Shaving cream.

Different kinds of cheap perfume all come in different packages, but all have the same, stale smell. In reality, it's not the perfumes; it's the women who wear them. Their clothes were once tight, but have been stretched out because they've been slept in too many times. They've been wearing make-up for so long that it does nothing more than accentuate the deep lines that criss-cross their faces. Friendly women, to be sure. But maybe that's because they've been drinking, no matter the time of day.

I used to meet these women in every kind of place. The department store, the grocery store, various restaurants. "TOM!" they'd shriek. Rarely were they in front of me, and I couldn't see who had made such a piercing noise. I'd hear their call from down an aisle to the side of me, or walking up quickly behind me, heels clicking loudly. I was never positive who was coming over to say hello until that same acrid smell caused my nose to wrinkle.

It wasn't until I was much older that I realised why they always seemed to be coming up from behind me: my father was trying to steer around them. It was with a surprising calmness that he'd remember that he desperately needed shaving cream, or that this store carried the socks he liked, and wanted to take a look at them. And we'd turn around; the decision between Gilette and Barbasol became agonising.

But then came the shriek, and the smell, and the familiar clicking of the heels of a stranger, and I'd be meeting Rita, or Jo Anne. "Oh, you look just like your father! So CUTE!" They'd shoot me a half-withered, half-beaming smile, and extend a hand ornamented with gaudy jewelry and bright but chipped nail polish.

"This is my son. Justin." Always those words, with a dead silence at the end. I think those were the only times I'd ever heard my dad sound unsure of himself.

Maybe it was once they realised who I was, or maybe it was the tone of my father's voice, but they always excused themselves immediately after that. "We're old friends." And she'd bend down and look at me, purposely pushing my father to the peripheral. "I haven't seen him in ages. I just wanted to say hi. You're a very handsome boy." They'd rush off with a basket full of groceries, and a bottle of wine leaning on the edge of the basket. My dad would grab his usual can of Gilette, and we'd continue down the aisle as if it hadn't happened at all.

I am really glad I don't live in Kentucky. This is just one of the reasons.

Of particular concern is a 2006 clause requiring the Office of Homeland Security to post a plaque that says the safety and security of the state "cannot be achieved apart from reliance upon almighty God" and to stress that fact through training and educational materials.

Would that be considered irony that it is through education that religion keeps people safe?

On the way home.

On the way home today, I started thinking about how long I've been in Chicago. Even the years I was at college, I was always coming back to Chicago. My breaks revolved around times I came back, or the shock of spending the summer in Normal.

Every so often, I still have to step back for a second from the shock of thinking "Whoa, I'm 25." The more I think about it, part of it is "Whoa, I'm 25, and I'm still here..." I have not traveled as much as I'd have liked, and I did not move as far away as I should have when I went to college.


I love Chicago. Not everything about it, but even some of the things I don't like about it do give me a sense of pride in an odd way (example: machine politics, it's daunting size). But, I'm starting to think that it might be time to spend more time away from the city. And during those times away from the city will not just be vacations, but mini-auditions in what it feels to be somewhere else.

Not that I plan on moving away soon, but the lure of 'elsewhere,' and 'somewhere new' is drawing on me more and more.

Winter forecasting.

I've found that in winter, judging the day by the high temperature is pretty much irrelevant. The high temp for the day is usually between 11-3. Not a very long window to be planning your attire for. Really, if you're going to be doing any walking, or waiting for public transit, or anything like that, the low is the much more important number.

I left the house this morning, and it was 9. The high was in the 30s, but if only 4 hours of the day are anywhere near that number, then it doesn't really do us any good.

Unless of course the high is in the single digits, in which case you're fucked no matter what.

Friendship.

Is there a proper way to end a friendship, or do you just pretty much ignore someone, and let it take care of itself?

I swear.

People who inherit large sums of money are terrible at everything.

Fucking farmers.

As I was hitting the snooze this morning, I couldn't help but think about how much harder it is to wake up in the end-of-fall, winter, early-spring than it is to wake up during spring, summer, and early fall. When my alarm goes off then, as soon as my eyes open I feel like I'm rushing out of bed, and that I'm already behind schedule.

From 1973-1975, the US had daylight savings time year round, in an effort to save energy during the Oil Embargo. As far as I can tell, it was pretty popular on the whole, not just in terms of energy savings. Yet, the opposition was pretty high from states who relied more heavily on agriculture. Much like red states versus blue states, it's rural areas of the country holding the rest of us in tradition, whereas the future policies of the country are born in the cities.

Maybe one day, we can live in DST permanence, and we can recognise that we are no longer a rural country (and stop voting Republican), but until then, we're left with darkness half the year, and Sarah Palin is seen as a viable national political candidate.