ii. Dollop

Y'all like coffee shops? Cool. Me too.

Mochas and scones. That's the biggest draw of coffee shops for me. I like ordering a medium mocha and a chocolate-chip scone under the pretense of sharing it with Delma, then gulping down both before she's even had a chance to pull out her laptop. Mochas and scones. For ME.

Marriage is a compromise. So are coffee shops.

Chicago has many coffee shops and I have visited a good number of them. Consequently, I have had many mochas and scones (consequently, fat). The coffee shop I'm at now, Dollop Coffee and Tea, has an especially delicious chocolate-chip scone. A toasty, golden exterior. Chocolate chunks as big as my thumbs. Granulated sugar sprinkled on top. Mmm. I might have another.

Located on Clarendon in Buena Park, Dollop is only two blocks from our old apartment. Consequently, we went to Dollop often. It's a nice enough place, though there's nothing particularly significant about Dollop itself. No major life decision was made there, no traumatic event.

Each of these last five paragraphs feel like different introductions. That's because this is a somewhat forced entry in a series of posts I'm writing about my time in Chicago. Like trying to stick a square peg in a toaster, I'm trying to write about the emotional significance of Dollop and why this place resonates with me. In truth, it's tough because that's not exactly... true. If this is about coffee shops that I like, I could write about any of the other places Delma and I would hit up on the reg. Bourgeois Pig. Noble Tree. Intelligentsia. Worm Hole, Gaslight, Bowtruss (look at all these hip coffee shops I just name dropped, you guys!).

My buddy Pete and I were having a beer the other night at Hüttenbar (SO hip!), talking about this and that and these and those. We had just come from an essay reading that was mad entertaining. In fact, only one of the five pieces fell flat. After reflecting on the essay and the reader's performance, I decided that the reason I didn't like it is because I didn't get an answer to the why. Why was I sitting there listening to it? Why was it written? Why this, why that, these, those? Etc.

What's the point?

I know, I know, this is jumping all over the place. Also, that last question wasn't a why. Just roll with it while I play some mental Frogger.

Consequently, I started asking myself why.

Why am I writing all this? Why am I focusing on Dollop? Why are you reading this? (Probably because you looooove me. Or you just want to laugh at me. That's probably the reason. I'm ok with that. I'm fine. It's fine. It's, like, whatever, you know?)

I'm writing these Chicago-centric posts because I feel a need to show my respect and admiration towards this city. Chicago has been wonderful to me, despite the hardships I've encountered here (unemployment, invasive surgery, subzero temps, that one time I biked fifteen miles to the suburbs and got a flat tire and it was thirty degrees and also it started to rain and it really sucked). It's been difficult, but also character building (that bullshit phrase people use when you're going through a tough time). Now I feel like I've become something at least resembling an adult. Taxes and 401Ks and shit.

Which, actually, is the answer to that second question too.

I am writing about Dollop because a) I'm at Dollop right now and I tend to arbitrarily assign significance to the insignificant/coincidental (e.g. four of the five books I am currently reading have mentioned the word "solipsism") and b) the time during which I frequented this coffee shop was a period of intense growth for me (but "SEPTEMBER 2012 TO SEPTEMBER 2013" isn't as catchy of a title as "Dollop").

Consequently (I'm going to run this word into the mother fucking ground), I'm trying to forge an association between Dollop and that transformative time. Honestly, this kinda feels like cheating. As if I'm saying "HERE GOES MY THESIS STATEMENT, NOW HERE GOES THE ESSAY." But long hair don't care here goes.

When I first moved to Chicago, I had the bad habit of waiting for good things to happen to me rather than going out and making them happen. Like many overachieving younguns, all scholastic endeavors were easily conquered. I aced the TAAS (Texas Assessment of Academic Skills) test. I had a 4.0 all throughout high school. I earned 247 personal pizzas through the Pizza Hut Book It! program (consequently, fat).

So when the going got tough, as it did when I started college, I threw up my hands and said "Fuck it, whatever." Like the time I switched majors because I couldn't grasp differential equations. Or the time I quit grad school. Twice.

I had been living here for two and a half years at that point and was starting to settle into the rhythm of the city. After numerous rejections (jobs, auditions, dogs), the crushing agony of failure was dulled to a slight stab, no twist.

"Oh, I don't get to be in your improv troupe? That's ok, no big."
"You don't want to bring me on as a copywriter for your pharmaceutical marketing company? Totally cool, man. Totally cool."

Dollop was when that started to change. Or, to be precise, the period of time around when we moved to the apartment that was within two blocks of Dollop is when that started to change. After enough rejections, you stop giving a fuck about being rejected. After enough rejections, you begin to realize that shit's not just going to happen for you. You have to make shit happen.

I can't pinpoint exactly when, but I started to make shit happen. I stopped sleeping in till noon. I began writing again. Reading more. Started doing squats.

Before long, I had accomplished a series of small successes that built upon the previous successes so that I had momentum to propel me forward.

I was accepted into portfolio school. I lost ten pounds. I wrote an essay that, although did not get published, received one of those nice rejection letters that says "Honestly, we like this piece a lot, we just can't right now, but def send us more of your work plz."

I finished portfolio school. I landed an internship. Which turned into a job. Which led to producing a few commercials.

During that time, whenever I wanted to get anything done, whether it be some reading or a blog post or a script, I'd go to Dollop (it's a loose connection, but it's there, I swear). Classmates and I would meet there to work on assignments. "Going to Dollop" became synonymous with "hustle and grind."

I'm not trying to write some inspirational essay to tell you to follow your dreams or whatever. In fact, following my dreams is what led to the crushing failure and spiral of depression I fell into the first few years here.

I'm just saying I realized that I have to keep moving. Being complacent and sedentary is what fucked me. Knowing that now, I become anxious if I'm not working towards a goal (which actually makes me feel like I can't enjoy myself anymore, but that's a different post altogether).

I will say that the constant rejections made me accustomed to failure. All of this success feels strange and foreign, like some weird trick being played on me by the universe. At some point, the rug will be pulled from beneath my feet and I'll fall back into the basement.

But (consequently) at least I know what to do when it does happen. With a mocha in one hand and a scone in the other, I just need to suck it up and go to Dollop.

Ear Wiggin' Out

There's this bagel placed that supposedly sells New York-style bagels. I've never had a New York-style bagel, but I love this place. Then again, my idea of a good bagel is Einstein's, so what do I know about bagels? For all I know, I could be eating a stale doughnut, but since it's slathered with honey-cinnamon cream cheese, I love it. Love love love it. Mmmm MMM. So good.

This place that supposedly sells New York-style bagels also sells really strong coffee. Like, coffee so strong that the first time I had some, I started freaking out because my heart would not stop racing. Thought I was having a heart attack.

I'm an avid coffee drinker. I usually have one or two cups a day, but this place that supposedly sells New York-style bagels sells pure caffeine-water. This morning, I knew what to expect so I only ordered a small coffee, but I am still ridiculously hyper. Like, so hyper that I can't focus on work. I just want to DANCE, y'all. Just leave my troubles behind and dance the night away with my dog. Do the doggie bounce. Doggie two step. Two step dub step. JUST LET ME DANCE.

You know what I like? The bass dropping sound in dub step. It's like something crazy is about to happen. Like, hold on to your lower intestine because the shit is about to go down, you know? I bet that sound could accompany anything and make the act amazing. Doing the dishes? BASS DROP NOW YOU'RE BREAKING SHIT THROUGH THE WALLS. Brushing your teeth? BASS DROP NOW YOU'RE SMASHING THE MIRROR WITH A HAMMER. Walking your dog? BASS DROP BITCHES NOW YOUR DOG IS A WOLF.

Wow wow wow wuhhhhhhh.

Delma got a slow cooker for Christmas and it is seriously the gift that keeps on giving. We've been using it for everything. We've made salsa chicken, brisket, BBQ chicken, mashed potatoes and we're currently making some roast beef right now. How did we live life before slow cookers? My life was meaningless and now all I want to do is slow dance with my slow cooker. Well, Delma's slow cooker.

My hands smell like garlic because the roast beef recipe called for garlic. Google told me to use a stainless steel spoon and rub it on my fingers to remove the smell, but it didn't work so then I tried using lemon juice, but that just stung like a honey bee cause I have cracked hands because of the cold so then I just washed my hands again. They still smell like garlic, but with just a hint of lemon. I just hope the smell doesn't permeate my keyboard. I'm not too fond of garlic. I'm a vampire, y'all. A vampire that just wants to dance.

It was a cool 7 degrees yesterday. With wind chill it felt like -2. NEGATIVE TWO. Also, it snowed. And I still biked to school. And it was awesome. You can feel the boogers freezing in your nostrils. I actually overdressed for the ride and I got a little worried because I started sweating a lot and, in those temps, my hair could have frozen. Which would have been cool for a bit, but then it would have sucked. Today is supposed to be better (Low 20's or so) so I'm probably going to bike again. I don't challenge myself often in life so I'm glad I did it (even though it wasn't much of a challenge with three pairs of pants and two jackets).

Snow snow snow snuhhhhhhhh.

Over the break, I used a Q-Tip. This may not seem like a big deal, but I hadn't used a Q-Tip in nearly four years. I just kinda stopped one day. No real reason. Anyways, like a big fat IDIOT, I jabbed the Q-Tip directly in. You're only supposed to use it to swab the outer edges of your ear, you know? But, again, like a big fat IDIOT, I just jammed it right into my ear. Stuck it in there like sticking a plug into an outlet. Next thing you know, I hear this FHHHSOOOWMP and then the bass dropped. No, just kidding. I heard that FHHHSOOOOWMMP and then I couldn't hear anything out of my right ear. I pushed the ear wax into my ear hole and jammed it up. Like a big fat IDIOT.

I didn't do anything for a few days, just hoping it would go away, but it didn't. Around the fifth day, my jaw and ear started hurting so I asked my mom to help me out. She poured some hydrogen peroxide into my ear and I heard a lot of crackling and popping. Like if there was a Pop Rocks party happening in my ear canal, banging on my ear drum. You know how it is.

When that didn't work, she took a paper clip, jammed it right into my ear and started scarping earwax out. She got a good chunk of it out of there, but I still couldn't hear so off we went to the doctor.

The doctor took his ear scope and jammed it right into my ear. Then he said "Ew… You definitely have a blockage. We're going to try to wash it out and if that doesn't work, we'll go from there." He called in the nurse who called in another nurse who called in ANOTHER nurse just so they could all see the huge blockage in my ear.

Then another nurse came in with what looked like a water gun. And she jammed it right into my ear and started squirting hot water all up in there. It felt weird as hell. Like, you know that feeling when you have water in your ear and then finally the water comes out and it's all warm in there? It was like that, but longer. She does this for fifteen minutes with little pieces of earwax coming out here and there and Kayla and my mom constantly saying "Oh my Gooooood…" Finally, this huge chunk of earwax falls into the bowl on my shoulder. It makes a loud PLOP and the nurse says "There we go."

And that's the story of how I spent my Christmas break. Like a big fat IDIOT.

Super Stitchin'

I woke up this morning at 9:06 AM. I usually wake up around 7 AM, but I didn't fall asleep until 2. No real reason. Just one of those nights where you can't shut your brain off, you know? I got into bed at midnight and listened to Delma make those weird smacking sounds she makes when she's in that deep REM sleep. It's weird. I mean, my dog barks in her sleep, but with Delma, it sounds like she's eating taffy in her sleep. It doesn't keep me up or anything. Just one of her quirks.

Despite dating for over four years now, I honestly hadn't noticed until she started working at Allstate this past summer. Because she has to get up mad early to avoid traffic, she goes to bed at 9PM. You know, after she rubs Icyhot on her joints and removes her dentures. Because she's an old lady now.

I've never gone to sleep before 11PM. Not even in elementary school. My family is nocturnal, you see, so we are most productive during the witching hour. Regardless, I usually hop into bed around midnight because otherwise I stay awake till the sun comes up and then I don't wake up until well after Mcdonald's stops serving breakfast.

So I woke up at 9:06 AM this morning. I rolled over and rubbed my eyes and stretched out in bed. My dog hopped onto the bed and curled up next to me and I wanted to go back to sleep, but I didn't. Being unemployed and broke kinda drains you of your motivation. You want to do stuff, but you can't because you have no money. And you want to make money, but you can't because you have no job. And you want to get a job, but it's kinda pointless because you're going to start school in a few weeks. So you're in this weird sort of limbo where you just sit on the futon and try to watch all of the Starz stuff on Netflix before it's taken down.

As it is now the first of March, all of the Starz content is officially off of Netflix. This means no more Party Down for me. I made myself a cup of coffee and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and sat on the futon. I use natural peanut butter and organic raspberry preserves. On whole grain bread with no high-fructose corn syrup. I'm health conscious, son.

After that first delicious bite of my PB&J sammich, I sat back and said "Rabbit rabbit." Although, truth be told, it sounded more like "FRAFFIF FRAFFIF" because I was still chewing. It's the first of the month. I saw this on Nickolodeon a long, long time ago. Stick Stickly told me. Remember him?

Stick Stickly. You could write to him. At PO Box 963. New York City. New York State. 10108. If you grew up with basic cable, you probably remember him. He was the host of a series of shows on Nickolodeon and, during commercials, he always had bits of trivia and little jokes to tell. One of those trivia bits was that if you say "rabbit, rabbit"on the first of the month, you will be granted good luck for the rest of the month. The catch is that it has to be the first words out of your mouth. I never actually managed to do it because I would always forget and by the time I remembered, I'd have spouted something stupid like "MOM I DON'T WANT EGGS I WANT PANCAKES GOSH!" But today I remembered. I didn't say it immediately upon waking up, but because I have no one to talk to aside from my dog, I don't usually say anything for hours. Hours. But I said it and now I'm going to have good luck for the month of March.

I'm very superstitious. I don't step on cracks. I constantly pick up pennies, but only if they're face up. Me persino all the time. I'm not sure how to translate that. You know how Catholics make the sign of the cross with their hand? Like, they cross themselves and then kiss their hands whenever they're scared? I do that a lot. I know it's more of a religious thing than a superstitious thing, but I still do it.

Delma thinks it's stupid, but I'm not the one who smacks in my sleep, so... Oftentimes, we'll be walking down the sidewalk and she'll ask why I'm walking funny and I'll tell her I'm avoiding the cracks and she'll say nothing because she thinks it's stupid. I also stay the hell away from ladders. No way I'm going under them. Being in a bustling, bustling city, it's a common occurrence to run into a ladder put up against the wall because people are always painting or building stuff or tearing stuff apart or whatever. I always make sure to leave at least five feet between myself and any ladder.

It's not like I have bad luck or anything. I mean, maybe I do, but then maybe all of the precautionary measures I take prevent me from being hit by the 22 bus or something, you know? Maybe I have normal luck and all the lucky breaks I've experienced have been because of the good luck I picked up from those routines. Maybe that lucky penny I found on Broadway and Belmont prevented Delma from being a girl who snores and only made her a girl who smacks. You can never be totally sure...

In Search of the Almond Croissant

About three to four times a week, I strut into Noble Tree Cafe on Clark Street and order myself a delicious Mexican mocha and a delectable almond croissant. It's starting to become my "thing." In a few weeks, I was hoping I'd be able to go up to the barista and say "Hey, Pierre, how's the family? Still alive, I hope? AHAHAHAHA! Just give me the usual, Pierre." Pierre wouldn't laugh. He'd just give me this icy stare. But Pierre would also know that "the usual" is code for my delicious Mexican mocha and delectable almond croissant. I've been working my way up to that.

Unfortunately, that dream has been slammed against a brick wall and tossed into a wood chipper. I strutted into Noble Tree on Monday and saw that they had some new pastries. Some weird coffee cake thing with walnuts. A glazed strawberry filled pretzel. Scones. I went up to the counter and asked the guy if they were any good.

"Yeah, they're pretty good. I had some coffee cake this morning and I think you'll like it. We just switched bakeries this morning so we're getting a bunch of new pastries."

I nodded my head and smiled.

"What, so no more almond croissats? AHAHAHAHA!"

He didn't laugh.

"Actually, yeah."

And just like that, Pierre ripped my heart out and tossed it into the garbage disposal. My plans of being a "regular" and ordering "the usual" vanished. POOF! So I got the coffee cake, hoping it would replace my beloved almond croissant. Nope. It wasn't just moist. It was wet. I could see a puddle of melted butter surrounding the cake. Just looking at it raised my cholesterol.

Now I am on a quest, friends. A quest to find a suitable replacement for the almond croissant I once loved. A golden-brown flaky bottom crust that is crunchy yet fragile. A light, fluffy top shell, sprinkled with powdered sugar and sliced almonds. A rich, creamy interior filled with whatever sticky nectar they put in almond croissants. A suitable replacement for the almond croissant I lost, a dessert crafted by Hephaestus, powdered with beauty by Aphrodite, moistened by Poseidon's trident, then finally being transformed into a food-substance by Zeus himself. Truly the dessert of the gods.

I've tried two places this week and both have failed to live up to the expectations put forth by Noble Tree's almond croissant.

The first place was La Patisserie P which is located in the Vietnamese section of Chicago. It was crazy! They had all sorts of restaurants and shops with the signs in Vietnamese and I think there were people selling roosters in the street, but I could have just been hoping that they were. La Patisserie P is a Vietnamese French-style bakery. I don't know how that works, but it does. It's a tiny bakery, but the walls are lined with all sorts of pastries! Cakes, scones, croissants, rolls, pretzels, pies. The sweet smell wafted out into the street, but once I entered, the aroma of fresh baked goods overtook me and I almost ended up buying one of each pastry in there. I managed to force myself to only purchase an almond croissant, but I'm definitely going to be returning to try other things.

Despite La Patisserie P's impressive presentation, the almond croissant was only alright. I mean, it was good, but once you've tasted perfection it's difficult to go back.

I had worse luck at Austria Bakery and Deli. Walking in, I got the sense that something wasn't quite right. An Austrian bakery trying to recreate French cuisine? But then again, La Patisserie P was a Vietnamese bakery trying to recreate French cuisine. There was something off about Austrian Bakery and Deli though. It might've been the red and white motif they choose for their bakery. Everything in the place was red. Or white. Or a combination of red and white.

I think it was the name. It wasn't Austrian Bakery. It was Austrian Bakery AND Deli. The restaurant was trying to conquer two markets! They say you shouldn't put your eggs in one basket and I'm sure those Austrians were trying to diversify their portfolio, but almond croissants are delicate entities. If you don't put all of your effort into making them, then you might as well not even try. At least, that's what I imagine it's like to make them. I wouldn't know. I've never made one.

The croissant itself looked more like a pop tart than a croissant. A pop tart filled with a gooey chocolate liquid that looked like tar. If I want to blacken my teeth, Austrian Bakery and Deli, I'll go smoke cigarettes. I don't want tar in my almond croissants. Disgusting.

It actually wasn't too bad, but the chocolate tar was too sweet. If it had been replaced with dark chocolate, it would've been acceptable, but alas, life doesn't always hand you the perfect almond croissant. And sometimes it does, but then it takes it away.

But I will press on! I will find that perfect almond croissant. And when I do, friends, I will be sure to let you know.

Fritz Pastry is next. Let's hope I find perfection there.