Mikania

“Now, I have to warn you,” she started when describing the apartment we had decided to take, “the person there now is moving because a family lives above him. They have two children, so they can be noisy.”

Tyler and I looked at each other, the memories of our up-stairs neighbors from the Apartment from Hell flashing through our brain synapses.

I laughed. “A family can’t be worse than the people who used to live above us. Their stairs went right over our bedroom and they always came home loud and drunk at 3 AM.” They also yelled and broke furniture and scared the shit out of me when I was living there alone for a summer and called the cops to report the sounds of abuse.

“Oh, well if you guys are heavy sleepers and don’t mind a little noise during the day, then it shouldn’t be a problem.” We both anxiously reassured her that we’d be fine. After all, a family isn’t typically going to be making loud noises at 3 AM and a little noise during the day won’t hurt.

And the family isn’t as bad as the abusive drunks that used to live above us, even though their peak noise hour is when Tyler and I are still trying to sleep in the mornings. However, some of the noises they make are particularly annoying, such as the constant banging sound immediately above our heads that lasts for about a half hour every morning. Sometimes the sound lasts even longer, at which point the song “Banging in the Nails” by the Tiger Lillies starts looping through my mind. Then there’s the sound of chairs/stools scraping across tiled floor. I originally thought this was also immediately above our heads, but I realized soon after moving in that the sound is probably above our living room and can be heard equally loud from any point in our apartment.

But the oddest of the noises would have to be the one member of the family who walks so heavily that their elephantine footsteps reverberate off our walls, shaking everything hanging from or near to any given wall in our apartment. The entire family is petite, so I was often perplexed by the footsteps every time I heard them. I originally thought the sounds were one of the children stomping around. But then I realized one day, while the kids were playing outside and the footsteps continued crushing everything in their wake upstairs, that it couldn’t be the kids. I then attributed the crashing sounds to the father- the next logical step considering he’s always in a hurry and seems like the type to walk heavily despite his small stature. But as I lay in my bed this morning with the blinds partly drawn to let the plants on my windowsill enjoy the sun, I heard the deafening sound of the footsteps crush their way towards the upstairs door. Soon the sound of heavy steps echoing against the metal porch rang though the dull ache of my head and I looked out the window to see the mother of the family leaving- alone.

So now that I know the truth, I’m even more perplexed.

At first, my goal was to merely have fun. But later in the evening, my goal changed to getting so drunk that I�d be too sick to go to my evil German class in the morning. This new goal garnered me a couple of sloppy drunken high fives. I don�t drink very often, but when I do it tends to be an excessive amount. For some reason, I have more fun this way. I think it�s a carryover from the 21 law of the US- something I am strongly against. I mean, really, what�s wrong with the step-up law that other smarter countries do? Why do we have to be puritanical bastards? Can�t we see that the 21 law is what causes our kids to be binge drinkers? Binge drinking is all I know thanks to this law. It’s mainly due to the fact that I had to drink a shit-load to evaporate any evidence on the rare occasions I got my hands on alcohol before I was 21. Now, I�m stuck in this odd binge drinking habit where I never touch a drop of alcohol for months at a time and then drink excessively when with friends at a bar/private party.

Anyway, here�s me at my half-way point- where I�m so drunk that I can�t taste pepper and my second vodka spiked with sprite tasted like water. Most of my friends thought I was crazy, but they all had a good laugh. Dan�s bro was kind enough to take this wonderful picture.

Can you tell that I�m still drunk? Well, I am. I am very drunk. Man, I have a lot more shit to say, but I think I�ll let it pass as I know it�s all nonsensical drunken ramblings. Wow, what a wonderfully drunken night it has been! Here�s wishing the same unto you in the near future. Cheers!

~Min

Imagine, if you will, attending to your utmost private business in the sanctity of your personal bathroom while positioned immediately above you is a large stereo system that sings inspirational music. Just as you complete your utmost private business and finish washing your hands, you notice- thank God- that the music has stopped. You continue on with your daily morning routine (or lack thereof, in my case) and begin brushing your teeth to the hum of a free Sonicare you scored off a rabbi three years prior. Over the high pitched drone of your glorious toothbrush, the voices of inspired women rise once again in their vain attempt to sound like angels.

“For the past 20 years of my life- and I’m only 21, so that’s most of my life- I had eaten at McDonald’s maybe four times. I used to think that it was bland and boring and too greasy and I hated it. But then I saw the light during the beginning of this summer. I had lunch with a co-worker who drove, so I had no choice in the matter of where we ate. He chose McDonald’s. I thought, ‘Ah, sure. What difference does it make since it’s so cheap?’ So I ordered the number two meal, and at his coaching supersized it. It was so good! And you can’t beat the value of it, especially since you get a ridiculous amount of fries and more soda than you can drink! Since that faithful day, I’ve been eating at McDonald’s maybe three or even four times a week.”

“That’s DISGUSTING! Think of your arteries, Man! Think of your arteries!” the other girl in our four-person discussion group screamed in terror.

“Well, I have no problem if people decide to eat at fast food restaurants,” I said, jumping to his defense. “Sometimes I eat at Kid Valley. I love their milkshakes.”

“I’m a vegetarian, so I have political motives,” she returned. I was surprised as I thought she would be the last person who was a vegetarian. Her dark hair was cut shorter than most boys and she possessed a short, masculine body that screamed “I eat meat!” I stared her in the eye, thinking; “Well I’m vegetarian, too. I just eat the Gardenburgers.” It was one of those odd moments where the cliché western showdown music would be fitting if it suddenly rose into the air from the depths of nothingness.

“Have you ever read Fast Food Nation?” I suddenly asked her.

“No, I don’t read boring crap like that.”

“Have you ever read Fast Food Nation?” I asked again, turning to the McDonald’s Posterboy.

“Actually, I read it this summer.”

“Well, I guess that means you have a right to eat there without having judgment passed on you.”

“Yeah, I guess it does.”

The above story isn’t entirely true. However, the lesbian person was a total, unfounded bitch about the dude eating at McDonald’s.

Perhaps I’m a bit hyper-sensitive, but it really irks me when people sling the words “modernism” and “post-modernism” around without understanding the meanings of each literary period. Sorry to break it to you, but Virginia Woolf and James Joyce belong to the modernist period. In fact, they helped shape the modernist period. Thus, when you tell me that they belong to the post-modernist period, my left eye will start to twitch and I will suddenly lunge at your throat.

For your reference, other writers who belong to the modernist period are as follows: D.H. Lawrence, Ezra Pound, T.S. Elliot, H.D., William Butler Yeats, Gertrude Stein, Joseph Conrad, W.H. Auden, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, Djuna Barnes, and so on.

Post-modern writers include, but are not limited to: Donald Barthelme, Paul Beatty, William Burroughs, All Beat Poets, Raymond Carver, Ursula K. LeGuin, Toni Morrison, Joyce Carol Oates, and so on.

In the future, please make sure that you know what you’re talking about when you refer to someone as a modernist or post-modernist writer. Not only does it make you look really stupid when you refer to Joyce or Woolf (or any other modernist) as post-modernist, but it also incurs my wrath.

I’m tired, grouchy, uninspired and I blame all of my problems on the towering crates of beanie babies shoved next to my desk. The sad thing is that I’ve already sold and mailed half of them. This beanie baby experience has made me vow that I will never collect something as excessive as my mother had done- never. Books I will make an exception for, but that’s because I’m a junkie. I like to justify my habit by telling myself that an English major should collect books and that I only keep those I like enough to reread or that are useful as references. However, any time you have to make a justification, you’re just lying to yourself.

I would now like to close this post with the following words:

Damn you Ebay!

I have a really strange post brewing in my mind for tomorrow. Yeah! Creativity returns!

Two Fridays ago, Tyler and I were given keys to our new apartment. Since then, my life has been a confused blur of boxes, beanie babies, hard to navigate spaces, fevers, more beanie babies, violent coughs and exasperating ebayers. I handed in the keys of The Apartment From Hell to my infuriating Landlord From Hell yesterday who then began ranting about how he’ll bill us if the place isn’t spotless. Sorry you jerk, that’s what the damage deposit and non-refundable cleaning deposit you didn’t bother with is for. Though don’t get me wrong, we did a general cleaning before we left- a cleaning that made the rundown place look beautiful compared to the day we moved in.

My life isn’t completely organized and put away yet; I still have a large amount of beanie babies to auction off. However, I expect I will have more time to actually update this blog from now on. That is assuming, of course, that my German class which has now started doesn’t kill me.

See? Here’s Tyler cleaning!

My friends and I went through a phase where we adored this remix video. We even drunkenly wrote “all your base” in chalk all over campus one chill Mardi Gras night.

Update 10/11/2004: you will pay if you hotlink this image.

A month ago, when I first decided to turn the webpage I had been working on for months into a blog, I had apprehensions. The point of this blog was to be my writer’s journal as I could never get myself to write in an actual journal, but what if my writing went stale? What if I had a lot of readers who expected the same thing and I delivered that same thing over and over again instead of challenging myself as a writer? What if I let people comment on my writing and instead of leaving constructive criticism or a positive note, they all told me I suck and should die?

I’m still a bit apprehensive about this blog thing, but at least I know that it’s getting the most important thing done- it does, in fact, help me with my writing. Through this blog, I feel like I’ve challenged myself on a regular basis and I’ve learned what my strong and weak points are when it comes to writing and my outlook on life. On the days where I don’t want to write at all, I force myself to write. Often, I even post what I wrote despite any misgivings I might have about the piece. If you knew me, as in lived with me and really knew me, then you�d think: “My God, what a miracle! She’s actually writing!”

After working with fellow writers my age, I’ve learned that it’s not uncommon for people who want to identify themselves as writers to actually be scared of writing. I suffered from that fear and became lazy about how much and what I wrote in an effort to keep the image of being a writer in my mind alive. If I actually wrote, then I would be forced to examine the words in front of me and maybe even discover that they’re horribly put together and I need to be shot for creating such drivel. If I didn’t write, then I didn’t have to confront my ability as a writer.

This blog has not only made me confront my ability as a writer, but now that I’m constantly posting comments and stories, it has also allowed my writer’s mind to awaken. These days, I always have ideas floating around in my head that I’d like to capture in words. On the days that I don’t post anything, I find that the reason I didn’t post is not because I don’t have ideas, but that my body either feels like shit or I’m exhausted from a long and busy day. In the recent past, I would never write anything due to being afraid of myself and thus shutting down any potential ideas that I could write about. Now, I at least have those ideas, even if they end up being boring.

Another good thing that has come from this blog is that Tyler is now writing. He probably started his blog due to the fact that he reads blogs all day long, but I’d like to think that I inspired him at least a bit. It’s so refreshing to see him actually create something instead of sit on the internet and read rants about this and that all day. Of course, he still reads those rants all day long, but at least something creative has come from them. Now if I can just get him to dive into that box of junk of his and put together one of those wonderful sculptures he used to have hanging on his walls in the dorms…

A month ago, I said my goodbyes to Twyla outside the Thaiger Room and crossed to the other side of the Ave. While walking north to my apartment, I saw a small elderly man with a brownish green duffle bag larger than his brittle torso stumble under its weight. He fell to the ground, a mass of pamphlets and postcards scattering about the sidewalk in a swirl of hysteria. The man huddled into the duffle bag strapped across his back for a moment, hiding his thinly round face deep in the crook of an arm. All around him, college students and middle-aged adults passed in a hurry, agitated with how he was in the middle of the sidewalk and thus in their way. I was soon in front of the man and crouched down to the cool sidewalk and gathered up his pamphlets. Wondering why he collected so many different advertisements and stuffed them in his duffle bag, I asked him whether or not he was hurt. He answered my question in a quiet and sharply squeaky voice that I couldn�t understand. I handed him a stack of his pamphlets which he then hurriedly stuffed in the top of his brownish green duffel bag. Standing up, I offered him my hand. His was rough and weathered when he clasped mine, but the movements his body made in order to stand were delicate and feeble. Squeaking something I understood to be a �thank you�, he clutched his duffle bag close to the front of his body and scuttled off. I watched him rush down the street, realizing that his entire life was in that duffle bag- a life of pamphlets and postcard advertisements.

This afternoon, I said my goodbyes to Twyla outside the Thaiger Room and crossed the Ave. When walking north to my apartment, my eyes squinted against the onslaught of rain, I saw the same squeaky voiced man. He was standing with his back against a wall near the Russian bakery with it�s sandwich board sign jutting into the sidewalk, boasting the best piroshki. The man held out his hand to me. I did not take it, nor place anything in it, but nodded at him with a smile. Did he remember me?