At my job, I work mostly unsupervised. At the most, my direction comes from a quick, 1 minute phone call from my boss- usually around noon.

Sometimes. Sometimes. My boss comes in and spends time with me before I leave for the afternoon. It's nice, we talk about a lot of things. I ask him about his family, his life, his interests. He's a 55 year old Nigerian immigrant- he came here 30 some years ago to study chemistry- he taught as a college professor for many years. He left teaching some years ago and now owns taxis and sells houses.

We talked about food today, I asked him in earnest, if he knew of any good Nigerian restaurants in the city. He was flattered that I asked; we talked about cooking styles and things we liked. He was proud of knowing how to make a few things, but all the more willing to give his wife higher praises. He promised to bring me some of her cooking. He's a family man, he treats me like a son.

Back in North Carolina, I spent a lot of time at the houses of my parent's best friends; an african couple named Comfort and Amen Kofi, and the Toro's. Military town's breed interesting friendships.

I remember the intimidation of the Kofi's house; strong scents and meat on the bone. They were both psychologists; complex but gentle people, they worked on base. Their faces were kind and they had two small children. I remember always falling asleep at their house after dinner- Amen, the wife, carrying me upstairs and tucking me into one of the children's beds. I remember their sheets and blankets smelling like lavender.

Mr. Toro was a handsome puerto rican master sergeant who my dad had known since basic training; his wife was Hawaiian. Very Hawaiian. He was strapping, muscular, dominating; he worked as an off-base karate-instructor in his free time. He reminded me of AC Slater. I remember taking lessons with him in his garage; just he and I. My parents would leave me at his house for hours on end to do punches and kicks while he metered appropriate praise. After a certain point, he would sit talking on a cordless phone until my parents returned. I overheard my mom imply that he frequently talked to his secret girlfriend. She hated him for that. My dad thought his buddy could do no wrong. Army guys are like that.
 
I can remember Mr. Toro towering over me sometimes, positioning my arms and upper body into appropriate posture. I remember how much I liked smelling the strong, woodsy, sweaty, scent of his body. It bothered me that I even noticed it. His wife, Berny, worked at a drive-thru hot dog restaurant called "Weiner Works" (its real). My parents would often visit her and order chili dogs. She and her husband had a son named Michael and a little baby daughter they called "Bimbo". Micheal was my age and every time I visited him, he asked "can you beat Koopa and the doom ship?". Sure, I would say. We played Mario 3 in his parents bedroom and jumped on their giant bed.

I imagined his father naked sometimes. I had seen him shirtless many times, it wasn't a stretch. I hated thinking that he probably cheated on his wife.He had one of the first trucks I can remember that actually had some kind of back seat cab. The truck was big and tough, I always thought it matched his personality well.

I wonder what happened to all of them?

Cleaning out my closet in anticipation of moving next weekend. Found my old high school ID in a tomb of shit that I brought up from St Louis a couple of years ago.

Err... seeing this picture, im reminded to drag my sorry ass to a gym. Im too fat. 17 year old high school Chris would totally be pissed at me.

I love it when he puts his head on my chest when we're laying together. It feels like hell to be so happy for an instantaneous moment. It kills. It could kill. I could hold him like that for hours. I allow these moments because they feel real; there is no more an amazing feeling than the wrenching, acidic churn of desire, frustration, and love. I've a macochistic yearning. You could say i've got a call.

There is a charge
   
For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart----
It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood"

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
	
- Sylvia Plath, Lady Lazarus

(Judy Dench narrates a description of the Kate Winslet character)
C: "I bet shes the scandel"
E: "And Judy Dench is taking notes"

En gard.

Drinking gin and tonics, smoking cigarettes, and listening to the new This American Life. In a few minutes, after the podcast finishes, I'll watch "Silent Running".

For a few moments, things are great. This is what I look like happy. Remember it.

Its official! By 2011, Chicago will have kicked the blue-bag program out on it's ass in favor of the blue "cart" program. For those not familiar with our green-washed metropolis' "bag" program- the idea was as simple as filling clear, blue, polyvinyl bags with recyclables- and chucking them in with regular garbage. As can be imagined, very few, if any, of these blue bags made it to appropriate waste management facilities- a large majority in fact, became interred in landfills along with traditional garbage as a result of line operators' inability to pluck blue bag's off high speed conveyor belts. Finally, residents will have separate, dedicated, carts for recyclables- to be picked up by dedicated trucks and processed appropriately. City hall finally admits it's decade-long fuckup. This is huge. For anyone living in the 48th, Mary Anne Smith is supposedly going to be getting these carts to the ward sooner than later.

Speaking of local politiks. I got my renewal packet today for election judgeship. Come November, I'll be working the polls again somewhere in the 48th or 50th. If you want fair elections, you'll work too. Otherwise, get fucked.

Yum, I'm getting some nice peppers again. For a while, I was doing some mico-composting in the planter- crushing my eggshells and veg matter up into the soil. The plants totally responded to the food. Unfortunately, the rotting organic stuff made fungus gnats take up residence, so I had to dump an inch of sand on top- it drains better and keeps the stupid things from breeding. They larvae eat roots, i'm not having that.

I wish I could grow all my food in windows. Many many windows.

  

Ive been having a lot of dreams on the topic of boyfriends.
Its probably because I want one.
And am trying to kick the pointless feelings I have for eddie.
So what if I love him? What if he loved me?
I totally deserve an amazing guy.A full-time guy.
Thats my drive-through order for the universe. A boyfriend. The one I won't describe.

I'm having a weird dry spell right now.
I think the temporary absence of my usual buddy sex has left me more vulnerable,
more open to that idea of a friend boyfriend; a guy I want to share something with.

The thought hit me recently when I lost one of those casual friends.
He started dating the somebody he had been pining over.
When we were together, I treated him poorly.
I fucked him. I was rough, one-sided. Disconnected. I hurt him, pulled him onto my dick. He liked it.
I resented his emotional attachment to me, I didn't trust it.
I hated the idea of giving him everything I wanted to share with my unknown, imaginary, boyfriend.
Turns out, I looked like the guy he had fallen for,
He was using me too.
Intuition is amazing.

I cut through the pretty neighborhoods on the west side of Broadway today.
All single family homes, low density, kids in yards, neighbors watering their flowers.
I would want to raise my family in a place like that. Maybe 5 blocks from the beach.
Urban life, in an old fashioned house.
Enough room for a garden, not enough room for a car.
Its good to live there. Its something out of another time.

I'm falling for the employees of a south-Texas call center.

• Thoughts on boys ritualistically measuring their dicks (lukewarm slabs of pubescent meat smashed up against DARE rulers)
• Thoughts on the fact that you are and probably always will be my metric.
• Thoughts on rum jello and the boozy feeling in my belly.
• Thoughts on changing, bending, bottoming?
• Thoughts on the fact that I miss him. That I asked him to be boyfriendish. With me, not him.
• The realization that this will probably end up in a fist fight (I should've been a boxer)
• That scene from La Vie en Rose made me cry. When the boxer's plane crashed.
  
• Thirst for Standee's coffee.
• Why noone will call me back about my resume.
• Why I don't know what to do with myself.
• Why I clutch a mountain of dirty clothes to my chest in semblance of his warm body.
• How I might have offended le chinois with my obnoxious comments about Tibet and organ theft. He hates me.
• How I secretly don't care and didn't like the way his kisses tasted anyway.
• That the hunched over old man working the check-out in Walgreens was in visible pain standing and working. It hurt my heart.
  
• How Carmex really just makes your lips more dry.
• How loud I laughed at Gay Caribou when Aaron said he felt like a cum dumpster. How the barrista emptying the trash next to us didn't laugh, and didn't care.
  

Really? After everything? I don't think you believe it either. I'll give you 10 reasons why not.