According to the "Which Big Lebowski character are you?" quiz:

Why don't you check it out? Or we cut off your Johnson!

Thanks Jason

AHHHHHH!

I just got a knock on the door and there, in brown paper, was "Ong-Bak" and "Plans"! Ok Serge, ready to get married and adopt that Ethiopian baby?

Seriously, you are the best. I'm speechless. This is like, the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.

Where do I meet such lovely people?

Come sail your ships around me, and burn your bridges down.
Last weekend I escaped with Laura Terry’s under the auspices of a renaissance faire, but really it was an opportunity to escape the house and finally catch the ghost of a girl who has been haunting me since I was 14. It will be difficult to travelogue this, as it was a bit unreal—sort of a trip through sands and time as it were. I’ll do my best

My friendship with Laura started when we were both 14, and by 16 we had both burned each other out and never spoke to each other for the last 3 years of highschool and the entire 3 years of college, with brief friends-of-friends run-ins punctuating the dry spells. I never stopped thinking of her, and when we finally picked up the pieces a few weeks ago, I had a million dots to fill in between the girl that was and the woman that is. Some of them were filled, some not, but the sketch I connected was recognizable: the old charm, shyness, and honesty remixed with confidence, tolerance, and resignation. She still hates compliments and small talk. She speaks well of people and has marvelous eye contact. In fact, most of the things I used to attribute to affectation are in fact legitimate delights—cooking, arcane music, acupuncture. Much of the time I felt 15, which was as amazing and terrifying as it sounds.

Laura lives on a magnificent ranch/estate in Northeastern Texas. Her home is the kind that has wrap around porches on both floors and plenty of trellises and mossy trees. There are cows, mules, dogs, cats, millions of grasshoppers and cicadas. Bovine jaws and vertebras lie on metal tables, and inside everything is dark, warm reds, browns, and greens.


Laura made dinner while I read some art magazines her mother had picked up in town. Talked a little bit with Mrs. Terry and prepped the greens for dinner


She made pork chops in a red wine sauce with fruit, carrot and apple soup, caramelized onion and spinach salad. That blue bowl in the photo was in one of Laura’s poem when she was a senior in college. Although the poem was anonymous I knew it was hers the first time I read it.

Her parents did the dishes while we went to her room in search of books. She loaned me “Maus” and some Murakami. Her room is in what used to be the attic and is full of hidden spaces and strange rooms. Her closet can only be accessed by a small half door behind a Nordic track and is filled with some of the most beautiful paintings I’ve seen in ages

The two of us stayed in a country cottage on the edge of the property. There was a lake filled with gigantic catfish. Laura fed them from a bucket filled with large brown pellets. We sat on the dock in weather-worn chairs and talked about college and our failure to open up to people. My arm was chewedup by chiggers which I scarcely noticed, as her voice always sends me into strange reveries. She always had a way of making everything seem mysterious and beautiful.


The only thing strange to me was she kept asking me about myself, then asking very biting, hard, and clever follow ups. Trying to explain my religion, my sexuality, my choices, suddenly got much harder in a vacuum of "the logical choice." She even mentioned at one point, "you really try and base your life around ‘perfect’. What does that even mean to you?" And I’m not one for moral relativism—perfection does mean something to me, but until I saw my life spread out like new carpet, I had hardly realized the pursuit.

She took me to her studio, of which no photography was allowed. I was humbled and awed. Her work had improved so much in the past 4 years that I was literally speechless. She is working on a project which, interestingly enough, the Flynn and I had both been experimenting with independently. It’s the idea of taking the graphic novel to a more artistic and literary level, pulling it out of the comic book rut it’s been in. I can’t betray the story, but Laura’s version is so sophisticated and well-produced, not to mention stunning, I have no doubt of it’s marketability.

That evening we went swimming in her black pool under the stars, free from light pollution and sprinkled like salt.

I woke up the next morning with a kitty thrown on me. Once dressed, Laura took me on a tour of the backwoods (outhouse photo above), then we had breakfast and I read while she uploaded some CD’s I had brought (“something about airplanes”, interpol’s “Antics”, Walkmen, Muse, The arcade fire, Sufjan Stevens, and a mix Mark made me back in New Zealand.)

We drove into Emory for the Renaissance Fair. Much to our horror, the fairground was almost completely empty, which made the smell of desperation thick. I had anticipated as much and steeled myself for some very aggressive vendors, of which there were plenty.

For our first show, we saw some medieval-ish, troubadour-ish style band playing to a packed house of 8. Laura and I were practically the only ones not in costumes, which ranged from “gypsy slut” to “Xena” to “Scottish highlander” to “robin Hood” to “goth” to actual medieval-looking clothing. Some dad had brought his 4 and 5 year old children and dressed them up, an action I hope will not leave permanent damage.

Somehow Laura convinced me to come through on my boasting of being a terrific archer, so I went up to the archery tent , threw down my $3 bucks, and had a go.

I actually did pretty well, though after the first few volley’s my arm started getting tired and I got sloppy. But it was enough to get a nice little trinket (green glass disc! My dreams are realized!) and have the staff keep Laura and I entertained for some time with pointers and congratulations. If you look closely, you can see the Scottish hammer-throwers in the background. All in kilts.

This kid’s dad ran the archery booth. He told me about all the medals he had won in his junior championship. The future for such a boy remains unknown

Although my arrogant face didn’t come out so well as I had wished, this is a photo of me with the instructor, who gave Laura and I a 5 minute lecture on the proper construction of foam practice arrows.

We raced off after this, before any more people could ‘teach’ us anything or yell at us to buy their wares. Instead, we went to the “Y’all Come Back” café and talked about politics over grilled meat. The way our ancestors did.


Finally, before taking me home, Laura took me off-roading on the tour of the farmland.




The entire stay was perfect—we are glorified run aways.

hop-shuffle-step-falap-ball-change-hop-shuffle-step-falap-ball-change. falap-falap-falap-ball-change-falap-falap-falap-ball-change. falap-shuffle-step-pull back-pull back. sugar-two-three-four. step-shuffle-step-step-shuffle-step-step-shuffle-step-toe-heel. shuffle-ball-change-shuffle-ball-change-shuffle-ball-change-shuffle-hop-shuffle-step. hop-shuffle-step-falap. hop-shuffle-step-falap. shuffle-step-shuffle-step-shuffle-step-shuffle-step. choo-choo.

OK. It's confirmed. I remember every tap dancing step from "You're Never Fully Dressed Without A Smile" from when I was in "Annie" in 1993. It came to me and refused to leave my brain as I tried to fall asleep last night. Quite honestly, I'm not going to try, but I'm pretty sure I could still DO the dance. I don't know if that's disturbing or awesome.

This could be the best Monday morning news item ever.

A play-by-play commentary of the MTV Video Music Awards with special guest Allie Polatin and Julia Jones
1) John Norris is a hideous, old man beast. What is he wearing? A purple sleeveless graffitti shirt with Miami Vice sunglasses? Take a note from Kurt Loder and have some frickin' class.
2) I desperately want to lay that guy from "My Chemical Romance" because he looks like a young, nubile Billy Corgan. Exactly in fact like a young, nubile Billy Corgan. See photo here.


AP: I hate video art. Did you know in "Lepruchan 5: Lepruchan in the Hood" there are zombie fly girls? That's my idea of video art.
AP: P. Diddy is so awesome. Wait, it's not p diddy anymore is it? It's just Diddy.
JJ: Is Diddy dancing? Oh my gosh, he's got moves. Wait, now he's dancing like an old man.
[pause]
JJ:Wait, does R&B stand for rap ballads?
MJ: No Julia, Rhythm and Blues.
[pause]
JJ: Wait, Mary, are you sure?

3) Kelly Clarkson has like the smallest breasts ever. And Alicia Keys is in the running. Jeez ladies, I love you, but wow.
4)Jessica Alba needs to stop talking and just smile, because whenever she talks I just hate her, and whenever she just stands there, I want to brush her hair
5) My love for Shaikira has been reborn. She is glowing like the gorgeous, tight-abed angel she is. More belly dancing, I demand it!

JJ: I hope you make me sound like a really big idiot with that rap ballad comment, Mary.

6) You guys know that Suge night got shot before the show?

AP: What?
MJ: yeah, at Kanye wests pre-party.
AP: You know, Spencer's sister got hit on by Suge Knight once. They were in Malibu, at some grocery store. SHe was 17 at the time, and it was Halloween. Spencer's sister sees him, and is all "Hey, let's talk to her" and Spencer was like, "I don't think that's a good idea" but she walks over to Suge and is all, "Oh my gosh, I'm such a fan" and he's all, "hey baby, I'm having a party tonight". Then he gave her like, a hundred bucks.

7) Am I missing the "celebrity fit club" finale? I hope not.
8) How big are beyonce's earrings? They're like horse shoes, which are in fact never sexy
9) Missie Elliot is all lips and bones
10) My hatred of R. Kelley knows no bounds. Who is still buying this retard's records?[Julia starts singing "Ignition" to annoy me]. Why are we watching R. Kelley lip sync and reenact his own video on stage?
[10 minutes later] JJ: How much longer is this R Kelly going to go on? Ah man, I just spilled Pepsi on my face.
AP: I'm writing a letter to Pierce Brosnan for the film festival
MJ: If you ever have a chance to write to Enrique Iglesias, will you ask him if he's ever eaten at a Mexican restaurant in Provo?
JJ: And if you ever write to Orlando Bloom, will you you ask him if he was ever at a movie theater in Dallas and waved at a red-headed girl in the rain, because I swear it was him
AP: And if both of you guys ever write to Mark Hamil, ask him if he remembers talking to a belligerent, hung-over 15 year old, because I'm sorry

11) Sean Combs is a lovely man, but the way his mouth hangs open, its like Biz Markee--just some big dumb animal
12) If I may speak for the discerning ladies of taste: Less Usher! More Ludicrious!
13) Eat a sandwich Hilary Duff! You look like a scarcrow with horse teeth. And Lindsey Lohan, that's the ugliest dress I've ever seen. You crazy, g.
14) Ok, I really want to sleep with the lead singer of the killers, even though y'all are haters and prolly think I'm all ghastly for liking such a sellout band. But hey, he's Mormon, so I can make this conquest a reality.

15) Lil Kim! And Jeremy Piven! She's so tiny and it breaks my heart she's going to prison

AP: Hey Mary it's your friend
MJ: Oh yeah, my friend. We tight. We vacationed in Prague together

16) Ludicrous won for "Number One Spot"! There is justice in the world! Ludicrious is hotter than Nevada!
17) Hearing Butthead use the word "Sterquilinus" has reaffirmed my love of all things Mike Judge
18) Are we still on Notorious BIG? Diddy, man, let it go.
19) AH, Fall Out Boy won an award. Here's to Chicago bands. I didn't think they'd make it to MTV, much less the VMA's. That lead singer is dead ugly, though.
20) Fergie used to be on one of my favorite shows when I was 10--"Kids Incorperated". She's only like 31, and she looks closer to 40. She's been through the ringer, eh?
21) This is too long. Let's go down and have bagels

"Ong-Bak: Muay Thai Warrior" has just been released on DVD. Who's going to buy it for me? For serious. I'm going to marry and adopt an ethiopian baby with the first model-actor to show up with "Ong Bak" and the new Death Cab for Cutie album. So all you model/actors, and not the other way around, get up on that pony.

Gosh my weekend was fantastic. More later

I have no stories to tell. I've been running back and forth -- work, school, bars, bed. work, school, coffee shops, bed. I've been at my own house for less than 10 hours in the past week. Everything is turning gritty and a little hard. Myself especially. There's a certain shrillness and irritability that came with starting school again. I'd be lying if I said I didn't cherish it, at least a little.

I will always yell. Especially when asked not to.

I've been firing off missiles in a void. And it gets tiresome. I say to Sandra, "most people are not like you and me." Which is true, but also funny, because could Sandra and I possibly be more different?

I can't help but sound exasperated. I am. I am miles and miles and miles away. but I pretend to be here. it's too easy.

Remember when you were 14 or so and started realizing the reasons you didn't exactly fit in, but still found yourself trying to do so? I do. I'm there again now. And I want my arms to grow long and heavy and huge so I can brush everyone and everything away in one ruthless, undiscerning sweep.

The bad thing with inundating you guys with posts is that you become lazy and complaisant--you don't REALLY want it, you're glutted on information about the new and ever-fabulous lives of the Mafia. But you know what? That isn't right. Everything in life is work, and you need to work for the privilege of our collected brilliance by updating your own weblogs, or by sending us semi-nude photos at capitalistmafia@gmail.com. In fact, send us robots.

This site meter is carrying a swell over my interest that perhaps is unhealthy. I check it at least 10 times a day--not just referrals, but everything. What browsers people use, how long they stay on, where they're from. In some ways, it's been pleasantly surprising. Who is the young darling from Halifax Nova Scotia? Who is our fan from Missouri? Why do people love Devon Aiko so much? But everything has its price, and in a way, it's also very sad, because I've become aware of how rarely some of my friends actually read this thing. I guess I was under the egomaniacal notion that all close friends read this once a day--at least every other day. However, not so. Many check once every two weeks, if that. Even increase in post volume doesn't provide tempting enough honey. So sad!

Yesterday was a disaster. I had made the mistake of going out Tuesday night, which was an indulgence apparently not indulged by the fates. The Flynn had been cornered and asked out by his tailor, and I was called up to make sure things didn't get to awkward. Fran was supposed to go, but fagged out on us, probably because of my disastrous performance the last time we went out.

* * *
Story break: going out with Fran and Flynn- a story in three acts
Act I-Exposition
In which our hero finds herself back from a wedding and a movie starring a beautiful androgynous terrorist. Her sister (Margaret) is with her fiancé (Chad) as our hero is watching "Anchorman" with several smaller siblings. There is a knock on the door. Heavy footsteps fill the hall. The door to the TV room is flung open. "Jones!" the bald woman shrieks.

Cast:
Our hero--tired, overworked single-mother-figure while parents are out of town on holiday.
Fran--angry militant lesbian photographer. Condescending, witty, funny. Wears a black button up shirt to throat, has sleeve tattoos, combat boots, shaved head, large piercing, and 2-inch ear-plugs.
Flynn--small, slight, ambiguous boy with black hair and glasses. Dry, self deprecating, sweet-tempered. Wears cowboy shirt, cowboy boots, and a large whale belt buckle

Act II--The Worlds Meet
Our hero's children ask questions to Fran, who seems slightly put off that they are not in fact shocked or bothered by her. Our hero asks questions about school (art Institute of Chicago), life in Austin, rumors of sexual indiscretions and biker bars. Not many questions are asked of the hero's life, nor does she provide details. Flynn interjects comments for comedic effect. Chad looks on the skepticism, disquieted by rumors that one of the two people in the house could in fact be transgendered. It is agreed that we all go to taco cabana and have queso and margaritas.

Act III--The World's Collide
Once we had arrived at The Cabana, it became evident that Flynn and Fran were not working with Chad. Fran smoked, drank, Flynn made homoerotic comments and drank. Stories of high school drug use and orgies were met with laughter and nostalgia instead of disapproval and shock. There is swearing. Fran talks about her girlfriend, Flynn his boyfriend. It is a lovely rock and roll evening. Chad is bristling, and everyone knows this. Fran finds out that our hero is in fact a Republican and did in fact campaign for Bush and her eyes flare with a fire that only Flynn manages to put out with his usual volley of well-placed barbs. Chad excuses himself as being tired and asks Margaret to take him home. After they leave, Fran criticizes our hero's lack of dalliance with women. Our hero asks why Fran never tried to ask her out, and the response was equally unsatisfactory. Silence on the drive home. Fin.
* * *

SO it is no surprise that Fran didn't show up to the Londoner, the cute bar on Midway with Real Madrid games on the TV's. What was a surprise was that the tailor didn't show up either. Luckily, Flynn ran into this guy he used to date back in high school, so we talked with him and his pseudo-girlfriend for a while, then drove downtown to go to a gay bar (Minc Lounge) which had 2 frickin people in it! I've never seen a club so dead. Now yes, it's a Tuesday night, but come on--it's 1230. We turned right around, left, and went to a cute little hipster/gayish bar on Cedar Springs called the Grape vine, which had gorgeous men of all orientations mixed with regular people mixed with art fags, the whole deal. Flynn and I got a table, cooed over the squeezable drunk Asian girl at the bar (who Flynn managed to make out with briefly on our way out), and had a pleasant evening of talking/people watching. Any evening where I see no less than 4 transsexuals ordering cosmos is a sad evening.

But Flynn drops me off at 3am, I'm in bed by 4, and then Julia calls me at 7am to tell me her car is 'dead'. And by dead she means "out of gas". So by the time I filled it up a gas can, drove to a gas station, filled up the car, then drove it to check for other engine trouble, it was 830, and time for work anyway. Then the whole day the children were a mess and Julia kept leaving for activities she 'had to do' and then I had to go over to a party at Becky’s.

Now, I used to slag off these parties, but I will give her props for having them, because our group of friends is hard to motivate to do stuff and be crazy. I do my best every time I come to these to be funny and nice, but somehow, most of them still don’t like me because of some unbeknownst sin I’ve committed years ago. Now, I’ve probably talked Bonnie’s ear off to death about this, but I hate uncertainty in interpersonal relationships, and I want to know why all of the girls in this particular group don’t like me. Was it the Leesie thing? What? I thought everything was going really well and then they all start talking about going to this party, and it’s clear I’m not invited, and I’m not sure as to why. I could give a million reasons why people don’t like me in general, but I’d be at least good to know which of these reasons have set my friends off.

After the party I had to pick up my parents at the airport, and I was so exhausted I could barely read the article my mom brought me about Jessica Simpson spending $15,000 in 30 minutes at a valentino store.

Ok, it's done. Monica's wedding day and all the photos therein can be found here. I'm using the Mormon Meat Market site, in part because Adele never posts photos and I want to look at them longer (though not in a pervy way), and also because it's a wedding, which means it falls under More Mnemonic Activities Pertaining to My Single Status

Pretty Day in Calif.

It's either feast or famine around here.

These are a few images from my California trip.

I won't post the bikini-wearing pictures, tempting as it is to do so.

I don’t want to bury Anne and Adele’s new posts (which are amazing—I now want to run away to California), but I am feeling this perverse compulsion to finish blogging about my trips, despite the fact that travelogues are boring, despite the fact that there is still Monica’s wedding to discuss, despite the fact that I somehow agreed to go down to Laura Terry’s for the weekend and am now in a state of complete and total panic. I’ll try and make this as painless as possible.

I got back into Chicago on Friday, deciding to fag out of the Tortoise show I was going to see, and instead spent the day shopping for bedclothes with allie. She had bought a universal dvd player (on Christmas list) at some sketchy place in Devon and we broke it in by watching “Tammy and the Bachelor" starring a very excitable Debbie Reynolds and an unrecognizable Leslie Nielson. We also saw “The Skeleton Key” which I highly recommend if for no other reason than you will spend the last 15 minutes laughing yourself sick. Stopped by Borders and discovered some marvelous new magazines (“Gothic Beauty” anyone?).

Allie, Margaret, and I attempted to go down to the aquarium on Saturday which turned out to be a very bad idea for two reasons: Shedd Aquarium is the Inferno on Saturdays and it was pouring rain. When I say pouring, I mean that I was completely wet and had the added bonus of having the wind whip off the lake at me as I stood in the outdoor line. Realizing our efforts were fruitless, we decided to lick our wounds by going shopping.

We made the mistake of stepping on a free trolley that was full with a bunch of incredibly rude French people (they asked us for a restaurant recommendation and when we responded in French they got angry) and a bipolar conductor who hated kids and kept trying to get the French tourists to sing their national anthem. I went to garrett’s popcorn place and got nauseated looking at my relfection in the mirror. Then to add insult to injury, Allie took us to the Cheesecake Factory as a way of saying thank you for moving her in. I ate to the point of gluttony, then went into a shame cycle, then ended up missing my rendez-vous with Adele because the waiter took forEVEr with the check. I bought some goth-punk clothes at h&m to make myself feel better, than went back up to Evanston, read the Economist, and helped Lakshmi close up Ambrosia

That said, Sunday was amazing. I didn’t get to visit my old ward because I needed to make up my missed date with Adele, plus I needed to shoot the Catatonics. On film. Of sorts. Lakshmi, Adele, and I ate at Clark’s, and had the easiest, lightest conversation about music and clothes and college, which of course set the mood for the rest of the day. Lakshmi and Adele were really uncomfortable being photographed, as it seems very vain and artificial to pose, so I scraped some of my earlier ideas (jumping, kitchen counters, refrigerators) and focused on trying to make them look hot. Which I did, despite Lakshmi’s insistence that she looks terrible in every photo. After we were done, we went to American Apparel and Urban Outfitters, and sort of just did girly things, which is a strange sensation for me. It was wonderful, though—I really felt like I belonged and was part of something without having to try. It was at that moment that I decided to apply for graduate school. Not for friends, but to get moving with my life. Of course living at home all I do is dwell and pick and wither. But one afternoon of ice cream and shopping was all it took to made me realize no, I am not really neurotic, but I sure am bored.

So yeah, I drove home around 4 with Margaret and Chad. I went home, cleaned up, rested, talked to Mark. He’s taking the first steps moving on with his life, seeing other people, all of that. I am genuinely happy for him, because his new girl seems like someone I would respect. There were also signs that I had in fact been forgotten—family deaths, address changes, job changes, huge lifetime developments that he didn’t even think to communicate to me. Again, I’m hoping the hurt are the last twitches of feeling, and that one day I will wake up with a new skin of indifference. Again, I’m hoping

People in California LOVE turquoise. At least 60 percent of the houses in LA have turquoise trim, am I right?

This will be long and Mary-travelogue-like without the fisherman and Haitian families.

Wednesday:Summer is ready when you are.

Joel and I arrived in Los Angeles at about 11p.m. their time. We picked up the rental car, which to our surprise and amusement had been upgraded for free from a Hyundai Accent to a Chevy HHR-- this wacky little Bonnie-and-Clyde mobile with dark tinted windows and four doors. Bemused, we set off to a spot in Carson City called Tito's for Joel's favorite tacos. We ate like starving children. Spicy shredded beef ... so delicious. While there, we got a call from Joel's good friend Jim (of Helen Stellar -- soon to be huge nationwide) seeing if we want to meet up at The Shortstop, a bar which, unbeknownst to me at this time, is owned by the illustrious Greg Dulli. (This fact will become salient later on.) At the bar, we talked to some nice people, friends of Joel I'd met a time or two before, and were trampled by hipsters in droves. Checked into our hotel at Redendo Beach late at night. The hotel proved to be the best deal ever -- simple and clean, with a balcony overlooking the Pacific. Lovely.

Thursday: I thought I might as well go blind.

Woke up early and drove to Manhattan Beach. While Joel braved the very cold waves, I saw something wonderful. Two little girls-- about seven or eight years old-- buried their friend in the sand and gave the sand body enormous breasts and a round, swollen belly, like some hyper-fertile Venus of Willendorf. It was amazing. I did a little swimming in the ocean. The waves made me feel 10 years old again, I giggled and squealed like a little girl. I’d forgotten how much I love the water in general. When I got out of the water, the insides of my ears felt as though they’d been stabbed with icicles. So cold. So Joel and I lounged on the beach and let the sun warm us up. When we felt sufficiently toasted, we jumped into the gangster car and drove into Palos Verdes, through ritzy neighborhoods with gorgeous views of the ocean, beach, valley, and city. No one told me how beautiful LA is. I thought it was all cheap plastic ritz choked with smog. And there is definitely some of that, but really, it is a beautiful place—mountains and valleys and cliffs and all. That evening, Joel and I got a bottle of wine and got silly drunk while watching the sunset in pink and yellow over the ocean from our balcony.


Friday:When I do what I'm gonna do to you, make sure you remember my name.

I woke up early and snuck down to the hotel pool and swam back and forth, back and forth. Woke Joel and we ate pancakes. We went to Hermosa Beach and walked out onto the long pier there and saw two jellyfish and a manta ray. The jellyfish looked like old-fashioned burlesque bloomers—frilly and pink with black stripes. Explored the little beachfront community. It’s hard to believe real people live like that—right on the ocean all year long. Drove to Malibu and did more beach lounging. Saw two young, very thin, very tan girls wearing bikinis and Uggs at the beach. Uggs on the beach! Madness. Walked down the beach for a long long time—watching surfers, throwing rocks and shells into the water, examining the moss and kelp clinging to the beach rocks, chasing the sandpipers—basically acting 12 and loving every minute of it. Stopped and had mid-afternoon margaritas on our way to Mindy’s house where we were staying for the next two nights. Mindy is Jim’s girl. They are two of the most genuinely warm people I’ve ever met. They exude kindness and creativity and enthusiasm—beautiful people. Mindy lives in the Echo Park/ Silverlake area. Her apartment was hipsteriffic and arty in the best way, decorated with a mixture of Catholic iconography kitsch (plastic virgin marys and gaudy crucifixes), paintings she and her friends had done, tons of Polaroids and photo-booth pictures, and interesting fabric wall-hangings. I drooled with jealousy. She gave us free run of her place, which was beyond generous. Joel and I visited the wall featured on the cover of Elliott Smith’s Figure 8, which was near Mindy's. Fans had written messages and lyrics, and left candles and flowers. It was kind of sweet. Joel and I found delicious, reasonably priced sushi for dinner and then met up with Jim/ Mindy for drinks at a totally swank restaurant on a huge mountain. Had really nice conversations with people. Later, Joel and I ended up at The Shortstop (me still blissfully unaware of to whom my money was ultimately going) where Joel’s friend was bartending. At one point, I notice a guy who looks older, fatter and sweatier than the rest of the crowd ordering drinks. I think it’s Greg Dulli, but I don’t say anything, because isn’t that just like a tourist to think she’s seeing rockstars all over LA. Not five minutes later, it comes to light that “that guy from the Afghan Whigs” owns the joint. And I’m like, “wow. That’s interesting because he’s here.” I am, of course, knocked completely sideways by this revelation, and immediately begin drinking faster in hopes of puking on his shoes before evening’s end. Unfortunately, G.D. disappeared into the night before I got a chance to stir up any real trouble. A shame, really. Later, two girls from Nashville felt me up, and a guy invited me out to party with his friends. Joel was both jealous and proud. We slept well that night.

Saturday: good morning all, it's a beautiful day

The totally insane thing about LA is the contrasts of scenery and their immediate juxtaposition to one another. We got up and got a muffin and a coffee at a little indie coffee shop in Silverlake. Three minutes later we were on a huge hill by this observatory, walking up dirt nature trails and looking over cliffs. Then a few hours later, we’re at Amoeba Records—an obscenely large, impeccably stocked and tremendously crowded record store where Jim works. The place is flanked by 20 somethings asking us to help them jail Dick Cheney. All of this in one morning. We saw The 40-Year-Old Virgin at this crazy dome-roofed movie theater with a curved screen. (The movie was funny, despite my reservations.) We then drove through Hollywood, which was gaudy, and through downtown, which was corporate-sponsored. We ate at Tito’s again, and put our feet in the cold ocean as the sun set. Later, Joel and I took a beautiful, but harrowing drive down curvy Mulholland and met up with Jim/Mindy a few other Joel friends at a cute laid-back bar called The Roost. Mindy says G.D. is exactly the same as his stage persona in real life.

Sunday: Could it be that it's the season of the shark?

After hearing that fisherman caught two 600-plus-pound sharks off the coast on Saturday, we decided to forgo a final trip to the beach and visit the lovely Getty museum instead. The collection didn’t floor me, but the building and grounds were quite breathtakingly beautiful. I liked the two photography exhibitions they had going on. Fredrick Sommer did weird southwestern landscapes and lots of dead animals. Paul Strand did portraits of people who didn’t know they were being photographed. I’d never heard of these guys before. Kind of neat. Later, we drove down to Long Beach and met up with Joel’s friend Chris for pizza. I’d met Chris when his excellent band came through Chicago a month or so ago. It was neat to see him again. He took us to this mini-town inside Long Beach called Signal Hill, where we saw a road where a bunch of skateboarders have wiped out and been hit by cars, lots of oil pumps, and crazy views almost 360 degrees around. It ruled.

Then we were on airplanes all night.

I write this Monday evening, and I am very tired. School started today.

But I am refreshed, mostly, and ready for the grind, grind, grind from here to January.

I'm not a horrible human being for not posting...it's just that I'm working fulltime right now, trying to write a dissertation when I'm not at work, looking for a flat in a city I don't live in yet, looking for a job in said city...and my harddrive died last Thursday. So I'm computerless and internetless. I've suddenly gone from having nothing to post about during the several times a day I'm online, to being online once every couple of days and still having nothing to post about.

Looks like it was a nice trip, though, Mary. :-)

We finished all of our siteseeing with just enough time to make our dinner appointment. We showed up without anything to drink or a dessert, again making me feel like a terrible guest, and as soon as we stepped in it began to pour.

The family we went to visit was almost too real, too close to my own family to be comfortable. The father was Greek and a member. He loved to talk, was a chef, but was always being upstaged by his wife, an Italian non-member who loved coffee and had bad circulation in her fingers, which was treated by the National Health Care system with its usual delicacy (eg, cut her fingers off when they would get infected). They had three kids, Christopher (1.5), Lefty (6), and Michael (9). They boys were huge, and ran about like demons. Lefty asked a ton of questions and was glued to my side the whole evening after I taught her to sew. Michael loved “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire” and specialized in saying obvious things in breaking-news format: Hey everyone, it’s raining! It’s stopped raining! The lights are off! Now they’re on! It’s a commercial. Margaret asked him what Sponguebob was about, to which he said, with some authority, “Sponguebob? He’s a…he’s a silly billy.” Christopher kept shoving watermelon slices into my mouth and making the folding chairs collapse. There was shouting, loudness, and chaos. So, again, just like home.

In a special bonus, Margaret discovered a case of dunkaroos in the family’s cupboard. She has been destitute ever since they stopped carrying them in America. As a result, we rushed out and picked up about 30 cases of Dunkaroos at the local supermarket.

The drive back to Ottawa was pretty easy and Death-Cab-heavy. Jack had us watch “Mindfreak” before going to bed—a magic sow where the lead “illusionist” looked liked the love child of David Blain and Peter Steele.
We got up at 5 for fishing the next day. I had this horrible rod which was very insensitive, so I couldn’t tell if I had caught a fish, the current, or weeds, so I gave up after a few hours. Margaret, on the other hand, had an amazing day—she caught 10 fish, one of which was the elusive WallEye, the best tasting fish in the river. She also caught a huge pike and some pretty-looking bass. As Margaret’s catch grew bigger, Chad’s grew smaller, until this was the discrepancy in size:





This was all the meat Margaret caught:

We grilled it up, and ate it (I will say: freshwater fish: good. Seafood: still two thumbs down).
Then Jack and Karen put on their Sunday best, and I took them to Quiznos. Jack told me some stories about some Hell’s Angels weddings they’d been to that devolved into gun battles. He is so awesome.

But yeah, that’s the end of the Canada trip. We drove back through Toronto, which was a very bad idea as we lost 2 hours in traffic. Detroit was prettier than I had imagined, with poorer roads. We listened to marriage tapes, lots of Album Leaf, and a huge amount of Anticon bands (I’m giving a what what up for Atmosphere and Aesop Rock). I finally got into the Faint, fell madly in love with the new Trail of Dead, and listened to “Since You’ve Been Gone” probably 50 times. Fell in love with Bright Eyes “Fevers and Mirrors”, and decided that you know what? I really hate techno and will never really like jazz. Chad got into a fight with the homeland security officer who yelled at him for using his cell phone in the border. Chad told him to put up some signs, and the guy said “we could put up a million and some people would still do it” and Chad was all, “Just one would be nice.”

In order to assuage my guilt after eating a Haitian family out of house and home, I left 20c$ on the bed with a note for Shirnaldine. Chad had promised the Noel family (Shirley’s sister and brother-in-law) that we would come over for breakfast.

We knocked on the door at 9, and no one answered. Just as we were driving away, a woman in a robe beckoned us in. We were ushered into The Living Room I Should Own (Clean-lined Swedish furniture, glass, steel, sophisticated local artwork), sat down on the couch, and left. There were many slammed doors, and yelling, and children popping their heads to stare. In fact, we had come on the worst day possible. The husband who promised us breakfast was a chef, but had failed to tell his wife, who had failed to clean up her already-spotless-house. Also, her sister (another one) was staying with her family until her deal to buy a house on the street went through, but she had just done something vexing and the sisters were fighting, plus the house was too small for all the children living there

Who had to be kept in the basement while we were eating. But once all the fighting was over, I had a good talk with the Noel family. Mostly, I talked to them about love, as both of them wanted to know why I wasn’t married. I said I hadn’t felt that “éclair” yet, and they both laughed and said that it must be something about Americans or white people that they are always looking for “un instant.” For the two of them, there was no moment, they met, they dated, they grew fond, they decided that they should start a family, and later love. This made me feel terrible, as naturally it would, and they asked about the last relationship it was in. I said it was with a non-member, and they wanted to know if there was hope that he’d convert. I said no, and they both kind of hugged me and said that they knew how hard it was, but not to despair, as I still had a long way to go. Breakfast, by the way, was perfect—eggs, ham, and peppers, cheese and meat platters, two different breads, fruit tray, 3 different drinks. What we didn’t eat was sent into the basement where the kids were sitting, waiting for us to finish. Again, you better believe that guilt rose up like acid reflux. Am I too obsessed with being a good guest, or are other people too callous?

We had until 6 to see most of what Montreal had to offer, because at 6 we had (another!) dinner appointment with some of Chad’s friends. We decided (or rather Chad and Margaret decided) that it was imperative to go to the triumvirate: the
Biodome, the insectarium, and the botanical gardens.

Insectarium






Botanical Gardens


Biodome:
This was started by hippies, I think, to see if we could sustain colonies of certain enviorments elsewhere, like deserts or moons. Now I think it’s like a zoo, but less awesome.


We got done in time to walk around the quartier chinois, as well as some cool arty districts of montreal. Don’t get me wrong, the area was nice and everything, but very boring. I’m shocked that an musical scene could blossom here.

I made the mistake of weighing myself while in Montreal, only to discover that I have become indecent, skewing to the “bad” area between 150 and 200. When I came out in tears over this, I got a lecture from Chad on how my soda intake is to blame and why can’t I just exercise more? When I tried to explain my emotional dependency, he jumped on it and used it as further evidence for why I need to overcome my weakness. I realize he’s naïve and trying to help, but good heavens, back the eff up son. You’ve been in my life 10 minutes, don’t presume to know why I’m unhappy or what the right or wrong way for me to deal with things.

That interchange put me in a bad mood the entire day, and I started fuming. Margaret and Chad planned to go to St. Joseph’s, a cathedral on a hill, and as the chaperone, it was my duty to tag along. In the car I started hating myself more and more, not really because of the interchange with Chad, but because of the realization that as I stood there, being made fun of for habits and weakness, no one had my back. And in fact, no one does. Now usually, I am strong enough to take most shockwaves, but on this vacation, I don’t know. It’s still hard for me to travel without Mark, and I think I realized that he really just isn’t interested in my life anymore. And of course, on top of that, I am desperately, desperately lonely, despite the sweetness of all of my friends, they are all in fact far away and busy with their own lives and loves, and I have been relegated to chaperoning my engaged sister and her perfect fiancé wherever they desire, when all I want to do is hole up in my house and have no one ever look at me. Am I sharing too much? Probably. Not that it matters. I’m hoping these feelings of loneliness are the last twitch in the corpse, but somehow, even if that’s true, I’m afraid of his ghost.

So needless to say, I did not enjoy the behemoth that is St. Joseph’s cathedral. It has a hundred stairs leading up to it, and if you say a hail mary on each step, your salvation is ensured. We came in through the crypt, which had some famous saint—maybe saint Andres—shrine.





All of the colors reminded me of disneyland’s “it’s a small world after all” boat ride.

We went upstairs to the chapel, which was a typical work of catholic modern architectural taste—sharp, soviet, vacant. I liked the light fixtures, however.

No cathedral is complete without a heart-in-the-box. This Saint (Andre again?) is supposed to be an interloper between St. Joseph, Christ’s step-father, who of course speaks directly to Christ. So if you have a prayer, you need to go through St. Andre, then St. Joseph, who will make sure Christ here’s you. This is what I love about Catholicism—it really emphasizes your role as a peon in the great emptiness that is eternity. Like an bureaucracy, you can only get to the people in charge by going through a string of lower bureaucrats. My disdain for Catholicism was only augmented, which was sad, as I try and support any institution that tries to make people better. But to me, people can’t be their best if the infrastructure is reinforcing their inherent meaninglessness.


And of course, the gift shops.

Outside, the gardens had been transformed into the stations of the cross. Margaret has no patience or tolerance for heat, so she wasn’t taking it too well.

This was my personal favorite: a bleeding water fountain. You know how we could make this any better? How about if instead of a lamb, we had Christ on the cross, and water shot from the crown, the side, the hands, and the feet? Wouldn’t that be awesome? Where does the line between tribute and sacrilege go exactly? I don’t know if that line exists for Catholics.

I look thrilled to be here.

Much of my vacation looked like this:

When we got back, the Haitians were planning on eating out, but they felt terrible, so they insisted on going out and buying us real food from a real Haitian place around the corner. Shirley and I talked while Margaret and Chad hit the ATM (Chad was paying for dinner, having been shamed eversoslightly by a conversation we had where I told him being frugally cheap is not always a virtue). Luckily my French was coming back to me, and she told me all of these stories about how much she loved Chad and what a joy he had been to their family, and I figured a man is in part how people remember him, so my respect for Chad did go up. I just wish he’d stop meddling with me.


Dinner was fried pork, wild rice, and plantain cakes. I didn’t think I’d dig it, but it was salty and delicious. After we finished, Chad drove us to visit another lady he used to hang out with. She and I hit it off and spent the whole time talking about “Changing Rooms” and photography. I love women like this—they’re unexpected treasures.

There was an ice cream parlor down the road, so we decided to stop by on our hostesses recommendation. There were lots of teenagers, and they had a playground outside right by a lake that had lilies growing by the between the rocks.


I felt a desperate desire, right then, to run away and never come back.

Well, to keep you from suspense, Monica’s wedding was not in any way a disaster, but was in fact a rather beautiful, heartfelt affair. That isn’t to say it wasn’t without some fabulous developments. I’ll tell you about it when I get my pictures processed. But first, Canada.

By the way, you guys are being pathetic about updating. You are horrible human beings, you know that? And faithful reader from Missouri—reveal yourself!

Jack LaFontaine, Greatest Human Being Alive, wakes us up early Monday morning for fishing. He has the boat hitched, and his wife passes out water bottles as we leave. The lake is literally 1 minute away—in a river that separates Ontario from Quebec. Our boat is tiny, with a small motor, and we start off by trowling, dangling our lures in the water as Jack zips back and forth along the bay.

Now Margaret and I were raised by a very nature-loving mother, and as a result, we are more eco-friendly than our Republican exteriors imply. Fishing does not come naturally, as it is a blood sport, but we firmly believe in trying everything once before a firm judgment could be made, and let me tell you—never have I been so thrilled to have an open-mind policy.

Once I caught the first fish of the day, blood was on my lips, and I literally felt this primeval passion for stalking life that I have never experienced. I have felt flashes of such feeling before, at gun ranges or practicing archery, but this….this was something else.

I couldn’t believe Margaret took to it the way she did also. She’s such an animal lover, that watching her rip a hook through a fishes mouth was—I’ll be honest—a little intimidating. We went home, grilled up the fish, and I was sold. I had found my calling. Marg, Chad, and I asked Jack, TGHBA, if he would be willing to take us again, and we made arrangements to come back at the end of our trip so we could get some more fish in before returning home.

* * *
Cultural Interdit:
Chad had been praising some dish called poutine to the skies, and had been craving it ever since his mission ended. On our way to Montreal, we stopped by this poutine stand to see what all of the hype was over.

Apparently, the French Canadians stumbled across a mixture of French fries, gravy, and cheese curds, and decided it was the most delicious thing ever. I think it tastes like someone mixed French fries into lasagna. I wasn’t that impressed.
* * *
I do not like Quebec because I don’t really like the French, and I do not appreciate the absurd lengths the Québécois go to in order to preserve French in their land, even though what they speak isn’t really French at all but the lazy-man’s French of saying “mon bande favorite…” instead of “mon group préfèré”. However, despite whatever prejudice I have for the linguistic Big Brother’s that make up Quebec’s language police, I wasn’t ruined on the place entirely.
Chad had us staying with a family of Haitians he had befriended on his mission. I’m going to be honest—I was a little worried. I had known a Haitian family before, and my impression of Haitian homes were based on that interaction: loud, crowded, friendly, messy, and hot. When I pulled up to Shirley and Renaldo’s meticulous suburban home, I was put in my place. Shirley and Renaldo have a daughter, Shirnaldine, who is 9 with a terrific gut, Renaldo works as a librarian and Shirley runs a daycare out of her basement.
The house was perfectly clean and smelled of pine sol. They had an empty room filled with nothing but dvd’s—robert deniro movies, “Before Sunset” and “House of Flying Daggers.” I know you guys are going to jump all over me for being surprised that a Haitian family had a copy of “Before Sunset” in their home, but in my experience, most people who are lower-middle-class aren’t really anxious to watch movies about rich people’s emotional problems.

I did, however, have the same problems wit Shirley and Renaldo as I had with Jack and Karen, mainly, a sense of guilt that I was allowing a budget-conscious family pay for my food, water, and utilities. Anyone who has had a Haitian or an African friend can tell you, the culture is more or less very giving, and sure enough, we were cooked for: huge, expensive meals, drinks, snacks—we simply could not stop the food. Shirnaldine had to sleep with her parents in their small bed while Margaret and I got her room. It was amazingly uncomfortable, and I felt awkward. To add insult to injury, Chad’s room, the room with only the dvd’s and a mattress—that used to be a nursery. Shirely had been pregnant, and she had dressed up the nursery, but she had had a miscarriage about a month before we came, and she had Renaldo remove everything, since it was too painful for her to keep coming in and seeing an empty crib.
The afternoon we arrived, Renaldo was working, as was Shirely, so we played some games with Shirnaldine, who cheated. The house didn’t have airconditioning, so it was very much like having a permanent sauna. Despite the constant sticky, wet heat, you know what? I prefer it to the cold. I like the glow I get when every pore perspires, I like the laziness, I enjoy the decadence of it. Cold is just miserable.
I got a little bored, so I went out, and found some copper wire in a huge knot, which I spent the better part of the day untangling. Shirnaldine turned on the radio, which was playing, I kid you not, the Arcade Fire. Went to visit one of Chad’s favorite family’s from his mission:

And when we returned, Renaldo had the grill heated up for dinner. We were expected to each eat a huge hamburger AND a quebec hotdog (which is basically a regular hotdog, but shoved in a baggette. Gosh I hate the French.

Shirnaldine had a white dog who ran around stealing slippers. The dog was quite seriously crazy, and ran about in circles. I had to jump from room to room, slamming the door behind me before the dog could get in.

Monica's wedding is tomorrow. I am with camera and without speech.

I am pretty sure that Chinese people eat Chinese food for breakfast. Yes, this sounds like a stupid statement to make, but you get it. When I walk to the subway at 9am, I see Chinese people in line at or hanging around metal food carts ordering or eating what appear to be pork dumplings. I love Chinese food as much as the next guy, but I’m not so sure about dumplings at 9am. Part of me is disgusted by this, but part of me looks on enviously and thinks, "You know what? That's pretty awesome. Good for them."

--from jasonmulgrew.com

By the way, I'm trying to move most of my old college photos onto the internet for posterity. Since the collection is so massive I thought we'd start with requests. Theron requested the Keg NES/Burn the Whore gig, so here we are:
NES:
<

Burn the Whore:










Man, that was the best show of my life.

Look, people need to stop sunbathing or whatever it is people do in the summer and concentrate on doing what pleases me most: updating so I’ll have something to do. Come on guys—I live with my parents. Help a brother out.

I get up at like 6am on what—Saturday? I’m pretty sure it was August 6th—to drive to Canada, still partially bleary-eyed from spending an evening on the beach. We were taking Chad’s car, which meant we had to go down to Indianapolis before we could go up to Canada—easily tacking on 4-6 hours to the trip. Chad’s house was in the middle of a forest—I’ve never been so isolated in my life, and the house was massive.

Chad’s mother left me with no other impression save “wow, this could be the most mormon woman I’ve ever met.” She had already set aside an entire cooler of food plus three bags of chips and crackers so we’d be fed every single minute of the trip. She made us a three course lunch. She had knitted socks for guests to wear instead of shoes so as not to track germs in the house—did I mention she was Swiss? Her year’s supply (mormons are encouraged to keep food storage so they can be self reliant in the case of a disaster) was perfectly labeled in the basement on steal shelves IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER ACCORDING TO FOOD GROUP. She also didn’t like me.

Chad’s father I dig—very religious too, but with more of a personality, more warmth. You feel safe and calm with him, sort of like a sherpa, but for Eli-Lily. He gave us some CD’s on building a stronger marriage which I had to listen to from Toronto to Windsor.


We drove up through Ohio and New York before we crossed over to Ontario, reaching Ottawa sometime before 2am. The first house we stayed at was a small, one story pre-built house, the kind that looks a little bit like an RV. We rap on the door, and hear scurrying, followed by loud and incessant yipping. The door flies open, and a shortish bear of a man stands in front of us—socks, wife beater, and boxer shorts. “Chad my boy!” He bellows. “come in and have a tea biscuit!”

And so began my short but life-changing acquaintanceship with Jack LaF. and his wife Karen, perhaps the best human beings I have ever met. I felt a little uncomfortable at first—it was obvious that while they were content, they weren’t well off, and I knew that three people eating their food and using their water was going to set them back, but Chad blew off my concern. I have yet to figure out whether I’m overly concerned with making sure I’m a good guest and not unconvincing people, or whether he’s a rich boy that doesn’t understand the value of money.

Jack is a former Sargent in the Hell’s Angels and covered with tattoos. He used to work as an underwater welder for boats and had 4 wives before Karen. He had a Pekinese dog named Bandit who he talked to in a baby voice. He loved cooking, his road garden, and the “MindFreak” magician from TV. He gave me a leather tie and a Canadian silver dollar. He was in jail for manslaughter, which I learned the next morning at breakfast over this conversation:
Me: Jack, look at those guns! Geez, it looks like you could kill a man with your bare hands!
Jack: Why’d you say that?
Me: Um, it’s an expression? I just mean you look tough is all…
Jack: Cause I did
Me: Huh?
Jack: I did kill a guy. Well, I didn’t mean to. It as a fight that got out of control, and he wouldn’t stop. I was in jail for like 4 years.
Me: Can I have another tea-biscuit?

After the manslaughter (or drunken brawl and one kick in the head too many accident) breakfast, we spent our Sunday in Ottawa. My main impression: very clean.

We went to gawk at the capital building, passing by a square dedicated to “those that overcome diversity”—aka, the cripple plaza. Now, I realize I’m going to hell for this, but observe the photo Margaret snapped in said plaza:

The statue of the one-legged gimp, a man in a wheel chair, and a kid with Down’s. This picture is titled “National Health Care.” By the way, while I realize that the US health care system is flawed, it is still the privatization of medicine that gives doctor’s a financial incentive to work as best they can to innovate and experiment with technology. I saw more horrible bunglings, butcheries, and medical atrocities while in Canada than I’ve seen in the poorest regions of the US—Indian reservations, everything. One lady I talked to had bad circulation, so her doctor just loped off a few of her fingers! Jack was in chronic back pain for a slipped disc that could be alleviated with steroid shots! It’s such a waste, it makes me angry. Hence, our political photograph: “National Health Care.”

Canadian parliaments and libraries are charming and cute—as if they want to pretend they’re English. It reminds me of the mooninites from Aquateen:
Mooninite: Enjoy your THIRD dimension
Frylock: what’s wrong with three dimensions?
Mooninite: Nothing. They’re cute
Mooninite 2: We have 5. Thousand.


Canadian buildings are like that. No really, they’re cute.

I dragged Margaret and Chad into the Canadian Museum of Contemporary Photography who were doing a retrospective of Michael Semak, who’s work was so blinding I actually through down for a book. Like most Contemporary photographers some of his work is hit or miss, but when he gets it right, boy does he ever. His shots of children are particularly amazing.

Afterwards, Chad and Margaret’s cuddling was making me stir crazy. I know I’m not one to talk, since I was the worst offender of PDA in Northwestern’s history, but at the same time, let’s look at the facts: I’m single, chunky, living with my parents, and lonely. I sure don’t need constant reminders of that in the form of contented sighing and hair stroking. Instead, I went down a back alley, bought some tabloids, and drank all the caffeinated sodas I wanted to.

That evening we came back home and Jack had made us a steak dinner. Knowing how much it cost, I offered to take him out to lunch as a way of saying thanks, and Karen burst into tears. She said that they had been doing dinners for 6 years, and not once had anyone offered to take them anywhere. It was so sad, I felt terrible, and really embarrassed. I don’t ever want anyone—especially anyone as nice as Karen—ever crying over a free lunch. She’s too good for that to be a special gesture.

We spent the rest of our evening watching Canadian TV, which is AWESOME. First Jack introduced us to the marvelous 80’s classic “Married to the mob” staring Michelle Pfeffier. Then, Canadian sketch comedy and stand up. I never realized what a complex Canadians have about being America’s little brother. I felt even a bit of shame when American stand up comics got up and slagged on the country. I’m becoming such a pussy.

Look, I told you guys everything was going to be very photos-heavy, and you didn't believe me. Well, don't worry, come september it'll just be blocks of text, comme d'habitude. All photos on this page are from John's birthday. Read on, Roster.

So August 1 I abandoned my work and my blog to go on a 2 week, 5,000 mile extravaganza to Chicago, Ottawa, and Montreal. The Chicago part was due to my friend, Ms. Allie Polatin, moving into her first apartment. We had to haul up her couch in a U-Haul, representing the first time I have ever driven a trailer. And let me tell you--it sucks. It's slow and you can't park, and backing up isn't even an option.

Marg and her boyfriend accompanied us, and sometimes I feel like he's the Caffeine Fascist, the way he makes all of these not-quite-subtle comments on my soda intake. Ask anyone—if that isn’t the quickest way to get on my bad side, I’m not sure what is. Maybe being a vegan and making knee jerk comments about politics. But my soda is sacrament—step back, son, you dig?

The ride went as excepted—lots of Bollywood soundtracks, Kelly Clarkson, Spice Girls, and New Pornographers. Lil Kim and Jay-Z were ruled out, as Chad felt the lyrics were inappropriate. I got a lecture, in fact, before I left, on how my taste in music was indicative of my recent slide into moral degeneracy. I can’t remember if I blogged about that exchange or not. Either way, I’m almost 24 years old. I hate being lectured as it is, and I’m getting too old for it to be effective.


Allie’s apartments are on Dempster and Maple. Immediately after we arrived we were accosted by the 30-year-old Polish foreman who bullied Allie into accepting his date invite, then proceeded to stalk her every single day for the rest of our stay there. I tried getting Allie to tell him she had HIV, but the fish weren’t biting.

The first night, Allie’s mattress hadn’t arrived, so we made a makeshift bed of cardboard boxes and sweatshirts, and I slept on those. Not as uncomfortable as you might think, but not recommended for long periods of time.

Met up with Lakshmi and Adele Thursday night to see Smog play at the empty bottle. Before the show we met up in Evanston, had Thai and drank (they, not me), and talked about…I don’t know, stuff. Whatever easy, confident, smart women and men talk about.

I say men not because I’ve finally gone through with that sex-change operation I’ve always wanted, but because Adele brought boyfriend Joel, and Lakshmi brought boyfriend John. Joel was ACE—he started talking to me immediately and easily, asked me questions about myself and actually listened to my responses and asked intelligent follow up questions. I don’t know why that impresses me, but it seems that after being around ill-bred people for so long, to meet someone who still practices the art of conversation is like finding a gi-joe action figure in the stomach of shark.

John was hot and a great mixture of being laid-back and completely uptight. He blurts out slightly inappropriate things and chain smokes like a fiend. Also, his shoes are breathtaking. Both AJ and AL looked great together, and an evening that was supposed to be mildly uncomfortable turned out to be really amazing. Though for some reason John was convinced that I had a crush on Lakshmi and was trying to steal her away. Ah, young love.

Adele drove us down in her fabulous car and we listened to the new Sleater-Kinney under wet city lights and I felt, for the first time in ages, that I belonged to something and someone, without any pressure or expectations. We went out for ice cream and flirted with the hipster behind the counter.

I thought I had been to Empty Bottle before, but in fact, I have not. The place looks like someone’s apartment, only they through in a bar and added a stage. There’s a cat running around, and a photo booth. We all managed to cram into it and took some awesome photos, which I’m sure adele will post when she gets a moment from her rock n’ roll legal lifestyle.

Smog and the opening band Feathers were really a bunch of hippies, only one of which was goodlooking, so I’m not going to blog about my feelings of aural underwhemledness. I will make the following points:
1) I love hanging out with my rock n’ roll girls. Adele and Lakshmi are so effing cool it makes me want to set something on fire
2) I love goth bartenders. The one working the empty bottle was so pretty, all corseted and kohled up like her mom’s nightmare. I wish I wasn’t so lazy and could start dressing like that again
3) What the frick happened to the indie scene? Maybe it was the Smog-crowd, but when I left, everything in Indie was all skinny ties, punk rock 80’s electroclash glam, and now everything is a cross between 70’s-closet and early 90’s grunge horror-dirty beards, matted hair, floral dresses, mustard tights. Everyone looks ugly, and that ain’t cool. I’m all for the laid-back causual look, but this is unreal. Stop it. Right now.

The next night was John’s 21 birthday, so after wasting my time taking Chad and Marg downtown (ok, we ate Uno’s and I shopped at H&M—it wasn’t completely a waste), I changed and headed over to Ambrosia. I don’t know what it is, but being with friends, being back in a city makes me actually care about my appearance again. I wore new clothes and pretty sparkly earrings.

Yes I’m still fat, but not point-and-stare fat. Yet. I went to the basement of Ambrosia, the new coffee shop Lakshmi works at on Orrington, and hung out with some of L’s coworkers, Adele, and John. I got invited to a costume party the next night because I was “one of the cool people.” It was touching in a way. The whole evening was fun and a little spooky—I can’t explain it. Most of the photos I took had ghosts in them, or strangly poignant blurs. Observe:



We all went to the lake and walked around in the water or smoked on the beach. Adele and I left before the cops broke things up. I love that lake. I love this city. I went to bed like hot-house flowers.

Lakshmi said "time for a tort." This makes me immesurably happy.

I am kind of amazed and embarrassed by how cute L. and I look in these pictures. This all plays into my theory that all the time I spend with L. is turning me into a girl. Case in point: I recently e-mailed her to ask her what she was going to wear when we went out with some friends that night! And then sometimes I get this urge to wear heels, and you know ... the whole thing is a mess.

Watched The Hustler last night at Grant Park. It inspired me to mentally develop a bunch of lyrics for that one rock and roll song the catatonics are working on. But honestly, now I can't remember anything. It definitely had something to do with not wanting my role in life to be "to be pretty and tragic and die."

Whatever, movies are stupid. I actually hate most of them.

I am leaving for LA today! I'll miss all yall.

More catatonics photos. Not all of these are "catatonics photos"--some are just really pretty pictures of lakshmi and adele that i really liked.

(1)
(2)
(3)
(4)
(5)
(6)
(7)

I know Lakshmi is going to hate (4), but that was my favorite. Her face has so much expression, she's so menacing! I love it!

Anyone seen "Lost"?? The series started in the UK last Wednesday, and that bit where MatthewFox tells the female criminal character that he gives himself 5 seconds completely to freak out when things are really bad, and then is totally calm after that - - I'm going to try it right now: 5...4...3...2...1

Frankly, I don't feel any better. Everything is suddenly even more complicated, and my must-move-by date has just been moved up by several weeks. *eek* Which means I don't have the time I thought I had to finish (start) my dissertation, save a bit more money, apply for my work permit, find a job, find a flat, etc. I pretty much have to do it all right about now. And this scares me, because I'd thought I had an extra month, but I don't. I need a tenancy agreement, a job, and a life in Edinburgh by the end of September or my work permit quest is fucked...over a discrepency in entry clearance dates on my passport.

It's better for me this way, because otherwise I probably would have dragged my feet over having to move cities and jobs and friends and lives AGAIN...and ended up languishing in Nottingham for a couple of extra months just because things are sorted down here and I know people and have a job. I'd stopped even making an effort to find a flat or contact agencies in Edinburgh.

On the plus side, my agency in Nottingham owes me 8.5 days of paid vacation - *huzzah!!* And by the time I take it in September, I'm sure that 8.5 days will be nine...*huzzah+0.5!!* So I'll have time to pack my things up properly and maybe finish my course. Now to catch a bus into town (it's too sunny for me to walk into town today) and purchase some toilet paper and a new toothbrush before work. 54321

In order to make sure the catatonics are pingeonholed like every other band, I made them take their photos by brick walls, stairwells, and other urban looking things. For shame there was no time for el photos! AH well.

Here are the first batch, the "wall" series, which I'm posting for feedback: what do we like, what dont we like, what needs tweaking? I like fuzzy, dreamy sort of filters, but they may not be to your tastes. if you think you look terrible, want something recropped, voice up, soul sisters. Oh, and flickr tends to warp some of my photos. I don't like how it stretches them. I think i need to keep shopping for a free photo server.

(1) (2)(3)
(4) (5)

And on a personal note, I am absolutely dying to know who googled "mary jones + Literature + poetry +northwestern" and found this site.

excellent weekend. Here's the chronological rundown, just to keep our devoted readers busy for three minutes.

Friday after work I had a couple of beers w/ people from the mag. The usual. Then instead of giving over to the temptation to get drunk all evening and night, I went home and played guitar for four hours and then went to bed at midnight. Had a dream that Joel Lakshmi and I had to join the army. Saturday morning, I curled up with Joel and talked about silly things. Later, went to Lakshmi's and ate burritos and played guitars. We are a good band. I like our music. Went home and read for a little while, then went to Corosh. ended up staying until they closed, drinking evil blue drinks that eventually translated into a wicked hangover. I ranted and raged a lot about the usual subjects that send me on the war path. when the bar closed, Joel's roommate and I decided to have a drunken jam session. We actually sounded kind of good, and Joel decided we should start an improv-only band. Sunday, met Mary and Lakshmi for brunch. Talked about whatever it is three girls on the same page talk about. It was nice. Then, I allowed myself to be roped into "band pictures." I'm smirking in all of them. Keep your eye on the aqua triana, and you'll see what I mean. Then we did some shopping at urban outfitters (which is really hyping this cute-old-lady look that I'd totally buy if I could afford it) and american apparel, which has some fun stuff, but mostly hipster coke slut outfits. It was really good to hang with mary. rest of sunday: reading, listening to music, eating, playing guitar, early sleep. This morning: The's blog is back, and it's hating on greg dulli. what's not to love?

I am going to California on Wednesday.

Just got back from Canada. I stayed with A huge family of haitians in montreal and learned freshwater fishing from a half indian half french former hell's angel and underwater welder.

Pictures pending

The extra work-outs aren't successfully combatting my excess rage. I think I may need kick-boxing or a totally different life in order to overcome my anger management issues.

This afternoon, during our team-meeting at work, I chewed my boss out! In front of the whole team, and two new starters. *whoops* In my defense, she did egg me on...telling us she'd come up with a stupid new team game called "Focus on Promotions (of Gas, Electricity and Boiler Insurance - blech)". And then she asked us what we thought about it, so I told the truth, and said that I thought it was stupid, but that I wasn't going to go any further than that. She, in turn, informed me that I would be going further than that and that she wanted a full explanation. So she got one.

Honestly, what did she expect me to say?!?! That a so-called game in which you're supposed to eavesdrop on your friends' calls and tattle on them when they don't try to force an additional product down every customer's throat is a great motivational tool that will bring the team together and increase sales?!?!?!

That's today's top-tip for "How to get fired from your part-time job at the call centre"...tell your boss that her attempts at team motivation are "stupid" and then proceed to engage in a fifteen-minute, very public argument with her over her unreasonable expectations. Maybe I would have held it in if I respected my boss, or the company, or my job; but I don't. I just don't. And I'm afraid that my lack of respect for all things having to do with my boss, the company, and my job is negatively impacting my attitude at work. ;> I asked the team if they'd thought I'd been out-of-line, but they all said they'd been thinking the same things I said...just didn't say it. But someone needed to...trying to base a game for university students on tattling on your friends. I ran my mouth off like this in elementary and middle school, as well. Some things never change.

Last night, as I poured the last layer of chocolate sauce over the top of Rebecca's birthday ice cream cake, Mostafa told me that I'd make a great Egyptian housewife...there's an option I'd never considered. If this finance/accountancy thing doesn't work out, maybe I'll move to Alexandria and try my luck.

Also, I've finally found a song whose lyrics PERFECTLY complement my angst. Every word!! And my FrootLoops with Funtastic Marshmallows arrived this morning and my cold is going away - **hooray**!!

Allie's Internet connection is shoddy at best, so I've got to make this short and sweet, like you like it.
--The drive up here was hellish. Driving with a trailer=driving below 60mph=an extra 5 hours on the trip
--Chad really likes to get his own way
--The construction foreman at Allie's apartment asked her for a date after we'd been there 7 minutes
--spent the first night on a cardboard box since the mattress hadn't arrived
--did a lot of furtniture shopping
--had the most amazing night out with Adele Joel Lakshmi John and Smog that made me never want to live in Dallas again and made me remember why college was so amazing in the first place
--Got to see the new Scene, and boy was it ugly
--had a lot of unfocused mark-related rage
--Spent a lot of time mourning the loss of Theron's webpage

Today Lakshmi's boy is having a birthday party, so I think i'm going to hit that up. The party, not the boy. But he is H-AWWWWWW-T. Wow. Lakshmi's gotten hot too. Come to think of it, so has Adele. It's only me who remains strangely bloated and pocked.

As a side note, I used the term 'skinflint' at dinner last night and was laughed out of the table for using "Dickensonian slang". Were they right to slag me off, or is that a legitimate term?

Also tell them about how I gave to charity
And tried to love my fellow man as best I could
But most of all don’t forget about the time on the beach
With fireworks above us

Last night was really great. I will def. blog about it soon. I am so so happy to see Mary Jones.

*argh - uncomfortable sighting of the Latin kind - that's why I never use the payphones on the ground floor...because you run into all sorts of Melton Hall people down there, because those phones are located in the foyer between the two sets of main doors, and then late at night you call home for some information about your credit cards but your mom isn't home so you end up speaking with your dad, which is fine until he starts talking to you about colds, fevers and diarrhea and you can't quite end the conversation because it's your dad and then a big taxi-full of MeltonHall boys - including the Latin salamander, of course, all dressed-up and PaulRudd-like - pulls up at the door and then all of the guys stroll into the building while you're standing there in the foyer looking gross in your pajamas and bloated because you're on your period and you can't run away because you're on the phone and all of the doors are glass so they've all already seen you anyway so you just have to keep on talking because you're in the middle of a phone call with your father, who is talking - quite literally - shit!*

I'm traumatized.

Some of the shit people google to get here freaks me out. It makes me worry about all the stupid things I've said on this site in the past. I am really sorry to anyone about whom I've ever said anything mean or weird or unkind or offensive or whatever. Oh weblogs.

I've been socializing in "real life" lately. It's been lovely to catch up with some good friends from the distant and not-so-distant past. Can't complain about anything. I am taking a vacation to California with Joel in a few weeks. Work is good. And I'm off from school. The Catatonics haven't practiced in a while, which is a major bummer. But we'll work it out.

Dude, I'm getting all optimistic and cheesy.

Somebody get me another beer.

Allie got back from Calcutta with an arm full of saris and sacred poetry and an arsenal of stories involving one-eyed beggars. Oh yes, you better believe I am jealous. On the plus side, my Korean grandma has called distraught that my mother and I are not around, so I might be traveling to Korea in January. I am promised shopping trips to China if I am good. From what I hear among my delicious arthouse-fags-abroad, Korea is totally the new Japan. Allie spent most of the weekend showing us terrible movies like “D.E.B.S”, which feature an elite group of paramilitary-college-coeds who fight crimes in catholic school outfits. The movie would have been so-so if not for three key factors:
1) fantastic dialogue a la “clueless”
2) Jordana Brewester as the gorgeous lesbian super villain
3) Devon Aiko (sp?) the half british half Japanese supermodel with the most perfect legs in the world.
Wow, my posts are really all lesbianese lately, aren’t they? This is what happens when I run with the old skool vibrato crowd—everything is all about the lesbians. I ask for patience. I can’t help it if I love me my dykes.

Julia also got back from Oxford Sunday and wasn’t all that thrilled to be back in the United States. We were thrilled to have her back but I think we unwittingly gave her the cold shoulder because of her unapologetic refusal to follow anything close to a budget. She spent her money on haircuts, piercings, robes, musical programs, ice cream, and shoes—in essence, complete wastes of money on things that could have just as easily been purchased over here. We didn’t mind money on one-of-a-kind things, but haircuts? Cartilage piercings? You’re only in England a month! Show some self control! Then she was pouting at breakfast because we were making fun of her “you guys don’t understand” attitude (both Margaret and I have done the program, so we do understand), and then she burst out crying and now I feel terrible.

Ok, I’m going up to Chicago tomorrow, which means I’ll be in town the 3rd through the 6th, then I’m roadtripping to Montreal for a few days, then coming back trough the 14th or so. Is there anyone who would like to come with me to Montreal? Lakshmi already counted herself out—how about you Adele? The? Come on—who wants to keep me company so I don’t have to be the fifth wheel for my sister and her boyfriend?

PS—Stuart and Michelle DID break up. Now I have nothing to live for!

Well Well Well. I did it. I went on my date and I didn’t back out. This is an enormous victory of strength over nerves, and I hope everyone is appreciating how much strength it took me to go out with Laura and the Flynn for dinner and a movie.

She looked good—the dark circles under her eyes were gone, her hair was long, and she had grown more assertive and playful. She’d lost a bit of weight, but was still pigeon toed with sea green eyes. When she hugged me her bracelet caught on my shirt. She is infinitely huggable.

Erin’s dad took us all on a tour of the house which is filled with the most marvelous stuff—old Victorian music boxes, Viking-ship-stain-glass, bobble headed turtles, communist hats, illuminated manuscript pages, Egyptian papyrus—in short, a lot like my house. I met Erin’s mom for the first time, and went up to Erin’s room, a mess in itself of welding projects and Victorian lace. We all talked about obgyns, then I let the two art school kids pick a restaurant (if up to me, it’d be fried meats all the way).

Laura suggested the Cosmic Café, once of those restaurants that every cool Hockaday girl and all of my Vibrato staff patroned exclusively, which meant of course that I had never been there. I still have a phobia of going into places that very trendy people approve of. I can’t say I’ve ever trusted trends.

I talked too much in the car, and had this habit of making all of my adventures and accomplishments really boring. Yeah, I went to Prague and Poland. It was cool. Um, lived in England for a bit. Did some archeology. New Zealand was cool, lot’s of different scenery. Sure, I’ve been in some relationships. Just finished an on and off three year thing. First real boyfriend was a frat guy who hated how I looked. URG. SO BORING. I left out all of the passion and excitement of a truly amazing, well-lived life filled with amazing, gorgeous people. So now Laura assumes that I am an incredibly boring, materialistic loser. I hate it that I care what she thinks about how I live my life. I hate it that when she turned around and asked me out of the blue if I was still writing, I was thrilled to be able to say yes.

The café was filled with Hindu symbols and too many tables. A group of guys whistled at me while I waited to cross the street, and both Laura and Erin caught it and gleefully pointed it out, much to my horror. Call me old fashion, but when one hangs out with a gorgeous lesbian and an even more gorgeous transsexual, unsolicited male attention seems crass. Cosmic Cafe had no cola beverages, so I had to settle for some Organic Wild Cherry soda which was amazing. I hate the fact that anything produced by hippie hands could be amazing.

Dinner conversation was perfect. We were all eloquent, though I was too serious and nervous and rambled on. We cleared up misconceptions, and talked about art. Laura watches “Hell’s Kitchen”. She still gets up at 5 to watch sunrises. She’s grateful to her parents and happy with her life. I feel as if I’m still 15 and we are still friends. She does murals, and she still asks random and enlightening questions that throw you off guard. In short, she is everything I remember.

We sit down in Erin’s House for a while and talk about balancing life and art. She’s stable and introspective, and is genuinely interested in the things I have done. She apologizes for high school, and I can’t even begin to find the words. I tell her what I think of her. I’m honest, and there’s no drama. I sit out with the Flynn while Laura makes phone calls. He shows me the beach house and his herb garden and makes me blush. We see a spider that is 4 inches (!!!) tall. I feel as if I have been transported back in time 8 years, and everything seems mysterious and writing doesn’t seem like hell but is rather full of possibilities. When Laura comes outside, I honestly believe it’s a dream.

We listen to Surfer Rosa on the way to Funasia, and Laura drives through a red light. She invites Erin and me to stay the weekend at her farm. I am stricken with fear as I imagine the battle with my parents over this trip, but I am desperate to go. We meet up with Margaret and Chad. The movie is too long, and is really dreadful (Salman Kahn’s “Maine Pyar…” Avoid.) Laura and Erin still enjoyed it. Laura gave me her address and cell number. I didn’t open my notebook to read it until Sunday morning.

This was a great weekend. Lakshmi is not a tool. She is the total bomb.

I am busy. I just wanted to say happy August. Holy moly summer is flying.