It is important to make nice with new neighbors, or too much time will pass and it will become so awkward to finally speak to them, that you never will.
Keeping that in mind, I have made a point to meet all of my new neighbors. One of these new neighbors is a man named Ron. Ron lives in one of the apartments flanking ours. When I met him entering his apartment one evening, he was wearing an old Harley sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off, a dirty ball cap, a salt and pepper two-day beard, jean shorts and flip flops. His arms were blanketed in decades-old cliche' hard-ass tattoos: Harley Davidson, tribal band, Superman emblem, and I'm pretty sure there were some flames in there.
We exchanged a few words and a handshake. He expressed his disbelief that the former tenant of my apartment had already moved out. We parted amicably, but he said I probably wouldn't see a lot of him, as he leaves for work early.
The next evening, while enjoying another lovely dinner with my fiance', we heard it.
Music poured out of his apartment and leaked into ours. I wasn't sure what it was at first- it was definitely a female singer and she was singing with some soul. The song repeated...and repeated...
It wasn't until we left to take a walk, and were in the hallway that Jessica could ascertain exactly whose pipes we were hearing- Cher.
For the next week, everyday when Ron got home from work, I would hear him play Cher. I Google searched some of the lyrics to conclude that Ron is in love with the song "You Haven't Seen the Last of Me" from the musical Burlesque. He comes home from work between 4:00-4:30pm, and plays the song between two and three times. I like to believe that this song is a part of some strange post-workday routine that Ron has. I imagine this involves some naked yoga, in an attempt at auto-fellatio and White Zinfandel. Whatever the case, I'm sure it leaves him very fulfilled.
Since I discovered what song he is always playing, I too blast Cher as soon as I hear her sultry voice echoing from Ron's domain. I don't know what he thinks of this, but the last time I did it he stopped her halfway through her second performance. Progress.
Now, please enjoy my neighbor Ron's favorite song in the wide world:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YOOYYyJ9C18
8.29.2011
8.24.2011
Chicago Drama
Walking down Montrose on my way home from a haircut, I witnessed a spectacle about thirty yards ahead of me...
What I saw was an Asian man (I like to guess, and would say Filipino) wearing a tank-top and jean shorts, smashing a cell-phone on the sidewalk. Then an Asian woman (probably also Filipino) thrashing him in the face with her keys while yelling at him (probably also in Filipino).
Alarmed, I looked up and down the street as if I would find a helpful policeman standing on a corner complete with copper buttons, whistle-in-mouth, gently patting his palm with a billy club. Finding none, I momentarily considered stepping in. Luckily, I came to an important realization: If I stepped in now, I would have to step in every time something like this happened, which in Chicago means I would risk having my face lacerated with keys everyday. My next thought was, "Where is that fuckin' guy with the cap, mask and binoculars I saw at the El stop on Friday? He should be here." [These vigilante-type "heroes" are now in pretty much every major U.S. city. If you don't have at least one, you ain't shit. I'm looking at you Aurora].
The couple continued down the street, with the man following behind the woman. She would periodically turn around and get in his face again, and one time he almost got hit by a biker trying to avoid her gaze.
For the rest of the walk home, I mentally compiled a list of possible scenarios causing the spectacle:
A.) A heated argument regarding whose wireless provider is in fact the most superior came to fruition with the man smashing the woman's Verizon-serviced phone. She then deservedly thrashes him while screaming (translated) "Verizon is the mother-fucking network you piece of shit!". [Obviously the most likely scenario]
B.) A heated argument erupts over the man's speculation that the woman has been cheating while playing Words With Friends. This friendship was over, in so many words.
C.) The man read his girlfriend's text messages, and gets seriously pissed off about some from an anonymous male suitor. He accuses her of cheating, and trashes her phone. She reacts not in response to the accusations, but to her phone being destroyed.
D.) [Insert you own ridiculous story]
Welcome to Chicago.
What I saw was an Asian man (I like to guess, and would say Filipino) wearing a tank-top and jean shorts, smashing a cell-phone on the sidewalk. Then an Asian woman (probably also Filipino) thrashing him in the face with her keys while yelling at him (probably also in Filipino).
Alarmed, I looked up and down the street as if I would find a helpful policeman standing on a corner complete with copper buttons, whistle-in-mouth, gently patting his palm with a billy club. Finding none, I momentarily considered stepping in. Luckily, I came to an important realization: If I stepped in now, I would have to step in every time something like this happened, which in Chicago means I would risk having my face lacerated with keys everyday. My next thought was, "Where is that fuckin' guy with the cap, mask and binoculars I saw at the El stop on Friday? He should be here." [These vigilante-type "heroes" are now in pretty much every major U.S. city. If you don't have at least one, you ain't shit. I'm looking at you Aurora].
The couple continued down the street, with the man following behind the woman. She would periodically turn around and get in his face again, and one time he almost got hit by a biker trying to avoid her gaze.
For the rest of the walk home, I mentally compiled a list of possible scenarios causing the spectacle:
A.) A heated argument regarding whose wireless provider is in fact the most superior came to fruition with the man smashing the woman's Verizon-serviced phone. She then deservedly thrashes him while screaming (translated) "Verizon is the mother-fucking network you piece of shit!". [Obviously the most likely scenario]
B.) A heated argument erupts over the man's speculation that the woman has been cheating while playing Words With Friends. This friendship was over, in so many words.
C.) The man read his girlfriend's text messages, and gets seriously pissed off about some from an anonymous male suitor. He accuses her of cheating, and trashes her phone. She reacts not in response to the accusations, but to her phone being destroyed.
D.) [Insert you own ridiculous story]
Welcome to Chicago.
8.19.2011
My Friend Michael T.
It has been a difficult year for the friends and neighbors on Lakeside Dr. In July of last year we had to deal with the passing of Thomas Angarola, father to my friend Jonathan and his brothers Jeremy, Jacob and James Angarola.Less than thirteen months later, we are again drowning in tragedy. Michael John Terlicher, mine and Jonathan's childhood best friend died due to complications with his medication on Tuesday, August 16th.
Mike had recently moved back home, next door to my family, only a few weeks before I moved to Chicago. He had just gotten out of a long relationship, and had spent years dealing with bouts of depression. In the weeks we lived next door to each other again, we caught up plenty and enjoyed being able to have casual conversations without so much distance between us. Mike attended my last big party, and like the other guests thumbed through old photos I was giving away, played bocce and simply enjoyed himself. At some point in the evening he disappeared. This wasn't uncommon behavior for Mike, being so close all our lives he would frequently go home to grab a slice of pizza, a Pepsi, or relieve himself. He usually came back, but this night he did not. There was not much thought given to his leaving without saying good-bye, and I was sure I would see him again when I visited my parents in a few weeks.
I moved next-door to Michael when I was 3 years old, shortly after he had celebrated his fourth birthday. The first time I remember meeting Mike was in the fall. It was in the afternoon, and the sun was glowing orange in the sky the way it does shortly before it goes to bed this time of year. I was hanging from the only tree branch I was able to reach, on a tree near his property. Mike came outside and we climbed together, trying to reach the elusive second branch. When his mother Karen called his name the way she would for the next dozen years, he said he had to go eat dinner. He told me his phone number: 837-8418, and asked me mine. I told him to wait there as I ran into the house to the kitchen and asked my mom what our phone number was- I learned Mike's phone number before I even knew my own- I stood on the balcony as the sun was setting and yelled down the digits as my mother recited them to me 8...3...7 (just like Mike!) 5...9...7....7.
What followed was an entire childhood of impossibly close friendship. Mike was in fact my only friend until Mike's fifth birthday party. It was in the Terlicher backyard, with a clown and everything. One of the blond boys across the street, and brother to another close childhood friend Jacob, was there. I don't know how it happened, but Jonathan and I ended up getting into a fight in the backyard that day in early June. Afterword, the three of us decided to become best friends. Naturally.
The years of our childhood and adolescence were filled with sharing almost every new experience together. Catching fish, building forts, going on vacations with eachother's families, chasing girls, enjoying nudity on HBO, smoking our first cigarette, starting our first fire and drinking our first beer. Following all of that it should be of no surprise that we eventually got arrested together. We of course got into fights along the way. As young boys will do, we were always competitive, and often petty. There was nothing the three of us didn't share, though of course that would eventually change, as we went to different colleges, and made different friends.
I was in a job interview downtown when Michael was struggling for his last breath. When I got the call from first Jonathan, and then my mom, I was dumbfounded. I finished walking the last block home to my fiance, and opened the door in tears. I felt everything and nothing all at the same time. Every conversation and memory that we had together overwhelmed my soul.
I never got to say goodbye to him- not from the party, or this world. His passing is now a milestone reminder that now, at 25 my childhood is over.
To the family of Micheal John Terlicher, my thoughts and prayers are with you all forever.
To my friends and family, I love you all so much, and need to tell you that more and more.
"Sammy, next year I'm going to leave you and go to middleschool. And two years later I'll leave you again, and then four years later I'll leave you again. I'll always be one year ahead of you, and always have to leave you."
-Micheal Terlicher
Mike had recently moved back home, next door to my family, only a few weeks before I moved to Chicago. He had just gotten out of a long relationship, and had spent years dealing with bouts of depression. In the weeks we lived next door to each other again, we caught up plenty and enjoyed being able to have casual conversations without so much distance between us. Mike attended my last big party, and like the other guests thumbed through old photos I was giving away, played bocce and simply enjoyed himself. At some point in the evening he disappeared. This wasn't uncommon behavior for Mike, being so close all our lives he would frequently go home to grab a slice of pizza, a Pepsi, or relieve himself. He usually came back, but this night he did not. There was not much thought given to his leaving without saying good-bye, and I was sure I would see him again when I visited my parents in a few weeks.
I moved next-door to Michael when I was 3 years old, shortly after he had celebrated his fourth birthday. The first time I remember meeting Mike was in the fall. It was in the afternoon, and the sun was glowing orange in the sky the way it does shortly before it goes to bed this time of year. I was hanging from the only tree branch I was able to reach, on a tree near his property. Mike came outside and we climbed together, trying to reach the elusive second branch. When his mother Karen called his name the way she would for the next dozen years, he said he had to go eat dinner. He told me his phone number: 837-8418, and asked me mine. I told him to wait there as I ran into the house to the kitchen and asked my mom what our phone number was- I learned Mike's phone number before I even knew my own- I stood on the balcony as the sun was setting and yelled down the digits as my mother recited them to me 8...3...7 (just like Mike!) 5...9...7....7.
What followed was an entire childhood of impossibly close friendship. Mike was in fact my only friend until Mike's fifth birthday party. It was in the Terlicher backyard, with a clown and everything. One of the blond boys across the street, and brother to another close childhood friend Jacob, was there. I don't know how it happened, but Jonathan and I ended up getting into a fight in the backyard that day in early June. Afterword, the three of us decided to become best friends. Naturally.
The years of our childhood and adolescence were filled with sharing almost every new experience together. Catching fish, building forts, going on vacations with eachother's families, chasing girls, enjoying nudity on HBO, smoking our first cigarette, starting our first fire and drinking our first beer. Following all of that it should be of no surprise that we eventually got arrested together. We of course got into fights along the way. As young boys will do, we were always competitive, and often petty. There was nothing the three of us didn't share, though of course that would eventually change, as we went to different colleges, and made different friends.
I was in a job interview downtown when Michael was struggling for his last breath. When I got the call from first Jonathan, and then my mom, I was dumbfounded. I finished walking the last block home to my fiance, and opened the door in tears. I felt everything and nothing all at the same time. Every conversation and memory that we had together overwhelmed my soul.
I never got to say goodbye to him- not from the party, or this world. His passing is now a milestone reminder that now, at 25 my childhood is over.
To the family of Micheal John Terlicher, my thoughts and prayers are with you all forever.
To my friends and family, I love you all so much, and need to tell you that more and more.
"Sammy, next year I'm going to leave you and go to middleschool. And two years later I'll leave you again, and then four years later I'll leave you again. I'll always be one year ahead of you, and always have to leave you."
-Micheal Terlicher
8.15.2011
The Urban House-Man on Strike
By now you're familiar with the normal routine of the Urban House-Man. Let's take a look at a day of the UHM on strike...
After the alarm goes off at 6:00AM, take advantage of her sleepy state and convince her to let the both of you sleep in until 7, skipping the workout.
Make breakfast consisting of back bacon and frosted cherry Jewel brand "Toaster Pastries".
Avoid walking her to the bus stop by complaining about your low arches hurting.
Once alone, briefly consider taking out the garbage, then rejecting the idea in favor of going back to bed.
Wake up again at 10:20AM
Spend 70 minutes Watching a satellite being repaired, live on the NASA channel (NASA has a channel!?)
Restrain yourself from opening a bottle of wine at 11:00AM.
Open and smell each and every one of her lotions, shampoos, conditioners, balms, soaps, and anything that reads "eau de toilette" on the bottle.
Open a bottle of wine at 11:25AM.
Eat one bag of marshmallows, one box of Reduced Fat Cheez-Itz, and three of her "special" yogurts.
Drink four Vitamin Waters, one of each flavor you have, saving Revive for last.
Watch the same SportsCenter, over and over, finally quoting most of the program.
Scour Facebook for cleavage pictures, even though a universe of naked pictures and video is at your fingertips.
Sit down to play Angry Birds, trying to get three stars in each level, all of which you've already beaten (You realize why this is especially pathetic don't you? Most people play games on their phones in waiting rooms and on buses, but I'm sitting down in my comfy chair for a home-court session)
Take a bubble bath in your jacuzzi tub, using "Almost ALL of the dish soap". (I don't know why the bathtub in our small apartment is a jacuzzi tub, but I haven't written to complain about it yet)
Have a nice long B.M. :)
Make a trip out back to recycle empty bottle of wine, so as to discard to evidence.
Re-heat leftovers, and leave them in the microwave. Forget that they are there for four hours. She comes home to find them, now cold. Tell her you were stricken with diarrhea all day, and only now had the confidence to leave the bathroom to make dinner, but just managed to put some leftovers in the microwave when she walked in. She then feels sorry for you, and heats up your dinner.
Silently applaud yourself for having gotten away with an utterly worthless day, and for fabricating such a great story about dinner.
Go to bed "knowing" that this day won't be held over your head for the rest of your life.
After the alarm goes off at 6:00AM, take advantage of her sleepy state and convince her to let the both of you sleep in until 7, skipping the workout.
Make breakfast consisting of back bacon and frosted cherry Jewel brand "Toaster Pastries".
Avoid walking her to the bus stop by complaining about your low arches hurting.
Once alone, briefly consider taking out the garbage, then rejecting the idea in favor of going back to bed.
Wake up again at 10:20AM
Spend 70 minutes Watching a satellite being repaired, live on the NASA channel (NASA has a channel!?)
Restrain yourself from opening a bottle of wine at 11:00AM.
Open and smell each and every one of her lotions, shampoos, conditioners, balms, soaps, and anything that reads "eau de toilette" on the bottle.
Open a bottle of wine at 11:25AM.
Eat one bag of marshmallows, one box of Reduced Fat Cheez-Itz, and three of her "special" yogurts.
Drink four Vitamin Waters, one of each flavor you have, saving Revive for last.
Watch the same SportsCenter, over and over, finally quoting most of the program.
Scour Facebook for cleavage pictures, even though a universe of naked pictures and video is at your fingertips.
Sit down to play Angry Birds, trying to get three stars in each level, all of which you've already beaten (You realize why this is especially pathetic don't you? Most people play games on their phones in waiting rooms and on buses, but I'm sitting down in my comfy chair for a home-court session)
Take a bubble bath in your jacuzzi tub, using "Almost ALL of the dish soap". (I don't know why the bathtub in our small apartment is a jacuzzi tub, but I haven't written to complain about it yet)
Have a nice long B.M. :)
Make a trip out back to recycle empty bottle of wine, so as to discard to evidence.
Re-heat leftovers, and leave them in the microwave. Forget that they are there for four hours. She comes home to find them, now cold. Tell her you were stricken with diarrhea all day, and only now had the confidence to leave the bathroom to make dinner, but just managed to put some leftovers in the microwave when she walked in. She then feels sorry for you, and heats up your dinner.
Silently applaud yourself for having gotten away with an utterly worthless day, and for fabricating such a great story about dinner.
Go to bed "knowing" that this day won't be held over your head for the rest of your life.
8.09.2011
The Urban House-Man
I have a new respect for stay-at-home anyone. Since Jessica and I moved to the Windy City, she has been closer to work, and I have been without it. Until I begin working, my role in this household is clear- I am the House-Man. The following is a glimpse into this life.
One thing that is certain, is the days are not all filled with watching ESPN shirtless, eating french onion dip with a spoon. No, before the House-Man can relax, there are chores to be done.
We start the day at 6:00A Fuckin' M, with 30 minutes of exercise in the fitness room down the hall from our apartment. It is important to use this time efficiently, as it is all the time you will have to exercise and it is your duty to stay in decent shape for the pleasure of your bread-winning lover.
Following your workout together, it is time to make breakfast while she showers her beautiful naked body. Eggs how she likes them, fruit-of-the-day, and some sort of toasted bread. This is all washed down with freshly-squeezed OJ and either tea or coffee. Only after breakfast is ready are you allowed to shower, but rapidly, as your next responsibility is to walk her to the bus stop to keep her company before seeing her on the bus and waving vigorously as it departs. You might even have to run back to the apartment to retrieve the engagement ring she took of while showering, only to arrive back at the bus stop just in time to watch the bus pulling away while you hold the ring stretched out running, ultimately looking like a fool who not only planned to propose to someone at a Chicago bus stop, but did so wearing flip-flops and an ACDC shirt... and failed.
Once alone in the apartment, you have to resist two urges: Going back to bed, and vigorously masturbating (a rare treat). It is time instead to begin you list of household chores. Here is an example of one such list...
Swiffer Wet-Jet the floor (Whatever that is)
Put together her shoe rack
Windex what seems like every surface in the apartment ("Just because you can still see your reflection, doesn't mean it's clean")
Water, and therefore keep alive, the plant her ex-boyfriend bought her while she was in the hospital years ago
Do laundry (But not the delicates- don't expect to be trusted with those for years)
Do the dishes (Constantly)
Drink 7-8 cups of coffee
Look for a job you fucking bum
Get a haircut you fucking hippy
Clean the stove
Clean the vents
Organize the medicine cabinet in a way that allows her enough space
Walk to local Jewel wheeling your Go-Green personal shopping cart and buy necessary items for evening meal
Make evening meal
You should clean up both yourself and the apartment before she arrives home, as you want to look your best for her. She has had a long, stressful day and deserves to come home to a cocktail and a smile, without any added distractions like dust on the picture frames. Do not bore her with a lengthy explanation of your day, but instead invite her to tell you about hers, and do your best to appear engrossed in the mundane.
Now, you expect her home anytime between 5:30 and 6:30pm, so this makes timing of the dinner incredibly difficult. Whatever the case, if she is later than expected and her dinner is cold, she has every right to beat you with a scalding hot Microwaveable Bed Buddy, and you should expect no mercy.
You will have no time to nurse your burn/bruised skin however, because next comes her back rub and evening banter. Again, let her guide the conversation, and don't forget to work those knots between her third and fourth vertebrae.
After brushing her hair three-hundred times, the day is finally done, and you can "rest" in bed before sweet, sweet slumber. Your dreams will be that of finding a job and escaping this toil. They will however be only dreams. After all, you're just a House-Man.
One thing that is certain, is the days are not all filled with watching ESPN shirtless, eating french onion dip with a spoon. No, before the House-Man can relax, there are chores to be done.
We start the day at 6:00A Fuckin' M, with 30 minutes of exercise in the fitness room down the hall from our apartment. It is important to use this time efficiently, as it is all the time you will have to exercise and it is your duty to stay in decent shape for the pleasure of your bread-winning lover.
Following your workout together, it is time to make breakfast while she showers her beautiful naked body. Eggs how she likes them, fruit-of-the-day, and some sort of toasted bread. This is all washed down with freshly-squeezed OJ and either tea or coffee. Only after breakfast is ready are you allowed to shower, but rapidly, as your next responsibility is to walk her to the bus stop to keep her company before seeing her on the bus and waving vigorously as it departs. You might even have to run back to the apartment to retrieve the engagement ring she took of while showering, only to arrive back at the bus stop just in time to watch the bus pulling away while you hold the ring stretched out running, ultimately looking like a fool who not only planned to propose to someone at a Chicago bus stop, but did so wearing flip-flops and an ACDC shirt... and failed.
Once alone in the apartment, you have to resist two urges: Going back to bed, and vigorously masturbating (a rare treat). It is time instead to begin you list of household chores. Here is an example of one such list...
Swiffer Wet-Jet the floor (Whatever that is)
Put together her shoe rack
Windex what seems like every surface in the apartment ("Just because you can still see your reflection, doesn't mean it's clean")
Water, and therefore keep alive, the plant her ex-boyfriend bought her while she was in the hospital years ago
Do laundry (But not the delicates- don't expect to be trusted with those for years)
Do the dishes (Constantly)
Drink 7-8 cups of coffee
Look for a job you fucking bum
Get a haircut you fucking hippy
Clean the stove
Clean the vents
Organize the medicine cabinet in a way that allows her enough space
Walk to local Jewel wheeling your Go-Green personal shopping cart and buy necessary items for evening meal
Make evening meal
You should clean up both yourself and the apartment before she arrives home, as you want to look your best for her. She has had a long, stressful day and deserves to come home to a cocktail and a smile, without any added distractions like dust on the picture frames. Do not bore her with a lengthy explanation of your day, but instead invite her to tell you about hers, and do your best to appear engrossed in the mundane.
Now, you expect her home anytime between 5:30 and 6:30pm, so this makes timing of the dinner incredibly difficult. Whatever the case, if she is later than expected and her dinner is cold, she has every right to beat you with a scalding hot Microwaveable Bed Buddy, and you should expect no mercy.
You will have no time to nurse your burn/bruised skin however, because next comes her back rub and evening banter. Again, let her guide the conversation, and don't forget to work those knots between her third and fourth vertebrae.
After brushing her hair three-hundred times, the day is finally done, and you can "rest" in bed before sweet, sweet slumber. Your dreams will be that of finding a job and escaping this toil. They will however be only dreams. After all, you're just a House-Man.
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