Random Esquire

When I began blogging, I took a fair measure of delight in being anonymous. It has its advantages and disadvantages. One big advantage is that I can write about work with a measure of abandon. And…well, people.

I think the Seattle branch of readers, however, may be wearing me down. In a rather funny exchange, one decided that I was, in fact, Johnny Depp or perhaps Richard Grieco. I’m afraid I’m not Johnny Depp. Or Richard Grieco. Nor the more recently guessed Lionel Richie. And I guess it’s fairly obvious now that I am not Heath Ledger. None of which, to the best of my knowledge, is just a hard-working stiff at the practice of law (and I am not as old as any of them…except Heath).

However, I admit that in a completely vain way, it’s sort of fascinating to see how people picture someone purely from what they write. I think Little Filthy may be envious of the anonymity. I think he wanted to be a Great Dane.

I had a dinner guest tonight – by a completely random turn of events. In December, a woman moved into the building with her pug. We chatted briefly one day when I was taking Little Filthy out for a walk. We seem to get home from work around the same time and so I’ve seen her a couple of times a week for the last few weeks. Today, we met in the mail room and talked about our dogs and how we’re both tired and hungry. I mentioned my lofty plan to make homemade chicken noodle soup tonight and she said, “That sounds good.” So I invited her over for dinner. It was random and weird.

She came over and we watched the tail end of American Idol and ate bowls of soup with some crackers. Little Filthy got to eat a carrot that had been used to make the stock yesterday so he was quite content, too. We talked for a couple of hours and she said she’d cook sometime and return the favor.

Unexpected Random Company = Fun.

I’ve noticed that since Boss and I split, Little Filthy has been very needy. When I walk into another room, he trails me like a bad odor. When I sit on the couch, he jumps up and sits down, leaning his back against me. I flopped down on the couch a few nights ago and he climbed up, made a few circles on my stomach and chest while I flinched and then he settled himself in, tucking his head under my chin. Right now, he’s spread out on the bed next to me with one foot extended…touching my leg.

Get some sleep, little man. I’m not going anywhere, Little Filthy.

I went to dinner tonight with my cousin, her mother (my aunt), and her friend. My cousin is only 13 years old (turning 14 next week, I should add). They are from a very small town in Minnesota and came to Chicago to see Wicked. I do not remember the last time I had dinner with two thirteen year old girls. It was hilarious.

First of all, the story telling abilities of a thirteen year old girl are greatly hampered by (directly proportional to) the relative excitement of telling said story. The dinner was like…turning on a newscast halfway through a story and trying to figure out what was going on. And when one paused to take a breath, the other would jump in and none of it was entirely linear. It was like watching a tennis match under a strobe light. You’re following the ball but also know that you’re missing the finer points.

Second, because they are from a very small town, Chicago both thrills and scares them. I heard about crazy cab drivers and their fear of getting shot (in the loop!). My cheeks hurt from grinning. My aunt, who grew up near Chicago, found it equally amusing to listen to their observations. They were rather fascinated by the fact that I live in a loft and that my walls did not go all the way up to the ceiling. I pointed to the exposed duct work in the restaurant and noted that my ceilings were very similar which seemed to impress them. I told them how I could throw Little Filthy’s toy from the bedroom over the wall of the kitchen and into the living room. Again, fascinating stuff here.

It was good to see some family tonight and get out for some fresh air. For some fresh, minus 5 degree air.

1. Did you know that the price for a prostitute in Chicago goes up roughly 30% for the 4th of July holiday? This from An Empirical Analysis of Street-Level Prostitution by Levitt (of Freakonomics fame) and Venkatesh. Levitt praises Venkatesh in this blog entry for his work on Gang Leader for a Day. If you’re in Chicago and would like to hear a reading by Venkatesh himself on life in the inner city of Chicago, head over to the Hyde Park Borders store at 7 p.m. tonight. C-Span will be recording. See you there.

2. Perhaps I should take Plush to Plush.

3. I’m not sure what I’d think if I walked into a woman’s bedroom and this was on the bed. This review from someone in Virginia weirds me out: “For those of us committed to staying sexually pure and who still want to feel loved at night, this is a Godsend…!! And my compliments to the designers for not making it too “anatomically correct.” I can sleep without temptation! Praise the Lord!!!”

Then there’s this review by Robert: “I had never spooned before until i recieved my new fluffy companion.”

4. Yanked from the Mental Floss Blog entry: What’s the oldest thing you own?

5. What makes a great photo?

Someone has found my blog the last three days by doing a google search for “Do men like whores?”  My first instinct was to wonder if this person thought that the answer was hidden on the web someplace and then I thought of their disappointment upon discovering that no, it probably was not.  I am here to rectify that – to the best of my ability.  I’ll assume that we’re referring to the run-of-the-mill whore, not an actual prostitute.  The girl with some issues, not with track marks.  On to it:

Q:  Do men like whores?

A:  Depends.

For a girlfriend or a wife?  Probably not.

For a Friday or Saturday night?  Probably so.

In public?  Probably not.

In the bedroom?  Always.

The problem is that men usually have only one girlfriend or wife at a time whereas Friday and Saturday… that’s twice a week.

Let me demonstrate.  Warning:  Not to Scale.  For Illustrative Purposes Only.

Let me know if you have any questions.

So. Gone on some dates but one woman, in particular, is making life more interesting on many levels. (Nickname: Plush) After a Friday night confession that I had never been to a strip club, Plush decided to rectify the situation on Saturday night.

Let me explain something. You know how some people can’t enjoy a musical because they can’t get past the fact that people don’t really burst into spontaneous song? That’s how I felt about strip clubs; I wasn’t sure I would enjoy it because I thought I wouldn’t get past wondering what the hell each girl’s story was. The Italian solved this for me by explaining that every stripper’s story was that she was working her way through college. Thank you, The Italian! Problem solved.

We went in a group to said strip club. The first thing that struck me was that there was valet parking. Now, I know I’m new at this but do they normally have valet parking? Having valet parking at a strip club strikes me a little like a prostitute leaving chocolates on your pillow. But what the hell do I know?

One of Plush’s friends surprised me by purchasing a lap dance for me. A stripper extended her hand to me and I took it, wide-eyed. It occurred to me that I should stand up before someone had to whisper to me, “She’s not going to hold your hand, you have to follow her.” So I followed her.

Now, not only was this a tad bit awkward, it was compounded by the fact that the entire table could look into the room and see me. (Frankly, the way I figure it, the more people concerned about my happiness, the better off I am, right?) The stripper had some after-market, non-factory parts and she proceeded to powder my cheeks with them. As someone who once suggested this method as the perfect alarm clock, I did not complain. There were the other random positions and shakes and then I made my way back to the table.

I returned the favor by getting a lap dance for the guy who had gotten me one and he requested the same stripper. When it was over, we compared notes. It seems she did the same odd thing – when she was giving us the motor boat treatment, she made little kissy noises. We also decided that when you lapdance (new verb – work with me) with someone, you lapdance with everyone they’ve lapdanced with…I said to the guy, “Dude, that means we’ve lapdanced.” This struck us as uproariously funny… because that’s what $10 beers do to you. You’ve already lost some of your judgment at that point.

So I can conclude by saying that it was not just another typical weekend in the Random household, thanks to Plush. I’ve averaged about 3-4 hours of sleep the last three nights. So, why am I still grinning?

Courtesy of Mamaphunk, here is a fun little list of The Top 25 Men Who Look Like Old Lesbians.

I can’t help it. These make me laugh.

I took a cab today.  As per my usual, I struck up a conversation with the driver.  He was born in Istanbul and has lived in the U.S. for the past 45 years.  I asked him how he liked being a taxi driver and he said that it kept him out of his wife’s hair.  I said, “That’s probably good.”  He nodded and said, “Yes, otherwise I’d be home with her all the time.”  I laughed and said, “Would that be so bad?”  He said, “Yes.”

He told me about his grandchildren.  Age 15 and 16.  He said, “We lost their mother.  So my wife and I raised them.”  I was not sure that he meant his daughter or his daughter in law.  He went on to tell me about his kids.  He said that his daughter went to college at age 15 and graduated when she was 18.  He said, “You know what she did after that?  She went to New York to model.”  I said, “Wow, does she still work in the industry?”

He said, “No…that is the daughter we lost.”

I tentatively asked how she passed away.

He said, “We lost her.  She left for work one day and never came home.”

She’s been missing for the past ten years.  I was stunned.  He said that he sometimes calls one of his grandchildren by his daughter’s name because she is the spitting image of her mom.   I asked, “How…do you …”

He turned around and said, “You never get over it.  It’s life. You never know what is going to happen.”