I'm Ian Penrose. I'm a writer. This is my blog.

As a single guy in his twenties I can categorically say I hold some less than savory or otherwise unhygienic practices.  I am guilty of eating my dinner over the kitchen sink.  I don’t really believe in using glasses for my orange juice upon general principal.  I’ve ingested moldy bread.  The other night I discovered a practice that while not the worst in the world is one that I can’t quite get behind.  It is done by men and women who you’d probably never expect.  This is a practice that is so polarizing it can be debated as fiercely as abortion, troop support or whether Lady Gaga has a penis.  It seems more than a simple life choice, it’s a veritable lifestyle.  Last night I was introduced to the world of flushing.

Apparently a certain contingent of people deem it socially acceptable to flush leftover food down the toilet rather than putting it in the garbage.  There are many arguments in support of flushing; some of which actually seem logical.  For many it is a matter of convenience.  Some flushers argue that due to a lack of a garbage disposal it is only appropriate to dispose of their otherwise rotten edibles via the toilet.  Others cite that they may not have to take out their trash at the point of the food disposal.  Rather than their trash bins reeking of spoiled food until their trash is full they literally flush it down the drain.  Others claim they just don’t feel like putting pants on to take the garbage out.  While this last one is a little weak I can relate.  Sometimes you just don’t want to put on pants.

Those who are against flushing argue the practice is disgusting and an act of sheer laziness.  A non-flusher argued even if you live on the fifth floor of an building with stairs resembling the vertical face of Everest, you have to leave sometime and that is when you should take your trash – and subsequently your rotten food – out to the dumpster.  Others claim the toilet is a receptacle for flushing your bowels and bladder and therefore draining two-week old leftovers in it is unacceptable.  As my friend and non-flusher put it, “It’s just something I never thought to do.  I mean, it’s a place for shit!”

I wanted a better understanding of just what the flushers were willing to drop down their drains.  I got everything from chicken noodle soup to fried rice.  I asked if they’d be willing to flush anything with a more solid base – say pulled pork or Italian beef, perhaps some old sausage links. The general response was summed up best by my friend and flusher Sean.  “We all know shit like that doesn’t go bad, if it’s pulled pork you make damn sure you finish it.”

I took this to mean essentially flushers dispose mainly of the forgotten or otherwise aperitif type foods that one doesn’t necessarily eat as an entire meal.  In the case of the soup it’s more of a build up for the actual meal.  In the case of the fried rice it’s the type of food that guarantees you’ll be hungry twenty minutes after consuming your fill.   They seem to have an understanding for the essentialness of finishing hearty meals.  They are just more willing to dispose of the liquid or loosely based food products into the commode.

Personally I have never flushed any food-based product down the toilet.  I get queasy dumping dirty mop water in the thing.  The act of dumping something other than my own excrement into the bowl just reminds me of vomiting and for me that’s more revolting than Pat Robertson.  I think that’s mostly why I fall on the side of being an ardent non-flusher.  That and it seems to me flushers are constantly tempting their own fate.  Toilets back up easily enough as it is.  And when they do whatever is clogged in there – be it week-old Pad Thai or a digested pot roast – is coming back up.   In an attempt to be physically economical flushers are potentially making additional and otherwise unnecessary work for themselves.  Plus it’s the worst kind of work.  It’s the kind that involves poop.  And as Jon Stewart said when referring to Paul Rudd’s bout with food poisoning, “That shit’s like lava.  You don’t want any part of that.”

Glenn seems to think it goes deeper.  He believes all flushers are inherently Republican.  He told me this on our way home from the after-hours men’s club, also known as a Monday night at Underbar, where this great debate took place.  He believes that the fervor with which flushers defend their practices translates to radical idealism.  Under no circumstances are they willing to see another side of the issue.  Further they will make anyone a flusher, even those who try it and decide it’s not for them.  He feels that a flusher’s theory is that if one flushes, even once, one is by definition a flusher.  This inevitably construes their numbers and gives them false confidence and a faulty platform by which to spout their position from.

I’m not sure if I whole heartedly believe with Glenn on this point but at the very least I think it goes to show how much of an issue flushing can become.  I guarantee if you bring it up in your circle of friends at least a few will undoubtedly confess to the practice.  You may never reach a consensus or even an understanding for one another but I promise you’ll see them in a new light.  As I’m finding with my friends that’s not necessarily a bad thing.  If nothing else I’ll cross my fingers next time I flush their toilets.

Thanks for your time.

I’ve completely failed at my first goal of this blog; to update it regularly and have it become an interactive forum.  Call it a case of great intentions with abysmal follow through.

In an attempt to explain myself and my three-month absence from this project I will say my life was somewhat turned on its head and I have subsequently been righting myself.  That wonderful girl I have spoken so highly of and I parted ways.  To save a long and drawn out explanation suffice it to say it is the best thing for both parties and I wish her all the happiness in life.

Since then I have been on what I guess for lack of a better term you could call a Walkabout…a Vision Quest… an attempt not to break down in the grocery store because you realize you don’t need to buy tofu for your roommate anymore.

Through this quest for self assurance I’ve had many trials and more than a few odd circumstances have arisen; the least of which include ending up in a gay bar in Peoria, buying a twelve-inch ham and green olive pizza out of the back of a pickup truck for $5 in Grand Rapids and doing calisthenics in my socks in a jail cell in Cedar Rapids.  And those were just on road trips with the rugby team.

There have been a number of characters that I have met in the process during this wonderful venture into the unknown.  I found work at a bar which introduced me to the aging metal head whose soul has been imprisoned in 1988 and cannot find its way back to the present.  There is the Cuban witch doctor who enjoys hexing patrons and employees for her personal enjoyment.  And of course there are all the crack heads and prostitutes who live/work/squat/dwell in the flophouse next to our establishment.  They would make for some entertaining reality television.  It would be like Intervention without the hope and redemption.

After all these episodes, chance encounters and temporary incarcerations the one thing I have uttered is the simple term, “This is my life”.  It started out as an act of sheer self deprecation, as if implying that my life is in the shitter because of the situations I found myself in.  But I began to realize that while crazy people, substance abusers and would be stalkers from Detroit tend to gravitate towards my orbit I must have some small part in it.  It is not sheer chance that I find myself in these situations.  Once I realized this my once utterance for sympathy and a kind word was transformed into a new mantra.  So with that I give you the first chapter of what could be an ongoing project of my travels through this place we call Chicago and my attempt at some sort of self discovery.  This is my life.

I’ve realized that by working in a bar you get used to maintaining less than conventional hours.  As you’re getting off work and looking to unwind most people are flying off the rails from boozing for the last six hours.  Nowhere is this more evident than at a 4am bar.  Depending on where you are they could also be termed den of iniquities, domains for terrible decision making, or to use a term cherished by my cousins; the devil’s house.  Again, it’s different for people who just got done serving and cleaning up after these drunk retards who are continuing a night of binge drinking.

It was in the theme of this dichotomy that I was introduced to, or more appropriately hijacked by Mimi.  Mimi is a holistic therapist.  I know this because she told me when she sat down next to me.  I’m sure in whatever capacity she serves people she is good at what she does.  When we met on Monday she was in no condition to be cleaning out her own ears let alone assisting me on a spiritual journey to my inner peace.  Just as you’re not allowed to drive if you’re over the legal limit, I wouldn’t think it’s advisable to take someone down the path to self discovery.

I was sitting at the bar at one of these afterhours establishment with some coworkers when Mimi sat down next to me and proceeded to stare at the side of my head.  Of course I knew she was there.  I could smell the weird permeating from her scalp.

“You’re eyes are fluttering,” said Mimi.

“I’m sorry,” I responded, not wanting to be rude but understanding that by engaging her I had doomed myself to at least 45 seconds of awkward, uncomfortable dialogue.

“You’re eyes.  They’re fluttering,” Mimi repeated.

Now if you’ve known me for more than three minutes you have realized that I have a mild tick/idiosyncrasy/mild form of turrets.  The best way it’s been termed is that I blink hard.  I can only assume this is what Mimi was referring to.

“Yeah, I know.  I get it, my blinking thing,” I said, thinking her introduction was an odd way of hitting on someone.  That’s coming from someone who walked up to two women and told them I thought their dirty martinis were terrible drinks and green olives were stupid.

“It’s because you’re in transition,” Mimi continued.

“You mean in transition, like I’m going from point A to point B?”

“Why does everybody just want to get to point B?” Mimi smiled and looked down at her glass.  She shook her had and looked back up at me, “Point B is just the weigh station, it’s part of the process.  You need to get to C.”

“Is that a fact,” I said and looked back to my companions who were clearly ignoring what was happening.

Mimi put her hand up as if she was going to touch my back.  But she didn’t.  She held it maybe an inch away.

“What the hell are you doing,” I said, hoping to sound a little more upset than I actually was.

“I’m helping you find your balance,” said Mimi.

“I’m feeling pretty balanced,” I said, “I’m pretty anchored on this chair and I don’t think I’m going to fall off.”

“You’re not balanced at all,” Mimi said unfazed, “I can feel your heart chakra beating out of your back.”

“Is that a bad thing,” I asked, at this point amused by her tenacity and gusto but still unnerved nonetheless.  She reminded me of an old friend I had in high school and college who possessed the desire to save everyone but lacked the tact to not seem like a crazy person in her attempts.

“It’s terrible,” Mimi slurred, “and your breathing isn’t good either.”

“Really? Because I thought my respiratory system is pretty good,” I responded, “I mean I used to have pretty wicked asthma but I quit smoking about a year ago and now I feel pretty good.”

“You don’t breathe fluidly and so your soul can’t move throughout your body,” Mimi explained.

At this point Mimi’s criticism of my cellular makeup and inner spirit were starting to get to me.  How was this woman to know where my heart chakra, whatever the hell that is, was beating?  I’m my own navigator on this trip called life and I didn’t want some drunk hippie telling me to stir my soul by taking deeper breaths.

“Well thanks, Mimi, I really appreciate the recommendations,” I said, holding my pint up in a gesture of forced good will and turned toward the television because my friends were now outside smoking.

“What do you do with your life,” Mimi asked, completely unaware or indifferent of the brush off.

I took a deep breath and turned back to her.

“I’m a writer, I play rugby, I work at a bar,” I said in one long huff.

“Do you want to write for a living?”

“Yeah I would like to,” I responded.

“What’s holding you back?”

I sat and looked at Mimi for a moment and then turned and stared at the bottles lining the wall behind the bar.

“Myself…my bullshit hang-ups, my dumb fucking excuses…,” I said.

I didn’t know why I was talking to this woman in the early hours of a new day.  This woman who was clearly wasted and trying desperately to assist someone who wanted to enjoy the remainder of his beer.  I couldn’t say why I hadn’t just told her to piss off right away.  It’s been reported that I’m too nice to strangers, too polite to people I don’t need to be polite to.  Maybe I was so desperate for any kind of explanation as to what’s happened in these past few months that I’m willing to let an inebriated sage try to fix me.

“Hold up your hands,” Mimi said.

“What?”

“You need to find your power hand,” Mimi said, “hold one hand facing up and one down.”

I did as instructed though I rolled my eyes and made some flippant comment about having to let go of my beer.  I flipped my hands back and forth not really sure as to what I was doing.

“See, you can’t know how to control your inner power if you don’t know which hand it flows through,” Mimi said as if she were a nanny doling out life lessons.

I put my hands down and grabbed my drink again.

“What’s the one possession you love more than anything else in the world,” Mimi asked.

“Oh I don’t know,” I respond, “my cat.  I could pretty much make due with anything but not my cat.”

“Well then that’s all you have to do,” Mimi said putting her hands face down on the bar, “just put your cat on your chest and absorb her love and energy and you’ll find your balance.”

“Is that all,” I say, trying unsuccessfully to hold in my extreme amusement and laughter that would surely be taken as rude.

“I’m going back to the other end of the bar, Ian,” Mimi said, holding out her hand, “I’m really glad I could help you.”

“Mimi, you have no idea,” I said smiling.

We shook hands and Mimi took her drink and walked back down to the end of the bar.

“What the fuck was that about,” my coworker asked, hitting me on the shoulder.

“No goddamn idea but you could’ve helped me out.  That woman was a psycho,” I responded.

“We thought you were hitting on her, we didn’t want to mess with your game,” he responded.

Shortly after the house lights came up and we were informed in that friendly albeit firm tone of voice that it was time to leave.  Mimi was already gone as we walked out of the bar into the chilly October morning.

Thanks for your time.

So this is my first blog post for Sloth Jockey.  Hooray!  Apparently I’ve been granted complete creative freedom to write – and subsequently riff on virtually any subject I please.  I’ve not had this type of freedom in a public forum in a while and suffice it to say I am a bit overwhelmed.

So in a classic turn of taking the easy way out I would like to use this first post as a way to introduce myself.  Generally I find this type of writing self indulgent and petty but I guess the same argument could be made for blogs in general.

So here’s an anecdote:

I am a writer, about to turn 26 and have never been gainfully employed – ever.  I’ve had part time jobs since I was 16, sure, but never have I had what, for better or worse, you’d call an adult job.

I graduated from a small liberal arts college in west-suburban Chicago in 2006 with degrees in English with an emphasis in creative writing and History.  In an act of sheer avoidance I defected directly into graduate school where in 2008 I received a Master of Arts degree in English with an emphasis in fiction writing from a medium sized university based in Chicago.

There was a brief moment when I contemplated applying for PhD programs but was threatened (very rightly in hindsight) by my girlfriend that such a decision would jeopardize our romantic involvement.  Apparently listening to me bitch about how much I didn’t care about Hawthorne’s inspiration for writing The Scarlett Letter or Christopher Marlowe’s surreptitious influence on Shakespeare was starting to gnaw at her.

Following a brief stint as a researcher at an Internet database firm my employer and I reached our first mutual understanding; we didn’t like one another very much.  In the mean time my girlfriend – who was very pleased that I decided to take time off from the upper echelon of education – and I decided to plan a trip to Southeast Asia.

When the end of 2008 rolled around my employer and I reached our second and final mutual understanding; I could finish out the year but upon my return from said trip I would not contact them in any capacity for further employment.  On January 2^nd, 2009, we departed for – and trekked around – Thailand, Laos and Cambodia.  It has been my experience that describing travel stories is something that is only fun for the storyteller so I’ll leave it at this: the trip was beautiful, awesome, educational, relaxing, challenging and much needed.

Upon returning to the states in one of the most turbulent economic situations of the last decade finding a job was less a pipe dream and more an exercise in futility.  Having spent the better portion of my young adult life wrapped and incubated in the warm and supportive nest of the higher learning educational system, never having to actually figure out how writing short fiction would pay off immediately, I was rudely shook conscious to the fact that the job market is stupefyingly competitive and trying to find a job is really goddamn difficult.

So here I am seven months later, about to turn 26, unemployed and trying to make a name for myself by writing for a free blog, contributing to a satire news site and getting my fiction published in online magazines.  I pick up odd jobs now and again as well as follow my still supportive girlfriend (she either loves me very much or has a savior’s complex) to her place of employment and do all the jobs she doesn’t want to.  I would like to take this opportunity to also personally thank you, the reader, for supporting me as well.  Not only for reading this but also because your hard earned tax dollars are supplying my unemployment check.

Apart from the occasional anxiety that I’m heading out on the definitive wild goose chase I’m more or less okay with all of this.  I’m realistic about what I’m trying to step into and the massive undertaking it is to be a successful writer in any capacity much less within a specific genre.  I’m under no delusions of striking it rich or even making a solid living strictly on my writing prowess.

But when someone asks me what I do, I definitively, unwaveringly say that I am a writer.  Because when it comes down to it I don’t have a choice, it’s the only thing I’ve really ever wanted to do.

This sort of self realization may strike you as extraordinarily banal and incredibly cliché.  In all reality you’re spitting at your monitor this very instant.  That’s fair.  If you’ve read this far such an observation may seem too convenient, too tidy.  It’s also the only thing that works.  In a way it’s the banality, the very shallowness of certain observations that can be the most truthful.

So in short; I’m Ian Penrose.  I’m a writer.  This is my blog.  I hope you come back and read every post.  I’m under no delusion that you will.

Thanks for your time.