Off the Record

"On a Scale of A- to S-..." OR "A Professor Rates My Writing"

2010-10-25T19:43:00.009-05:00

These are some comments compiled from various writing assignments assigned by a college professor who would give me one of my lowest grades ever in my college career.

These were taken from feature stories written throughout the semester.

The good thing is the grades got progressively better; the better thing is, I began writing for St. Louis Magazine the next semester.

And no one EVER AGAIN told me I had to write in AP Style.

A-
"Good story--a lot of fun while still being interesting. You NEED to stay with journalism. You HAVE to enroll in newspaper production and see if you develop a taste for deadlines and headlines. It's the only way you'll ever end up with a summer house in the French Alps."

B
"Needs to be longer with more details."

B-
"Your best lead is burned out at the bottom. This story has good information, but it could definitely be arranged better. Also, you've got to pay more attention to editing--taking care of grammar and AP style problems."

C+
"Good lead or intro explaining the problem. We need more quotes. Attribution, please, a lot of assertions seem to come from you."

S-
"Satisfactory--even good at times--but you have to change the format to current newspaper style for your future stories."

I'm a Collector, goshdangit

2010-08-23T23:40:00.005-05:00

Just a few of my favorite new items found in antique shops around the country.

I'm Working On It

2010-08-17T15:15:00.002-05:00

Working on a current project that will (hopefully) make me more self-aware and unable to hurt anyone else in the future.
To complete said project, I must sift through hundreds of torturous, heart-wrenching, heart-warming and chilling emails to find what I'm looking for.
In the process, I found this:

She has ridden

her bike

to the locksmith

because the bolt

in her door

is broken.

Now tell me:

Who is she?

Riding here,

near the river,

to repair

her door—

Is she someone

who is in love

with someone?

Has the sky

so hemmed

itself into her

garments,

the midday sun

so infused her

hazel eyes

with dull sparkle

that she really is

in love with

someone? is it

true this time?

Why Can't a Girl Get Some Shoes Up in Hurr?!

2010-07-07T20:29:00.002-05:00

From: Sarah Truckey [mailto:sctruckey@gmail.com]
Sent: Tuesday, July 06, 2010 12:07 PM
To: SperryTopSider.com Customer Service
Subject: Bring back my shoes!

Please pass on to the designers! Just a simple question/comment.

If you view the attached photo you will find a very very old (6 years, maybe) pair of women size 8.5 lime green boat shoes with white soles. I've been searching for a pair for EVER and it doesn't seem you make women's white soles anymore. I mean, of course there are these NURSING SHOES and there are the SHINY shoes but both of those are, er, well, not my style, and THESE are on the right track, but the laces aren't white.
Why can't you bring back the 2004 style of Sperry for women with awesome colors, white soles and laces?

Thanks!

-sarah

Dear Sarah,

Thank you for contacting us.

We appreciate your taking the time to share your comments and photo with us. The decision regarding what styles, sizes, and colors our shoes are manufactured in is based on consumer and retailer feedback. We will gladly forward your comments on to our product team for future consideration.

Please visit our website www.sperrytopsider.com to view our most current styles. We still manufacture several women's authentic originals with white soles. such as stock numbers 9195017, 9195041, and the Patent collection numbers 9294653, 9294620, 9294646 just to name a few.

We appreciate your loyalty to our Sperry Top-Sider brand!

Sincerely,

Angie

Consumer Relations

Leave Me Be With Flannery

2010-06-24T00:20:00.004-05:00

She did not smoke or dip, drink whiskey, use bad--
"Are you here because your air conditioning is broken?"
He is tall, handsome. The niceness of his smile is suspicious--off-putting to the point that I am comfortable ignoring him and clutching my bag tighter. His jeans are long, rather tight, and worn at the ends that covered up boots too warm for the weather.
"No, I am not," I reply. She did not smoke or--
"Oh," he says and smiles nervously.
His nice white shirt is tucked in around his thin waist, the V-neck showing the perfect amount of chest hair. His skin is tan and tight. And his hair is slicked back, nicely showing off his cheeks, whose stubble is on purpose.
She did not smoke or dip, drink--
"It's so hot out. I'm sure a lot of people are here because of their air conditioning."
"I'm just here reading...and waiting for someone."
She did--
"Well, ha, it looks like you're almost done with that book!"
"Yeah..." She did not smoke or dip, drink whiskey, use bad language or paint her face, and God knew some--
I pray to see a video camera or some gypsy kid go for my bag or a friend peering from around the corner, hoping I'll take the bait.
"Oh look at that dog!"
"Yup. He's cute." --and God knew some paint would have improved it--
He shifts awkwardly and begins to step backward.
"Alright, well, have a good night, hehe."
She did not smoke or dip, drink whiskey, use bad language or paint her face, and God knew some paint would have improved it, Parker thought. Parker understood why he had married her--he couldn't have had it any other way--but he couldn't understand why he stayed with her now.

Published.

2010-05-20T13:22:00.005-05:00

So...yeah. I told some woman who contacted me through Flickr that she could use a photo of mine for her book, Undateable. They couldn't give me credit personally, they did send me a copy of their book...which is, er, an interesting one.

Pictured here is my photo and the book's cover.

The moral of the story: don't date anyone who wears a Canadian Tuxedo.

The Undertaking

2010-05-17T14:09:00.004-05:00

A book of essays I just finished, The Undertaking, discussed the author's love/love relationship with his occupation as a funeral director. The main theme: funerals aren't for the dead--they're for the living.
I scanned this page from this particular copy of the book, checked out from Missouri's inter-collegiate loan library system, MOBIUS, because someone vehemently agreed with what Thomas Lynch was saying about how to behave at a funeral. I found it endearing and amusing.

I Suppose There's Some Sort of Irony Here...

2010-03-11T00:53:00.002-06:00

Accomplishment #1

2010-01-27T18:38:00.003-06:00

Work Order 28852 is now complete for:

Location: Webster University Home Campus
Area: Ground Floor
Area number: women's restroom

WO Description: Could we get some coat hooks installed on the doors in the women's restroom just west of the main entrance of Sverdrup please? I'd prefer to not put my coat, books and purse on the floor when I pee pee.
Thank you!--sarah truckey

Action Taken: completed 01-27-10

My Photos of Schlafly Brewery are For Sale!

2010-01-26T16:14:00.003-06:00

7
Originally uploaded by truckey

Prices range from $10 to $200, sizes range from 5x7 to 24x36.
Check out the rest of the photos here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/truckey/sets/72157607607857627/

Please contact me with any questions/requests/orders.

Thanks!

-truckey

sctruckey@yahoo.com
@truckey

My Questions for Metro...were answered!

2010-01-21T10:08:00.000-06:00

Truckey: Why are the ticket machines not on the platforms at many stations???
Debaliviere, the loop, etc. And many validation machines are on the other ends of platforms. At sunnen for example: when entering via the north end you have to go alllllll the way to the south end to validate. I've missed a few trains because of this. And why can't you post bus timetables at the stops on the signs? People without access to phone or Internet need access to the times. And I'd be much more prone to hop on a bus if times were posted.
Thanks.

Ray Friem: Hello Truckey,

I wish we could have ticket vending and validation machines at all of the entrances to our platforms, however the cost of installing this equipment, and in some cases the design of the stations and platforms, make this difficult. In the future, what you will see is an entirely new fare payment system for MetroBus, MetroLink, and Metro Call-A-Ride called "smart cards". This program, which will be implemented within the next couple of years, will involve having a magnetic stripe card that stores value. You can load money on your card at a ticket vending machine, a farebox, or even remotely using cash or your credit/debit card. When you board the bus, you will swipe the card and it will deduct your fare. When you board the train, you will pass by a validator (different that what's out there now), and touch your card to the validator. Fare inspectors on the train will use a similar, mobile device to verify valid fares. We don't know yet exactly where the new validators will be located on the platform, however we will consider comments like yours when selecting the design and layout.

As a MetroBus rider, I too wish we had schedules posted at all of the bus stops. The reason we do not today is that the schedules are subject to change on a quarterly basis. We serve over 8,000 bus stops in Missouri and Illinois, so deploying staff to update those schedules at each stop would be a very time consuming and expensive proposition. What we do have in place today is MetroLink and connecting bus times posted at MetroLink stations and transit centers, and we offer trip planning assistance in our Customer Service Transit Information call center Monday-Friday 7:30am-4:30pm (they can be reached at 314-231-2345). You might also check out our two online trip planning tools including TripFinder (available at www.metrostlouis.org) or Google Transit (www.google.com). The Google feature is new to the Metro System, and you might find it's pretty easy to use.

Moving forward, we'd like to find more ways to provide information to our customers so that riding the bus or train is easier and more attractive. One thing we could do is post schedule informaton at major stops and interchange points. This is something we are considering today, but I don't have a definte delivery date to share with you yet.

I Have a Lot of Questions for You

2009-12-27T16:51:00.002-06:00

Dear City of Maplewood:

I have a question about Flora, just east of Sutton. Heading west bound, coming under the train tracks, you take a left and head up a small hill until you get the Flora where there exists a "no right turn" arrow. There is no "One-Way"/ "Do Not Enter" sign, there are street signs on the right-hand side of the road, and cars are parked on the right side of the street facing westward, yet cars honk at me when I go down the street.

Why can one not turn right onto Flora, just east of Sutton? How do the cars that are facing westward and are parked on the right side of the street get there in the first place? To face that direction, they must have entered Flora on the east end and driven to their spots. So if taking a right turn onto Flora is illegal, why are there cars in those positions? And why isn't there a DO NOT ENTER sign rather than a "no right turn" sign?

It seems highly inefficient and terribly odd considering the layout of the street. And if you're coming down Flora heading east, after just passing Sutton, there is no sign that says it is a one-way street heading in any direction. It is a two-way street, with cars only allowed to park on the north side of the street, but no way for those cars to access the northside of the street, facing west, without making an illegal right turn onto Flora.

Please clear this up for me.

Thanks much.

-sarah

City of Maplewood response:

Dear S. Truckey,

I have talked to the Departments Heads and staff that have been here since the development of traffic issues at Flora and Arbor.

Here is what I have learned in answer to your questions:

No Right Turn on Flora:

The “no right turn” on Flora was set-up to prevent cut-through traffic to Big Bend Blvd.

Flora is a Two-Way Street:

Flora remains a two-way street so that is why there is not a sign at Sutton and Flora.

Parked Cars Facing Westbound on Flora:

Traffic coming from Elm can drive westbound on Flora.

Why Are People Honking When You Drive Eastbound on Flora?:

We could not answer this question, we don’t know why someone would honk, you are permitted to drive eastbound on Flora.

Why is There a “No Right Turn” Sign and not a “Do Not Enter” Sign?

The signage is set-up that way because traffic coming northeast on Arbor can enter Flora.

I hope I have addressed your questions regarding this matter.

December 5th, Studio Altius. Be There.

2009-11-25T18:21:00.001-06:00

6 to 11pm. I've got a photo in the show. Was a finalist in the editorial section. Come check it out!

Ever Wonder Why the Library Hours Aren't Convenient?

2009-11-22T21:53:00.002-06:00

Well, I asked why.

Me:

Hello there-

Could I ask why the library hours at all the branches are so erratic? I usually like to go to libraries in the morning, but it seems many of them aren't open until noon, which I think if very inconvenient. Is it because there isn't enough staff? Or not enough people visiting the library in the morning hours?

From a customer/service industry standpoint, having such inconsistent hours (opening at a different time each day at different branches) is very confusing.

Thank you.
____

St. Louis Public Library:

Thank you for your email.

We have four regional branches that are open 7 days per week.

Buder, Carpenter, Julia Davis and Schlafly branches are open from 9am to 9pm Monday through Thursday. They are open from 9am-6pm and both Fridays and Saturdays. They are open from 1pm to 5pm every Sunday.

Other full service locations are small neighborhood branches. These are open from 9am to 6pm on Mondays and Saturdays. They are open from noon until 7pm Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays. They are open 11 am to 6pm on Fridays. Machacek Branch is the one that is open even earlier than these others.

I hope this information will help clarify which locations are open early. If not, please let me know. I would be more than happy to answer any additional questions.

Thank you.

_____

Me:

Thanks for your response.
I know what times the branches are open, but only after arriving at one a few hours before it actually opened. I'd never have thought a library wouldn't open til noon.
My complaint/question is: Why the odd hours? Why, at the branches I frequent, are there different hours different days? It is very confusing and hard for people with no internet or phone access to keep them straight.
Your branch hours are very clearly stated on the website, which is nice, but I'm just curious as to WHY the hours are as they are.
Thank you.

_________

St. Louis Public Library:

Ms. Truckey,

When the current hours were established for the neighborhood branches, it was because the statistics at the time showed that most of the business at the smaller locations during the middle of the week was during the early afternoons through the early evenings. Mondays and Saturdays tended to be busier all day. Because the smaller locations have fewer staff, it was difficult to cover all of the hours, so the decision was made to so that more staff could be available to help patrons during the busiest times.

The regional branches do open earlier, as I stated in the previous email, and are available for patrons that want to visit earlier in the day.

Thank you.

My Experience with Target Guest Relations

2009-09-10T12:25:00.004-05:00

I wrote to Target's guest relations email address to inquire about their lack of wireless bras at the Brentwood store. I had the entire intimates department looking for me, and we found only one. I used to purchase all of my lingerie there--all wireless--so was confused by their selling cessation. I received this email in response to my inquiry:

From: guest.relations@target.com
Subject: RE: Looking for Merchandise at Target®

Dear Sarah,

From your experience, it sounds like you're having a difficult time trying to find the wireless bras at Target. To check our system for you, here's what I need:

- The 9-digit product (DPCI) number, which can be found on a price tag.
- The 12-digit barcode (UPC) from the item.

You can also call us at (800) 440-0680. For your call, please give a team member this reference number: *************. They'll do their best to find this item for you.

Thanks for writing. I look forward to helping you soon.

Sincerely,

Alex
Target Guest Relations

Because this email did not address my question, I sent Alex this email:

I don't have an issue with a particular item I've bought, I have an issue with you guys not carrying a very popular item.
I cannot look at any price tag or UPC code because I do not have any items with those on it. I bought some nice bras there a couple years ago, and don't keep price tags or codes on them because I rip them off so I can wear them.
I am only asking that you guys stock wireless bras in your stores.
Thank you.

And, like clockwork, his response to this was also very unrelated to my apparently complex issue:

Dear Sarah,

Thanks for your additional e-mail. We appreciate the time you've taken to let us know what you're looking for at Target. I'm sorry you weren't able to find wireless bras during your visit.

Hearing your feedback is very important because it helps us learn more about the merchandise you want and need from Target. Although I can't promise we'll carry these items, I'll let our Buying team know you'd like to see it at your Target store.

Thanks for letting us know how we can make your Target experience even better.

Sincerely,

Alex
Target Guest Relations

So Says He

2009-08-21T19:39:00.001-05:00

Here's the deal: I know you feel like a failure, and it's understandable because you just got denied. But you're not. I've told you before and I'll tell you again, you're one of the most motivated, driven people your age that I know. And unless you want that degree because you want to teach, then don't put so much pressure on yourself to get it. I'm not trying to sound all full of myself, but I've got a journalism degree from the University of Wisconsin, which ain't anything to get excited about, and I've done OK.

If this really is about getting a teaching degree, then everything I'm saying is moot, but if it's not, and you're just concerned about your future as a writer/journalist/general disseminator of information, you're going to be alright. You don't need another degree to tell you that you're capable or smart or talented. We already know that. Just go out and start applying for jobs -- and I mean real, full-time jobs. Or don't, and keep doing part-time stuff and write on the side. But it sounds to me like you want a little more direction/focus in your life. But you don't need school for that; you just need to cowboy up and take a job.

Alright, I'll stop with the fatherly* advice. You're going to be OK, kiddo.

[THIS IS NOT ACTUALLY FROM MY FATHER]

Me, Formerly known as Mad Men's Sally Draper

2009-08-06T13:52:00.005-05:00

Amy says I look like Sally Draper.
So, here I am.
With my dad.
Don Draper.

Things are Happening

2009-07-23T10:44:00.000-05:00

Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep

2009-07-08T10:26:00.001-05:00

Sphinx
Originally uploaded by truckey

The best kitty in the entire world, Big Buddy Buddha Boy, will be laid to rest this afternoon. Keep him in your thoughts.

Meow.

Living Life According to The New Yorker

2009-06-06T19:24:00.004-05:00

This week's issue: June 8 & 15. I usually cannot make my way through one in one week, but a double issue (especially when it's the fiction issue) means that I will read it in no less than four days--tops. Funny how this works.

At first I felt a twinge of disappointment; my favorite magazine swallowed whole in a mere four days?! What do I do for the next 10 days til my next issue? Ah yes, but wait!

I could read the dozens of other short story books I have. Or I could work on that grant application thingy that's due. Maybe even garden more. What about my unfinished grad school application? And that letter I've been meaning to write to the city's Director of Streets? And the CD I intended to burn? What about the letters of inquiry I want to write to every worthy place of employment in the city? Or that memoir that's only 1/10000000th of the way complete? Maybe I should watch the documentary my friend made. Or give Fugazi's drummer a call.

So, thank you addicting double-issue New Yorker for forcing me to do other things than sit outside in the summer dusk--cottonwood bits blowing 'round me, mint julep going down smoothly, feet perched on the picnic table--reading your rag of a mag.

Newest Work

2009-05-06T15:36:00.003-05:00

My latest photograhy is found at this online creative short fiction site, Brevity.

My photos accompany each of the essays found HERE.

Kentucky Derby

2009-04-21T19:54:00.003-05:00

I'm going to the Derby.
I may wear this:

My friend Kelly is also going to the Derby.
Should he wear this:

Or this?:

How Did I Get Here, You Ask?

2009-04-21T10:18:00.004-05:00

People give me shit for the number of friends I have on Facebook.

Now I'm giving myself shit for the number of friends I have on Facebook.

#2

2009-04-15T09:04:00.002-05:00

My second boyfriend ever dumped me a week after my 19th birthday, and two weeks before our one year anniversary.
He drove to campus in his creepy van, asked me to meet him in it, proceeded to give me my overdue birthday present and then told me he didn't want to date me anymore.
His gift to me was a bag of Raisinets and a 12-pack of plastic jewel cases in which to hold CD's.
True, I did like raisinets. But he bought those CD cases thinking there were blank CD's in them. In that case, true: I did like blank CD's.
After he delivered the blow, he asked me to get out of his creepy van.
I did; then I chased his creepy van down the street a half a block.
I cried and cried and cried.
And then I got over it.
I threw away the CD cases.
But I know I ate the Raisinets.

I Damn Thee!

2009-03-29T23:54:00.005-05:00

I'm not entirely sure why it's so difficult to keep writing on this thing.

Maybe I get caught up with other writing. With people. With moving. And not enough with myself.

I look at my previous blog and notice I wrote about everything--from Steve Martin to artichokes to prostitutes and Spain. I was acutely aware of what was going on around me and how I felt about it. I knew how to identify those emotions and, most importantly, how to convey them in this form of expression I so want to keep the world's first and foremost.

I'm not sure if it's because I am not reading my New Yorkers as I should or if it's due to the waning economy and my serious concern about how I'll stay afloat or if it's related to a sort of strange brain condition where what was once is no more.

But sitting down and forcing myself to write something as miniscule as this is definitely therapeutic. It reminds me that some people are meant to write and some people...well...some people are meant to do other things.

I Want You To Go To Here

2009-02-13T12:44:00.000-06:00

www.BigSkyDocFF.blogspot.com

My Daddy Loves Me

2009-02-12T14:18:00.000-06:00

He said so HERE

Websta's New President. Er, make that presidentS.

2009-02-10T19:16:00.002-06:00

Webster U announced its new president today: a woman (yay!).

And it also is going to spend another $300,000 of its expendable payroll cash to support a NEW position called (dundundun):

CHANCELLOR

How dignified!

The wonderful, satirical, unassuming Don Corrigan of WU's staff comments below:

Press Members & Accomplices —

I HAVE EVERY CONFIDENCE THAT THE JOURNAL WILL RISE TO

THE OCCASION AND REPORT THIS IN A SUPERLATIVE MANNER

(STOP)

THE JOURNAL HAS ALWAYS SERVED THE PUBLIC'S RIGHT TO KNOW

(STOP)

THE ADVISER IS NOW HEADING TO SUBWAY. THE ONLY COMPANY

THAT CONTINUES TO EMPLOY A BONG USER TO ENDORSE ITS

FINE PRODUCTS. SUBWAY DESERVES OUR SUPPORT.

(STOP)

say whaaaa?

2009-02-10T16:56:00.001-06:00

someone at a bar in salt lake tried to convince me that st louis was known for its bbq.
i was very confused.
because, as far as i know, stl is NOT known for its BBQ.
am i wrong?
am i not worthy to write for you anymore?
is there some mecca of bbq joints that i'm unaware of?
i said they must be confusing us with memphis or kansas city.
no no, they said, it's st louis that's famous for bbq.
hmph.
i said.
that's all i could say,
hmph.

What To Do When You Have The Grad School Blues

2009-01-19T10:57:00.002-06:00

In an act of pure desperation, call the continuing studies office at your intended place of application and ask if you could somehow defer your deadline or your acceptance or life in general. Wait for an answer. Then receive it; it is in your favor.

Be glad that January 30th has now turned into April 30th and expect that you will further extend that date to June 30th at some point in your mad dash to finish your 10 page lit crit essay. Still try to figure out what you will write about and if it will be in this over-used second-person narrative form.

Consider the fact that you actually don't want to go to grad school but you want a degree. You want to be challenged, you want to be hire-able, you want to say you've done it. You want to meet others, like you, who have a passion for writing and who are actually kinda good at it.

Consider the fact that you are broke, with only a few hundred quid to your name, and that no one wants to give anyone any money.

Look at your portfolio of writing over the last 6 years and realize you've come a long way--but, somehow, not long enough.

Still search for something, both tangible and intangible, and still get off on the fact that you've never had a full-time job.

But then come back down from your pedestal, your high horse, your soapbox, your treehouse and agree that you need more quid, you need more intangible, you need that education. Agree with your mentors that you need to push yourself further than you've ever pushed before.

But still wake up tomorrow morning and look at Facebook for 30 minutes before even getting dressed.

Where The Hell Am I

2009-01-02T14:26:00.004-06:00

There was a large house with a wrap-around porch that sat hardly tucked away in that area of Skinker/Waterman that used to be so run-down and abandoned it's a wonder it's in the regal state it is now.
There was hardly any parking.
There was, once inside, an abundance of people (all white, but two) dressed in evening wear, flapper dresses, bow ties, leather, frocks made of muslin, cleavage, tight jeans, sparkles, leis, low-cut tops and tuxes.
People were smoking cigarettes. People were laughing. And dancing. And singing out-of-tune.
There were fireplaces on top of fireplaces, roughly five dogs (from corkies to spaniels to retrievers et al), wedding speeches, buckets of beer, jewels and diamonds and bangles, and awkward moments.
There was the gal who had just returned from China; she wore a kimono and those little canvas shoes that have stiff soles and absolutely no arch support.
There were people who knew me, people I recognized and people who I didn't remember. I introduced my man to one in the hopes that she would say her name so I didn't have to. She did--it was Kiera. At one point she sat on an ottoman with her man-friend and looked sad or drunk. This was right before midnight. I don't know why she was sad. Or drunk. Once she told me she liked my shoes and then she asked me if they were leather. I said yes and she said that's a shame. Was it?
There were Christmas decorations I've seen only in antique shops, some worth $50 apiece.
There were F.S. Fitzgerald-looking stained glass windows that I was surprised hadn't been stolen--ripped from their wood and sold to a dealer who probably wouldn't even know what FSF had written.
There was caviar (my first taste ever), sweet and sour chicken, shrimp cocktail, mushroom caps served by a wobbly drunk man in a green sweater who ate some caps off the plate and who, later in the evening, fell flat on the dance floor while dipping his wife. She rubbed her large booty as if it hurt and the crowd laughed and laughed. And laughed. I only laughed because of the thump I felt through the refinished oak floors. And there was champagne at midnight which tipped me over the edge after an evening of 4 beers, one cocktail, and one glass of wine. Oh, and there was a three-tiered cake (each layer a different flavor) served on fake glass plates with silverware that looked like silver, but it was really plastic. I ate the carrot cake. It was delicious.
There was an old woman in the kitchen who came out of the kitchen banging a pan 15 minutes before midnight. She returned my strange stare with a blank stare. She had thick ankles and looked like she was from Italy. Maybe it was the long skirt, buttoned sweater and dark features that made me think that; or maybe it was her thick ankles.
There were two photographers who kissed at midnight. The boy had been spotted earlier in the night sitting in a chair, trying to recover from the excess of alcohol he consumed even earlier in the night. He was underage.
There were chandeliers, light fixtures and door ornaments built in the house 100 years ago. They still worked.
There was my favorite character of the evening: the brooding male cousin, thin, with glasses and moppy hair, who smoked a cigarette right down to its nub while he ate quiche with his fingers from a pan on the stove. I spied him through the maid's entrance into the kitchen from the dining room with sheer joy and admiration. I loved brooding cousins.
There was the black butler in the Lacoste sweater who took my jacket upstairs immediately upon my entrance to the party. He wore a bow tie and black pants. He was bald and wore glasses. I did not catch is name. He bussed my empty champagne glass at 12.13am.
There was the crazy aunt with blue hair. The article from 1779, framed and hanging in the dining area. Live music. A disco ball in the stairwell.
There was the old hairy man who I saw speaking with at least three 20-year-old girls--virgins, I suspected--as the night wore on. They looked unviolated and legitimately interested in his musings. Maybe he mused about them. Maybe he was rich. Maybe he was their uncle.
There was the skinny girl with legs like twigs or toothpicks who wore a flapper dress and who looked awful in those platform shoes. She smoked a stogie at some point, then I saw it sitting, upturned, in a glass from which someone else had been drinking. She couldn't handle the masculinity of cigars, I thought. She was pretty, yes. But it isn't an FSF novel, I thought. By 12.34 she had taken off the shoes and replaced them with flat ballerina shoes with absolutely no arch support.

Aw Schucks

2008-12-21T19:32:00.000-06:00

Why, THIS is all very flattering.

Flabberty Gibbets!

2008-12-11T11:18:00.002-06:00

When someone like these guys publish something like this, I retort with this:

Regarding Alton Confidential:
Although I am an Alton native, I am not writing to express my dismay that Alton was presented so poorly; because, in fact, Alton was presented quite accurately in this piece. And, while I'm fully aware of the RFT's desire to make each story as sexy and as low-brow and as shocking as possible, I'm writing to express my disdain for the poor journalism exhibited in this story. Maybe "story" is too strong a word...perhaps "pieced-together snippets of Alton's main attractions in the most non sequitur way possible" would be more accurate. How can you take 4 unrelated concepts--boobs, crime, gambling and ghosts--and somehow stuff it into one feature? I, nor anyone I've talked with, quite understands what was trying to be said in this piece. Yes, boobies are shocking. But why use it to bookend the other things about Alton? Couldn't you get a couple thousand more words on the titty issue and leave out the other jazz? I'm sure you could. Really. Next time you do a piece about some pithy anecdote (this one being about horny, desperate barmaids), make sure you have a plot--no one wants to read 4 stories wrapped up into one article written by someone's whose description of Alton's breasts is better than his knowledge of well-thought out journalism.

I Won!

2008-12-10T10:41:00.007-06:00

Dear Sir/Madam:

In response to your complaint regarding the ticket number...our investigation has found your complaint to be accurate and valid; therefore, this/these ticket(s) have been administratively canceled.

We apologize for any inconvenience this matter may have caused.

-City of St. Louis Parking Violations Bureau

______

I parked here on a Saturday.

Joe

2008-12-03T14:36:00.003-06:00

I met Joe's parents at my church, where I was actively involved in Vacation Bible School, playing the part of someone called Princess Evillina who attempted (somewhat unsuccessfully) to foil the plans of do-gooders Captain Flex, Dr. Goodfellow and Illinois Jones. At some point during my role-playing, the man who played Illinois Jones (Fr. Dan) wrote a song with a title bearing my name to the tune of She's a Woman by the Beatles. I admit now, unlike I would then, that I this composition won me over. "I know and evil princess...she never prays to Jesus..."

Because of my Tony-worthy debut and my penchant for Joe, his parents asked me to start babysitting for him and their two other children (who loved me just as equally). I didn't really have all that much nannying experience, especially with kids like Joe--who had Downs Syndrome.

He was energetic. And moody. And affectionate. He was also rather bright. He liked apple juice. And his dog. He got impatient when I read him stories and began to create his own adventure. I remember how his knees sort of buckled toward each other. And how he'd always make sure his shirt was tucked in nice and tight by sticking his hands halfway down his pants. I remember him once twisting my arm so hard that it almost made me cry. And I remember that he frequently had accidents--once in his pants, once all over the floor. His siblings were used to it, I suppose, and helped me out a bit, but they were just as much a handful as Joe was. But I loved them all.

I never saw myself very fit to babysit a child with such a disability, and maybe my exhausted face and hesitance to watch the kids again told the parents the same thing. Of course they paid extremely well for 1998, but my own sanity and insecurities eventually came into play.

I ran into Joe's older sister about a year ago when I was out to dinner at Alton's fanciest restaurant. She was the hostess. And I don't usually do this, but I asked her if she was who I thought she was. She said yes. She was all grown up--no buck teeth, no oddly-shaped freckles, no gangly arms, no glasses. She was beautiful. I asked about her family, and she said they were doing well. Good, I thought. Very good.

Today at Schnucks I noticed the bagger at the end of the lane as I always do (because, growing up, I always wanted to be the bagger at Schnucks) and knew that it was Joe. There aren't many kids with down syndrome in Alton--especially ones whose parents let them out of their supervision or ones who aren't in the home for the mentally retarded out in Godfrey. I squinted to see his nametag and saw three letters. J-O-E. He had the same haircut, same mannerisms, same hands--those little, tiny hands. I guessed him about 18 now.

I stared at him for longer than I should have and watched him bag a woman's food, taking into account, with each item, where it should go in the packing process. As soon as he finished a bag, he'd clench his fists, then shake his hands, then move them back alongside his body. Then repeat. And repeat. At one point he tucked his shirt even further into his pants. I smiled.

I wondered how receptive others were to people like Joe--fully-functional young men with Downs who bagged their food stuffs. He wasn't talking or making sounds or rocking back and forth or doing anything inappropriate. He looked up at me but I kept staring with that stupid smile on my face. I stared and stared until the checkout lady said, "Next, Miss."

I didn't stop to say hello on my way out, but I gave him one last glance behind me to look at his cute, buckly knees.

Sweatin' It Out: Day Two

2008-12-02T15:07:00.002-06:00

Today's 50-minute affair included me nearly rolling my ankle when I "reached for that sky," as per Simmons' request. Maybe I should wear shoes when I do all this jazz. But shoes on carpet? In my house? Maybe I should just work on getting my ankles stronger.

I also pulled an arm muscle when the team grabbed two soda bottles apiece and used them as weights. I, on the other hand, grabbed 3lb weights. I stopped halfway through after the burning sensation became too much to handle. You whimp! I told myself. But then Richard said, "I'm burning, too kids!" and then it was all ok.

Because I had already done the first part of the video yesterday, I became bored during the songs I knew by heart. So, to spice it up, I threw in some of my own moves--a twist here, an extra clap there, a double-time grapevine over there. And when they walked in place and took their heart rates, I just jumped around and did some killer moves I never knew I could do. It was very rewarding.

And how cool will it be in a few weeks when I'm all in-shape and people are like, "Whoa, how'd you do it?!" and I'll say it was Richard Simmons and then they'll give me that look and then smile and shake their heads and think I'm kidding.

But I'm not kidding.

Richard Simmons is a god.

Day One of Sweatin' to the Oldies

2008-12-01T12:25:00.002-06:00

It was only after 35 minutes of this morning's work-out to "Sweatin' to the Oldies 2" for the first time in 13 years that I realized where I get most of my dance moves.

At one point my mom was an active aerobicizer. She took classes and went so far as to purchase two of Simmons' videos. I would sometimes watch her and do them with her, all the while thinking it ridiculous and stupid. But sometimes when I was home alone I'd put them in and jig to "Locomotion," "Fever" and "Jailhouse Rock." Guilty pleasure at the age of 12, I suppose. Or maybe I was jealous of his legs; mine were still unshaven per my mother's demands that I was not yet old enough to put a razor to them. Simmons is a very, very hair man, yet his stems were always so glossed and lovely. I bet he'd look killer in tights. Oh to be shiny and fit! I thought as a youngster.

I only found one of the tapes in my father's untouched cabinet of VHS cassettes, so I popped it in under the self-imposed orders of my new diet plan. I found myself remembering each step and movement. I knew how the fat androgynous person with the blue sweatband held his/her hands above his/her head when they performed "Breakin' Up is Hard to Do." I still laughed at the large woman in the pink spandex when she did the wrong moves during "Big Girls Don't Cry." The sweat on the tall black man's forehead still mystified me because I never perspired when I did these exercises.

I found myself still feeling my pulse when Simmons told me to. I had no idea what my target heart rate was, but I stomped in place and put two fingers to my neck. I cheered with the obese people when they cheered. I grapevined when they grapevined. I got excited when the Elvis look-alike rolled in in a big pink Caddy with a girl who failed to lip sync despite the microphone she held to her mouth. I swung my hips and felt my hamstrings pull. I reached to the sky and "punched it out."

After 40 minutes I swore to myself that I would do this video every single day for the coming weeks until I was in top physical condition. Until my arms were firm and my stomach, trim and my ass, supple. Until my thighs were bulging and my calves as smooth and round as Simmons'. But it's winter.
And I don't shave in the winter.

The Caterpillar Shuffle

2008-11-23T12:57:00.002-06:00

Shot on location in Alton, IL.

Schlafly Beer

2008-11-20T10:16:00.003-06:00

Photo by Troika Brodsky, Esq.

Tom Schlafly had a birthday and this is what I gave him.

Not pictured: Posterboard with Tony's English translation from the German poem he read to Tom.

Les Hommes

2008-11-09T21:41:00.003-06:00

There are the ones who drool. The ones who stare. The ones who touch. And the ones who don't.
Some sit in their corners, peacefully, without a drink, and look around the room anxiously, eyes darting from stage to stage and spectator to spectator. There's the man with the voicebox.
Or the man clutching a wad of ones.
Or the man getting a blowjob behind a screen.
There are military men and gay men trying to get straight, and abused men back for more.
There are those in their boxer-briefs on stage, and those rich enough to buy the whole building complete with every woman inside.
There's the man cupping a stripper's bottom and the man throwing up in the bathroom. There's the man overtipping his bartendress and one hitting on a woman he doesn't know is a man.
A man mourning his break-up.
A man who just got a raise.
A man who just flushed his phone down the toilet.
There are 18-year-old strip club virgins and 42-year-old veterans who told their wives they were going to the horse races with friends from college.
There is the man who came alone and the man who paid to have sex with one of the girls just last week.
There is the plumber.
The mortician.
The CFO.
The producer.
The barista.
The interior designer.
The small business owner.
The professor.
The lawyer.
The blogger.
There is the man with a porn addiction.
The one who can't stay in his seat.
The one wearing a toupée.
There are men who have never been touched by a woman.
Men who can't speak English.
Men overdosing on Viagra.
Men who won't remember this night.
And men who look just like you.

TOP 10 TEXT MESSAGES

2008-11-09T14:03:00.003-06:00

The following messages were all sent to me post-results release on Tuesday, November 4th, 2008.

10.Go Bama!!!!
9.Yo-How are you? Did you vote for the new president?
8.oh. byebye. yay obama.
7.Some rich guy beat some other rich buy. whatever. yay democracy.
6.Landslide! Dance!
5.Booyaa! Obama!
4.This is beautiful it is just beginning!
3.Fuck yeah.
2.Hot damn!
1. I am so fucking happy

Go.

2008-10-31T21:56:00.003-05:00

Webster Film Series hosts the best orchestra playing to the best movie ever.
Sunday at 8pm.

Alton is the Bomb (sometimes)

2008-10-31T21:33:00.001-05:00

Bomb
Originally uploaded by truckey

About Alton, I will say this: it is crawling with people who are more than willing to show you what they have.

The YMCA on 3rd Street hill, built in 1907, suffered a fire in the 1920's before being rebuilt shortly thereafter, and housed a gymnasium and a pool, among other things. It is where my grandparents met. It is where my friend's father used to swim naked. It is where bums used to live and draw bombs on the windows. It is where I got in for a tour by way of simply asking the woman who owns it.

It is nearly completely gutted; the only remnants are the pool (completely intact with diving board), a button light switch, wrought iron legs that hold up a porcelain sink, and the wooden banisters. It smells like must and poop and dead birds.

But I got an excellent tour and history I'd never expected to actually see. Potentially I could do this for every building in Alton I've ever wanted to enter. All you have to do is ask.

MetroLink Prom flyer

2008-10-28T15:51:00.001-05:00

MetroLink Prom flyer
Originally uploaded by Kirkbride Palace

Why I love St. Louis and its quirky, quirky, wonderful people.

Three Days In

2008-10-23T20:16:00.007-05:00

For one reason or another I keep telling myself that I came here to be unhappy. To be truly miserable and to see what it feels like to be alone. But because I expected that's how I was going to feel, I now feel obligated to follow through. And because the human mind tends to recollect only the most recently perceived emotion, I will, most of the time, tend to feel lost and irritable and numb. That's only because, however, I feel that way only when I actually take time to think about how I feel. But between those bad times, are good times.

Time spent reading conservatively liberal magazines and laughing at Brian Suda and discovering Alton's shadows and watching television and writing on my notepad and talking to the cat. Here I have full internet access. I have a porch. I have a couch. I have a coffee grinder. I have a beautiful town. I have my past. I have my present.
And, best of all, I have my future.

Marcel's Instructions for Life

2008-10-20T21:43:00.000-05:00

The Sweetest Thing I've Heard All Week

2008-10-19T11:38:00.004-05:00

photo by BT

"if i could show-up at your door and fix everything i would, but it is impossible, the best we can do is try"

Suiting Sarcasm

2008-10-17T01:14:00.002-05:00

He sat with his back turned and slightly hunched over the bar. His hair had been freshly cut--I could tell by the dark brown bits scattered over his slight shoulders--and it was damp, short on the sides and longer on top. That's the way I had told him to cut it.

His left elbow was on the bar, the same hand holding an unfiltered cigarette between his middle and ring fingers--the way he'd always held it--and he moved his head toward the fag for each drag.

In his right hand was a beer he'd barely touched and he twisted it on the coaster, centering the base of the glass between on the paper circle with each rotation.
I did that, too, with my beers. Precision and accuracy above beauty and humor, he'd say.

He stared at the rim for as long as it took one cigarette to burn to the inside of his fingers. While he put it out in the ashtray in front of the person next to him I caught his eye and he only stared. Expressionless, almost. His hand still in the ashtray, now covered in soot, he kicked back the rest of his beer, making sure to place it so in the center of the coaster, then rose, walked past me and out the door.

Out of Potty Experience

2008-10-14T09:58:00.001-05:00

Out of Potty Experience
Originally uploaded by truckey

Sara Nolte and I have nothing in common. We don't like the same clothes, movies, books, papers, websites, or alcohol. She wears make-up and does her hair. I bike and walk most of the time. She is on a diet. I write in little notebooks. She has a full-time job and makes lots of money. I am homeless. Her mind is structured and mechanical and she thinks about how things work.

But Sara Nolte and I lie together in bed and talk about what's bigger than us in our lives and about Tom Cruise's newest baby and that priest in Kansas City who did that stuff to that kid. We talk about family. And friends. And love. And sex. And if they're the same thing.
We say I love you before we leave each other. And we don't interrupt when the other one is talking.

We're familiar enough that she can tell me when my feet stink, and I can jump up and down on her bed when it's time to wake up. She knows little about literature and art. I know little of chemicals and engineering. But we teach each other. We fill the other's void.

Celebrities in St. Louis

2008-10-13T14:10:00.003-05:00

From SheDevil to Best in Show to the eyebrowless lawyer on Arrested Development to the manic husband on Six Feet Under, Ed Begley Jr. has made yet another comeback with St. Louis' Local Harvest Cafe. Too bad I wasn't there. Damn.
He's so handsome...

A Week's Worth

2008-10-06T11:38:00.003-05:00

It was this time last week that we woke up and decided to start our day. And then what happened after that was someone told me I couldn't stay in their seminary because I was too young. And too beautiful.
Shortly thereafter Iceland called to tell me I couldn't come, because he was too busy. Then we got in a fight about the hit you took and how it made me uncomfortable.
My mom's boyfriend called it "saaulza" instead of "salsa" and they picked apples with me until I couldn't pick any longer.
A McCain/Palin sign appeared in my dad's yard and I considered stealing it, taking it around the country and taking pictures with it.
Then we didn't text and I shook my phone thinking it was dead. The job opportunities are there, but no one's wanting me.
Maybe because I'm too young or too beautiful.
But I doubt it. Cause if I were so, you wouldn't have done what you did.

Sloshball!

2008-10-03T09:58:00.003-05:00

Photo of me bringing pizza to the team after 5 hours of sloshball.

Sloshball Rules: Keg sits at 2nd, takes the place of the baseman and acts as a force out for the lead runner. Shortstop catches a grounder, needs not throw it at first, but rather rather hurls it at the keg to oust the runner. No one may pass 2nd base without chugging a beer tapped from the keg.

Door Prize: Evening Seven

2008-10-03T08:26:00.001-05:00

[Installment seven of seven]

The seventh time, the last time, I threw the pear, still untouched but now rotting and molding, into his sink. Before leaving unannounced in the middle of the night, I quietly placed the gift certificate back on his bulletin board.

Door Prize: Evening SIx

2008-09-30T09:55:00.000-05:00

[Installment Six of Seven]

The sixth time, half a beer.

Door Prize: Evening Five

2008-09-28T10:31:00.000-05:00

[Installment five of seven]

The fifth time we had sex he fed me a sandwich.

Door Prize: Evening Four

2008-09-26T08:44:00.000-05:00

[Installment four of seven]

The fourth time we had sex he returned to me a sweater I had left the last time I stayed the night. He handed it to me while I was still in bed--naked from head to toe.

Door Prize: Evening Three

2008-09-24T11:00:00.001-05:00

[Installment three of seven]

The third time we had sex I saw a pear I had given him five days earlier resting, untouched, on a shelf in his kitchen.
"You didn't eat your pear," I pointed.
It had been a vital component of a care package I had left for him on his doorstep.
"I didn't," he said, looking a bit caught. "But I will."
I considered reclaiming it.
Instead, he held me close.
"Hey. It was the sweetest thing ever. Really. It was."
A contemplative pause from the both of us.
He raised his eyebrows: "Did you ever use that laundry gift cert?"
It was sitting on my end table. Or maybe it was in my bag. Or maybe resting in the trash can in my study.
"I didn't," I said, playing it off, "But I will."
I would never use it.
"Well, it expires on in a couple weeks, so if you aren't gonna use it, I'll take it back."
I reveled in his innocent audacity.

I learned later that he had held onto this for 11 1/2 months, taking action only now--the last two weeks of its validity. But perhaps he had tried to pawn this off on other sex partners post-coitally, but, because none of them ever used it, he asked for it back under the pretense of its impending expiration.

"Do you have anything that needs to be laundered?" he asked seriously.

I looked down at my feet. "Not really."

Why I Left

2008-09-23T11:31:00.002-05:00

Door Prize: Evening Two

2008-09-22T12:56:00.002-05:00

[Installment two of seven]

The second time I spent the night he gave me a tube of Chapstick to replace the one I lost on the float trip we had just returned from.

"Door prize," he said with a grin and a raise of the eyebrows as he handed it to me. "Keep it!" he encouraged. It felt small in my hand; much too small to make me feel worthy enough to inherit a thing of such value. I spread some on my lips then waited for him to walk away before placing it back on the bureau.

After mentioning something about a sunburn he sprinted upstairs, intruded on his roommate's shower and returned, eyebrows raised, brandishing a bottle of aloe. He placed it in my bag.
"I can just put some on here," I suggested.
He shook his head insistently as he led me to the door.

"Hey!" he exclaimed, stopping abruptly. "Did you get your Chapstick?"
Caught.
Red.
Handed.
"Ah! No!" he corrected himself, "That's right--you traded it out for the aloe."
I forced a smile and chortled.
It all seemed very practical in his head.
I'm glad it did.

Duck Potato

2008-09-21T22:32:00.002-05:00

Duck Potato
Originally uploaded by truckey

Some things in life are just weird.
This being one of them.
Mouth made of Swiss chard stem and hat made from recycled paper.
Go shop there--their veggies are WEIRD.

Door Prize: Evening One

2008-09-20T16:40:00.003-05:00

[Installment one of seven]

After the first time we had sex, he offered me a gift, a door prize, upon my departure. I took it as a nervous gesture--used only to fill the time in between the obligatory, "Well, thanks for letting me stay" and the actual, physical exit.

It was a neon yellow 8x11 sheet of paper with typed words telling me of my $10: good toward any dry-clean, laundering or other washing service done by the neighborhood mat. For a second it made me uncomfortable--knowing I got a gift certificate for simply staying over--but after assessing his situation, I became aware of the fact that the bulletin board in his kitchen was covered with things of this nature. There were coupons, MLB tickets, hand-written IOU's and gift cards hanging proudly. He was one of those guys who won everything and felt it his duty to supply others with objects equal to his achieved wealth. He was lucky.
And he knew it.

If Objects Stay in Motion, Do They Still Keep in Touch?

2008-09-12T13:18:00.003-05:00

Today in physics class I learned how to use a SmartBoard. I learned how to get children to quiet down.
Today in science class I instructed some 13 year olds in the way of the cyclone, and telling them the difference between a hurricane, tornado, cyclone and tsunami.
Today in science class I reconsidered the notion of global warming when a 12 year old stated that the icebergs are cold, and, when they melt, are releasing cool water rather than warm water (which is the cause of Ike and Gustav, etc.), not necessarily disproving the heat-engine theory, but only making it harder to prove that the water temperature in the North Atlantic and Indian Oceans is increasing.
Today on the bus I learned that some people have really potent gaseous expulsions.
Today on the phone I learned that I will not have to pay rent the month of October for "any inconvenience" my landlord caused me.
Today I learned that I could quite possibly support myself solely by substitute teaching.
Today I learned that tomorrow it's going to rain.

Stumble Upon

2008-09-07T14:51:00.005-05:00

Some things make me smile.

This is one of them.

Quarter-Life Crisis!

2008-09-01T08:57:00.002-05:00

Thus far my quarter-life crisis is going quite well.

I've discovered accoutrements such as Twitter and international text messaging to make my life all the more hectic yet easier.
I've taken up drinking only cheap beer, allowing my daily water intake to increase by approximately 5 times.
While I've grown out of most of my pants due to over-frequent bike riding, the option of buying more pairs of pants is seemingly out of the question.
I've decided to move out of the area, but cannot find myself to part with any of my material objects--the ones that could potentially finance my move.
I'm waffling between NYC, Salt Lake and Barcelona as places to camp while I figure out my life's plan via short story and essay writing.
I've considered random lovers from many walks of life, but refusing all offers for weekend getaways, hikes in the woods and romantic candlelit dinners.
I've decided on a gallery show that will be called "From My House To Yours."
I've taken to quitting my job at the grocery and cafe, and have fallen into coaching tennis, a job that should have paid me but has not yet.
I've taken to eating oatmeal topped with bananas and peanut butter, only to be confronted with the fact that it gives me gas.
I drink nearly 3 shots of espresso a day, leading me to believe my life would be nil without caffeine.
I began playing shuffle board, like the old folks do on cruises.
I started taking walks just to mail a postcard.
I've struck up correspondence with the least-expected people.

Next week: Boca Del Vista Rista Florida.

crook

2008-08-13T20:36:00.001-05:00

crook
Originally uploaded by daftgirly

Another shot I took.
Yum.
Yum.

Lord of the Yum Yum

2008-08-13T20:30:00.001-05:00

Lord of the Yum Yum
Originally uploaded by daftgirly

This amazing man played at Severson's party last weekend.
I will never be the same.
Ever.
Thank you, yum yum.
And thank you, Janet's camera.

Hotdogs and Iceland

2008-08-11T15:56:00.006-05:00

I may move to Iceland after reading this beautiful poetry written by my friend who lives there.

5 - Iceland Loves Hotdogs
7 - They keep you warmer inside
5 - But are made of lamb

-link

Lucky Enough

2008-08-07T14:48:00.003-05:00

I consider myself incredibly lucky when I'm chosen to be published in THIS magazine.

It is the kind of publication St. Louis needs.

Now, if only other St. Louisans realized that.

Enjoy.

St. Louis' Finest Out Naked

2008-08-04T18:34:00.005-05:00

Friday, August 1st, 2008

Note the cop car, the topless lady, the fireworks and the buck-naked guy at the end of the :36.

Nearly Naked in the St. Louis Night

GB's Diner, Alton

2008-07-31T15:26:00.004-05:00

The Dr. Pepper a sales rep had tried to sell him two weeks ago was still sitting out on the counter. A report card with straight A's two semesters in a row hung on the glass case above the deli table. The only modern thing in the place was the nacho cheese dispenser coated in black plastic and a bright orange picture of Gehl's Cheese Sauce. A large-breasted woman with blond hair and dark eyeliner held a gyro in a large poster on the wall above the Pepsi machine and family photos. A high-falutent man in a suit walked in. A member of the police force or a county official, if my memory served me correctly. I didn't use the Concord grape jelly that sat alongside my toast, nor did I touch the hot sauce I requested for my over-easy eggs. Something called Vegalene pan coating rested on the shelf above the griddle where Jim, the Greek, poured some hot cake mix on the over-used and under-heated surface. I looked outside across the street where my car sat in a gravel parking lot on the eastern border of Alton's industrial yard. There was a marquee with missing letters. Footage of the stock market and today's trade flashed on the screen, out of place for this environment yet somehow fitting at the same time. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and decided that maybe I should dye my hair--like Jim, the Greek, had done for so many years.

Jen Rides her Bike

2008-07-31T15:20:00.001-05:00

Jen Rides her Bike
Originally uploaded by truckey

Look, Ma! No hands!

Jen and I thoroughly enjoy a good evening ride, and this vid was taken as we strolled down Broadway headed downtown to do more of what we do best--drink.

Buzzing Off

2008-07-30T09:10:00.001-05:00

A quick summary of my best photo work.

Post Gets The Inside Scoop

2008-07-27T09:29:00.001-05:00

What Dreams are Made Of

From a Facebook Wall Post

2008-07-27T09:18:00.004-05:00

"Way to go Miss STL....hmm, perhaps you should limit your dating to guys only with last names that start with "L" in hopes that one day you really can be Mrs. STL...not that you are looking to get married or anything silly like that."

Phooie

2008-07-20T19:06:00.003-05:00

Mike's arm shot out from off camera and patted Phooie's shoulder, touching it in a way that only a son can touch a father. Phooie was on the verge of crying--this old man with bushy eyebrows and a basement-bound 16mm film collection. For some reason, even after all the jokes and the image of his grandchild setting up hazard cones in front of Phooie's movie seats and the amusing narrative voiced-over by Mike, this gesture struck me as one of the most moving I'd ever seen.

And then Mike sits in front of the camera, in the room with his wife I assume, and looks at us and tells us he doesn't get why people are always searching for more. Why can't anyone be satisfied with life? Why can't Phooie just be happy? "What's so fucking hard about life?" He asks himself at one point why he spends so much time looking for records when he could spend it playing GO Fish with his daughter.

"How long do you think this is gonna last?" he asks his daughter about his habitual acquiring, "Do you think this thing with records is gonna continue for a long time? Are you going to collect records when you're older?"
"Sure. I'm gonna have yours when you're dead," she says boldly.
"Oh Yeah?"
"Yeah," she confirms, "You've already got an affinity [sic], why did you buy so much?"
"Why did I buy so many records?"
"Yeah, one time I counted."
A pause.
"I wish I knew why I have so many records," he asks himself.

I'm not exactly sure which emotions this evoked, but something hit me--hard. With tears pushed away, I considered it could be Mike's leaving St. Louis and all the amazing things he's done for Webster and for me. I thought maybe it was seeing him interact with his daughter and his father and his wife. Or perhaps it was the questions he asked--why do we always want more?

I don't think I'm there yet, however. I don't think I'm at the point where I can just settle for what this is--I do want more, but is searching for it a reflection of discontentment or does it mean I'm well aware of my potential that isn't being utilized fully?

The Film

Alligator Coat Factory

2008-07-20T12:46:00.001-05:00

Window
Originally uploaded by truckey

Empty Warehouse.
Not much too look at except the incredible, incredible interior graffiti and structural remnants.

Video of Best R-Ballers EVER

2008-07-16T22:46:00.001-05:00

Video of Best R-Ballers EVER
Originally uploaded by truckey

Why you use a YMCA card to get into the COOLEST Y in town.

Simon Says

2008-07-16T17:35:00.003-05:00

The man looked familiar. Turns out my friend knew him. I learned his name was Simon. Simon. Simon, I thought. His eyes looked familiar, he was very attractive. Simon. Simon. I watched him smile then asked if he played the trumpet. Yes, he said, I do play the trumpet. I smiled. Simon, I thought, Simon...of course. I told him without looking at him that I had met him long ago, at a party, down on Delmar and 170. I was in college, I said, speaking as if it were decades ago. Saying, Yes, Simon, Simon, I met you a long time ago at a party." I kept smiling. He wasn't sure why. Oh did we, he asked, his Scottish accent a lot dimmer now than it had been when he first met long ago. Yes we did. Simon. I think we made out on a couch, I said authoritatively, knowing he wouldn't remember. Without looking at him I could feel him grin, embarrassed. I guess it was, I don't know, about five years ago, maybe four. Huh, he kept saying, as if he remembered but had pushed it out of his mind. We met in the kitchen, I told him, in the kitchen and then we made out in a chair--it wasn't a couch--a chair.
Then you broke my heart, I told him, jokingly.
You broke my heart.
Later our common friend tells me he may have been married during that time.
Simon! Yes, of course! Simon!

Never Going Back Again

2008-07-15T17:44:00.003-05:00

As I lay bleeding on your bed
he told me my nose was wide enough to be a selfless person.

While you insisted on cordial
she texted me and asked me to go ride bikes.

Since you started feeling unbalanced
I turned to my tennis players and asked them to hit.

Once you stopped speaking because you said I was weird
he showed me the planets in the sky.

When you didn't invite me
he guided me through the rubble.

As your wife struggled in labor
he died and left me to visit with his family, his friends and none of his foes.

I consider my underbite and the way it makes me feel.
I want to move away in the hopes that you'd follow.

On my to-do list I wrote: Shoot prostitutes.
But not in the violent way that you all want to shoot me.

Television

2008-07-11T01:01:00.002-05:00

Now I know why people can't stop.

There are ads for Guys Gone Wild.
And award-winning films.
And non-award-winning films.
Hey there's Clive Owen.
And there's some lesbians.
There's Julianne Moore bleeding to death.
But wait.
Wait.
There's more.
There's Larry David telling his wife he doesn't want to have sex.
And a gay man conducting an ad for something called ShamWow.
Now Al Pacino's dipping his head in cocaine.
And some guy is cheating on his girlfriend.

But my eyes are growing heavy.
But I really can't stop.
Because now Clive Owen is crying.

I Shouldn't Be Doing This

2008-07-10T14:05:00.002-05:00

Lonely
Originally uploaded by truckey

http://www.eco-absence.org/stl/inf/index.html

What It Was Like

2008-07-09T16:34:00.003-05:00

The wake was somber, but full of laughter when Polly got up and told us all that she had fallen in love with Marcel when she was 17 while he sang, "I Put a Spell on You." She told us this through stifled tears, while the rest of us sobbed and rubbed our eyes raw with the hands that once held the man we saw lying, dead, in the casket.

I met Helen outside the room and introduced myself and asked why she held a plant in a coffee pot. She said Marcel had given it to her before he left on his trip, and she wanted to give it to his father, whose composure made me feel slightly uncomfortable. She stared straight ahead, days of tears still sitting at the bottom of her eyelids, and asked, "Have you gone in there yet?" I shook my head no, "I didn't have a hand to hold until now." She nodded, still gazing ahead. "Let's do it." I admired her fortitude.

We started past all the pictures of Marcel, each one showing a different side of his personality: his good qualities, his better qualities and his best qualities. Smiling, laughing, grinning, shouting, screaming, loving, talking, thinking, shining. We hadn't looked at one frame before she said, "I think I'd rather go this way," motioning to the path that lead directly to the casket where our friend lay.
I swallowed hard and followed her.

Before I knew it we were immediately standing over the coffin that held a man, his face green, his hands brown, the latter gripping a book by Faust and a large blunt wooden weapon. His face was bearded, and below the latter there was a Moleskine journal, apparently bought for his travel across the country.

"He looks like he's 80 years old," Helen said through angry, angry tears, unable to realize he was gone.

I don't remember if I said anything, but I may have tried, the words just not coming out when I opened my mouth. We continued on to look at the pictures, only to return to the front later, when his mom greeted the dozens of passers-by at they came to grieve her beautiful son.

She went up to his box and began showing us, piece by piece, what the things with him stood for. She touched his chest and his arm and his belly with an ease that someone would have as if they were touching someone still alive; someone not hollow and not doused with fluids. I wanted her to stop.

She said she thought he knew that he was going to die; she could see it in his eyes before he left and in pictures taken just days before the accident.

She embraced me physically the way I had emotionally embraced her son. I felt uncomfortable, but only before I felt that I needed to be the one embracing her.

Finish Work

2008-07-08T23:20:00.002-05:00

After having (mostly) given up the drink, I am currently slightly tipsy off of one beer. When I say tipsy I mean I just spilled beer on my dress and am watching something on the Family Channel about the secret lives of teenagers, but am considering something titled, "Bikini Allstars."
When I'm tipsy I think about moving away.
And I think about the buildings I want to break into.
And I think about buying Swatch watches online.
I think about why people drink.
And songs I like to sing.
And what sleazy diner at which I want to have 3 eggs over easy in the morning.
I think about why you didn't call me back and if I'm going to get promoted.
I think about why all my grade school friends are getting married.
And why the ants made their way in through the door at my work this today and how they made their way to a jar of peanut butter across the room.

Now I've stopped on The Departed.

No Bikini Allstars.

tresspass

2008-07-05T11:24:00.001-05:00

tresspass
Originally uploaded by jen takes photos

jen shot this as we prepared to go into the bum-infested waters of the Cotton Belt Freight Depot near the riverfront.

Beautiful Man

2008-07-02T11:10:00.001-05:00

http://i98.photobucket.com/albums/l253/okiedokieartichoky/marcel%20fremont/marcel.jpg

2008-06-27T18:41:00.005-05:00

You once wrote your information for me on a $2 bill as if I should heed the warning and know it was something I should keep.

Once we rode to the basement bar with the Scotch and we sat in a cell and sipped. I paid.

Once we rode to Cementland, to the Gypsy Boat, and I think that night we could have kissed. But we didn't.

That night you also smoked some marijuana, something I had never tried.

One time after that I begged we go to your friend Ian's house and rummage through the leftovers from a dead man who once lived there. You got some shirts. I got a suitcase.

You always said "goot" for "good" and started me on saying "yarrrrr" for "yes."

You tried to quit smoking cigarettes. But I saw you doing it once behind my back.

One night we sat in your apartment drinking beer, me limoncello, and I asked for some food. You brought out a plate of sliced Bunny Bread and some butter. I laughed. And ate it all right up. After that we cuddled up on the couch, you on the banjo, me on the guitar, and went into a 10 minute jam of House of the Rising Sun.

I drove you around the city one night and you tried to give me a nail clipping kit as a thank you. I didn't take it.

At sushi one night with your smart friends you brought us each a box of dinosaur parts made of wood that needed to be assembled. Chris gave you a bottle of whiskey. I gave you nothing.

Then one night I decided to stay in South City and not traverse to U, where we had agreed to meet.
You were irritated and it made me nervous.
Then we ran into each other one night, you dressed in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, for your friend Helen's birthday party.
We gave each other that look that we usually gave each other, the one where I thought you the most beautiful person in the world.
And you nodded and walked off after we talked a bit. I didn't follow you.
You called me a week later to tell me about your trip across the country on your motorcycle, and I knew I wouldn't talk to you all summer.

Who knew I'd never talk to you again.

For Marcel Fremont, U City Loopie, PhD student in neuroscience, friend, potential lover, brilliant mind, creative soul, biking buddy and beautiful man.

La Premiere Fois

2008-06-21T13:06:00.006-05:00

When you told me what you had done,
it took me a minute to realize
just what it was you had done.

I didn't expect it from you,
from you, of all people,
to do something
it took me a minute to realize what it is you had done.

You insisted she was sweet and smart
and had a good job.
And you never alluded to her being creepy or predatory
as people her age sometimes are.

She gave it to you straight
and you took it straight,
but ignored her straightness for only a moment
while the possibility of losing your virginity raced through your mind.

She had a condom, you told me,
and I wondered where you had learned to put one on.
It wasn't awkward, you told me,
as you lost your virginity and she came and you went forever.

I'm not a boy anymore, you told me,
and I laughed and laughed
and wanted to know the story
and you told it with such dignity.

About your connection with her,
how you talked and talked,
and connected so well,
even without the booze.

She was your 1st,
you were her 26th,
or maybe her 39th,
given that she's 40 and you are not even 25.

Stealing Things

2008-06-21T12:25:00.001-05:00

I didn't do it.

Yet.

Don't Forget Your Veggies

2008-06-14T02:03:00.001-05:00

If I could take the vegetables back,
I would

One by one
from their paper vegetable bag they would go

radish by radish
beet by beet
stalk by stalk
bulb by bulb

Obviously
it would symbolize my displeasure with you and the way you held her hand while walking past me down the street that one night I saw you

People who do that sort of thing don't deserve vegetables
Even potatoes
(the poor man's fruit)
or mushrooms
(found in my backyard)
or spinach
(it's supposed to make you strong, you know)

I'm not sure why I'd rather have those back
instead of slapping you
or writing hateful things on your sidewalk with sidewalk chalk
or texting you to say you did me wrong
or spreading the rumor to my friends that you're a jerk

Maybe because they meant a lot to you
and you ate them
cooked them with care
without me at your side
to tell you how to do it