed like an eternity. I had time to live my entire life over again—including the first few years I don't even remember, and the years after that spent growing up—before I reached this man's age. And he was by no means at the end of his life, nor was he slowing down. He was vital, he was excited, and he was always trying new things in new ways. I had a new perspective, full of hope.

And my parents reminded me recently that when they were my age, married with three kids and grad school in the past, they still had to work as security guards to make ends meet. Better things are on the way, they said, things I cannot currently imagine. Worse things, too—put simply, my life is going to be much more dynamic than it has ever been, with greater rewards and pitfalls than I've ever experienced. Such is true for us all.

My only regret during my first thirty years is that I learned nothing of how to be an adult before I became one. There are things I want in life so desperately that it wears me down and I weep, secure in the knowledge that I am intelligent and creative enough to have made amazing strides compared with what I actually did. But in my despair, the words and experiences of my parents echo through my mind and calm me. Better things are coming. Just wait.

And to keep me moving ever forward toward what I want, I remain motivated by the simple words of a song.

"You're older than you've ever been, and now you're even older.

And now you're even older.

And now you're even older.

You're older than you've ever been, and now you're even older.

And now you're older still."

--They Might Be Giants

Mundane

My apartment is cold. I thought I was just being a little whiny until I went and bought a thermometer that records the highest and lowest temperatures—I discovered that according to the Municipal Code of Chicago, my place was at least 10 degrees colder than the minimum requirements in the code. My water was about 20-30 degrees colder than the minimums.

I prorated my rent by one day and sent my leasing office letters telling them I’d withhold rent every day the problems were not fixed (allowed by my lease). They insisted there WAS no problem, I was just unhappy. So instead of doing anything to fix what was wrong, they’re giving me a new apartment within the building instead.

It’s 10^th floor with a view of the lake, larger than my place is now, and worth $300 a month more than my place—but they’re not increasing the rent until the lease is up. The day I signed my lease, I found that the building engineer had tried moving into my place before he found out it had been rented to me. I have a suspicion he was relaxed on the service requests until I moved out so he could have the place and THEN fix it, but I have no proof of this. At least I’m getting a better place; and who knows, maybe in a year I can afford and extra $300 for rent.

When I moved up here, I was hoping for a place I could stay for years. Now I’m moving twice in the first seven months. The good news is I’ve been so busy at work I haven’t had time to unpack a single box in the month I’ve lived here, so the move should be easy.

The gig at Harry Caray’s didn’t work out, either. They tried to make me a bouncer instead of a bartender, so I told them it wasn’t worth my time. If I’m bouncing, I may as well stay at Bernie’s. The guy who runs Harry Caray’s told me another place they own, The Gin Mill, may have a spot for me next week. Hopefully I’ll know something soon—having only one job isn’t enough these days.

My arm hurt enough to go to the hospital on Monday. No break, but a possible infection led to a Keflex prescription. They gave me a painkiller prescription as well, but the OTC ibuprofen I’ve been sucking down keeps it quiet. I bounced Friday and Saturday without anything really interesting happening.

There’s more to say, but now isn’t the time to say it. That’s too bad, because it’s REALLY worth saying.

Until later.

Tin Pan Alley (A.K.A. Roughest Place in Town)

I love this town. Some of you know I'll claim to love even the things I hate when I find myself forced to deal with them. It's a defense mechanism. If I don't state that I love it, then I'll actively hate it, and then I'll just be miserable and bring everyone down around me. This isn't the case with Chicago. I actually, genuinely, love it here.

St. Patrick's Day in an Irish town is no joke. I bounced at Bernie's last night—the first time in a few months—and according to my boss, we kicked out more people than any single night in the years he's been there. Most often they were simply drunk, and we're not serving them anymore, so they have to leave.

Three fights broke out, and three times I was involved. The first fight was between customers; one of my fellow bouncers grabbed one of them and threw him towards me, I caught him and threw him out the door. He took care of the other. We thought the matter was settled until they started fighting on the sidewalk, which quickly went into the street. We ran out to separate them, and that was just about that.

The most fun I had all night was the second "incident". Just one hour after the previous fight, my boss threw a guy out who was so drunk he had thrown up in the bathroom sink. I was checking IDs just inside the door, and the bar has another door right next to the main entrance where the guy was trying to sneak back in to rejoin his friends (fun fact: when a person gets thrown out of a bar, his friends always stay to finish their drinks). This second door is exit only; it's always locked, but a push bar lets people out. Twice I caught this guy sticking his foot in the door after someone exited, waiting for his opportunity to sneak back in while I wasn't looking. But I was looking, and I kept a hard stare at him to let him know it.

Before long, the guy got really pissed. He came to my door and threw it open, and seeing him coming I blocked the entrance with my body. He gave me an all-out shove, so I had to wrestle him to keep him out. He grabbed my face, so I twisted around behind him putting myself between him and the outside. For a moment I pinned him against the doorframe while I handed my glasses to our cook, who had been having a drink at the end of his shift—then the fight was on.

I pulled him backwards, but he threw his weight into me, and we fell down hard on to the pavement. He turned to face me, but years of Brazilian Jiu Jitsu training kicked in. It sounds so cliché (like a cheesy spy movie), but it's true. I don't remember exactly what happened next, but within seconds I had him on his back, pinned beneath my weight. I secured his right wrist against the ground, rose up and planted my left knee into his chest, and grabbed his other wrist close to me so he wouldn't have leverage with either arm to take another swing. He made threats to me while the cook kept warning me not to hit him. He was subdued and that was all the situation required, but if I had hit him I could have been fired, arrested, and God knows what else. I held him like that until the cops came, and since it was 10:00 on a Saturday night in Chicago, the day of the big parade and dying the river green, it didn't take very long.

The guy kept a death-stare on me, shaking his head and repeating, "You don't know…" I'm sure the rest of his internal monologue was something like, "…how bad I could kick your ass if I wanted to." Not wanting to antagonize him further, I mentally responded, YOU don't know how many TEETH you would have swallowed if I hadn't been on the clock when you pushed me, mother FUCKER.

Later, customers with a front row view shook my hand and told me the coolest part was when I held him still with one arm while taking my glasses off before I cut loose on the guy. I'm sure Tery would have been proud. (www.academybjj.com/adulthome.html)

I really hope the owner lets me see the security tape.

I hit my elbow pretty bad when we fell, and since then I've been nursing a scrape that won't stop bleeding on top of a knot nearly the size of a baseball (Note, the elbow really sucks for this kind of thing. At least it wasn't my knee). I went and bought a reusable ice pack which is currently helping with the swelling, and plenty of ointment and ibuprofen for the rest.

That wasn't the last fight I was a part of that night, nor was it the funniest—but it was the coolest. I narrowly avoided two others, and finished off the night eating delivered pizza and drinking beer with my friends before heading home.

Tomorrow really IS St. Patrick's Day, and I'm bouncing at Harry Caray's. I wonder if that will be nearly as exciting.

I was going to write about the problems I've been having with my new apartment this past week, and how several angry letters quoting the Municipal Code of Chicago resulted in my getting (so far) $125 off my rent next month. Honestly though, the story I told instead was, I think, far more interesting.

I love this town.

The Dance of the Moving Mountain

While it's a little frustrating living so far away from work now, I know that's not going to last forever. It takes me about an hour to get downtown, and another hour home, but at least it's an hour on the train. I spend it reading the news, or novels, or what-have-you. Not a bad thing, all told.

In any case, in about two weeks I start a new job at the new Harry Caray's in Wrigleyville (woot!) It's across the street from Wrigley Field. From the front door, you can see the statue of Harry Caray himself. This summer is going to earn me so much cash. The Cubs did pretty well last year, and with this the 100^th anniversary of the last time they won the World Series, everyone's going to be paying a lot of attention. I already foresee how worn out I'm likely to be, since I won't be leaving my office job completely.

What's REALLY cool is that working so hard for so many hours let me pay off one of my credit cards this past week. Completely. And I was still able to replace my old, crappy boots and make rent. Ramen noodles taste so much better when I have that one less worry in my life, one less creditor to answer for, one more goal achieved. I'm tired a lot, but I'm so much more relieved day to day. No more stomachaches about whether or not I'm going to make rent. No more headaches over whether or not I can afford to eat.

No more nightmares.

I was also able to afford all kinds of new things for my apartment. It's frustrating having to re-purchase things I used to own (cookware, knives, that kind of thing), but I thought I was going to Russia for a time, and started leaving things behind I figured I wouldn't need again. 'S okay, though, as long as I can actually afford stuff. Hard work pays off and pays well, and the more I get ahead, the faster I get ahead. Finally, I'm making sacrifices and taking care of business like never before.

It wasn't easy making the decisions it took to get me here—but I'm here. I like where I am and where it looks like I'm going.

One step at a time.

---

P.S. If you missed it, I have a new phone number. Write me if you need it again.

Biting the Bullet

I've started looking for a new apartment—haven't done that in a while. Certainly not one just for me. It's strange, I moved so many times within Dallas that I never had to actually see an apartment with my own eyes. Just give me a floor plan and a detailed list of amenities, and I know what to expect. No longer.

In Chicago, being along the El is equivalent to being along a major freeway. I think of the Red Line like I-35, it runs far north and far south of downtown, and (unlike some of the other lines) it runs 24 hours. I'm moving pretty far north compared to downtown, but distance isn't the same here. In Dallas, if you drive for half an hour, you're at least 30 miles away. Here, a 30 minute drive only gets you 10 miles or less, and that's in good traffic. And that's if you're driving. Public transit is slower, but I can't ever make a decision to drive in this town again. The streets are small and crowded, the drivers are rude, and it's constantly stop-and-go. My truck was Hell to drive around here, but I don't really fit in a smaller car. Perhaps a comfy motorcycle one day—must easier to manipulate, much easier to park, and much easier to keep the backseat clean.

Anyway.

So I found a few places I can afford, it's just a matter of being the first person who sees the ad on Craigslist with the time and money. I have seen a few places and gotten a few good ideas of what to expect, though. As long as it's a) affordable, b) big enough, and c) along the Red Line, I'll be happy (the cat, too, can't forget about the cat).

And, I finally went ahead and applied for a permanent position within the media company for whom I've been temping. I don't know if I'll get it, but I'm surprised at how much I want it. The job itself is rewarding, even if it's nothing to do with the rest of my life—but there's a potential for advancement, an actual static salary (makes for easier long-term financial planning), paid vacation, "normal" working hours—basically it's everything I thought I never wanted, all sounding so very, very appealing. I've spent so much time being abnormal and still not getting what I want, maybe a little normality will put me ahead.

It's like Ender changing things up, suddenly telling Dragon Army to use a formation. Sure stirred things, up, got him yet another victory.

Maybe it'll work for me, too.