Response.

Dear Neighbour,

It certainly is ironic that you should be lecturing us about the decibel level in our apartment. We are sympathetic to your plight as a degenerate bar-staffer, but honestly cannot understand the incessant need for raucous sex at the oddest hours of the day. Yesterday you woke us up at three am with your moaning and "fuck yes"s. You then revealed details we could have lived without hearing. It's a hot apartment building, but turn down the fucking radiator and close the god-damn window.

To make matters worse, after having sex for way too long (I know you will brand us jealous, but come on: two hours of the same sounds has got to be some kind of record), your dumb-ass boyfriend goes out onto the balcony and smokes like a whole fricken' pack of clove cigarettes. We can't leave the patio door open for the cats because the whole place ends up smelling like a god-damn Indian restaurant. And by the way, your man looks like Buddy Holly got shwacked by James Dean's car and then shared a hospital room with Joey Ramone. Perhaps you've been too intoxicated to notice, but it's 2009, and all of those people are dead.

Tomorrow I fully expect you to interrupt my afternoon by waking up really late, getting into the shower, and mutilating some song of which you only know half the words. Do me a favour and don't sing the same verse over and over again. It's painful. I am officially putting a stop to any confidence and volume you may slowly build over the course of that twenty minutes. Eff off.

And for the record, I am not overweight, nor and elephant, and neither is my husband. I hope that we can put our differences behind us and live in peace.

Amy and Miguel

------------------

Dear Amy and Miguel,

Yesterday you followed Huey Lewis and the News with Santana. Fuck you.

CC

Dear Neighbors,

Please sedate the spider monkey that lives in your apartment. I understand that spider monkeys can be rowdy little fuckers, but the high pitched noises that come out of it are at an unacceptable decibel level for an urban apartment building.

I have also been meaning to speak to you about the mouse problem you have. I know it's something you've been rather embarassed to talk about, but I assure you, I am not judging your dirty-ass lifestyle; I live directly below you and put two and two together when I kept waking up to the constant scampering of their little paws. As no one else in the building seems to have such an issue, I can only suggest that you keep crumbs off the floors and get some of that blue poisonous shit that makes them die of thirst. I know from first-hand experience that the live traps do not work. The little bastards have homing devices built into their brains and they end up coming back with more friends.

Finally, I am also becoming increasingly concern with the well-being of your epileptic elephant. It sounds like his seizures are increasing, and I wonder if it may be time to speak to the vet about changing or increasing his medication. It certainly would be a shame for anything to happen to him. The day I don't wake up to his crashing footsteps will indeed be a sad one.

Actually, there is one more thing. It's somewhat touchy, but a prevalent social issue that I believe can be addressed sensitively. Please stop throwing each other down the stairs. As bad as things get, I think you should remember that you chose to make a life together because you love each other. Every time I hear one of you go tumbling and crashing down the stairs I hang my head and say a little prayer that your love for each other might return. Each time one of you stomps off in a fit of anger, pounding the steps, the walls, and the railings as you go, I hold out hope that you will return, forgiving and loving once again. It doesn't matter that you don't hold the front door for me while I have my hands full of groceries, or that you take my laundry out of the washer and throw it on top of the dirty dryer. I'm still there for you. I still want your love to carry on.

I'm glad we had this talk.

Orgasm.

Shawn and I are bored one Saturday and go for dinner at this little Italian place we know because we're craving wine and bread. An hour or so later, we're drinking wine in this other little place down the street because Shawn knows someone who works there and a few of the patrons. "Someone" turns out to capture my gaze all night, and as I spend the majority of my time half-listening to what the people around me are saying, I'm watching the fluidity of his motions, sexualizing him, wondering what his touch, smell, grasp, are like. This hasn't gone unnoticed; I'm thinking aloud. Like some kind of shocked idiot child I repeatedly ask "Who is that?" and Shawn raises his glass, says "dunno, but he pours a damn good martini", and gives me a coy smile.

A few minutes later I'm smoking outside, trying to make less than awkward conversation with my newly appointed dreamboat. His voice is deep, and he blows through sentences quickly, punctuating them with a quiet, self-possessed chuckle. We each run out of cigarette and go back inside. I don't even catch his name. An hour later he buys my table a round of shots and we exchange names and handshakes while Shawn grins at me from across the table. My friend Natalie invites him back to a late-night party at her place.

Several hours after the shots begin to take hold, I'm sitting in Natalie's kitchen, wondering where drunken stupor has taken everyone else. He comes inside from smoking and we start arguing about some trivial musical detail. He's standing above me, and he gently touches the bottom of my chin, tilting my head toward his mouth. I'm shy about it. He pulls me toward him, near him, and I find out that his arms are much stronger than they look, and his grasp is firm but tender. He tries to teach me how to dance, but I'm all arms and legs and no rhythm on a good and straight-laced day. I lay my head on his shoulder and wonder if it's one I will grow used to.

A week later he buys me dinner. I make sure every hair is in place, every eyelash in check, and I get mildly drunk as I sip my beer too quickly on a nervous and empty stomach. I note every detail. I have always been fascinated by the way people move their hands--it shows so much of their personality--and his are exacting but playful. He doesn't talk with them exactly, but they react to his words. His sarcasm is spot-on. He tells great stories. And the more comfortable he gets with me, the more his chuckle becomes accessorized by raised eyebrows and boyish grins.

Several hours and several drinks later and I'm cautiously infatuated. We sit on my small couch talking and interlacing our fingers. This doesn't last long. We're in my bed and he's got me firmly in his arms; I feel hermetically sealed from all danger and sorrow. His skin is so smooth--even more so than mine--and I run my hands up and down his back, his arms, his chest. Our kisses are long but don't loiter, firm but not taut, quickening and slowing but never messy. This is not the passion I am used to: the erratic, panicked, ripping and tearing and pounding. But I am so at ease, and so incredibly aroused, that I realise my definition has been faulty. He is giving my body silent worship with his lips and his breath. He envelops me now, and slowly lets me slide on his hand. The warm, creeping vibration seizes me--I have heat in my veins. I shake and grasp his arms, praying that he is real.

Four weeks later he tells me he loves me. We are calm and unconditionally loving, and it's something neither of us has ever known. I can't get enough of his smile, his hands, his stories, his mouth. I love watching him get dressed, undressed, smoke cigarettes. And I am relaxed: I don't care about the future because I have him now. And my definition of love has drastically changed.

Random: I just found out.

I just found out that Lady Gaga is five years younger than me. I suppose one grows up expecting successful media icons, tripe-producing or no, to be older than them. And now it's shifted. I don't know why that's strange. I don't know if the odd obsession I've developed for the Lady is stranger. She's fascinating like train wrecks, excessive plastic surgery, really greasy diner food, and Ewoks. Disco stick. Heh.

I just found out my left kidney is broken. So, the nausea I've been experiencing for the past few months is actually caused my my kidney swelling. Two good things: I'm not knocked up, and I can still hold my liquor like a pro.

I just found out they fired one of my compatriots at work. I don't know why. There has been some eerie tension there as of late, accompanied by a few talkings-to and firings. We were a really great team and we knew how to get people drinking. The majority of the remaining servers are functionally retarded when it comes to making money. One good thing: I can take over his customer base and blow those incompetent assholes out of the water.

I just found out that it is a long weekend. I don't know how or why I did not know this before. With that, Ev has an entire day off and I am a little too excited. I am such a dork for him.

I bet my boyfriend could beat up your boyfriend.

That Lady Gaga song is playing again.  This shit music's always been totally off my radar.  Man this song is awful.  And absurd.  And the reference to "disco stick" makes me think of the sex I had last night.  And then I get turned on--to this.  

There are many absurdities.  I ponder them while I pour drinks.  Half the time I try to think about what med schools I want to apply to: try to convince myself I'm productive, I guess.  That's absurd.  Another absurdity: this article someone in the archaeology department posted to Facebook.  Her comment: "I'm glad I'll never be this."  And then a whole fucking gaggle of arky kids made similar comments.  It must be hard to type when your nose is so high in the air.  Half of them have undergraduate degrees and are taking courses as unclassified students so they don't have to leave the protective wrapping of the ivory tower.  And when they do leave, there won't be enough jobs as Hole Diggers.  Some of them'll get jobs as nondescript employees, at nondescript offices, buy moderately priced houses and like-new used cars.  If only you could get that new car smell back.

Here's the one that tops it all off: one of the commenters is an ex of mine.  When we were together, he hated himself so much that he made valiant efforts to convince me that I was crazy.  Or at least, getting there.  Out of control.  Wild and unpredictable.  A total asshole.  I guess he didn't understand that I am kind of an asshole, but in the fun way.  Not like Plato.  Since I am not crazy, I kicked his pathetic, insecure, and really not hot or smart enough to date me ass to the curb.  

On the morn of April Fool's day (3:30 am, to be exact), he decided that we needed to talk.  About what, I'm not exactly sure since I had just finished working a double at work and was bed-headed with my brand new beau; I refused the invite.  After attempting to buzz my apartment for ten minutes--shockingly without success--he climbed onto my first floor balcony and tried to break in to my house.  It was so romantic that I just had to go out there and talk to him about calling the police.  I should have let Ev punch him in the face like he wanted to, but I guess I wasn't feeling full-throtle asshole that day.  

Email the next day: "I'm really sorry.  The one good thing that has come out of this is that now I know I need help.  The worst part about it all is that I wasn't even drunk."

Comment left on article about quarter-life crisis: "Ya, we are lucky.  Its [sic] comforting to know that we will never be unhappy in our line of work or go crazy from it!! ;)"

Now that, is fucking funny.  :)

Working out.

There are the actors that fill the indelible need for stock characters. They fill the monotony of the day with predictable compliance to their roles. Robert stumbles around the lounge in a drunken haze, forgetting and fucking up, and stopping every now and again to recite some little known factoid, harassing me for being a grave-robbing archaeologist, or telling me a story I've heard several times before. If you share a name with a famous song, he'll sing it to you whenever you walk by. I keep running his drinks to his tables each time they sit for more than five minutes. He seemingly has the pity of management for the degree to which his dogs replace human contact, and he's been there for ten years, so no one really cares.

Martin started working at the lounge when he was only nineteen. One of those "it's okay I'm in school right now" jobs that you don't plan to last. That was twenty-one years ago. This would depress me, but he seems content. He's one of those characters who makes me question my own tendencies to beat myself up over any lacking of motivation. Twenty-one years is a long time, and to top it all off, he's vehemently right-wing Christian and openly gay. This curious combination has resulted in both celibacy, and the occasional blatant gross-out comment, usually made after a gaggle of female employees get bored and start talking blow jobs. I secretly bait him, and he always laughs like a vulture at the sight of a dying zebra. Today he's off early and telling me about his plans for the weekend. He's already told me four times about a play he's going to see, and as he polishes off his latest Strongbow, he starts telling everyone who walks by.

The number of people who have been fired recently disturbs me. First, my counterpart, the other bartender. I don't know what she did, but she simply was not there one Friday afternoon. She was replaced by a loud, odious wildebeest of a woman named Kimmy. She's worked in this industry for nearly two decades, and that means two things: that she feels entitled to give me unsolicited 'advice' (which sound more like commands), and that she is probably going to figure out who I'm dating and pretend to 'know' him. My boyfriend is a rather notorious figure in this city, if not for his charm and attitude, then for his unwillingness to put up with idiots and his surliness. I quite adore him. Others seem to fancy being associated with him. Everywhere we go, we run into people he 'knows'.

Kim grates my nerves like no one else. She makes random bleating noises--sound effects that probably go along with some thought freighter in her head--and speaks with a booming authority, laughing at her own jokes in a low-pitched staccato. Her worst offense, however, is the fact that any question asked of her is met with an intensely aggressive retort. She gets a raised eyebrow from me, a mental "what the fuck?", and I wander off to giggle and busy myself with other matters lest I become angry and actually give her the time of day. I can honestly say that I have never loathed another person's social style more than I loathe hers.

I got a job.

Sadly, not in my field, and not in the medical field, where I was hoping to gain some experience in order to polish my medical school application. I'm bartending, and to make it even more interesting, I'm doing it at the University. When I consider the number of graduates I know who work on campus and continue to otherwise mill about, I strongly suspect that this will help ease my transition from academia to reality. Or prevent it altogether, which is truthfully what I am going for.

Limbo isn't all it's cracked up to be. Cracked up may be an ironic turn of phrase in this case, as I think many people lose it in limbo. Liminal states aren't meant to be lived in, after all. I expect to be providing countless examples of this unfortunate condition as I snuggle into my new career, but I don't expect that any story will ever come quite as close to absolute pathos as this one.

On a Tuesday afternoon, a young man took a seat at my bar. He was blonde and mournful-looking and dressed in a grey suit blazer which he probably felt made him look older and sophisticated. The professor look is big among grad students. He was a certain brand of person, the type whose parlance and intonation do not match their geographic origins, and whose demand for respect never quite matches their productivity, contributions, or reciprocation. One of those pseudo-'geniuses' who peak early and then wallow in their blighted expectations for greatness and lack of inspiration. You can't really hold that against him, to some degree, that's what most of us are.

He ordered a scotch, two fingers, neat. His lack of eye contact at first communicated disinterest and dismissiveness, and it was not until he began asking me for drink suggestions and engaging me in conversations about anthropology that I realised:
a. He was shy and desperate, and
b. This was no casual afternoon drink
I promptly dropped the word 'boyfriend' and occupied myself with other tasks. The Lounge, unfortunately, is slow at three o'clock on a Tuesday afternoon. After more discussions about school and life in general (he was "pondering why" he always found himself drinking alone at the lounge instead of "writing my masterpiece". Oh, please), he decided that I was at least equally as intelligent as him, and decided that this meant we were soul-mates. I was picking stray cans out from behind the glass-washer when he fiercely looked up from his drink and spouted
"I hate your boyfriend. He doesn't deserve you."
"Dooode, you don't even know him. Eww, this is sticky."

At some point another member of his freak-show department showed up and they moved to a table in the lounge. I was glad to have washed my hands of him, but surely Melissa was not thrilled to get him. He had consumed a lot of alcohol by this time, and she planned to end his binge after his next drink, which turned out to be a shot of Jack Daniels. He ordered four, for the table, or at least that's what was assumed before he proceeded to drink them all in less than thirty seconds. Melissa, who is covered in tattoos and hates cuddling, is not the type of girl to put up with crap from silly little graduate students in ill-fitting blazers. And when he became belligerent after being cut off, she gave him the sharp end of her tongue and arranged for security to meet him at the doors to the Lounge.

My new boyfriend calmly settled his bill, and rose to leave. About half-way through the Lounge, a look of inspiration crossed his face. He paused. And then he sprinted toward the patio doors. And once out there, facing a wall of windows and shocked Lounge patrons, he unzipped his pants and began to pee on the snow-covered patio. Melissa proceeded to invite the security personnel inside while I proceeded to the patio, where my new friend was now attempting to stack chairs in order to make a graceful exit over the six foot walls.
"What the fuck are you doing?!"
He looked up, slightly confused, and then thrust his head back in a dramatic pose and gutterally,
"Have dinner with me!"
"I can't do that. I already told you why."
"He wants you to have friends!!"
"I have friends. Now, get down from there, you are not Batman."
Despite how enjoyable this little performace was, it earned our friend a life-time ban from the Lounge.