PaperGirl

This computer is pretty busted.

I have two computers in my life. The computer in my office is not a year old. It's decked out with two monitors and an ergonomic keyboard: both features make my workday both pleasant and productive.

But my laptop, which lives in the apartment, she ain't so purty. This iBook G4 is probably four years old, maybe five. She's a workhorse and I have never had (knock on wood) even one problem with her, except that the battery doesn't hold a charge more than about a 1/2 hour anymore. Airports and cafes always have outlets though, so this doesn't bother me.

But she doesn't look very nice. That crisp Mac white has long since been smudged into a dingy bone. Nearly all the letters have disappeared from the keys and there are visible grooves on the keyboard where my nails have hit, hit, hit, hit, hit, hit its keys over and over again. There's some grit in the cracks. The screen needs a good wipe-down.

I have a meeting tomorrow with a new client and while I'd love to bring in the ol' iBook and show my samples via computer, I don't know if opening up this puppy is really going to say, "We're going to make beautiful music together." When the time comes for a new laptop (which I really hope isn't soon because I have to hire a band and pay for a rehearsal dinner), I'll try to keep it shinier for longer.

No disrespect, though. A whole lot of good has come through this machine. A lot of good and a lot of internet porn.

Just kidding. Is it hot in here?

I Googled it, I cross-referenced it, I came up with nothing.

I was going to compose a detailed post about an extraordinary concept I was introduced to while reading one of the books I've got going. Sadly, there was nothing else to be found on the Interwebs, so I'll just have to quote the book and leave it at that for now.

I'm reading Low Life: Lures and Snares of Old New York by Luc Sante and it's fantastic. I'm learning about the Bowery and how dirty, how disgusting, how glorious it was, especially in the first half of the 19th century. I was reading about the various industries and shops set up in the area and found this:

"The Bowery had its own economics and its own laws. The Sunday closing law, for example, was essentially defunct there as early as 1870, while it was still being enforced in other parts of town for decades afterward. There were also businesses that could hardly be found anywhere else: tattoo parlors, for instance, which flourished around Chatham Square until the 1950s, and black-eye fixers, who were essentially makeup artists, and whose ability to maintain sufficient trade to set themselves up in storefronts, while only occasionally keeping a second line in something more workaday like barbering, is a testament to the continuous violence of the neighborhood."

"Black-eye fixers"!? Someone set up shop as a black-eye fixer and put makeup on the black eyes of customers? And they stayed in business?

I'm speechless. And I'd love to know more, so if anyone knows anything, let me know.

[Walks away, dazed, mumbling, "Black-eye fixers? You can't be serious..."]

...but this is pretty good.

I was looking up something in a home health guide I’ve had on my shelf for a couple years. On my way to find what I was looking for, I came upon an “Am I Having a Heart Attack?” checklist. A checklist!

The directions said: “The more boxes you check, the more likely it is that you are having a heart attack. There may be other explanations for chest pain, but you need to call 911 or other emergency services immediately if you think you could be having a heart attack.”

The checklist offered symptoms such as, “You have pain that lasts longer than 20 minutes and is not relieved by rest or nitroglycerin,” and “In addition to chest pain you have a sense of doom,” and “unusual weakness.”

I picture a man, mid-heart attack, selecting this book of the shelf, flipping to the chapter on heart attacks, and then going through this checklist, feebly marking off the symptoms he’s having -- this is all after he took a nap and after he tried the nitroglycerin he had in the back of the medicine cabinet.

I picture him getting to the “sense of doom” part and thinking, “Actually, feel pretty positive, considering.” And then I think about him getting to the “unusual weakness” part and thinking, “God. They’re right. I am usually weak. I'm a weakling. But I do in fact feel more weak at this moment. I guess I'm having a heart attack.”

Poor guy.

This might all be amusing to me because I don’t have much experience with people who have had heart attacks. The sections on head trauma, third-degree burns, strokes, and asthma weren’t funny at all.

I was just telling a crowd of people that I don't eat ice cream.

It's a play in the show right now that I wrote about never eating ice cream. I make a sundae for a couple of the guys and then I tell them how I don't touch the stuff.

Then I went and bought D.W. a pint of Hagen Daaz "Fleur de sel Caramel" ice cream and I did something very bad. I ate giant spoonfuls of it. This was a mistake. Not only do I avoid ice cream because it does nothing for my figure, I avoid it because I avoid all dairy like the plague. It ain't no damned good for me and I've had frightening proof of this. I can manage some cheeses, but for the most part, I'm a non-dairy whip.

But there is Lactaid. And there happened to be some in the medicine chest last night. So I popped like six of the little tabs and asked D.W. (who after two bites was quickly sinking into some sort of opium den-like stupor) if I could "try it."

I am ill today. It could be a cold, but I have a strong suspicion that I basically poisoned myself on lactose last night. Immediately after eating half the container (that ice cream was forged by the Gods themselves, I'm telling you), I got a nasty sore throat. Then, I felt woozy. This morning, I woke up with all the symptoms of a bear of a head cold, but I don't buy it. I felt 100% before Fleur de sel Caramel-gate.

There is a price to pay. There is always a price. It's not usually $4.99, but that's where it started for me.

Watch yourself out there.

The Trump International Hotel & Tower downtown is nearing completion.

"Are you sure you want to live in a house?" D.W. asked me. "I know you've had your heart set on a house, but the Trump building condos are pretty incredible."

I shook my head. "No way. I want an upstairs and a downstairs and a yard. I want a porch." My Iowa farmhouse roots coupled with the apartment hopping I've been doing for the past 10 years have crystallized my house dreams. I've wanted a house for a long time. I am tired of living in a box. I want to live in a triangle.

A few minutes later, D.W. read aloud the list of amenities residents of the Tower enjoy. "Wow. Twenty-five foot long heated pool. State-of-the-art gym. Terraces. Dry-cleaning. Concierge. Full spa."

I continued to frown and eat my rice, but I was listening.

"You could get used to an on-site cleaners, I bet," said D.W. He was rolling his mouse over the site, looking at the photos they had posted of the various views from the upper floors. He whistled. "Look at this view."

I got up and looked. The view was jaw-dropping. I narrowed my eyes. "So I could, like, take the elevator to Floor 2 and get a pedicure and then just go back to bed?"

"Yeah," said D.W.

"And then I could go swimming and use those fluffy towels they have in hotels and then call downstairs for a cab and then walk to that cafe on Superior with the eggs Benedict and then walk home and see that out the window?"

"Yep."

And I was nearly convinced, but then I remembered that I had gotten the quote from the florist yesterday and that the quote had made me very pale indeed. There's no money for a house just yet, and there's certainly no money for a penthouse in The Donald's new business venture. There's going to be money for artichokes and waxflowers, but even that will take a little doing.

Still, waxflowers would look lovely on the 87th floor.

At the risk of sounding like...

Oh, blast. I don't care what it sounds like: I wish I were in Paris.

For some reason, all week I've been thinking of Paris and wishing I was there. Maybe it's the season change. For the past three years, my mother and I have taken a trip to Provence in the spring. This year we won't be going, due to scheduling differences. I will sorely miss the trip.

Last year, I spent 5 days in Paris pretty much on my own at the end of mom's and my Provencal journey. It was all diligently blogged about, so if you check my archives you can see what I was up to. I want to be there now and if I were there, this is exactly what I would do:

1. Wake up. Dress especially for Paris. This means putting on a boob shirt, great jeans, heels, and wrapping a large, printed scarf around my neck. I would also grab the best handbag I've got, which is a really good one. Sunglasses, too.

2. Acquire espresso and almond croissant.

3. Walk. Anywhere. Everywhere. The weather here in Chicago reminds me a little of a day I had last year in Paris. It's overcast and just a little wet, so that means long stretches of walking must be tempered with sit-downs in at least two brasseries.

4. Go to Mariage Freres on Rue Bourg Tibourg and have that lovely man help me buy a new tin of the best tea in the known world. I'm all out.

5. Sit quietly on a bench. I never do this. I'm always reading, writing, talking, running around, typing, tapping, clicking. I was actually able to sit still for once, one day in Paris. I happened to be in the Champs Elysees Plaza, so it was easy to simmer down -- to anyone wishing for stillness, I recommend being dwarfed by centuries-old French sculpture and architecture.

5. Enjoy long dinner at a cafe that I will never remember the name of but whose duck dish will make an indelible mark on my very soul.

Look, I know Paris isn't all twinkly lights and demitasse saucers and expanses of green. Except that it is. That's exactly what it is. It may be a center of commerce and a major city with its share of crime and punishment, but mostly it's just achingly beautiful. It was for me the couple times I've been there, at least.

At the end of the day, I'd fall asleep and in the morning, I'd wake up feeling fresh and firm because of all the walking. I haven't mentioned that D.W. would be there through all this, of course. Last year I was solo, but I'd love to have the fella with me this time. We could frolic in Paris, which is a very good place to frolic.

In closing, I quote Joni Mitchell, who has had all these thoughts before and articulated them far better, far more succinctly than I have today. No, I'm not going to quote the popular "Free Man In Paris." I'm thinking of that chain-smoking Francophile's less-played, exquisite, "In France They Kiss On Main Street"...

..."Young love was kissing under bridges/Kissing in cars, kissing in cafes/And we were walking down Main Street/Kisses like bright flags hung on holidays/In France they kiss on Main Street/Amour, mama/Not cheap displays/And we were rolling, rolling, rock n' rolling..."

Madonna's new album is great.

I love it, even though my first listen-through wasn't all I wanted it to be. I had to remind myself that like a fine wine, Madonna's albums change over time and depend largely on the pairing. Figs, cheese, ennui, sunshine, etc. can all influence the taste and timbre of the music.

Yes, I used the words "timbre" and "figs" in relation to a Madonna album. I'm a fan, okay?

"Hard Candy" is really good. I'm having a love affair with at least 80% of the album and that's just about right. I have never liked 100% of any Madonna album (except for "Confessions On a Dancefloor," actually) so I'm happy with 80%.

Go get 'em, Madge. I'm boogey-ing in my underwear tonight.

With all the talk I do about doing theatre, a person might get the impression that I am an actor and that I do theatre.

I'm not really, though, and I don't.

That is to say I'm not doing Shakespeare in the park or printing off another 1,000 headshots. I'm not doing student film projects or auditioning for regional productions. I'm certainly not making lots of money doing commercials on TV or landing epic roles in controversial plays with the next hot company. These are the kinds of things a person does when a person is an actor. They are all admirable activities. They all involve hard work. But it's not the kind of work I want to do.

I figured this out pretty much as soon as I arrived in Chicago, which was too bad considering that I had a shiny new B.A. in Theatre Arts under my belt. Though it took casting (ha ha) about for a little while, working in nightclubs and restaurants, I figured out soon enough that I was much more of a writer with performance chops than I was an actor with a screenplay dream. I hope that makes sense.

Now, the theatre work I've done in Chicago has been absolutely integral to my development as a writer, artist, and person. I value every experience immensely. Some productions/projects have been better than others (the show where I met my fiance = awesome; the show with the worst script ever on the planet = not awesome) but they've all been educational and therefore rewarding.

So I'm not an actor, but I am in a show right now, even though it's different with the Neo-Futurists. And I'm not an actor, but I am going to Maine this summer for about a month to do a production with a mentor of mine who is now a professor at Bowdoin.

It's a peripheral, beloved part of me -- something to explore in between the lines.