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• photos •
• little loves • Eddie Cibrian's Dimples
Because c'mon! Shame on Invasion's slowburn peril for not providing them a more frequent showcase. Wentworth Miller
He's my boyfriend. He is. No, he just is. He's all green-eyed, widow's-peaked, melting-pot hotness and oiled-massage voice. He's it. • past loves • |
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I love this phone. Now I must expatriate myself to obtain one. 
jlb | 16:55 Yesterday morning I got my ass outta bed and walked over to the Music Box for the morning showing of Orson Welles' The Magnificent Ambersons. It ruled, much as I expected it would. I was probably the youngest person in the theatre. I assume most of the bent over, snowy-haired, rudely-talking-through-the-whole-goddamn-film individuals originally saw the movie when they were in the throes of Pearl Harbor PTSD and wanted to relive those happy memories. Or something. Given their advanced ages, not a few of them made a beeline for the restrooms after the film. I went along -- because I had a monster glass of orange juice for breakfast, not because I have the bladder of a senior citizen. For those who have not experienced the olde thyme delights of the Music Box (and there are many), let me set the stage for the coming confrontation. The ladies room consists of three regular stalls -- all equipped with barely flushing toilets and seats that are occasionally secured to their bowls -- and one handicapped stall that I can only imagine was a grudging concession to the ADA since the toilet is fairly useless, as it is set flush against the wall and resists all user attempts to sit down and have a proper pee. There are also two sinks that dispense trickles of cold water and a large garbage can, leaving room for approximately no one to wait for their turn inside. Now, I frequent the Music Box. The lack of space in which to queue inside the actual bathroom has never been an issue. Normally it goes something like this: Four stalls filled, two people at sinks, one person on deck standing between the sinks, all others forming an orderly line out the door. Please note that the door is held open by the hand, back, elbow, hip or foot of the number two person in line. This has worked perfectly well since time immemorial (or at least for the six years I've lived in Chicago). Leave it to the Greatest Generation to want things done their way. (Tom Brokaw gave them some enormously large fucking egos, didn't he?) I get to the ladies room to find utter chaos within. All stalls are filled, both sinks are in use and these women who supposedly helped win WWII by industriously collecting scrap metal and heroically going without butter have packed themselves into what little free space remains. I'm baffled by the apparent lack of common sense displayed by these ladies I'm supposed to revere (for their wisdom?), but take up my station as the first person who can't (under any circumstances) fit inside and hold the door ajar. At which point, I am abruptly put in my place by my garishly bejeweled and badly dye-jobbed elder. Greatest Generation Alumna: "Are you going to close the door?" Me: "I'm waiting in line." GGA: "Are you going to leave the door open?" Me: "Ma'am, I'm in line." GGA: "You're just going to leave the door open and make all our business public, CHILD?" Now here's the little movie that played itself out in my head. Me: "First of all, it's a public bathroom. Your expectation of privacy is kinda nil. Especially at the Music Box. Second, it's not like anyone's hanging around outside the door perving on listening to you pee. Third, 'child?' HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Oh. Oh, sorry. Sorry. I almost choked myself laughing at you, lady!" Because, honestly, her outrage was just priceless. And her attempt to...what?...shame me into playing by her rules via non sequitur slur was hysterical. But I didn't want to get into it with GGA. I'd just seen an excellent film. The weather was rapturously beautiful for June in the hell that is an Illinois summer. I was planning to get some gelato. So I just ignored her. Apparently old people dislike that. She proceeded to make a big production of huffing, and glaring, and finally pushing her way out of the bathroom and past me, while declaring, "Why don't you just go ahead of me then, CHILD? Just go ahead." So I smiled my prettiest at her and brightly said, "Thank you!" To which she replied, as I turned my back on her completely, "Inconsiderate, spoiled little brat!" (Oh, wait, maybe I was supposed to revere them for their maturity.) I can only hope she heard my helplessly gleeful laughter through the door she thoughtfully closed behind me so that I could pee in relative privacy. In other news, Brother Bart improves upon my art, declaring me "not angry enough yet." 
jlb | 11:36 This is what my completely relevant and valuable morning project status meeting yielded.  Prepare thyselves for my next career...as a kindergartener. That's right, people. I drew that by hand. All by myself. Kill me. jlb | 15:14 |
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