Shoes Made for Puerto Rican Walking

Puerto Ricans know how to party. And how to dress. And how to party. There's always something going on during the weekend in my Humboldt Park neighborhood, it's Puerto Rican Fest, like, every day. Did I mention they're rad dressers?

It's getting pretty chilly here in Chi (and in my apartment, also known as Draftsville), so I dug up a video I took this summer—at the "official" Puerto Rican Day fest—of this lady's silver strappy-geometric-boot heels. I was plopped down drinking pina colada out of a cored pineapple, and watched her do all the walking.

A Note to All Drivers

I was almost out of gas, and stuck in this waiting-for-the-millionth-train-to-pass line of cars. Then I spot a gas station. Or was it an auto repair place. Gas station!

So I turn left at the light, and am waiting to turn into Ass-Saver Oasis, my car lurking. And I'm trying to nose into a line of cars, that, yes, has the green light, but if I didn't get to that pump, the road would see a higher volume of miffed drivers, miffed for a longer time.

A very nice Cadillac SUV let me pass, and I felt like I'd swindled the key to a locked bathroom to take a much-needed dump. Hallelujah.

So if a slow-moving car is apparently trying to get into a gas station, don't get PO-ed because the driver's trying to cut in, let them in. It's good car karma. May many bathroom doors open for you.

D-Bag Buzz

So I was in Dixon, IL—Ronald Reagan's boyhood hometown—the kind of place where you eat a frozen banana dipped in that chocolate stuff that dries, cracks and peels like paint, while watching towering corn crop-sprayers ramble down the road.

I was at this gallery opening—a local high school art teacher did the judging, there was free white zin and good cookies—and this woman's backside catches my eye, well, the back of her shirt and purse. It was one of those moments where you're not sure if your eye is caught for the right reason.



I just sat there and stared, and the combo strangely harmonized me. Flowers on the shirt, bees on the bag, the whole pollination connection. But like in nature, if you look a little closer... do you see how the "D" near the top totally matches/complements the pattern of her shirt?

I had to go up and tell her about it, and she was real nice—she hadn't even thought about her threads. She's a painter, her name is Whitni, the purse is from Dooney & B—hence the "D" letter pattern and the bees—and her husband got it for her because they raise bees, which they started doing to help their apple trees on their farm. And they make apple cider. Now how rad is that.

Garbage Pail Spoon

I don't know about you, but wherever I'm living, there's usually one trash can that rarely gets emptied. And when you finally spill the contents into some bag, you discover this strata of memories from your personal timeline, right?

Like this fluorescent-green spoon for instance. It has a face, boobs, public hair and a necklace (because she's obviously very stylish) drawn on with purple marker. Um, no idea where it's from. I know I made it, but for the life of me can't remember why. Wait — ...wedding...bored...drunk...substitute table friend...

I fished the spoon out of this tall, landfill-like garbage can in my bedroom which takes months to fill up, so I avoid throwing rotty-smelly things in there, like banana peels. Though I have tossed used condoms in there, and maybe that's equally as gross.



I love my garbage can. I snagged it from an apartment a friend of mine was moving out of, the floor was blanketed with stuff people had left behind, a Free Stuff Free For All. It was the first time I saw snowboard-weed porn. I met eyes with a naked blond locked into a board as she pulled a bong. Now isn't that special.

My garbage tower has a removable-ashtray top, which is perfect for clipping toenails over, and then using the tray to transfer them to the trash. Right now it's responsible for holding my mushroom lamp, some old press passes and my Alien trilogy on VHS. This can is also helpful with eye-hand coordination: When you throw something out, say from my bed for instance, you need to aim and throw on this like very precise line—not your typical arc — to get it in the hole.

Thanks garbage can, you complete me.