Thank You, Delicate Steve

These dudes are so good. Seriously. I stumbled across the five-piece Jersey band last summer (2012) and have really not stopped listening to them since. It's actually really revved up lately and I've become kind of, borderline obsessed. Which is why I'm so compelled to talk about it...because everyone I hang out with in real life has heard this shpeel and I want to just shout it from the rooftops/ paint it across the sky/ etc.

A dance amongst strum-heavy rock music, the improvisational, creative rhythms of the jam band genre, the plugged-in crescendos of all things electro, and often reminiscent in robust overall sound to Ravi Shankar's sitar (RIP), this mostly instrumental blast of energy reminds me that there is good music being made out there, BY GUITARS! And for that, we should be thankful. Led by guitar and musical stylings from the 25-year old brain/ spirit of the amazing and swoony Steve Marion, who says he'd prefer an athlete's schedule to a rocker's any day, I feel like you can really hear the words to their songs when there aren't any...if you know what I mean. I've come to terms with the fact that I prefer music with no vocals, given the option, though there are exceptions, as with anything. The guitar licks offered by Delicate Steve, though, really do replace the vocals and that is just a rare breed of modern musician. Steve is joined by Mike Duncan (percussion), Christian Peslak (guitar), Adam Pumilia (bass), and Mickey Sanchez (keyboard), and they all wear cool tank tops from what I can tell. They are a rare breed of two-album bands for me, in that I do not prefer either and actually like them both. A lot. In most two-album-band scenarios, I will either really like the first one and the second album just doesn't measure up, or really appreciate the newer album for its growth and feel kind of distant from the first. In this case, one thing that I can say, is that I hear a significant difference between the two pieces of work, but I'm interested in them both. It's kind of like having a cool velveteen jumper to change into after wearing other cool clothes to work all day or something. Ok. so that is a boring example. But the point is that it's great to have options.

The first album, Wondervisions, (2011) ignites like a slow match with the opening track, Welcome- Begin which kicks off the musical journey in realistic fashion by the sounds of electric guitar tuning, and feedback, leading into the layered-beats-over-guitar-sound that IS Delicate Steve. Next comes The Ballad of Speck and Pebble, which entirely makes me feel like I'm longboarding down the Santa Monica Pier and I've never even been there. But I feel like it's really cute that they sing those sing-songy notes over top of the same beat like we all really do when we hear our favorite song. Working to explain something, it just seems like this album continues to unfold a partnership with the listener that asks him to listen, but doesn't beg, and I think that is what is most endearing. Each track takes on a patient expectation, building from a mellow guitar foundation, like a dream's soundtrack, and into a more explosive punch-line as its story unfolds. And because there's no words (pretty much), you can put in your own, or just appreciate that there aren't any, and that is pretty cool too. Words can be constrictive and without them there is so much potential for beauty and interpretative glory through our own lense. The church aroma and opening tones of Z Expression totally inspire me. It's some deep shit. It's like...someone getting you, or I guess, feeling a moment of empathy, so..maybe you getting them, but it's definitely some instance where you hold hands. It ends vulnerably both in sound and listener facade and then leads into Don't Get Stuck (Proud Elephants) which I think is one of my favorites all-around. It's a deep breath. It's an open door. It's the bootstraps of the album; it says, we are not giving up, and it offers some hope, for what is to come for all of us I think, and it quite literally picks it up. Yes, in tempo, but in spirit, and I think I always feel encouraged when I hear it. And theoretically, this makes sense, as the song's title (Don't Get Stuck (Proud Elephants) ) offers some of the best advice in its essence. It should be noted that I always think of the little elephants walking in a line in the Jungle Book when I see the title. Not surprisingly comes along Butterfly as this album really does feel like a fantasmal journey from which we all blossom out of a cocoon like a beautiful, just-listened-to-our-first-Delicate-Steve winged wonder. Except it seriously keeps happening, every time, and hasn't gotten old.

Then, there's the second album, Positive Force (2012), which is altogether more psychedelic. I, for one, am way down with that. Like many sophomore projects, the structure is more focused, and also more robust. There's a recipe apparent, woven like marble cake, first with the poignant and identifiable sound of waning guitars, and infused with bass-y beats and plenty of percussion that really leave a good taste in your mouth. Greeted by synthesized density, and enveloped early by the warmth and positivity of "Ramona Reborn," you feel at peace with the title of this record. "Wally Wilder" wanes next, sunbathing you in alliteration and upbeat snuggles that make you feel like you should definitely be dancing in Keds across a checkered floor. (I'm fairly certain I Just Kapowski'd the Max...because that's what "cool" means deep down in my childhood.) To be honest, the first unexpected twist follows next, as Two Lovers appeals to the sentimental and the sensual, and leans towards pop-rock utilizing some of the band's only audible lyrics. The tones of video games pitchy foundation carry us through Big Time Receiver into the trippy mindfuck that is Touch and into the very pretty title track. Maybe I'm subconsciously swayed by its title, but Love comes next (marriage, baby carriage, etc)...and it's one of the best. The four-minute-twenty-second Redeemer climbs around the high notes and warms you up for Afria Talks to You which is dance-party-ready and upbeat, crossing into the pop-sounding genre of a four-count rhythm under a guitar singing you a love story. Has music has ever taken you to a place where you're just like- how do I hug you and how are you intangible? Luna feels like you're floating in space when you listen to it, so I guess its celestial title has some bearing. All else I'll say on this piece of art is that the waning slide guitar in the track, Love reminds me that love is beautiful in highs and lows, and we all need this reminder sometimes. So thank you, Delicate Steve. For everything.

_____
I started writing this over a month ago to prepare for tomorrow's show at Subterranean, but I've been so nervous to discuss something that has been so personal and timely in my individual evolution. I think that it's worth your Monday to show up tomorrow. There's two openers, and the show starts at 8pm. Please do yourself a favor.

old haiku 3

Upon further inspection, I think this notebook is from 2009. And I think all of these were from an Ashland bus ride. Here is another.

if the shoe does fit
i hope you'll tie it tightly
never let it drop.

old haiku 2

Found in an old notebook.

babies scream; wives yell
maybe at least for right now
im ok lonely.

old haiku 1

I found an old notebook with some scribbly haikus. I'll put a few up on the blog once in awhile to keep it spicy. Here is one:

Pays in all nickels
Smellin super funkified
My seat is his john.

The top 5 reasons to tweak out about GMO frankenfish

Ok, so I get that with all the recent media exposure to food triangles, and general misconception that healthy foods are super expensive, that scientists and sociologists alike are looking for answers to the future of our planet's health. Thinking globally, and acting locally is what we are supposed to do. So when the FDA approved genetically modified Atlantic salmon, developed by MA-based company Aquabounty, to go to the final stages of research before it hits the market here in early 2013, it raised many questions regarding the labeling of GMO products, as well as how this will affect the natural habitat and genetics of wild salmon, and therefore, the salmon that ends up on our grocery shelves and in our restaurant kitchens.

Aquasalmon, as it is being labeled, is comprised of DNA material from Chinook salmon, as well as the lesser known ocean pout, eel's cousin, that together allow the fish to produce growth hormones year-round, instead of just during the warm-weather months that their natural salmon brethren and sisterhood allow. This is supposed to not only increase the size of the fish produced, but also cut production costs simultaneously. The biggest fear is, and has always been, what if these superfish escape their pens and mate with wild salmon, therefore jeopardizing the entire food chain? If this goes through, the GMO salmon will be the first modified animal-based product to hit the U.S. food market. Dating back to a NY Times article in 2002, they note that the salmon "would sit alongside genetically engineered corn and potatoes, which have been available for several years." Since the inception of GMO corn and potatoes, they have been controversial on the topics of health and long-term effects of unnatural food consumption, and especially in regards to the visibility that the products, are, in fact, genetically modified. This is because U.S. regulations do not require GMO foods be labeled as such in the stores. But when has anyone ever said that leaving out information wasn't lying? Ask any boyfriend - it is. It kind of seems to me that GMO foods are a huge chunk of information that has been left out and makes the story not quite right- they want you to think it's all ok and they don't negatively effect your body, and saves you money in the long run, but do they even know for sure? And shouldn't we as consumers have the right to at least know where the stuff comes from that we put into our bodies? If they were so sure, wouldn't they slap a label on it and be proud of this revolutionary product?

This is where the class-war also comes into play, as researchers say this will drive down the cost of salmon, a very healthy protein alternative to what most Americans can regularly afford. Dangling healthy options in front of the lower classes who couldn't previously afford this fish almost guarantees a whole new profitable market, and at a rapid growth, too, with how quickly these fish are supposed to repopulate. Further, these farmed "frankenfish," as they are being called by the salmon-poser opposers, will be raised in a Net pen system. This bodes for water contamination as well. According to the Wild Salmon Center, "Net pen salmon are also hosts for disease and parasites like sea lice, which attack wild salmon during their migrations. To confront the sea lice, salmon farmers use antibiotics and pesticides, which flow into the ecosystem as well." Doesn't sound like anything I'd want to ingest...I'd rather just stick with the natural kind that we already have?

To me it's just most disturbing that once these frankenfish get to market , that consumers will not know what they are purchasing; whether they are buying the recently-rejuvenated-off-the-endangered-species-list wild salmon that boosts Omega-3's and lowers cholestrol or, this mix of weird salmon and eely-giant-weird-scary-fish-beef that hasn't been around long enough to even know exactly what it does.

If they're going to put this through to market, supposedly to be confirmed 60 days from December 21, 2012, according to the FDA, it will be the face of a new generation of food for the U.S. Personally, I'm totally tweaked out about this and what it means for our future. Here's some reasons I think you should be too.

1. OCEAN POUT sounds like the saddest/ grossest thing to eat

No one likes a party pooper, who wants to ingest something born pouty? Sounds like energy I don't want flowing through my system. Also - they look super disgusting and slimy. Plus I just think of those 2 evil eels from The Little Mermaid, who are sworn enemies FOR LIFE.

2. FRANKENFISH: The Movie

When there is a B-movie based on the true events of a GMO snakehead fish in MD overpopulating a pond and forcing local people to kill them all out of fear of what it would do just to the Chesapeake Bay watershed. The snakehead fish is known to be aggressive, and is able to walk on land for brief periods of time. WHAT THE HECK. Before we know it, the Aquasalmon will be walking the land, coming to your door, asking for money. Seriously. They are going to turn into the new Sierra Club beggars downtown, even, taking jobs from our idealistic youth.

3.

Why is now the time?

This has been a discussion for ages, and now, animal-based GMO's are ok. Why now? The topic still remains a serious environmental concern, in relation to the potential effects on wild salmon. And after working for years to get those same wild salmon off the endangered species list, why is now the time we're ok with risking going fully backwards with that? I guess this also applies to- hey, how about let's avoid all use of franken-anything , now, and in the future? I think we can all agree it's never worked out well. (Insert Al Franken joke here)

4.

If this is true...

Do you want to be a monster? What if you didn't even know you were ingesting monster? AH! SO SCARY

5. This could change the GMO labeling outcome forever.

We could really come to a negotiation on what this means with the FDA. If we demand that GMO food gets labeled through our voting power, it will change the face of health forever. Having the choice to buy natural products, when labeled correctly, will shift supply and demand and allow our farmers to grow without the use of pesticides and affordable GMO animal feed that effects the whole food chain. If we don't use this GMO salmon discussion to catalyze an actual change in the transparency of our food system and where our food comes from, it's like we are asking for health risks, and ain't nobody got time for that!

Straight Flintstone'ing It

So what happens when your feet stop running? In general...do you just have to hope you're in a good enough spot to stay there? Do your legs get trampled by your own momentum, therby veering you off the road? Could you cramp up and just charlie horse that bitch off the road? Smash into something or total the piece altogether? Or like- what if Barney got hammered and sprained his ankle and couldnt passenger-sprint? Like, does Pebbles have to step up? I dunno, it just seems to me that that cartoon is full of shit. If there are giant dinosaurs flying around, it just seems like you'd obviously fly. And there were those huge brontosauruses at work that they slid down after clocking out, that helped to enhance boulder-shifting and slate rock'ing productivity-- and even if they were "trained"... but if they were "herbivores," then they should have "used them to get around." And still, even though I get that it's a form of exercise, the whole running in full sprint to make a car go that is made out of ROCKS and wood seems about impossible unless you're Magnus or whatever. Those stones look heavy as shit. Just being able to turn them one rotation alone seems like a lie, a lie placed to run children straight into slander-swaddled naps, leaving 60's moms more free to smile randomly for no reason, high on monochromatic pills and oven gas, or maybe to get ready to coat the sink in comet, slam vodka, sew on some boy scout patches, or whatever they did when the kids didn't distract them. No matter what, I just know that shit is FALSE. No way you can just run until you don't, especially when you have momentum, which happens more than anyone would like to admit.

Maybe I just know from experience. For awhile my brakes didn't work on my bike and I was still chillin around on it like that was cool because ...I guess I thought it was? Like if I just paid close enough attention to traffic and wore closed toed shoes it would be fine. Well...those closed-toed shoes turned into ripped-open-toe Vans from dragging my feet so hard on the concrete. Once I almost smashed into a Cadillac that slow-rolled a stop sign, full-force. The driver slammed on his brakes when he saw me and was like...holding up his hand, as if to tell me to stop...and I was trying, but I just ...couldn't. I was sprinting and shuffling my feet to try to slow down as he approached, dragging my toes as I just coasted through the intersection, as if I didn't care. The guy looked super pissed- like- "who do you think you are? Fred Flintstone?" I would have turned back around to apologize but I was pretty far away by then. He definitely gave me the death eyes though, as i soared past...which I suppose are better than death-crash-into-my-body-with-vehicle-eyes. Either way, I saved up and got my brakes fixed on my next paycheck...and even though I ate beans for like, all my meals that week, it was worth it to save my life, and my toes. I just hope somewhere, there's a probably-rich, Cadillac-owning black man writing a blog about a dumbass white chick in overalls who thought she was too good to stop at a stop sign.

Since the big fix, I have since quit Flinstone'ing it...with my feet on my bike at least, and the rest of the time, I try to catch it before it's too late. Because, well... isn't Flinstone'ing it some kind of Carrie-Bradshaw-trapeze-y, generally existential, metaphor for life? Where we all just push until we can't, and sometimes field some dirty looks along the way? But most importantly, it's that we need to know when to stop so that our momentum doesn't send us crashing right into dry-hangover-heaving hard enough to piss your pants at your nine-to-five. And while we can't just fix our brakes in real life, we can acknowledge our needs and adjust our actions....and just slow down. Even if the cost is high upfront, it is probably the reward we're seeking anyway, right? It's really just one of life's many lessons on knowing when to fold 'em, knowing when to walk away I guess.

Secret, Secret- I got a secret!

"Anonymity is one of greatest assets of being online. Plenty of people use it as a shield to say whatever they want about anyone else without repercussions." - Drew Magary

Are there even secrets anymore? It used to be that secrets were the things hidden inside life's hardcover copy of The Fountainhead, or the cat's eye in a bag of clay marbles. The special edition record you've been searching for, still in the packaging; the frosted mini-wheat with both sides covered in sugar, they were a gift. They have separated friends from really good friends, provided leverage across business & politics, and goddamnit, most especially, offered privacy in artistic creativity. Is it not something important through creative production to leave a little mystery, or room for growth, surrounding characters who have been poofed out of our brains? Before Twitter, Facebook, and blogging, did kids in the 50's really need to find out who the real Batman was underneath the mask? Maybe we were just trained on the 5w's in school, and perhaps Law & Order has shown us that curiosity may not, in fact, kill the cat, but stop it at the very last second from getting violently shanked, raped, or knocked out by a chloroform rag, but hey, that's the generation we are from.

Facebook asks us what's on our minds; as a society, our responses to now are split unevenly and unfavorably between... either much smarter, or much dumber, than our brains' free-flow, under oppression of the 140-character mark, and above all we validate each others' voyeurism and egos through thumbs ups, comments, retweets, photo tags, checking people in at a fucking restaurant, or publicly making plans when we all know you have Chloe's number and coulda texted just texted her. Don't no one care you're going to see Snow White on Tuesday besides Chlo, yo. Except your MOM, who "likes" it and while she was on your page she also saw that pic of you in your bra, dancing on a bar, taking a body shot in an old photo that just resurfaced from Spring Break '04, because someone figured out how to use a scanner (those days in real life are so Dickens: the best of days, the worst of days). Well mom is not stoked, your old churchy neighbor is your facebook friend, and, shouldn't you have some self-respect? Don't you wish you just texted now? But it doesn't really matter, if it wasn't this time it would be the next. Your mom will continue to snoop, and did snoop throughout the past, and she's not even in our generation, so ... what I'm saying is, are we all just way too fucking nosey?!

This is really all inspired by the great reveal of Twitter's Wizard of Grand Blanc, to be honest. The legendary 'shup-wielding, 'bring-driving, Applebee's-dining, cold one- chugging, Karl. Welzein, you guys. Ok...you may know him as @dadboner. No one gets more steamed than him. Besides me. About the fact that someone (Drew Magary of Deadspin) decided to bust out his sweet sleuth badge and crush everyone's hopes and dreams. I get it- on March 8, 2012, when the foreshadowing & flirty lead-in article was released, Welzein had over 50,000 followers; all of whom had curiosity about whether or not this dude was real. And wouldn't 50,000 people love to know? And know you, Drew Magary? Then, on March, 12, 2012, my heart got two sizes too small; when Karl Welzein, @dadboner, was revealed to be writer/comedian Mike Burns. NOOOOOO! I immediately - curiously- crept on his personal twitter page (@pizzanachos69) and tons of REAL PEOPLE I KNOW follow him, are friends with him, and in this moment-boom! The magic is GONE. Seriously? Fake-dadboner-dude performs and pals up with people ive sloppily swapped spit, tobacco pipes, and/or pizza slices with at 3 am? How is this fair?

Look, I don't know Mike Burns. He rules from what I can see, but I'm pissed about this Drew Magary guy. Why'd you have to go and ruin all the fun? Case of @dadboner envy? Didn't want someone else to crack this fucking case NO ONE WANTED CRACKED, first? We all wanted it to be some kinda-nasty dude in a deep-red, salsa-stained velour polo shirt, with his belly showing at the bottom, sharing sheer emotion, over-Americanism, and genuine ridiculousness!! No one wanted it to be a working L.A. comic who goes to normal bars (not just Applebee's), receives adoration from people (isn't mostly hated by everyone mentioned), and who isn't going through a marital separation (not sure where Mike Burns stands on this- but- I know he's not separated from Anne Welzein, Karl's wife). Sure, he is from Michigan, loves the Lions & Bob Seger, according to Magary, but ...who can say no to Night Moves? I don't know, you guys, I was beside myself. This dude Mike obviously did not want to be found out either since Magary had to dress up like Carmen Sandiego to find him. This isn't fuckingDeepthroat, MAGARY!! You didn't need to rip off the virtual fatsuit and unclip the rockin pony so heartlessly, dude.

I do realize in typing this up, that I too, am devaluing Karl Welzein's former entity, but the secret has been broken to the general public before I've raised my voice, so inherently I am breaking no secrets.

Currently, on May 25, Welzein is around 78,000 followers - this guy's not a dying trend- and I'd guess his number of followers spiked due to the buzz around this reveal across the internet community. I'm actually pretty stoked for this Mike Burns fellow. He is really funny, and on my one hand covered in glitter and happiness, I tip my hat to Magary for helping to gain this comic some notoriety, even if unwarranted. In my other, witch-claw-ridden hand full of ingrown sharks' nails, my hat has has poop in it and is on fire. I liked @dadboner as a safe unknown, one that I wasn't quite sure what it meant, but I still had expectations invested in it, you know? I think because most of the things in that category of life are scary, I embraced this as a lighthearted laugh I could count on. That was then, and now, in the post-March-12-era, I'm just like, whatever, Mike Burns. Who are you, really? (Answer: @pizzanachos69) Bottom line: secrets, secrets, WERE some fun, and breaking secrets hurt someone. Keep your secrets close, and if you want them to stay that way, anyone who knows Drew Magary far as fuck away from them.

HOLY PANTHER FACE OF LIGHTNING

Guys, this picture is crazy as hell. I was itis'd up after turkey today (Thanksgiving), Stumbling and StumblingUpon tons of weird sites toting the 10 canine commandments (dog pledges to humans), tips on how to fix Thanksgiving disasters, a wine guide, some tree photos, a couple rock guidebooks; you know, StumbleUpon-style random stuff that really just mushes up your brain more than it needs to be mushed at any given time. If StumbleUpon would have existed when I was in college I'd for sure have failed out. I mean (no) drugs, boys and procrastination already made it hard enough...AM I RIGHT? ("Ladies, ladies, ladies..."- Paula Poundstone.)

But, ya, that site is crazy. Have you used it? Here--if you havent--go there now-->StumbleUpon. It's free to sign up, do that, then just pick stuff you like from the options they give you. Anything from entertainment, sports, gardening, food/drink, art, fashion, science, gadgets, languages, people, travel, money, you name it...just check it off the list. After you've dwindled however many minutes you're trying to dwindle (this is definitely a time-burning site), click the "stumble!" icon and see what it gives you. Like I said, my shit is all over the place; Johnny Depp's eyeliner applicator's interview in Marie Claire, stumbled next to THIS FUCKING PICTURE above. Which brings me to my point...

WHAT IS THIS!? It's listed as "20-striking-natural-disasters" in its description but gives no explanation anywhere as to what the hell is going on. At first glance, I was sure it was the work of an out-of-place Ursula the Sea Witch, crafting her angry land-brew in the sky instead of at the depths of hell's oceans...but then i realized it was actually the sideview profile of a death-cloud-panther whose jawline and teeth were laced with lightning, eyes glowing with fire, and a nose traced by what appeared to be the tail of an actually-still-burning comet. Huh. *dead silence/stares off*

So I'm all for this site but I think I'm either using it wrong, or we need some more freaking info here. You're gonna ask me to pick all the things I like, scour the entire internet for my entertainment, then just simply tease me with stunning imagery that offers me no education? I guess in this case I'm down with just, "sky panther of death"...but knowing maybe if anyone possibly survived this apocalypse, how it formed, where it took place, ...anything? anything at all? would probably sooth my soul a little. I feel like I just did something I wasn't supposed to--almost dirty, and I think it's because I think this is a personal photo. One that some person took, either to show to friends and family with a story to share, or to mail to mortal enemies with attached threats, that was never supposed to get to me, full as hell to the brim via turkey and malbec as a stranger on Thanksgiving in Chicago* (*though this photog could very will be a non-stranger in Chicago, I'd like to think if that was the case, this fire-face, panther-man wouldn't be such a fucking shock as it would be part of an old story I'd heard once before...or a threat even).
http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif
I guess it got me high-thinking about privacy and impressionism, and with a wide lens. Wouldn't it be funny if Sherlock Holmes was still around? That guy would annoy everyone on Facebook for sure...always asking auspicious leading questions like "Has anyone seen Leo Brattleboro oot and aboot? I'm gumshoeing him for a case of the murder. If you're at The Arrowhead Cigar Shop, look around, do you see him? (pic attached) ...he just checked in there on Foursquare and I need you to pin him down. Anyone? I'm on my way."

Ugh I mean it's ridiculous. Some call it Big Brother, but to be Orwellian would mean it to be not only out of our control, but also to be something we didn't wish to have. Dames showing off, checking in at Fendi in NY on their holiday vaca, dudes checking in on game-day at some douchey sports bar with 200 tv's...we get it. You leave your fucking house. Good for you. I don't care that you're at O'hare, but some dude trying to rob you does, and all your stupid gold is stolen now. How do you like that? Oh, someone got fired from work because he called in sick, then by 10 am was checked into a bloody mary parlour just blocks away from his office? How invasive and inappropriate of them to fire him, right?! No; wrong...this dumbass is friends with his boss online and checking into a bar on Foursquare when he's supposed to have the measles or whatever. If you want to get fired or have your dumb gold stolen, keep "checking in," dummies. If you just want your friends to meet you, text them. Cool?

Anyway, if you know anything about this demon-cat of flaming purple skies above, I'd like any and all info. Does this cloud-beast breath fire? It kind of looks like it could ya know? Do you guys see this panther or am I totally mental? Get back to me on all accounts. Happy Thanksgiving y'all. Do something nice for someone today.

a poem: quick-texted to a dear friend on the 66

And I wonder, why's the sky blue?
And why is matthew so mcconahoo?
No one really kisses that way
so why do I have this corset anyway?
My beer belly shows the kind of girl I am,
sick like the sea but always leaving the land,
just to carry
the hops in my hand.

Get it Tight Get it Right

Ye ole New Year's Resolutions. (Is the "R" in "Resolutions capitalized? That's an AP question maybe...not sure if we're there yet.) But yea, do you make 'em? Can you just randomly make up a resolution (this one's definitely not capitalized) mid-year and have it be as motivational to pretend-to-care-about, then just cast aside when your true self inevitably dominates your potential, and then you just go back to swearing too much, sleeping with the wrong people, eating poorly and late, or constantly burning the candle at both ends...not that any of those are my personal battles or anything. I don't know...I just was tired of slackin on my personal-growth-pimpin, so I have tried changing this failed approach (approach really means lacking approach) of over-resolution'ing // exager-resolutions. Ultimately, it's June, almost July, and mad shit is going down, so let's reflect.

Friends who have seemed stagnant for years, in the most "comfortable"-meaning way of the word and not its negatively-charged variant, are now marrying, having children, moving to different cities, taking on higher-level career positions, perfecting their arts, and generally mounting the big-cock of life, and that is pretty cool. I have been trying to get back into the swing of a daily routine and it is truly a challenge for me. Since you don't care about that, I'll tell you how that really relates to what I'm getting at...resolutions are hilarious & totally telling about what types of cock-climbing you actually plan to tally up in the forthcoming year. And now that we're halfway through this bonedown, I figure it's time to evaluate if we've really stuck with those buggers like we said we would. What was your resolution? Have you followed through?

My main goal for 2011 was inspired my younger-than-me, but still teaches-me-so-much pal, Ms. Emily Rose. "Get your money right 2011" has been in full effect, and I am on a full hustle all the time. Getting results definitely inspires perseverance in all things arduous. I have more jobs than Nicki Minaj and I'm cool with that when I check my ledger. Keep in mind, I have normally had $zero.nothing in said ledger, so one should not assume me muggable- as my frame of reference is kinda homeless.

Did you decide to diet? Or travel more? Or lock it up with your special someone? Did you listen to that one song by Aaliyah and Timbaland, about a Resolution? Did you make a-mental-mends with your old neighbor, who's kind of a dick about watering his lawn too much but he's still not that bad of a dude, but you probably don't want to get stuck with him at a cookout?

I guess I'm asking...have you done what you said you were going to do? That, above all, is what people should generally do, I believe. I'm following through. Try it if you're not. You'll actually accomplish something and it feels good. Next for me-get some sweet skills: gardening, keyboard times(Swan let's do this), buying & wearing sunhats, NPO fundraising... and I'm putting this shit on fake-paper so, ...I guess I have to step it up now. TRY IT...it's kind of fun. Get it tight-get it right in 2011.5.

Top Six Reasons to Get Weird up in that Electric Forest (Electric Forest Festival, Rothbury, Michigan, June 30-July 3)

Here's some thoughts I have on Rothbury, Michigan's upcoming Electric Forest Festival over Fourth of July weekend:

http://www.chicagonow.com/blogs/lists-that-actually-matter/2011/05/top-six-reasons-to-get-weird-up-in-that-electric-forest-electric-forest-festival-rothbury-michigan-june-30-july-3.html

See you out there, champs.

My a-button is busted.

Lately I've been thinking about how annoying technology is. I mean, it also helps, too; I'm not on Walden Pond over here, but seriously...it's so demanding. It's like nannying for your reputation. Constant supervision upon your vulnerable, digital self... especially when it comes to work and Stalkernet, and worse when they're entwined. Sweet 5-hour delay to untag that picture of you bonging a beer in your bra at age 27; sure no one saw it, nor did it show up for your old boss/aunts/former campers to see. I mean, it's not really a big deal, but 10 years ago this crap wouldn't have happened, and you had to ..God-forbid.. actually get to know someone before judging them as a completely insane boozehound. also, sweet job having to check e-mail all the freaking time. at work, or in real life, mad heads are over-e-mailing and I just can't handle it. People get so salty if you're delayed in response, or even take it personally if you just haven't even seen their correspondence yet; but don't tell them that you haven't seen it yet either, or you'll just look irresponsible.

We're held so accountable... and for what? Charlie biting his stupid finger again? Boss singing the Lumberg-song asking for just a little bit more of your time or effort or... lack of apathy? Once at my shitty desk I spit on my monitor. Like a llama or whatever, just loug'd on my screen out of anger; like it was not inanimate, or as though a chump on the street (like a chump, heyyy, like a chump heyyy). I had to mail all these uninformative, wasteful packets of Marketing garbage to Switzerland and I stapled something wrong or something. Can you even staple something wrong? I mean ... these papers...they're not separate now, they seem pretty attached. Must have misunderstood what stapling was. I got FIVE emails about the mis-staple. FIVE. Two were from the same Bimbo. This one old lady in the office slept at her desk (real)...like, all the time. They've probably scolded her via e-mail like 50 times but she always had her eyes closed so she probably thought everything was just fine. and wouldn't it be better that way? Not having your eyes closed, but, not having to slave to your Outlook or your Gmail or your Gchat or your sparkly Myspace emoticons? I don't know, maybe it's just me, but it's so annoying. I think some people actually like the constant accessibility...so different strokes, I guess. I quickly started getting inspiration from that old nap-taking-lady, and I kind of realized it's easier to just not care. Well, that's how most things are, I suppose. I think it's Microsoft's fault for offering a snooze option in Outlook, et al; (insert bad office joke here).

But even when we don't care, it still gets complicated. (are we talking about technology here?) Like right now, I have to cut & paste every "a" I type. My a-button is broken (so is my "_-ray" button for that matter, but "_" is a more manageable atrocity). Its taken me at least twelve years to get all these thoughts jotted down, what with my normal keystroke as smooth as the skin on Mavis Beacon's newborn behind, and this new method of typing being as punctuated.as.meticulously.as.a.Dickinson.sonnet. So, please e_cuse my lack of capitalization when it comes to a's, but it's been a tough run, and this will be the last thing I write before sending this old-piece-of-shit computer via snail-mail to California or someplace to get fi_ed. Wish me luck* for both our sakes.

<<*Once in college something else dumb happened to my computer and I brought it to Best Buy's Geek Squad to fi_ it, and without asking me before doing so, they mailed it to...somewhere. I, of course, had nothing backed up, and -no joke- my computer got lost at sea. I lost all my writing, music, pictures, and other stuff you save. WHaT YEaR IS THIS?! I wasn't aware that was possible what with Magellan, the invention of GPS and... all the technology we're responsible for monitoring in the first place. BEST BUY-- I'm gonna need you to go ahead and come in on Saturdaaaay.>>

"UYD: Never Dodge a Load"

When I worked at my shitty desk, I listened to serious amounts of podcasts. I downloaded tons of NPR Shows, The Economist, a few musically-driven diatribes against autotuned-modernity central to Grateful Dead, Stevie Ray Vaughan, and The Allman Brothers amongst other folks, and of course some Onion stuff. Aside from Ira Glass (This American Life: Chicago Public Radio), however, I always really only had two dudes' voices streaming in my ears at all times as I analyzed data and felt like at any second I'd instinctively start picking out fleas from my coworkers' hair.

There's two bros out in California who are really funny. You might recognize one from his namesake, and the other from the teeny-bopper classic film, Crossroads, but you'll remember them best by their banter together if you give it a listen. Uhh Yeah Dude is comprised of Jonathan Larroquette and Seth Romatelli, respective to their earlier descriptions. Taglined, "America through the Eyes of Two American Americans," the Dudes mock their way through a weekly hour of jest-induced topical discussions including how fat America is, how ridiculous Craigslist is, and how horrible Florida is as a state. If you really love Florida, you might hate them. Sorry, Krise. They rip on Florida's citizens, lawmakers, laws, criminals, backwoods marshnecks, athletes, and just about everything dumb it does... and there is A TON OF DUMB SHIT that they do.

The other segment that really stiffens my puddy-bun is "Craig's House," where Seth reads actual Craigslist ads listed as "Men Seeking Women." Here's the secret: they always end up being married men seeking other men, denying their sexuality, and virtually looking for other dudes to come yank on their parts and blow huge pent-up-marriage loads on their faces. Actual example: "My wife is dumb. Who wants to drain two months worth of spunk-sauce out of this jackhammer? My wife doesn't. I'm so ready for some man-action; get at me." I mean that is hilarious. Normally those type of entries end with something like, "NO GAY SHIT." I mean... can you get any more gay? Truthsmack: If people could just own up to their sexualities, or not be ashamed of who they are, then this wouldn't be funny. If you were just reading these ads, it might come off more disturbing or less funny, just because you probably have a soul. It's not the ads, it's the neuroses behind them; it's the American way.

Having said that, I think I like these guys because they're never really making fun of something that...isn't funny. Normally they're more just calling people out for their bullshit; i.e. a married man seeking gay love and tagging on "no homo" or even making fun of Jonathan himself for being a "vegan" and always eating cheese. Laughing at our societal insecurities is 100 % beneficial and necessary. I mean we, as a country, are totally mental, and why shouldn't that be joyful? As some cool side-effects of tuning in, you'll probably pick up some current events to share when you awkwardly just don't know what else to say at a work function or family event, and you'll probably be introduced to some good music since Jonathan bookends each episode with a track of his choosing. Also a musician, Larroquette performs with friend Amir Yaghmai in electronic duo, Jogger. In fact, they opened up for friend and touted experimental electro-risktaker, Daedelus, at Kinetic Playground about a year ago, and it was lots of fun. (Duh I went, are you even reading this? J.L. was really chill and we laughed about rave kids for awhile before he got yanked to the bar to be showered w free booze from fellow UYD fans.)

As Seth's oft-caustic and very funny take on society harmonizes so naturally with Jonathan's freethinking positivity and hilarious personal allegories, the affable personality of UYD continues to spread laughter as it approaches its five-year anniversary on February 11, 2011. To you, UYD, I say thank you, for getting me through so many muted conference calls, squish-faced train-rides, boring webinars, and airport travels alike. It's not prude, kinda rude, and it's definitely great for both dames and dudes. Please, please keep it coming; I'll never dodge your load.

**Subscribe for free here. If you like funny stuff, you won't regret it. Shout out to Logan Wiles for introducing me some amount of years ago.**

équilibre

Bravery
Adventure
Loneliness
Altruism
Neuroses
Consciousness
Ego



Jean Louis Forain
French, 1852-1931 //
Tight-Rope Walker, c. 1885 //
Oil on canvas
18 1/8 x 15 in. (46.2 x 38.2 cm)

I am drawn to this painting because the ballerina, often a symbol of femininity and elegant dexterity, maintains an equilibrium above a crowd of people so engulfed in their own personal missions that they don't even notice the grace displayed upon a mere upward glance. Maybe if we take a minute to recognize another person's composure once in awhile, we could learn something. Not to get deep, but someone else's personal equilibrium and collectedness presented on the daily can sometimes be an inspiration for achieving our own, whether it is realized or not. Be kind to a stranger today; their problems could be worse than yours. If they don't complain about them, may their grace be noticed and smiled upon, as it once just tiptoed over our heads without appreciation. If this rings true for someone you know, thank them or give them a hug. It could offer perseverence on both ends of embrace, and if we can't help each other, what's the point?

Dwindler's Lists

Due to a pretty busy last month-or-so, I've not been posting as much as I'd like. My time seems to be running away as if it's in a boozey, stressed out hourglass. Note: actual hourglasses scare the shit out of me. I think it's the childhood affinity for Wizard of Oz and fear of the Wicked Witch. She melted away like my dwindling time as of late, and both cases are worthy of spooks. In lieu of using higher brain power, and for practice for some other writing-goodies I'm weighing out and bagging up elsewhere, I have some lists to share with you and yours* (*intellect, privates, pets, loved ones...but probably not moms unless they're Roseanne-y). Feel free to smear your own shit-lists in the comments, or just mutter them to yourself if you feel no one else cares. That's how I feel, but I'm a rebel like whoa, so I got this here blog to share. Sometimes when I write I feel like the old lady in Billy Madison; "are there any horse socks? is anybody listening to me?" Whatever, fuck yo couch, here's some crap anyway.

Things im currently into (and/or may or may not always be into):
1. turkey-pastrami. hands down the best lunch meat.
2. free beer
3. the dude who put himself in a balloon on tosh
4. champagne, especially the big guys
5. answering "i dont know, it must have been the roses" to any question
6. sandwich makers, props @ Antony Demekhin
7. Paul Simon: One Trick Pony on vinyl
8. sunny-ass november
9. fart machines
10. dunphy's, et al
11. making fun of people at beaumont's/continental on a tuesday at 3am...myself included, where applicable. there's two types of people at late-night bars: drunks and horndogs...some are both. play the guess-who's-who game with your friends, or just join in, that's more fun. that's also when you make fun of yourself. WIN/WIN/barf.
12. ben folds, all over again
13. friends (the people, not so much the show)
14. good dick attached to dudes with souls, brains, and/or homes.
15. hair-hanging (real life)
16. re-reading a box of notes received by me as a 14-yr-old tease. Winner: Sam Snedaker signing every note with a giant Wu symbol. I swooned.
17. calling stupid small dumb barkie dogs dickheads (b/c they don't speak English)
18. adverse plants.
19. black comedies with foot fetish references: 90% + guarantee.
20. iphone autocorrect. Pure comedy. Winner: tie. One great gal I won't name texting a friend, "I just got dos'd" (someone gave her acid for all you squarrs/nonwooks). Friend texts back, "are you having fun?" She responds, "yep," but types "yelp" and autocorrect hollers back with..."help." Phone dies. GOLD. Tie goes to Erin Cassato for trying to text "geez" and having it show up as "gems" ...because that's a thing; "gems, i know!"

Stuff that's dumb:
1. Right hand rings - fuck you, wear a ring wherever you want. people put them in their tits, a right hand is hardly alternative.
2. AT & T.
3. The dude's shake weight--FOR REAL!? It might be so dumb it's awesome. Not sure.
4. Assembling your own furniture. Seriously? After spending like, 100 Ikea bucks, which is relative to twenty normal bucks for quality purposes, I have to fuck up my shelves too? Talk about screwing the pooch.
5. Non-HD even being an option on HD tv's.
6. Misspelled sexts including: tuck, liss, stooge, and flooperman that snow.
7. The kid on Who's the Boss not being down w other dudes' manparts?
8. Birthday packaging. Ditch the ribbons and dumb wrapping paper, just buy me a pack of cigs if you want to throw your money in the toilet.
9. See-through advertisements for raking money out of lonely elderly. I may be a general asshole, but I love olds. Leave them alone, marketing thieves.
10. Blaming everything on your "generation." either get off your ass or don't, but don't blame it on your parents' youthful and arbitrary fuck patterns.

I love lists. For someone as freestylie as me on the mic that is life, it is a paradoxical kinship. As a wise woman once told me, when you jot a quick list, always start with tasks you've already accomplished so that you're always off to a good start. So next time when you find yourself burning a Manny Ramirez jersey in the street at 2 am, "getting resourceful" and making shots out of warm juice, sweet tarts, and old vodka, "knee" deep in the middle of a 3-way with good friends, sinking on a pontoon boat full of pals at 6 am- but being excited about "turning into a submarine," or batmanning out of the bar because you're just too drunk and can't tell, don't worry. It just means you'll have lots to cross off next time you make a list. Check!

blah-blah-blah-BLECHHHHHH!

I like making small talk about as much as I like the Entourage themesong. Let's get to the point; let's get to the Grenier-banging and partying. Same deal. The only "precursor-activity" that's worthwhile is either oral sex or maybe rolling j's before concerts. To me it's about the value. Orgasms and lighting up mid-floor during a Zeppelin cover offer lofty benefits simply not found in weather chit-chat or some raggedy-ass second-grade picture of your kid. I used to be able to fake giving-a-fuck, but it seems my distaste for mundanities has surpassed falsified politeness.

I ran into this bro from an old job on the train last week at about 8 a.m. and it was just awful. Murderous, even. Like, the kind where I wanted to murder myself just to escape. He wouldn't stop talking about sales goals and business hierarchies to which I never even really paid attention to when I worked with him, let alone on this hotass morning while I'm curdling booze through my system and trying to get in some good tunes before sidling up to my dumb desk** all day. **I know I keep saying this. It really is a very stupid desk. It's a shitty old monitor propped up on an OfficeMax paper lid. Guess who propped it up? Me. Myself. I had to crawl and put wires back into the right spots in the back. I mean...this couldn't be stupider.**

Amidst this suited auto-drabble, I wondered some things. As he swirled his always-be-closing hypnoses into my eyes, did this dude pick up my yearning to vomit apathetic bile upon his small doilie in that weird pocket? Stifled in my esophogous, each mention of commission tiers or outbound calls curdled the yellow liquids and they started to surface. I focused on Old-Man-Mural as we departed DePaul as if it was the horizon, and tried to calm my disgruntled insides. We swept south from Fullerton and it was my turn to talk. Great. I had soooo much to say and my iPod was so not dangling from one-ear. You know the one-ear move. The, if-I-just-leave-one-earbud-in-they'll-only-talk-for-just-a-minute-and-get-the-hint-...-oh-shit-they're-not-stopping, blues.

I told him about my shitty desk and said I was "keeping busy." As if idle hands really were the devil's playground, he literally patted me on the back, and just like a baby over Momma's shoulder, I felt the upheaval en route. Full-knowing that I worked downtown and since we were only approaching the Armitage stop, he weird-waved goodbye to me as I burst through the train-doors, exiting like a salmon in a mid-Autumn rush to drop eggs against the current, and completely barfed everywhere. Like...everywhere.

I tried to find a trash can, but they all had those pointless caps on top. I started to revolt last night's conventions into one at first and got legitimately sprayed back in the face, to which, i just lost my shit. Barftown, all over this platform. I spun dizzily to catch a breath and balance over the railing at the edge of the deck, only to go for just a few more rounds of bile-dislodging. Don't worry, the construction site below wasn't populated yet because it was too early, but those gents had a real treat coming their way when they showed up strapped in.

The most revealing part of why I'm fucked up, is that I thought the worst part of all of this is that, in the aftermath, since I was going South to get to work and bailed off my ride, I was on the WRONG SIDE OF THE PLATFORM to go home. Duh, I wasn't going to work. I had puke in my own weird pocket (sans-doilie). Truth be told, and small-talk aside, I hated this stupid monkey-job and I saw this as a clear opportunity to go home, pack it up, and watch Bill and Ted.

I called off work, and it ruled. Not long thereafter my contract expired and I decided not to go full-time since ... well, obviously I didn't belong there. They fucking loved small-talk there. When the job->drinking -> hangovers ->small talk induces vomiting -> calling off work ->happiness...i think we can just skip the middle-man altogether and go straight to drinking and happiness. Well, a girl can dream. I'm poor as shit! But I don't have to talk about the Accounting lady's son's first gay pride parade (snoozer), Millie's cat (dumb), or (no shit)"how awesome Chicago summer is" with nerds, and that alone is worth its weight in gold. Auf Wiedersehen, small talk; you've always been an asshole.

coptalk

"Great. I have to go to a meeting full of cops. I hate cops, this is gonna suck."-4-wheeler-driving Chillicothe, IL Sheriff with a dashing white mustache

This week my dumb CTA card stopped working. For out-of-towners, CTA stands for Chicago Transit Authority, and they are the keepers of the trains and buses. Anyway, their cards are shitty and I took my lunchbreak to get a new one. The building where i work is comprised of a weird layout, marble-infused fountains, 70 floors, and a shitload of important Capitalists. They wear their CEO badges on their BrooksBrothers, trade stocks at their $30 lunches, and hail cabs to go 4 blocks in the summer so they don't break a business-sweat. For this reason it was a breeze to have the doorguy, mistaking me as one of these people, whistle a taxi and send me off on what would be one of the most bizarre adventures a gal could never expect.

Normally I'd never take a cab to get across the loop, but I'm paid by the hour and it made mathematical sense where: time=money. This driver was the rare-breed, older white man cabbie who seemed to be both sober and intelligent. This human and occupational composition is pretty much as unheard of as abstinence. We swapped CTA trash-talk and I jumped ship at its headquarters where I totally backstabbed, smiling and complimenting all the workers. I've learned the hard way you have to do that...those people fucking hate their jobs. This got me the hook-up with a nice old lady who speedily processed my order free-of-charge and released me into the wild, wild West Loop where I could finally take the train and avoid joining the round-trip, sunny-day, cross-loop cab fraternity, Duchebag-Duchebag-Duchebag. If you know me you know that nothing is ever really that simple, and could probably guess that, yes, I did make a 65-yr-old, black and well-built male CTA employee friend named Chris on my way to the train which was about 50 yards away.

In the four-minute exit from that fated building, I felt like I knew more about Chris than anyone in my entire life. His wife, his side job with the White Sox, what all those packages were that he was carrying, his passion for fireworks after a rainstorm, you know...the ushe. He carried my bag and escorted me up the Clinton Pink line platform and asked me tons of quiz questions about safety. Do you carry mase? Do you walk alone at night? Do you get blacked out and spend days piecing together your actions (regarding to safety)? Do you always carry a cell phone? Don't worry, he said, you'll be safe with me. And then magically, the inbound Green line chimed and deposited two uniformed police officers and their canine compadres who clearly were straight-BFF with Chris. They did a sweet-Chicago-union-brotherhood handshake and sure did stand right with us waiting for the Pink Line to the loop. Just me, Chris, 2 Cops and their metal-muzzled K9-unit dogs. No big deal for me, or whatever could maybe be in my purse, bloodstream, or most fearful nightmares.

I ancily hung out like the falsified-good-citizen I had been taken for all day, but inside my tie-dyed paranoia had me twisted. I played it cool as a maybe-crackhead limped over to the officers asking if the dogs were for, "drugs or bombs." Not laughing at all, or at all worried about my future, I managed to look at the guys with a straight face. Unpleased, they muttered that the dogs were basically well-suited to bust anybody toting either of the above, or even sense their fear. I, again, was not sweating or nervous at all as they asked if they could join us for our trip back to Financial Village. Due to my loyal allegiance to Chris (<3 <3 <3), of course the answer was yes.

So, as I boarded the train metaphorically holding hands with my hodgepodge gang of state employees, I felt like I was on the wrong side of the tracks (aka...the right side of the tracks). Residents on the train from the community in which I normally reside, comprised mostly of romantics, lost souls and overall scumbags-to-the-likes-of-Loop-workers, knew I didn't belong, changed train cars, and shot me sympathetic glances as I made small talk about the weather and if the Sox could pull off a win tonight. Finally the cops and their, ...eh...fuzz mutts?, exited swiftly and took dear Chris with them, two stops before mine, giving me enough time to slow down my heartbeat, appreciate my freedom, and swear to be a better person deplete of any drinking or drug use ever again, as I headed back to my shitty desk next to the Sears Tower. Thanks to that crappy CTA card, on this day I'd made some friends, talked some government shop, and shat my pants only once. All in all, I think we all learned something. DOG COPS ARE FUCKING SCARY!

What's in a name?

"Fiction writers as a species tend to be oglers. They tend to lurk and to stare. They are born watchers. They are viewers. They are the ones on the subway about whose nonchalant stare there is something creepy, somehow."-David Foster Wallace

I have a problem. I'm so curious about every damn thing. I'm also kind of restless. Especially in small, confined spaces such as airplanes, unintoxicated dance club visits, or traincars. After the first few times commuting by train during rush hour, any city girl gets the blues. At my height I'm destined for nose-engulfed-armpits and breath on my face. BREATH. Sick. Upon this realization, I did what every logical babe does and said F U to rush hour after almost three years of its beastiality preying on my innocence. Nope, didn't start going in earlier...just quit my job and got one that afforded me more train-related comfort. I'm going to call this responsible, and you can lick my clam if you think otherwise. Well, not if I don't know you...come on, ya freaks! The point is, I can finally sit down on any of the rarely-incoming Brown or Purple lines to the loop and I don't have to wake up early. I totally win.

Now that there is more room for me to observe at eye-level, I've realized that my insanely piqued curiosity takes me straight to the dick. All the dicks. I can't stop staring at Junk on the Train. Doesn't even matter if I'm sexually attracted to them. Black guys, white guys, Obama-looking-somewhere-in-between guys, healthnut guys, not-sure-if-you're-homeless guys, fat guys, tall guys, skinny small white trash guys, Filipino guys, trying-to-guess-if-they're-circumsized guys, Mexicans, tattoo guys, soccer-playing guys, CEO guys, guitar guys, long-haired and short-haired guys, sunburnt should-have-worn-some-sunscreen-on-the-boat-this-weekend,bro guys...all of them have dicks and I apparently want to see, well, all of them. The only reason I even realize I possess this malady is because I keep getting busted. Once I looked up from a sideways-seat and a dick cloaked in Dockers was just right there, its owners arm supported by the pole attached to my seat. When I realized I'd been analyzing the bulge for the whole backside of The Fruit That Ate Itself, he smirked down at me with eyes reflecting visual allegory from Debbie Does Chicago. While I fancy myself a non-cocktease, I didn't even know I was subconsciously offering a teaser in the first place. I lost him in the Washington/Wells shuffle, platform-quickie averted. If you're going to scope shaft all day, don't make it so fucking obvious...lesson learned.

"Other" powerwomen ogle and judge each other's Louboutins, Kindling Kindles, and text, text, text away, while I'm fake-reading The Dolliver Romance, peering over top, lost in an unrestrained fantasy land similar to that of Jonah Hill's character's in SuperBad. It's not even that big of a deal, something like 8% of pervs do it. If there's one thing I've learned from my weird, round-trip voyeuristic voyages downtown, it's don't judge a dick by its cover; this guy is Asian. Til next time, creeps.

who will give me surgery hugs?

As the fated date approaches, July 13th's countdown ticks loudly and instigates my anxiety for tomorrow's 9 pm (CT) closing ceremonies. Aged almost in parallel, I have grown into a woman alongside LC, Lo, KCav, and Ceiling-eyes Partridge. We've made hard choices together and I've stood by them through horrible hangovers, post-meth-addiction dating struggles, and countless surgeries alike. Tomorrow, when The Hills comes to an end, so will a part of my youth.

As the girls gossip about the past and chat unknowingly about the future, I will sit in a bittersweet cloud of present tense; happy that these potentially-strong females can finally live life freely off-screen, and sad that I can no longer laugh and judge to make myself feel better in some twisted sense. Sure, I wasn't birthed onto the Pacific shoreline with a silver spoon in my mouth, but I'd like to think my general positivity and drive to succeed (whatever that means) makes me pretty okay. Watching these hoes unravel adult reality and cry about it has been pretty hilarious, if not encouraging, that the rest of us less-fortunate assholes actually have had something going for us all along: a life not cloaked in veneers, perhaps. When you learn early that nothing is perfect, what you want you may not get, and that insecurities are healed from within, there is something vindicating about witnessing these lightbulbs go off for someone else. Especially as her surgery-jaw prevents her from chewing a sandwich and the permanance sets in, rolling down her face.

I told you...it's twisted. But it is for all of us. Isn't that why we watch? To see that even the glamorous "celebrities" have faults and make mistakes? To see that even the most bodacious maneater around doesn't always get her man? To see that the smart ones knew when to walk away and capitalize on a book tour or clothing line because they didn't want the light at the end of the tunnel to be another humiliating camera flash?

As our Hollywood friends descend from popular culture tomorrow night, I will toast Andre to them all from my small two-bedroom apartment surrounded by my own version of girlfriends. The kind that don't start sex-tape rumors about me, but instead destroy the evidence, and the kind that would never, ever, under any circumstances, let me marry the crystal-weilding mental-case Spencer Pratt. One thing is for sure, however; from the Hollywood Hills, to Chicago's Lakeview neighborhood, women everywhere will gather in gaggles, making puppy-dog faces and swapping surgery hugs with the ones they love as the clock strikes game-over for our frenemies out West. Godspeed, and thanks for the memories.

puzzle reincarnation

Some say that close enough will do.
To me that sounds like a decision
Between friction or misalignment
Altogether.

Some say that fit should be without aperture.
To me that sounds like a decision
Between perfection and constraint
Altogether.

Astray or in array
never or someday
patience.
ambition.
happenstance.
order.