» Full Dark, No Stars - Stephen King's new novella questions mankind's ability to trust others.
[02.21.2011 by Bridget Doyle]


 » The Top 30 Albums of 2010 - Fashionably, fabulously late, our favorite music (and believe me, there was a LOT) of 2010, the year that some have called the best year for music ever. And only some of those fools work here. Plenty of usual suspects, lots of ties and a few surprises that I won't spoil, including our unexpected #1.
[12.24.2010 by The LAS Staff]


 » Live: Surfer Blood/The Drums at Lincoln Hall, Chicago, IL - Remember when Weezer used to put together records that you could sing along to and rock out to? That's what Surfer Blood's show was like!
[11.04.2010 by Cory Tendering]

Music Reviews

Screaming Females - Castle Talk
»Screaming Females
Castle Talk
Don Giovanni
Trent Reznor & Atticus Ross - The Social Network [Original Soundtrack]
»Trent Reznor & Atticus Ross
The Social Network [Original Soundtrack]
The Null Corporation
Deerhunter - Halcyon Digest
Halcyon Digest
No Age - Everything in Between
»No Age
Everything in Between
Sub Pop
Robyn - Body Talk Pt. 1/ Body Talk Pt. 2
Body Talk Pt. 1/ Body Talk Pt. 2
The Walkmen - Lisbon
»The Walkmen
Fat Possum

March 17, 2000
A lot has happened since the last time we have talked, and I seem to be making much progress. First off, I hold with an esteem those who know to sit about in their houses with garages strewn about the city. My life is strikingly different, from my standpoint, I must make ammends and carry out many duties for the sake of womankind.

My search for intimacy seems to be clouded as of tonight in some regards: always on the lookout, but some things being less literary than what always comes on a few days from then.

Most popular with my underlying scheme of American things is known as the go-back. On one eve I returned to the California Clipper where the column began, to find that Kim was not as hot, still punk, and likes me a tiny bit. I looked like a redneck in there and an article came out that said they don't want those types in there anymore. Go fuck 'em.

There was a series of go-backs this past week, which seems to have been a lot longer than seven days due to the impact. I found a place called the Exit, a punk rock bar. I go out so much that I forget why I go, and I have a lot of pressure from friends to be great, it goes way back. At any rate this pretty punker girl whom I wasn't talking to with punk eyes looked at me for five seconds.

I had come into the bar in a happy state, feeling like someone, and had been reduced to nothing by that stare. I've forgotten what the female touch is like and now all I seem to get is stares, which cause extreme regret. So basically I've got it all hooked up so I don't get anything but pain, even from just one look. But she was a pretty pale dark haired punk type girl, and that would have been great. When do I get to go to LA? I would make more of a killing there I'm sure, they love me up in the hills. BLAH.

So, I mosied on somehow, always stopping in the meat market on the corner in Wicker Park for a 7-Up. I heard tonight that Matt Olive picked up a seven-footer there. So, one time I picked up a five footer. She had dark black hair, which I adore. I like girls where their feet look okay too. Whatever, some girls smell funny: these are all considerations I'm starting to realize and the column is getting harder by the minute.

Not really, half the girls around this city look scrumptious to me, too bad they don't know I'm a natural. Women on the coasts tend to realize my naturalness far better than here, so I ponder moving. But the bar scene is so incredible here, although I could do without seeing that Chicago look for a while.

The first girl I called in this thing: I went to her house for dinner and ended up on her bed to watch TV in her small apartment; when Friends ended, I reached for her naked, slightly tan belly and moved in to the consideration of her choosing a smokey cigarette instead. I think she's got some problems. I mean, how often does some random chick from Chicago get the best writer of the year in her bed? I lay claim to this because I wrote every day this year.

After you work your ass off, then you get to have your own column like this.

So on the L-train way back to the hot areas around here I received an actual lower back rub, on skin. Including a bare neck rub and head scratch. This felt really good and I was the master of all the dudes on the train.

We had a drink at one of the many places to have a drink in Wicker Park and I left with an actual touch of lips to lips, though dry. She had to go off to my house, I headed on foot to Bucktown to meet up at a get-together that I inevitably missed out on; immediately condemned by my sort-of female girlfriend friend whom I've never kissed for going over where I had been. At least in the eyes, and I'm big on eyes, especially these days.

In the old days all I would do is cruise around LA; in the midwest it tends to be longer in one place, it's more chill - I retain ideals, and have been known to wear shorts in the fall to attract women.

As everyone left I accepted the invitation to sleep on the couch, as I often do because my place has a dog in it. Feeling bewildered by being turned down in an extremely horny state earlier, for the price of smokes and beer, ick, I went to reading my underground man manual, and I swear she sort of had something in her eye when she said goodnight.

Some things tend to bother a lonesome existentialist more than others: it is these things that are shuned, but then shine through when the next evening runs around.

I went off on the public transportation to Wrigleyville, finally escaping all shreds of ghetto I despise in my state of highness. This bar tonight was great, and I was fortunately over the point of wondering why I wasn't here or there, all these new places, instead of the old places where I left abashed.

I talked to many a woman for very short intervals, and got giggles from the shorter cute ones. There were a many donning navel-highlighting shirts in December and I got in some good looks. I think the coolest thing about the art of women is that more than often even if it's not their face I am particularily fascinated by, it will still often be their belly which is a wonder to see.

I was out with the boys. Friday nights tend to be more commotion than they're worth. Managed a sip of a green martini (squashed olive) from a sister.

Stepped outside with Deehru and into a cab to escape the high intensity area. We went to Phyllis' bar and discussed hookers. Even though this is a free-for-all I won't go into the godly advantages of hookers I mostly spoke of, except to say that I would definately eat a whole ginger-root from Dominick's before hand though.

Tom Schmidt
No one really knows anything at all about Tom Schmidt.

See other articles by Tom Schmidt.



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