Friday, September 23, 2011

Glissade

The first bit of my first draft of a short story:


It was not yet dusk but the light from the sun ran down the city blocks, away from the Great lake, as though it was looking for somewhere happier to dwell. At seven o’clock, I fled my dormant Uptown penthouse for the riveting South Side, grabbing a gray suit jacket off of the hook in the hallway to combat the Chicago wind; autumn had set in prematurely this year. It was Friday night and I had no curfew.
My old weekend standby was Millie Ette ’s jazz room, The Zanzibar, on the corner of State and Ohio. Tonight promised to be particularly crowded with locals and tourists alike, as King Oliver was purportedly making his way in at ten o’clock. I walked a few blocks obliviously before noticing the unusual stillness of air. No wind was whipping and summer kept its grasp on the porch railings longer than I could remember from previous years. As I looked around the city, sparkles of golden light pranced around from street corner to store front. Young women flouncing excitedly held hands, crossing streets in groups of four or five and made their way to clubs with newfound freedom and mirth. Several families with drooping children lingered on the sidewalks, the oldest sibling sometimes held the leash of a household dog.  The school week had tired the children whom had been eager to learn Pythagoras’ theorem and the capital of Poland. They were nearing home and would be promptly put to bed, tucked in as their parents went off to sip red wine at the coffee table.
Everywhere businessmen stumbled back home from the bar to change clothes and eat dinner with waiting wives greeting them with rouge lipstick and a roast turkey. They too would soon be headed off to The Zanzibar in hopes of locking eyes with the wild jazz King.
            I approached South Side through a portal seemingly comprised of silvery cloth, vast pearls, and rubies and emeralds. My mother would have fainted at the sight of beautiful, daring women spanning the streets who were far from modest and had men around them smirking. Outside of the Zanzibar, waiting in line, I am pushed off of the concrete sidewalk curb by a dark, bulky man with an entourage and an Italian leather briefcase.
“This here the club,” the bulky man pointing, said in a heavy accent to the dark man behind him, “tell the…Ms. Eberly that she gotta act good tonight, or else Sacristi’s gonna be real mad.”
What kind of actor was Ms. Eberly and why did her good standing with Sacristi depend on her job performance? I finally had come to the entrance of the club: a thick, solid cherry wood door.
“’Evening, Mr. Thompson. I apologize for the wait tonight, as you know, the jazz king is coming here! Please follow me to your suite, right this way.” The bowtied doorman extended his arm toward me.
Inside, a few sultry horns were playing low notes on a corner stage and gorgeous women were dancing below it. Four of them in black tasseled fringe dresses moved their strong, rounded hips to the smoky sounds. Flanking them was a fifth, a lone dancer in the front, perhaps the most sensuous woman I had encountered. Golden wavy locks flowed beyond her graceful shoulder blades, flaunted by the emerald green bodice of her flowing gown. 


Saturday, September 10, 2011

United We Stand

The nation is in a state of reverence and remembrance as we commemorate the 10th anniversary of the 9/11 terrorist attacks. As I reflect on the things that are going on around me, I see the spirit of American in everyone. At one of the largest party schools in the country and amongst a generation sadly known for their selfishness and "me" attitude, I see a body of young citizens who care more about their world than some might think. Walking past a huge on-campus fraternity house, the one where raging parties are thrown and beer is consumed by the gallon, I stop to see a huge, white banner across the front facade. United We Stand. A small tribute, surely, yet it says something quite profound. Pray for peace and comfort for all those affected and let us remember those who lost their lives that day. God Bless America.

Tuesday, September 6, 2011

le Drug Rug

This is a drug rug. ^
The Effects Of A Drug Rug
(a psychological interrogation of the mind, by B. N. Truscott)

      It starts with a notion: I think I'll try on one of those popular(ish), hippie subculture hoodies that we see on Mexicans and pot heads. As I ponder the reactions I'll get from family and (not quite) highschool-caliber-stereotypes from my college friends, I further question the underlying effects of wearing the so-called drug rug. Will I be judged? Will my alliances change? Will professors think lowly of me simply for my outfit, a drastic change from my bland, simple, and classically modest wardrobe?

      Just what DOES happen to the psyche when you slip one on? Here are a few real life answers from friends that were asked this very question.

-If they wear it in the rain, they'll become a wet dog
-They scream to the world 'I'm a stoner'
-Itchiness depends on rug quality
-Instantaneous idealism in the category of physical and emotional relaxation 
-What's a drug rug? (4 different people)
-It makes you feel like a hippie
-They're fucking weird to wear that ugly thing
-They think that it's okay to smoke pot
-Interesting question.. 
-I will wear mine tomorrow and share my findings with you :)
-They get stereotyped
-You look like a druggie
-No effects, people just wear them because they are comfortable
-I might be smart, but I'm not street smart...what's a drug rug?
-It will make you feel tainted and separated from society emotionally because of the negative stigma placed on them. It would probably have adverse effects on your self-esteem and happiness as well. Also, the colors and patterns on some of the ones that I googled seemed like they would make you feel tripped out by just looking at them.



Various participants didn't know what I was talking about when I asked the question, so I had to describe what a drug rug was...after my clarification, one friend asserted her understanding: Oh! So a drugged hemp poncho thing?...yes, exactly. But apparently this person wasn't completely sure she knew what a drug rug really was....her answer to my question was this: Well, drug residue could be left on seats, exposing others to this drug. It could be given to animals. The persons kidneys/liver could fail due to constant exposure to this drug, which would not allow either organ to have enough time to process the drug. God bless her. To her response, I gave back a quick thank you and she replied: Anytime! Or if someone took it off because they were hot, they could leave it somewhere by accident. Or die of heatstroke because they were too hot and couldn't take it off.

An old friend of mine asks if I'm talking about a person who always wears one, or someone who slips one on randomly. We're going to go with randomly. What happens when someone who has never worn one in their life slips on a baja hoodie?

I feel that this response merits a highlight: Wow, you go out and party once and all of a sudden you're wearing a drug rug...well be prepared for judgement from the rest of the respectable population who probably will think you have an obsession for Bob Marley and smokin' the reefer., and this has already changed your language because you used the word 'homies' in a text.

Another reply worth noting: Psych-wise, they probs think that they are a druggie and/or social outcast. Physically they may feel they are high which may cause addiction to the drug rug as a symbol of that comfort zone that they are in while high. May release more dopamine into brain, which causes more dopamine receptors per neuron = more addiction.  

I believe it's safe to say (after reading these responses), if I choose to wear a drug rug, I will surely have to pay for it. I may be called a pot head, or a druggie, and least reputation tainting of them all, a hippie.

But alas, I'll simply be a girl, in a starchy cotton thread hoodie, wishing to express her love of culture and class.