Independence

Uncle Sam's Weekend

I wanted to go somewhere for the Fourth. For a split second I had considered Chicago or NYC or Mexico, then I remembered that I was broke and that the 4th wouldn't be the same south of the border. I would have to stay in L.A., but was looking forward to it. Christine informed me that she would be driving into L.A. on Sunday afternoon after commencing her camping trip in Big Sur. She asked me if I wanted to join her, but I reminded her that I'm more of a "blowdryer girl." My one and only experience camping was somewhat disasterous. Perhaps I'll share it here.

Briefly, Eileen on Camping - A Flashback to Summer 2002

I didn't drink alcohol until the winter quarter of my freshman year at Northwestern. Prior to this I'd been dry as a bone, and all my high school friends were the same. However, by the time we'd completed our first year in college, we all had a thirst for the booze juice and schemed of ways to get drunk together over the summer. Someone had the idea (actually, I think it was me) that we could go camping and drink all we wanted, far from the watchful eyes of our parents. My friends Monica, Elissa, and I drove to Bourbonais (only now do I realize how appropriate the name was) Illinois where we rented a cabin at a forest preserve for 2 days/1 night. We had tequila, bratwursts, lighter fluid, marshmallows, and kabob skewers--what more could one need! Things started off kinda okay. We doused the fire with lighter fluid and seared our brats. We tried drinking the tequila, but found it far too harsh without fruity mixers. We decided to go for a walk in the woods as the sun was setting. I took my videocamera and things rapidly progressed to a Blair Witch level when we found ourselves lost and next to a ramshackle wood cottage. Somewhat drunk, it was a good 20 minutes before we found our way back to our cabin. The cabin was a bit of a connundrum: it had electricity, but no running water, no toilet (bathrooms were a walk aways), a bunk bed with rubber-like matteresses and a full size bed with the same. Oh, and it was full of daddy long-legs and various flying insects. It was about 80 degrees inside. Maybe this would be a good time to mention that I was also on the rag. Up until this point we'd felt somewhat good about our ability to "rough it." Afterall, we were squatting in the back of the cabin like pros--hell, I was even flinging my soiled cotton corks into the woods with gusto (rumor has it the blood attracts bears --what fun!). Later, as we got ready for bed, we found out that we couldn't lock the cabin door. In a fit to secure our safety, Elissa slammed the door to the cabin shut. We were relieved that we were safe from woodbee wood killers, but immediately horrified to find that we could not open the door. It was stuck tight! We pulled on the door, we tugged, but it was no use. We were trapped inside with the bugs. We tried to call our friend, Angie who was safe at home in Mundelein, but our cell phones wouldn't get reception inside the cabin. We flicked the cabin lights in a bastardized Morse-code/light signal to no avail. Finally, we gave up and went to bed, hoping we'd think of something in the morning. However, by the morning, I really had to pee, and was forced to use a Solo cup as a latrene. Finally, we punched out the back window screen in the cabin, and lifted/pushed Elissa out of it. She ran around to the front of the cabin, and freed us. We immediately left, vowing never to camp again.

And that's why I don't do camping.

Christine Part II

Christine rolled into town on Monday the 3rd, bearing gifts of special Rice Krispie Treats for my enjoyment. We took advantage of one of the ridiculously cheap lunch specials at a Thai Restaurant down the street. I'd wanted to visit this particular Thai restaurant for some time. I think it used to be a hot dog stand, because on the roof of the building is a giant gross-looking hotdog with what looks like boba tapioca garnish on top. Anyway, the food was alright, and we got to sit on the outdoor patio with the honks and squeals of Hollywood/Western traffic in the background.

While in town, Christine wanted to buy a pair of Chacos. We located a store in Santa Monica, and decided to hit up the beach afterwards. We picked up Jeff Newburg on the way, and were off. Things at the store didn't go as smoothly as planned, and our male companion was less than thrilled by the wait. We found Christine's shoes, but one of the pair was missing, and no sandals were had.

The Santa Monica Pier was crazy packed, which was expected as it was 4th of July weekend. The KIIS FM booth was blaring music, there were vendors, games, noise, and people every which way. On the beach itself there were children everywhere. For me, this was a bit alarming because I don't encounter children in my day-to-day life (for some of you, this is the opposite). The beach had kids everywhere: screaming kids, running kids, kids with missing teeth, kids with soggy diapers, kids playing in the sand, kids kicking sand in each others eyes, kids eating sand. The very sight made us a little apprehensive, but we thought, what the hell, and found the last patch of available sand. I'd brought along a bag of ginger snaps, and Christine and I happily munched them on the blanket. 4 kids were nearby, causing a ruckus, and I offered them some galletitas, or "cooo-kees." However, I soon learned, that when you offer 4 children 2 cookies apiece, it soon escalates to 10 cookies for 10 children. The kids kept asking for more and more cookies and I had to draw the line. They didn't say thank you for the cookies they had, and they lurched close to our blanket whenever I so much as touched my beach bag. Their parents or relatives didn't seem at all concerned with their behavior, and this, along with the white bread-bologna-Kraft singles-purple soda lunch they had, disturbed me. I grew up eating similar food--as most kids in the U.S. do, but now that I'm older and I know better, I feel that I'd never give my kids processed, nutritionally void, sugary goop. (Who wants to feed their kids crap? It's more that some people have to because it's all they can afford, or they don't know any better - pointing to the two main dividers in our society: class and education). Just the thought of bringing up children in this world depresses me. There's so much to worry about, to look out for. When you think about it, raising a child means that you're responsible for not fucking them up. You shape their world view, their future chances for success, their psychological well-being. That's a lot of responsiblity, but unfortunately people don't always remember this. As of late, I've been thinking that I'd like to foster children -- not anytime soon mind you -- but there are so many children that just need a positive role model in their lives. So many children in this country are born into situations/circumstances that are terrible. If I am someday in a position where I can afford to, I would love to foster children, and love and hug them, and help them become whole people. Maybe I'm getting soft in my old age. I guess this is the age where we start to at least think about these things. I'm sure all of you (whoever you are) that read this blog would have something worthwhile to offer to a disadvantaged child, either through your intelligence, kindness, positive reinforcement, or love. Think about it. Maybe even being a Big Brother or Sister. Zoe Perry used to volunteer in Evanston at the YWCA, and I always admired her for it. She hung out with a little girl about once a week, taking her to the movies, or going to other events in Chicago and Evanston.

The water at this beach was kinda gross, so we decided to pack up and go to a beach a little further south, near my place of work. This beach was much better: very few people were there, it was quieter, the sand was not littered with food particles, the water had no floating bloated Wonder Bread in it. Christine and I got to work creating sand creatures. We made a stegosaurus and a giant octopus whlie Jeff napped. We frollicked in the water and played a game to see who could remain standing the longest. We planted our feet in the sand, and stood in the face of giant oncoming waves. Whoever fell first lost. Then we took a step forward and continued the game. We kept up until my ass started to hurt from repeated falls--that and my bathing suit bottom seemed to be a recepticle for stray sand. I love the waves in the Pacific Ocean, and the water was a nice temperature too. Hooray for going to the beach!

On the way home we found a futon chair sitting on the curb near Jeff's apartment. We dismantled it and loaded it into the car. Now we have a new futon, and can finally part with the red demon that I slept on when I first moved out to L.A. Overall, regarding both the furniture in our apartment and my life in L.A., the best way to put it: "I have to admit it's getting better; a little better all the time." Christine even built the futon for me! What a woman. That night we went to the Short Stop with Aaron, but were too exhausted to dance--well, we danced a little. While there I bumped into my frequent aquaintance, A.J., a guy I first met on the night of Robert's birthday. He had the most fabulous perscription "Dad glasses"-- frames that your Dad might have worn in the 80s or still does. Ha!

The next morning Christine and I slept and slept, and Jeff backed out of breakfast plans as he had errands to run. We went to a little diner in Echo Park, The Brite Spot, and enjoyed fluffy pancakes. I burned her an introductory hip-hop sampler for the drive back (Tribe, Outkast, Pharcyde, etc.) and then she was off.

4th of July BBQ

That afternoon I went to a barbeque at an NU house with Aaron, Dave (Aaron's roommate), Jason, Claudia and her boyfriend, A.J. It was good to see Claudia, because she'd been m.i.a. for some time, having been busy with work and boyfriend. It was your standard bbq: grilling, frisbee, beer pong, a nice backyard. I ate an absurb amount of cheap processed meatstuffs (gross). We all hung around, but didn't get to see many fireworks. A.J., Claudia and I walked down Melrose and saw some fireworks in the distance, but our watching was interruppted by a bum who took a liking to A.J. A.J. kind of looks like Jesus; he has that long-haired rocker look. It looks good on him, and I guess I'll scan a picture when I get around to it. Anyway, his resemblence to our Lord and Savior tends to attract the freaks--like so many bees to a can of grape soda in the sun. This particular man was in his late 40s, and rambling about being in prison (always a good sign). We escaped back to the party and talked in the twilight. I got wicked bad mosquito bites on my ass, which was my punishment for wearing a thong under my summer dress. Oh well.