Toxic Soles

Today was the day--because yesterday was the smell.
I noticed it creeping up while getting ready for my Friday night shift--jeans on (washed Monday), yellow halter (dry cleaned last week), hair washed (everyday, people, everyday).

What was the source, I asked myself?

I then looked down after having slipped my black sketchers on and noticed that the seam had split around the right arc of my smallest toes (aka "Backpack" & "Dagger" ... almost like Cloak & Dagger, but much more inspired because they belong to me). I suspect that I smelled the ugliness of the shoes in that moment because when the seams had finally slipped after over a year of constant wear-and-tear, something toxic emanated from their fabric. The months of sin and vice stored in the shoes ... no wonder the smell was unbearable. They were bar shoes. They traipsed over a nightly playground of sin. They certainly had a lot to say.

I was embarrassed to go to work at this point, but they are my most comfortable pair of shoes and when you are standing on your feet for eight hours at time, running back and forth behind a bar liked a caged lion, comfort is most important. When you are working, you hardly smell smell because everyone else around you smells like beer and perfume and bad, bad Red Bull breath. The corner of the bar positioned away from the DJ booth smells the worst--almost like old vomit and toxicity. I have never seen anyone throw up in that corner, but the bulk of Moonshine's "heavy users" linger here ...talking shit, doing dozens of Jagerbombs at a time and telling me I look nice in a skirt. I am talking about "heavy users" in terms of attendance but they are also heavy users of a nightlife that my shoes have come to call home. They find it comforting as toxic as the air may be.

I caught the second full-force whiff of them while using the bathroom at work. Maybe it was because I was away from everybody and every bad, bar scent that I noticed their smell, or maybe it was because they were again in their element. Bathrooms are some of the most vice-laden places in the city. Stalls are reserved for clandestine meetings between girls, boys, drugs and cheating. Sometimes, they are reserved for sex. Sometimes they just smell.

My shoes certainly dug it, but I was appalled. I wanted everyone to stay away from me until I could unleash my dogs. But after a few more shots of tequila and a couple of cigarettes to close out the night, I didn't notice anymore and I suspect my colleagues didn't either. I suspect my manager didn't. He asked me to help him pick out "free gift" from a catalogue one of our liquor reps. gave him. It was 3:18 in the morning. I suggested either the stone-top grill, a really hawt set of orange luggage (my favorite color) or the Euro down comforter. In the end, he decided on the down comforter. I was hoping he would get some sleep.

I promised myself I would get new shoes today and had forgotten about it until 1:00 in the afternoon. My shoes were outside my apartment door. In the end, I succeeded, scoring a black pair of streamlined Converses with a small, non-intrusive pink star on each side. The shop was located down Clybourn Avenue. My black Sketchers are now staring at me from the side of the kitchen trash bin, where I've moved them for a visitation period of sorts. I have not decided on their fate--somehow, I don't think simply throwing them away will ever fully eradicate the smell.

On refreshment (for a Saturday)

I pass the same truck selling watermelons everyday, at the crux of Humboldt Avenue and Division Street. Sometimes I wonder if the man sells the same melons everyday because the truck is usually unreasonably stacked and he's parked in an area that's not ready-made for foot traffic. Humboldt Park is adjacent to the truck, but there's not path or cement walkway directly leading to him. I have to wonder if he offers a drive-up watermelon service of sorts, only because there are so many cars going from here to there in the area. I have never witnessed a hand-off, but I can imagine it would be much more cumbersome than an order of fries and a Coke. I can also imagine it would be much more refreshing than either.

My mother had me pick her up a Diet Coke on Wednesday while she was helping me delouse my kitchen. She hadn't drank soda in a quite a long time, but she said she needed "something refreshing" so it fit the bill. We ordered Greek salads and drank Diet Coke on the ugliest coffee table I ever owned. It reminds me of a Family Ties episode gone awry--so wrong. It made me realize how I need to just dump all of my college and pre-college furniture for the good stuff--Ikea. Yes, I know what you're thinking. But I'm a starving artist of sorts and that kind living roomware is a splurge for the pocketbook.

But back to refreshments ... I was doing errands earlier this afternoon and decided to try one of those Dunkin' Donuts smoothies (wild berry). Good God, people--stay away, stay far away. Expecting to take in the fresh tartness that may have resembled a Jamba Juice I instead intook a gastily slurp of saccrine ... slop. The color resembled this weird flesh tone and the taste was a sweetness from Hell. I accidentally spilled some on my hand on the way out of the shop and it's still sticky, after repeatedly washing it nine times. This is a true store. I immediately dumped it in an outside trash can, less the potion left a trace of sugar toxicity in the car. I instead went home to work this afternoon and laid into my other refreshing vice du jour--salt. Instead of slurpping smoothies I am working this afternoon with a tin of pepperoncinis by my side. I wonder if the drive thru watermelon guy sells those for refreshments too?

I don't think I could possibly be any busier at the moment, but I also feel like I've been slacking on my blog as of late due to the sheer amount of work that has been consuming me. I am pretty much on at Moonshine four nights a week these days and my freelance work is increasing ... which is GREAT, but I guess when it rains it floods. That said, I wanted to post something given the essence of time, so I decided to post this exciting announcement about The Killers going on tour again this fall (see link below).

As many of you know, The Killers are one of my favorite bands, despite their shiny, pop flair (which makes them good) and that self-important sense of ego (which makes them great). They are wonderful to see live and I am very excited that are making an appearance in Chicago exactely ONE MONTH before my birtday (to the day!) I will get tickets for the show, some way, some how and consider it an early b-day to myself.

The last time I attended a show of their's in Milwaukee was on May 11, 2005. While the show was great (not as good as the one I saw in Sept. 2004, maybe because the venue was large), I remember getting completed shit-canned thanks to a friday night after party session in my friend James' studio and early morning vodka and OJs with my friend Faraz. Then there were the pre-show vodka lemonades with Becky, Jameson, flask-drinking antics at the show and vodka dirty martinis with Faraz (again) after the show. I also went to Metro at some point with Dori and drank fruity martinis.

No, I did not vomit.

I did, however, end up on the Killers' tour bus at 3 am talking to Brandon Flowers about The Cars. Maybe it was the fact that I told him I was a journalist, but he wouldn't stop talking about how the music that The Killers were doing was so different from all of the copy cats flooding the music scene. He said that the guys from Secret Machines were assholes. I also told him that the first chords in the albums #7 track "On Top" were plucked from OMD's "Messages." (It's true. They sound identical!) I think he got pissed at me, but he denied it. I remember he was wearing these boat shoes and pegged pants and some blonde chick wearing a pink shirt was all over his junk in the most inconspicious way. I saw them disappear for a while while I talked with drummer Ronnie Vanucci in the back of the bus about ...I'm not really sure, I don't remember. There was an Asian chick with us. I think it was something involving the notion of sex ... whatever it was, I remember it being funny and I was entertained by Mr. Vanucci's style. The bassist and guitarists didn't say much at. They kind of lurched around the bus like these dispondent wearwolves. And this really annoying roady-dude who was playing frisbee in Rave parking lot wouldn't stop giving me shit. I DO remember that. He was tall, and thin, and a geniuine arse, from what I recall.

I think I told him off, because at that point I was WASTED and had called Faraz 17 times because he was supposed to have picked me up before I even wound up on The Killers' tour bus. I told him if he didn't call me back, there would be "Hell to pay! Hell to pay! Hell to pay!" He saved the message and promised he would sample the line in a track one day. I am still waiting for my own moment of fame.

The Killers go on North American rampage

I woke up at 5:30 this morning to an undeniable, pulsating throb.

Before you get too excited that I am about to unveil some sort of thrilling bedroom antic, hold your breath--I was alone. I realize that this, too, could generate a bit of excitement so I'll set the story straight from the get go.

I am talking about feet--toes, specifically. In my case, the throb-in-question was associated with my big, left toe.

In the middle of a dream that I only remember involved Play Doh and some sort of button down shirt, the pain in my left foot shocked me. I felt myself pressing it against the lip of my bed, and in my quasi-dreamlike state, I wanted to believe that putting pressure on the toe would somehow subdude the pain. It didn't. Yes, it cleared it up for a moment, but seconds later the pulsing rebirthed itself in my foot like a living animal. When I realize that the pulsating throb orginated from one of my own limbs, I shot up in bed and turned on my lamp on my nightstand. The toe was bulbous and red and made my "Most Honorable Red" nail polish meld right into the skin. I then remembered I had gotten a pedicure only 1.5 weeks ago at this boutique nail shop "Get N'ailed" on Broadway, right near the Jamba Juice. The Asian woman who groomed my feet--while very nice and accomodating to my poor, beat down feet which endure hours of unforgivable work behind a bar--dug into the side groove of the nail deeper than I expected. I remember grimacing in that leather massage chair that massaged me in neither a comfortable or normal fashion. The psuedo, mechanical fingers felt like hard balls pressing into my angels wings. They made me cringe, almost as much as the nail sheering.

I looked at the nail in the near light of morning, and realized that when in fact she cut the nail, she cut it sideways, so instead of growing up in a normal direction, it also grew sideways, right into the outer ridge of my toe. What I couldn't understand is that I had gone to sleep merely 3 hours earlier (2 am-ish) and did my usual 50 crunches with my feet hoisted in the air. I was not admiring my feet, but simply looking at them as I lurched my shoulders into my legs, crunching upwards for the perfect V formation. My feet were unusally normal looking, something that I have had a hard accepting all of my life. I have my father's feet and my father's hands--and both bar the same bulbous "growths" that I have never quite fully accepted. Getting my toes pedicured and lotioned certain makes me feel better about their visual status, and while I still have a few things to sort out with their stature, I was certainly more than 70 percent pleased by their appearance last night.

That is until 5:30 am today. The pain was unbearable enough to prevent me from going back to sleep. Instead, I soaked that bad boy (er, big boy) in hydrogen peroxide and slathered it up with neosporian and band-aids. I tried work on one of my 85 deadlines looming in the coming weeks and I couldn't even concentrate on that. This is where it is appropriate that my father steps into the picture, gives me a ring to see how I am doing "this fine morning" (mind you it's 8:30 am by this time) and I explain the situation with my pulsating toe.

"It's fatter than ever before!" I scream. At this point, I am screaming, because the pain is so bad, it turned me crabby. My father knows my version of crabby better than anyone. He's calm when it strikes out, and confronts it as if I am talking with the most delicate voice in the world--eventhough I am simply a raving bitch.

"I'll find a podiatrist for you," he says, like it was the most ordinary thing he had ever said.

Podiatrist. The very word evokes a sense of institutional green and old men with loads of hair in their ears. I see a lot of walkers and bedpans when I hear "podiatrist." 27-year-old women with pedicured feet aren't supposed to see a podiatrist. But the prospect of not going scared me more as the swelling ensued. I thought about missing my noon spin class and my angered swelled even more. Unacceptable, thought. Spin came first.

"I have to be done by 11 or it's not on!" I yelled at my father. "I don't have time for swollen feet! OOOOOOOOOOOOCUh! This fucking hurts!"

I let my father arrange the appointment because I was limping around my apartment jacked up with toe venom. The toe itself was venomous, streaming into all corners of blood and eventually strapping on my crabby pants tighter than I had felt in while. I was able to get in to see a podiatrist in LYONS of all places (5 minutes from my parents house). If podiatry had it's own university, I think it would be stationed in Lyons, the armpit of Chicago's southwest side (only second to Summit, I believe). The Lyons doctor was the visual incarnation of the word "podiatrist." He had white hair, which thinned around the top of his head but grew dense around the inside of his ears and rough, callused fingers. He wore Buddy Holly glasses and talked about how much he appreciated foot salons. When he touched my venomous toe, he didn't wear gloves.

"I get a lot of business from mishaps like that," he said, shining a light on my polished bulb of toe. "pedicures and such." I had been aggravating the toe for approximately four hours by now, and the skin around the outer nail had become so dry, it came off in flakes. I suddenly felt ashamed of my feet, a bold departure from the brief satisfaction I had while looking at them before I went to bed. Maybe it was that dream about Play Doh that irritated it. It was something.

My diagnosis was an ingrown toenail. The prognosis--not bad. Until, I heard the Podiatrist speak.

"Someone cut it funny, if it wasn't you," he said. "I'm going to have to numb you up and dig it out."

The thought of a needle going into my foot increased the pulse factor by 95. "Forget it!" I told him. "No way. I want the nail out, but I'm goin John Rambo style. Dig in and get it out, I can't imagine it hurting much more."

Mind you, I had been digging at it for hours, so I was already adrenalized. At one point, I even tried to cut the skin around the nail itself. I was frustrated, mortified and so geeked up on toe venom, I couldn't think straight.

I will not go into details about the doctor's dig, but there were moments of extreme pain, moments that made my eyes cross into one another and warranted a clenched fist on the examination table. I said "fuck" a couple of times. It felt good. I saw some blood. Then came the band-aids--again.

Two hours later, I went to spin class only experiencing soreness from the excavation that ensued earlier this morning. Yes, it hurt some, but I wasn't about to completely clusterfuck my weekly routine. Currently, the toe is sore and gives me some slight trouble in the coordination department. I am more bothered by the fact that I can claim I had an "ingrown toenail," a condition reserved for lecherous types who are either hermits or uncleanly beasts. I am neither of the two, and am now forced to keep an open mind on the condition. Yes, I am sometimes judgemental--perhaps this mind altering, toe venom experience was meant for me to take a step back. Sometimes, even I can't always hit the nail on the head.

Apartment hunting has brought out my inner serial killer.

It's almost as if looking down quiet, tree-lined streets evokes a sense of mechicanical killing behind my sweet, big eyes--the thought of me, single-handedly taking "the perfect apartment" away from that one pair of roommates who are not able to pick up the phone fast enough to call or type fast enough to confirm an appointment over email. There is a sense of calucated demise. There is a sense of peace that comes with securing the find, of stealing the floor from under their feet and securing bragging rights on the new digs du jour. "Mine, mine, mine, mine!" I scream in sadastic vein, because I was the one who made all the right moves to make my new apartment possible--I was the one stepping, screaming, biting my way to the perfect garage deck that will soon stake my perfect chair in the sun. I am the one who finally won out!

To achieve this point of elation, one must have started with hesitation. I have hesitiated before on making the kill, hestiated at the sight of exposed brick even when there was no warranted hesitation. A seasoned apartment slasher can not afford such careless, hesitant survellence. Hestiated survellence only is warranted in a situation where bidding is involved, not simply scoping a new place. Spoliers come in the form of current tenants who lead you to believe your prey is destined to be your's--only to ultimately revealer another lease-lecher is scouting the same digs and they discovered it's trail first. Then there's the notion of wanting what you can't have, which in this case isn't limited to disfunctional men or a $600 handbag from Barney's. It's the prospect that your perfect prey--the prey that would dicate your emotional, mental and physical rational for the next year--had just slipped from grip. Will you ever find one as debanure?

I eventually did, today of all days, in the furance-fused sun of Roscoe Village. Like a seasoned seriel killer (I have been practicing for exactely one week today), I wound down from my bartend shift last night by calucating my next hunting trail the following day. Scrolling through the names of all those ellict ...listings.... in the middle of the night just made me tingle.

I calculated my rounds.

I surveyed pictures, phone numbers.

My, what a nice floor you have ...

In the morning it was coffee as usual at Dunkin Donuts and phone call to my brokers. Then, the kill. Peak properties. It shown like a diamond in sand. I never divulge details of my lease lashings, but I will tell you, it was quick and painless. There was no mess involved, no sloppy wranglings of hunter just beginning to season his craft--there was me, on top and alone, and I garage deck that is calling my name.

I heard the hestiant ones--the ones left behind by this apartment's demise, were upset about the steal. They were bugging my broker, asking her, "Why? Why? What did we do to deserve this?" I have the satisfaction of sitting in a cool space and reveling in my moment, barely even giving them a second guess. What's done is done. I doubt they will ever cross my mind again.