How Much Was Mine to Keep?

"And I asked myself about the present: how wide it was, how deep it was, how much was mine to keep." ― Kurt Vonnegut

Last week, the editor-in-chief at my job called all of us in for an announcement. As I walked toward the cafeteria with my friend Logan, we joked that this was it. They must be announcing layoffs. I lined up against the wall with a pit in my stomach as I looked at the managers, and waited for them to start talking. I told myself I was being negative, but from the looks on everyone’s faces, I knew it had to be grim.

What we learned that morning was far worse than that. My coworker, 26-year-old Bobby Cann, had been killed the previous evening riding his bicycle home from work. As others cried—some quietly, some loudly and openly—I felt like I was folding into myself as I bit the inside of my cheek and forced myself not to do the same. As we all walked out of the cafeteria, the collective stunned silence was unbearable. People who had walked in late had bewildered looks on their faces. “What is it?” they asked.

I tried to answer, but could barely get the words out, the tears coming as soon as I spoke.

"Were you close with him?" someone asked, and I shook my head no.

[Memorial for Bobby, via here]

When I got back to my desk I felt sick. Someone—an oblivious coworker, I could only hope—was laughing. Everything just kept going on. But yet it didn’t. Everything felt off.

Meetings were canceled. Emails were sent. But there were still things to write, things to do. We all just kept going on.

Finally, work was over for the day. I got on the bus, surrounded by so many others, just trying to get home from work like I was. Just like Bobby had been the evening before. I felt deeply sad. Because I did not know Bobby well—no more than smiling at him as we passed each other in the hallway, or making small talk in the office kitchen—I doubted my own feelings. Why did I feel so angry? So sad? So sick about the whole thing?

As soon as I got home, I flopped on my bed and stared at the ceiling. I stared at the ceiling until I couldn’t bear it any longer, and then I grabbed my yoga mat and unrolled it. To be able to concentrate on breathing, exhales and inhales, felt like such a gift. Once it was over, I laid motionless on the mat, sweating and breathing heavily. I didn’t realize I had been crying until I stood up, several minutes later.

Finally, I allowed myself to feel all of the emotions of the day. A young man had been killed by a drunk driver, and it was tragic. I might not have known him well, but many did. So I felt sorrow for his family and friends. I felt pissed off at the drunk driver, another person close to my age who, with one horribly stupid and selfish mistake, had stolen a life and in turn ruined his own.

I felt glad to be alive. I felt selfish at the thought. I felt.

I felt.

In honor and memory of Bobby Cann, Groupon is running a campaign with Active Transportation Alliance to raise funds for more protected bike lanes in the city.

From the Red Line at Rush Hour

This evening as I left the office, it was still light outside. I noticed this first on Monday, with a bit of shock—the sun is shining! Holy crap. Along with the sun, it’s been so windy I feel at times during my walk that I’m actually getting carried across the street, but it’s not a cold wind, so I’ll take it. When the wind is whipping my hair all over my face, the sun is glistening off the river and the buildings, and this song is playing on my iPod, it all feels quite romantic and wonderful, my little walk to the train. That is, until I catch a glimpse of myself in a window’s reflection and see the state of my bangs. Yeesh. But, whatever: All in the sake of my love affair with the city.

It’s amazing the way a little sunlight at the end of the day changes everything—from the look of the buildings to the people walking on the streets. Although at this point in the winter I just feel fed up and long for spring with such fierceness it’s as if spring was something I experienced in another lifetime, I do love the way Chicagoans hustle up and down the streets when it’s bitterly cold and windy out—it’s like we’re all fighting the same war. And then, the sun shines again, the temperatures rise, and it’s like everyone just lost his or her virginity. We abstained all winter, and damn it, now we are getting LAID. (Yeah! The weather as a metaphor for sex! It happened. Deal with it.)

I was feeling this general warmth for my city as I crossed over to State Street and passed the news station and the beautiful Chicago Theatre. Protesters were outside, holding up signs. One woman held up a sign: “End the WAR ON WOMEN!” I beamed at her. She stared back at me, expressionless.

I was still smiling as I started bouncing down the stairs to the Red line. I must not have had Youth Lagoon playing too loudly, though, because I could hear the man hobbling down the stairs next to me muttering under his breath: “All you motherfuckers. You never fucking listen to me! I’m talking. All you motherfuckers.”

When I made it safely down the platform, I could hear a woman singing. She had quite possibly, and I swear I do not exaggerate, the most beautiful voice I have ever heard singing live. Live, from the Red line at rush hour.

I didn’t even pause my iPod. I just pulled the earbuds out and listened. I stopped directly across from her to watch as she sang. She was singing some gospel song, what, I don’t know, but she was certainly taking us all to church. Except for the fact that no one seemed to be paying attention.

For a moment, I considered digging through my bag to see if I had a couple bucks. But that didn’t seem good enough. So I just watched and listened. The woman looked back at me, and even though she had on heavy fake eyelashes, I could see her eyes smiling back at me. I grinned at her, and she kept on singing. She finished right as I could hear my train barreling through the tunnel. “Thank you,” she said, to no one in particular. I clapped. It was a sad little sound. But she smiled back at me, and I felt like she'd given me a gift—it was as good as the feeling I get on the way to work, when I say “Morning” to the man on the milk crate and he returns my greeting.

I placed my earbuds back in my ears and stepped on the train. The person in front of me started to head left toward some empty seats, then said, “Ugh!” and turned back around. One of the seats was covered in vomit. I found a vomit-free seat and pulled my book out of my bag. When I looked up a few minutes later, a woman had sat down on the seat closest to the mess. I saw her look over at it for only a second, and then without skipping a beat, went right back to writing her text.

At rush hour in Chicago, we only really see the things we want to notice.

Monday Mix Tapes: Lana Del Rey No Longer Fire of Interwebs' Loins; I Remember Other Music Still Exists

So, I was planning on talking about Lana Del Rey's SNL performance for this week's mix tapes, but then I remembered THE ENTIRE INTERNET ALREADY IS.

So nervous! So..out of breath? But pretty!

Jezebel hilariously called my GF a "Valley of the Dolls cosplayer" and rather harshly described how "she mumble-moaned her way through both performances with the dead eyes and quaalude-slacked limbs of an American Apparel model." ("That was way harsh, Tai.")

Pretty Much Amazing summed it up with: "It was… pretty painful to watch. We aren’t sure why she tries to hit odd notes that leave her too breathless to keep up with her lyrics. It just doesn’t work."

Valley of the Dolls? LANA? IS THAT YOU?

Vulture backed off my darling a bit, with a rather spot-on commentary. This is my favorite (emphasis is mine):

It didn't go too well. Granted, the sound at SNL is famously bad, and Del Rey was visibly nervous, but still — the timid falsetto, shaky jumps between registers, that lip snarl. It was not her best work. And the fact that a Lana Del Rey performance can really only consist of Lana Del Rey standing dead center, preening, does not help her cause. How many moody pirouettes can one woman do, over the course of four minutes? (Like two and a half, by our count, during "Video Games.")

Things had been quiet in LDR land — the "Born to Die" tigers and general yelling fatigue had seemed to briefly calm the waters. But with the rocky SNL performance, we've now arrived at "backlash to the backlash to the backlash" on LDR's Undulating Curve of Shifting Expectations (or does it just switch back to Overhyped? Are we in the Backlash phase of the Backlash curve?). Meanwhile, Born to Die is not due until January 30. How many more times can we cycle through this thing in two weeks? Will everyone start feeling guilty for making fun of an obviously terrified 25-year-old on her first live TV performance? Or will the non-Internet-faithful, who just met Lana on Saturday, shame the rest of us for ever caring in the first place? Will Lana Del Rey run for president? Really, anything could happen at this point.

And who would have thought that BRIAN WILLIAMS would be such a hater? HA! (Also, why haven't I ever brought my love of Brian Williams to the attention of the Interwebs? Cause he's awesome.)

I guess now should be the time where I follow up with videos of the SNL performances, but I can't and I won't, dammit. Go watch it EVERYWHERE ELSE ON THE INTERNET. And then watch this performance instead:



So her stage presence isn't the greatest here either. What is the greatest is that dress. And when she sings "let me fuck you hard in the pouring rain (you like your girls insane)" — now, can we all take a time out from LDR now? I'm worn out.

Therefore, in other music news:

When I wasn't annoyed that the Interwebs was exploding over my sweetie pie's SNL performance, I was getting increasingly excited that I'll be seeing The Lemonheads this Friday night. That's right! The Lemonheads! No one I've told seems to share my excitement. Whatever.

Today also happened to be one of those days where I was smiling to myself like a lunatic during my commute to and from work, because what I was listening to seemed to match perfectly with the day, and probably more accurately, my mood. (In case you're confused, no, I did not get MLK day off from work. Major boo. I didn't realize Ron Paul was running the joint! Gross. I just mentioned RP on my blog.)

On the way in this morning, it was Charlotte Gainsbourg. The sun was shining brightly enough to start melting the snow, and the water was coming down from the El tracks, on to the street, as I walked on Lake Street toward the office. Listening to this:



After work, the streets still seemed more deserted than usual, and the air felt oddly warm and slightly eerie as I stepped out the door. While I waited to cross the street, I put on Four Tet. "Love Cry" carried me nearly the entire walk to the train, and the repetitive beat turned hypnotic as I walked along, noticing how the street lamps bounced off the water glistening on the near-empty sidewalks. To be a total geek, I'll just say my mundane daily walk felt kinda magical due to the combination of all of it. That's right: kinda magical.



Well, that's it, guys. I promise not to talk about LDR for at least a week now. Off to the races...

Update: Awkwardness Averted, Sorta

Enough people have asked me about the awkward text message I promised was in the future after my run-in on the El Wednesday morning that I feel obliged to give you an update. First off, if you’re wondering if I still went on that date, I’m going to need you to smack yourself across the face. Hard. Clearly I did not go on this date. Are you fucking kidding me? Does “I’m going to go stand down there now” ring any bells?

Okay, now that we’ve got that part cleared up, here’s another fun fact from Wednesday. So, before THAT GUY practically sprinted away from me on the El platform, he asked me if I had to work that night. My answer was yes. And yes, he knows where I work. He may or may not frequent the bar. Get off my back.

(Side note: THAT GUY is now his official name, as I’m either changing his name in my phone to THAT GUY or deleting it completely).

Fast forward to many hours later. I’m now at work and slightly buzzed from the shots of Jameson Rachel and friends forced me to take with them. (By forced I mean asked politely if I wanted to take shots with them, obviously. Or did I suggest the shots? Mwahaha. Umm, just kidding. I am a responsible young budding journalist. I would never take shots of whiskey while at work.)

ANYWAY. So I’m doing whatever it is I do when waiting tables and I happen to look toward the door just as...THAT GUY walks in. He sits at the bar for a few minutes while I consult with everyone what I should do in this situation. I heard enough “let him come to you” suggestions that I pretend I’m busier than I really am and actually pay attention to my tables. But after a few more minutes, he still hasn’t approached me, and I’m really irritated. What the hell is THAT GUY doing?

Just as I start to head over to him, he leaps up from the bar and scurries out. Now, I don’t know if he saw me or not, but still: LAME. At this point I have every intention of just blowing him off completely, which ordinarily I would never do, but good god, this behavior deserves a blow off. I assume he’s not going to contact me either after these displays of weird social behavior. But then:

Last night around 6ish I get a text from him. “we still on for drinks?”

Umm, NO, you weirdo. I reply: “sorry, something came up.”

By something, I meant I’d rather hang out with my cats all night, every night, than go out with you. Ever.

Just another example of why I told my father I've given up on dating. Although in retrospect I'm pretty sure he interpreted that as, "I'm a lesbian, Dad."


*Spencer, I dropped that F-bomb specifically in honor of you becoming a follower. Was it necessary? Always.

Ali’s Awesomely Awkward Adventures: More Blue Line Fun!

Maybe it’s just me, but it tends to get weird when you bump into an acquaintance when riding public transit. Take, for instance, the morning a coworker walked on the same car as me. First I feel excited to see a familiar face—and a face that’s not familiar because I served you beer last night, cause that happens more than I’d care to talk about—but then quickly, I realize now we either have to make small talk for the next 15-20 minutes, or one of us risks being rude by not sitting down with the other person. She sat down next to me. Whew. I put my book away and feel confident that we have enough work gossip to get us through the morning commute.

Her phone rings. She answers. Okay, back to reading. I pull my book back out. She loses her connection. I put my book away. “So…” Her phone rings again. I take my book back out.

Just as I’ve discovered I should hold my book on my lap so I can stop this little game, she jumps up. “My stop is next! Bye, honey!” Umm. My stop is next, too. But to avoid the likelihood that I will fall into someone’s lap by the jerking of the train stopping and starting, I always wait until the last possible second to stand up and exit. Now my routine was shattered! Uggh. I get up and try not to fall down.

I chat with her a bit more until we reach the stop. “Ok, bye!” she says. Uhh, what? We don’t walk together now? Now I feel obliged to let her walk ahead of me. I feel increasingly like a social pariah. Luckily I had to transfer to the green line, so eventually I stopped feeling like I was following my coworker around Chicago.

I completely accept that in this situation, I made it awkward—and probably only in my head—but this morning, I faced some awkwardness that I know was not in my head, and not my fault. AT ALL.

So, on the days when I have to go straight from my internship to working at the bar, I park my car by work and walk to the California blue line stop so I don’t have to take public transit home late at night. Might seem a little silly, but last night a homeless guy was peeing right in front of the train entrance as I walked to my car, so I was grateful not to have to get in range (or better eyesight) of all that bizness.

Anyway. This morning, I’m stepping out of my car and see a guy I know walking down the street.

We say hi. We discover we’re both walking to the El, and we’re both going in the same direction. Going to the same stop, as a matter of fact. However, he’s walking incredibly fast and I’m wearing heels, and Lord knows I can barely walk in my bare feet, so this presents a problem. I’m thinking he’s in a hurry and doesn’t have time to chat, so I’m fully prepared to say bye and leave it at that. But he keeps talking (albeit over his shoulder practically, because I’m tripping all over myself trying to keep up), and we end up walking up the El platform together.

We talk for a minute while we’re waiting for the train, and he’s looking over my shoulder for the nonexistent train so frequently that I’m starting to get uncomfortable. I ask him a question. He starts pulling a book out of his bag and gives me a distracted answer. And then: “Well, I’m going to go stand down there. See ya.”

Umm, bye?

You might be thinking, “Oh Alison, this isn’t that weird…it was the morning, he just wanted to read his book and get to class.” Uh huh. Maybe.

But when I said “a guy I know” I also meant a guy I’m supposed to go out on a date with.

Tomorrow.

Guess who has an awkward text message coming his way!

More Adventures on the Blue Line

No one ever fully prepared me for the weird things that would happen to me once I became a dedicated public transit user. I really don’t remember anything strange ever happening on the tube in London. Just a lot of Brits reading books. The only minor nuisance was getting stuck on a bus with noisy school groups—but when it’s mini-Brits in uniforms squealing in a British accent, “But I wanted MacDonalds!”—somehow, it’s much less irritating than being stuck on a bus with a group of loud American children.

But here in Chicago, every day it’s something (though sadly, not all as memorable as Monday morning’s commute).

Tuesday afternoon a man clucked at me—yes, CLUCKED—as I walked past him on the stairs. A few minutes later, as I was trying to hide behind my Bitch magazine and ignore the inevitable claustrophobia that sets in during rush hour, I glanced over the top of the magazine to find two nuns staring at me in horror. I grinned at them and continued reading. Hee hee hee.

But this morning I had a special hipster delight on my morning commute. If only I had had the audacity to pull out my camera and capture these two young men’s ensembles. If only. But I did have the pleasure of overhearing this:

Faded Jean Jacket-wearing Hipster: "I mostly just love that album cause it's like, ‘we're recording this on a 4-track in our basement’ and the quality is just, so raw and real."

Super Geek Hipster, nodding: “I know exactly what you mean. Exactly.”

Alison, nudging the middle-aged woman next to her: “Look at this fucking hipster.”

Middle-aged woman: “I know exactly what you mean. Exactly.”

So maybe that last part of the conversation didn’t happen. But it should have. Instead, I almost missed my stop, had to duck under Super Geek Hipster’s arm to get out, and then almost fell over due to the powerful wave of BO.

So you’re the one stinking up my favorite record store! I knew it!

Effing hipsters.

Ali’s Awesomely Awkward Adventures: Monday Commute Edition

Considering something awkward—and often, awesomely, incredibly, painfully awkward—happens to me on a near-daily basis, it would be unfair not to share some of these moments with you, the readers of my blog. If nothing else, it will leave you with the relief and satisfaction that you are not as clumsy, nerdy, and as all-around socially awkward as me.

Now that I’m using public transportation on a daily basis to commute to my internship, it has inevitably opened up new windows of awkwardness. Until today, nothing too exciting or painful had happened, with one exception: My first day of interning, I got on the train, and I made the rookie mistake of making direct eye contact with the bum screaming to the invisible person on the seat next to him. So of course, he decided to look right at me while screaming repeatedly, “THE MOTHER FUCKER FUCKER FUCKERS! THE MOTHER FUCKERS TOOK IT! YOU SAW THEM!” The older lady next to me then looked at me as if I was the one screaming nonsensical profanities in her ear, so I shrank lower and lower in my seat and pretended to be invisible.

After I made my switch from the Blue to the Green line, I was still a little shook up from that encounter, so I sat down next to a harmless looking young woman who was sitting with her kid on her lap. I took a deep breath, smiled at the person sitting across the aisle from me—another Hoosier faux-pas, apparently, as he responded by grimacing and averting eye contact—and I opened up my bottle of “sparkling water beverage.” It exploded. I quickly apologized and asked the woman next to me if I got any of it on her: “Not yet,” she responded, in a tone that suggested if and when it does, I might die. Her cute little girl points and laughs at me as the water continues to spill out of the bottle, and all over my pants.

Five minutes later, Alison Hamm enters her new office looking as though she might have peed her pants.

Yet, somehow, that incident was nothing compared to this morning’s commute. As I'm transferring from the blue to green line at the Clark/Lake stop, I’m riding up the escalator in my Monday morning daze, listening to my iPod, fairly oblivious to my surroundings. Right before I reach the top of the escalator, I notice the enormous man ahead of me on the escalator balancing a trolley loaded with boxes. Just as I’m thinking that a trolley on an escalator looks a little dangerous, the enormous man with said trolley gets stuck at the top. Before I can react, I slam into him and am suddenly trapped on a moving escalator, tangled between a giant, the trolley wheel, and the side of the escalator. The guy behind me somehow jumps over the side of the escalator but doesn’t bother to try to help either of us. Meanwhile, all of the people on the train platform ahead are now staring at me and the giant as I yelp, my headphones fall out of my ears, and he attempts to lift me over the trolley and off the escalator. In this process, my ribcage slams against the trolley, the giant and I accidentally go to second base, and I almost fall as I finally escape.

Once the giant trolley man gets off the escalator—somehow, without mangling anyone else—he starts to stroll past me as I limp to the side, clutching my ribcage. “Oh, are you okay?” he asks casually, as though nothing dramatic and possibly life-threatening had just happened.

AM I OKAY?!?! It’s 9 AM, I almost met my death on an escalator, and you just touched my boob. NO, I'M NOT OKAY!

It’s the kind of situation that makes a person want to start screaming, “THE MOTHER FUCKER FUCKER FUCKERS! YOU SAW THEM!”