clearly, this is a temporary fix. sigh.

I want a tattoo.

It is difficult to admit this, as body-modification has become passe when done passively. Hipsters seem to prefer the more au courant trend of ear plugs and various studs, or their tattooing reaches epic stages of congestion, but one or two sporadic tattoos is more to the realm of cheerleaders or sorority sisters. But it can't be helped. I want one.

What is even more difficult is trying to pick what I want. I've waited so long to get a tattoo because they always end up looking awful with age. Blacks blues and greens bleed out, creating soft, accessible borders instead of the sharp strokes necessary for something truly hardcore. I also know that with weight lost and gained, details get lost in saggy skin. So, what is a girl to do?

White ink. I stumbled across the solution a few years ago, and it seemed perfect. A soft, subtle modification that doesn't bleed because it's already so faint--it ghosts like a burn, and I adore it. The more I research the technique the more I'm sure it's what I want. I know where I want it (side flank on ribcage, between underarm and hip). I just need to narrow it down (pi symbol, scrollwork, word, quote)

But that was before this morning. I open today's OK magazine and who should be waiving with a brand new white-ink tattoo on her wrist? Lindsey Lohan. Lindsey-fricking-Lohan. Now the party's over. I can get one, but the pleasure will be gone. So disappointing. As of now I'm still thinking about it, but who knows how long it will take for the pain to go away

My Valentine's Day was fantastic!!! Admittedly romance-free, but positively so. I've no time or energy for that sort of crap when figure skating is on. ;-D

This afternoon, I saw a young boy who couldn't have been any older than eight go speeding by on a little (but very real) motorbike. Speeding past me down the street, then across a major road, and off into a prohibitively sketch area of southeast Edinburgh.

I'd been under the impression that motorbikes were for adults (or at least older and desperately rebellious teenagers) and that operating a motorbike in the UK is illegal unless one possesses a special driver's license. But there the little boy was...on his little motorbike...zipping around town like it's what he does every Sunday afternoon. *yikes*

Tomorrow, I have to go to a "Welcome Afternoon...with team games" at my future place of employment. I don't want to go, because I detest this sort of thing. Awards ceremonies are bad enough (and I got into a spot or two of trouble while at high school for refusing to attend ceremonies for recognitions which I deemed meaningless...the generic award from the school district's retirees' association, the award for being clever from the state's lieutentant governor, etc.), but the false meet-and-greet and play shit "games" to stroke the egos of the HR staff thing is insufferable. I'd feel more dignified streaking down Princes Street.

At least when you're sitting through a boring ceremony, you're sitting, and no one's actively harassing you (expect for the minute or two it takes you to dash onstage after your name is called, shake a couple of hands and grab your award). But an afternoon of rehearsed social niceties and "games"...hours of being actively harassed and being obligated to reciprocally actively harass your future fellow employees...shite HR-devised games...and there aren't even going to be snacks!?

If they're going to treat me like a goat in a corporate petting zoo, they could at least feed me while they do it. !

Also: like Jones, I can no longer read the CM. There's no scroll-bar and the orange bit filled with links has positioned itself in the middle of the screen, obscuring most of the text.

Did everyone have a sucky Valentine's Day? Because everyone I've talked to spent the day crying. My one source of enjoyment lately is the 20-year-old contractor who has been coming over to help fit in a second oven for my mother's catering service. He radiates a pure innocence, as if he had never before interacted with people; he is the Indonesian tree-kangaroo of contractors. His mother was Carrie-esque, raised him indoors, wouldn't let him play with anyone other than relatives, home schooled him, and so he has grown up very much untouched and apart. He ran away from home at 18, and now each morning he entertains me while I clean the kitchen with his galloping enthusiasm of everything from vampire movies to rock music to the prospect of collegiate society. But his girlfriend is cra-a-zy. Say that with me in a sing-song voice: cra-a-zy. Tanning multiple times a week and threatening to kill herself crazy. The break-up is imminent, but he's waiting for the lease on their apartment to expire.

I am relating to mom that I spent my Valentine's day completely, irredeemable charred by the Earth's Yellow Sun (Advantage: equator), ravaged from a day in the Balinese markets, crying over sunstroke and fatigue as I sit, slick with aloe vera, crying as I watch the last half of "Ever After" while I eat a salami sandwich. I am glorious to behold--truly a thing of beauty. She tells me she spent her Valentine's Day crying because she was so humiliated that she had totaled my father's car while driving a whole bunch of Jordan's school friends on a field trip to the Science Center. I dare Contractor to one up us. He said he had spent Valentine's Day adding money to his girlfriend's tanning account, fighting with said girlfriend, watching said girlfriend cry, then going to bed feeling guilty. Others spent it annoyed at their significant others, getting fired, or sitting around watching "American Idol." In the name of all that is good, someone renew my faith in modern romance and tell me a good Valentine's Day story before I start breaking out into Darkness lyrics.
The LDS Asian Extravaganza pictures are up if you're bored. Here are 9:

Sandy Skoglund, Sally Mann, Jock Sturges, Nobuyoshi Araki.

In the lack of anything substantial due to stress/jetlag, I am stealing Flynn's conversation with JK Rowling while reading "The Half-Blood Prince". It is one I myself have had many times.

me: "Look, I'm only reading this because I'm sick and I can't deal with any more Thomas Mann."
jk rowling: "Agreeable. Let's begin."
me: "Okay it's been like 400 pages and he's barely off the train at Hogwarts and all I've learned so far is that you can't write teen drama for piss."
jk rowling: "My word, what's that over there?"
me: "Over wh-"
jk rowling: "BOOM!"
me: "Oh my god that's a lot of blood!"
jk rowling: "But also this!"
me: "Shit! Shit! You're sick! That's amazing! With the- and he- I didn't even think you were going to use that!"
jk rowling: "What am I doing? Where am I going?"
me: "I AM A BUTTERFLY WRITHING ON A PIN"
jk rowling: "Oh whoops I dropped you. I'm so clumsy."
me: "Wait .. but .. that can't .. that's the lamest thing ever that you just did."
jk rowling: "RED HERRING!!"
me: "NO. WAY."
jk rowling: "ZOOM!"
me: "I AM ON SO MUCH NYQUIL GODDAMNIT."
jk rowling: "BLAM!"
me: "OMFG THIS IS TOTALLY EPIC"
jk rowling: "Oh my, look who I've got here."
me: "YOU WOULDN'T"
jk rowling: "I miiiight."
me: "BUT YOU CAN'T."
jk rowling: "BABY JUST LET IT HAPPEN"
me: "AAAAAAAAAAAA"
jk rowling: "AAAAAAAAAAAA"
me: "......"
jk rowling: "Hey. Hey. Roust. We've still got some story."
me: "Oh no way it's the perfect parallel."
jk rowling: "ISN'T IT JUST?"
me: "IT TOTALLY SUMS UP MY FEELINGS THEMATICALLY."

The flynn always manages to sum up my feelings thematically.

I hate to be a killjoy, but I have a PC, and the layout is all jacked on it. There's no scroll bar, the links column cuts the post in half, and I can't comment. I'm afraid we're going to have to make the layout cater to slightly more plebian tastes.

someone left the cake out in the rain

How I love that song, and any other song featuring one of my sugary, Type II diabetes-inducing friends!

This afternoon, during my walk home from work, Edinburgh subjected me to a vigourous pelting of little hailstones. wtf!?! Scottish weather in February is always shite, but HAIL?!? Those little bastards HURT when they hit you! I certainly didn't move back here to be assaulted by little balls of ice...

One of the 16-year-olds at work has (sincerely) invited me for a night out on the town/pull with herself and the other juniors (ie teenage school-leavers) on staff. My little sister is older than that, and I doubt I could go out with her and her group of friends. Then again, they're all still in school, not drinking and, as far as I can tell, not doing much pulling either. Right now, I have more in common with the juniors at work than I do with my friends and acquaintances still in Edinburgh after our 2003/04 postgraduate year. Maybe I'll go...

The women's figure skating free programme competition is going to be a CRACKER!!! In a complete turnaround from the men's competition, the top three women are separated by less than a point. Several of the women skating in the second to last group in the free programme will even have legitimate shots at earning a medal. Whereas every man but Plushenko bobbled or fell or lowered component difficulties in the men's competition, most of the women skated clean short programmes and nailed their planned components.

I'm pleased that Belbin & Agosto were awarded the silver medal in the ice dancing. They deserved it, and it's about time that couple consistently received the level of international recognition their performances over the past four years have warranted. They aren't as good as the Russians, but they're certainly better than everyone else.

My left knee just made an awful sound. And hurt. Lovely. Despite my only interaction with sport occurring via the medium of television, my knees are shot, the unfortunate result of my growing four and a half inches during the summer following my thirteenth birthday. All I did just now was shift my leg ever-so-slightly. *ouch*

At least I don't have any stretch marks. Knees can be replaced, but stretch marks are forever. I think I'm actually too pale for stretch marks to show-up. Perhaps if I lay out in the sun for a week, coaxing some melatonin to the surface of my normally translucent skin, I'll discover that I'm actually covered in stretch marks. If I spent a week out in the sun, however, I'd surely also discover skin cancer soon after.

Back to the skating: while the new scoring system isn't perfect, the fact that a virtually unknown young figure skater from Georgia (the country) can come to the Olympic Games, skate early in the short programme, give a fantastic performance and end the night in sixth place, and earn the right to skate in the final group in the free skate is undeniable evidence of its superiority over the old scoring system.

I want Slutskaya to win gold for several reasons. She was cheated in 2002 (I won't even get started on that, because I'd post through the night), has dominated the sport for years, and won't make it to Vancouver because she has a serious heart condition and is already 27. She is also both the most consistent and the most experienced skater in the field (these are her third Olympic Games, she was fifth in Nagano, second in Salt Lake, is a seven-time European Champion and has twice won the World Championship). And she's really bloody good!

But so are the Japanese. And although Cohen will enter the free programme in first place (by 0.03 of a point, hardly a lead worth celebrating in a sport where the winning score is likely to surpass the 200 points mark), she chokes even more reliably than Sandhu. Her short programme in Salt Lake was similarly good (though her rank at the end of the first round wasn't as high, she certainly remained in gold medal contention going into the free skate). But she blew it in the long programme, and ended the competition in fourth place. She's improved greatly since then, and become slightly more consistent, but I think that she's much more likely to end up in bronze medal position than gold or silver.

Since I've left the US, I haven't been able to follow figure skating like I used to, but I know that Arakawa is very very good, and may push Slutskaya in the free programme as she did tonight. Arakawa is also a former World Champion, and her style is more lyrical than Slutskaya's, who sometimes for her long programmes chooses music with a club-beat and on the ice rather resembles a questionably attired young lass out for a night of ecstasy-fueled flailing at a German Discothek.

Unfortunately, I missed Meissner's programme, as the good old BBC decided that it was more important to cover the final of the women's two-man bobsleigh (because a British duo of passable quality were competing in the competition), than to cover the beginning of the women's figure skating short programmes.

I disgreed, as I don't give two beans about the bobsleigh. But a load of people must, as the BBC covered the entire thing live. They did broadcast a recording of Meissner's programme in their general Olympics coverage later in the evening, but the general Olympics broadcast conflicted with the live figure skating broadcast, and I would have missed other important performances had I watched it.

So because I haven't seen her, I can't properly comment on Meissner. However, given her standing going into the free skate and her (high) marks, she's still in with a shot at bronze, though young American skaters are generally much more accomplished technically than artistically, and tend to lose position via low component marks.

Siguri also remains in the medal hunt, but I doubt Gedevanishvili, the young Georgian, will excell in her long programme as she did in her short. If anything, she'll simply become too exhausted toward the middle of the programme to retain her position. Ando may move up in the long, but isn't likely to medal, unless several of the skaters above her make some serious mistakes Thursday night. Also, she sported in the short programme the single ugliest skating costume I have ever seen...and I have been watching and obsessing over figure skating for a long time.

Ugliest costume ever! I'd be even keener on the new scoring system if they added a "quality of costume" score to the programme component marks. Lambiel would have struggled to hold on to his silver medal had he been docked a handful of points for his terrible costume. Flourescent orange, electric blue and zebra stripes are unacceptable, even if you are a top a male figure skater!

Little Hughes does nothing for me; neither did her older sister. But if I go off on that tangent, I will end up getting into the fiasco that was the judging of the women's free skate in Salt Lake.

Rochette was alright, but she's Canadian, so I prefer that she continue to skate in a mediocre manner. Sokolova's programme was a HUGE disappointment, but Kostner's crashing and burning was not at all surprising. I'm rather anticipating Thursday's free skate, despite doubting Slutskaya's ability to claim gold, because it promises to be a proper competition. And the ice dance, men's, and pairs' competitions weren't particularly competitive. The top Russians in those disciplines arrived at the games already having won the gold medals, not due to collusion between judges (ahem, Salt Lake), but due to their having soundly dominated their disciplines for the past four years (actually the past six years in Plushenko's case).

None of their competitors were capable of scoring enough points to beat them. But no one has more than a few fingers around the women's gold.

My roommate is in Birmingham today and tomorrow to celebrate her mother's birthday. I've taken advantage of having the flat to myself by laundering all of my delicate sketchy underwear (my room is too small comfortably to accommodate drying racks, so everything has to be dried in the living room). I've come across all sorts I haven't worn in ages, primarily because they've all been waiting to be laundered since I last had occasion to wear delicate sketchy underwear...a good long time ago. Not that I mind particularly: I detest doing laundry.

Today at work, I sold an expensive gold necklace. I'm proving significantly better at selling jewelry in person than I was at selling boiler insurance over the phone.

If I saw SeanCombs strolling up the road toward me, I think I'd cross the street. I find him inherently offensive...as I do most rappers, I suppose. I've only singled him out for criticism this evening because the appallingly trashy video for "NastyGirl" is on television right now.

And it's late. *oh dear* I need to go to bed.

Alright, kids. Totally new design. This one should look pretty darn nice regardless of your browser. This is because I borrowed the layout from the smart people at position is everything. Still, let me know of any bugs or problems.

I'm in the sparkling bastion of capitalism that is Hong Kong--Kowloon bay side--typing from an internet cafe filled with velvet chairs because I am too tired to keep walking since this city/country/independentprincipality is nothing but staircases long streets over- and -underpasses. I can't believe I survived--the airbag saved my life.

Traveling in Asia hasn't been nearly as fun as traveling in Europe, though I'm not sure why just yet. Singapore and Hong Kong have been very clean and westernized, the shopping has been great, but I just can't get myself into a rev over the cultural tours--the temples and the holy sites don't mean a whole lot, and there aren't really any palaces to speak of except those built by the bridges. The lack of urban planning means I can't really get around in the manner to which I've grown accustom--there is rarely a good or bad part of town, rarely a neighboorhood to go for X or Y--everything is everywhere, spread throughout a huge city (Singapore) or throughout a two dozen villages (Bali) or smashed together(Hong Kong). I don't really have any bearings, so I've given up on any concept of cultural sensitivity. I go to American style cafes and read the Economist, go to McDonald's for breakfast--just like home. And yet at the same time I can see myself turning into a professional Bedoin; it's nice to be lost, and all of these places, especially Bali and Hong Kong, make me cognizant of just how easily one can still disappear.

I've befriended a strange group of people on this trip. Everyone who came was 40+, with only about 5 of our group of 60 representing the under-35 set. Margaret and I, being Margaret and I, got a reputation has being fun, sarcastic, good-humored stranglings, so we attracted a gang of older male eccentrics who let us teased them in exchange for stories of how they lost their fingers (Gary, 65), what traffic was like in Nepal (Ranier, 39), what happens when a person in your hotel splits the toilet in two (David, 33), or why to avoid buying dinner for Russian women (Jim, 60). These were the only men on the trip save one, so many of the ladies have been resentful of our monopoly, but it isn't as if there is any flirting going on when everyone is old enough to be eithr my father or my grandfather.

The other night, out of the blue, Ranier asked if I'd ever read any Ayn Rand because I reminded him a lot of the women in her books. Despite the issues Rand and I have had over the years, when someone says something like that I glow--it's still one of the best compliments anyone could give me. I like who I've become, with or without the reassurance.

The barista is getting angry that I'm taking up so much time. I'll be back in a few days, assuming I haven't contracted avian flu.

I've finally broken down and created an iTunes account. As I'm rather lacking self-control, that's probably me broke in a week. I had to do it, though, because I've had the first two lines of HeyJealousy stuck on repeat in my brain for WEEKS, and it was either buy the damn thing and be done with it or be driven insane at not being able to remember the rest of the song!

Now I've listened to the whole track once through, I'm over it. *shrug*

I did a load of laundry yesterday (one of at least a dozen loads which need doing - argh), and managed to dye half the load olive green. Just half. Which left me both baffled and slightly embarassed. Prior to yesterday afternoon, I'd been under the impression that accidental laundry-dyeing incidents occur only to men with little or no laundering experience attempting to save time by washing their whites with their reds. But olive green?!? Me!?! There wasn't anything green in the load...and it wasn't a load of whites, it was a load of mediums and older things that don't have any dye left to shed.

And why did a light blue top keep its colour, while a pair of adidas exercise trousers which entered the washing machine exactly the same colour as the top exited the washing machine olive green??

Confusion aside, the trousers are actually rather improved post-incident. They have bright red piping down the sides (the original colour of the piping survived the wash), and I'd never been able to coordinate the trousers (light blue with red detailing) with anything else in my wardrobe. But now they're olive green with red piping, they go with black! And I can wear them all the time. :-D

Every cloud has a platinum lining...a lining often superficial and constructed of inferior quality platinum, but a platinum lining nonetheless!

It's not even 9pm yet, but I'm exhausted. Too many early mornings for work...

I'd thought that the original dance portion of the ice dancing competition was tonight, but it's tomorrow. The big hill ski jumping final was tonight. But it's over now, and I'm too tired even to sit around for another hour or two fantasizing about adorable little SimonAmmann, whose adorability factor has exponentially increased since SaltLake...this time, he looks just (barely) man enough to do dirty things with! *perfect*

In actuality, I think he may be older than me. He doesn't look it, though; he looks about 19. Thank goodness I haven't gone into secondary education or university lecturing. I'd have been so tempted to indulge in thoroughly corrupt relations.

*sigh* It's not my day. I'm gaseous AND a Canadian male skater is on the podium AND JohnnyWeir didn't medal AND the image of that awful Sandhu's (large!) cock doing it's very best to escape through the front of his alarmingly snug, electric blue, Lycra trousers is seared into my retinas. I'll probably dream that I'm encased to my chest in a frozen lake, with Sandhu's bulging manhood moving ever closer...Dante-esque, but with a sexual (and anti-Canadian) twist! At least it'll add some variety to my current dreams, which all involve my either being late for a day of high school (can't find my gym suit, don't remember where/when any of my classes are, mom's stalling, etc.) or fighting with my father.

In retrospect, the little Buttle boy who medalled is by far the least offensive of the Canadians. He always looks rather chuffed with himself, no frowning, no tears, no stroppiness in the kiss-n-cry. And it's difficult to justify disliking someone who's naturally good-natured. Also, Weir lost his medal NOT by making mistakes, but by skating a programme filled with lower-scoring components than those performed by the other guys at the top of the field. Just like he did at US Nationals: inspired short programme filled with well-executed, well-scoring components; clean and beautiful long programme marred by decently-executed but lower-scoring components.

Which is a daft thing to do, particularly if you (and everyone else) know exactly how many points each component is potentially worth (and how many points you're likely to need in order to beat your competitors). In a sense, the new figure skating scoring system (at least where the technical scores are concerned) is loosely similar to the scoring system for gymnastics...you know how much the major components are (potentially) worth, and you can choose which of those components to perform in order to (potentially) achieve your target score.

What Weir did tonight is the academic equivalent of knowing exactly how well you need to do on your last final exam to get the 'A' that's crucial to your final university GPA, knowing what the questions will be and how many marks each question will be worth, and then choosing (choosing!) to prepare sufficiently hard enough for each question to earn enough marks for a perfect 'B'. ?!?

Doesn't really matter, though. Because Plushenko won...and by an unprecedented margin.

Woooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!

He also appears finally to have grown into his nose: good for him.

Now I suppose he'll go and retire at the end of the season like pretty much all figure skating gold medal winners do these days. And I will lament, because men's figure skating first without Yagudin AND then without Plushenko will be disappointingly dull. There are plenty of others who are good, and there always have been, but there aren't any gripping rivalries right now, and the impending retirement of the man who's been more or less accepted as the best ever makes me sad.

Then again, if I'd been jumping around on knife-blades for most of my life, and had consequently destroyed my knees, hips and groin, I'd probably want out of skating as soon as I'd achieved my ultimate objective, especially if I'd already amassed a fortune from skating in shows and I stood to make even more by turning completely professional.

I've just had the best Valentine's Day ever: four and a half hours of Olympic men's figure skating short programmes...I love the BBC's interactive digital channels! My boss even let me leave work early today so that I could be in my seat in front of the telvision before the short programmes started (and not miss Plushenko, who skated second).

I am rather pleased with myself right now, because the results after the short programme are much closer to my predictions (and hopes) than those of most of the commentators and journalists, who have been forwarding the Canadians as top medal contenders all season, while completely ignoring JohnnyWeir (and the fact that Sandhu realiably chokes whenever he has a decent shot at a medal in any competition). There have also been far too many suggestions in the lead-up to the Olympics that Plushenko can be beaten, which he can't be.

I want Weir to be my private skater...just to watch, mind you, as he's flamboyantly gay, and I'm on my period right now anyway.

Sandhu's costume for the short programme featured an embroidered, white swirl on each buttock. He singled his triple axel; I clapped, then felt a little bad about it, but not much. The only skater I dislike more than Sandhu is Stojko, whose massive rump needed no embroidery to induce vomiting.

Happy Valentine's!! Fingers crossed the leaderboard doesn't change after Thursday's free skate. The results are perfect as is: Weir just barely in second, Lambiel in third, and Plushenko so glaringly superior to the rest of the field that he may as well be in a different competition entirely. I imagine the results will change, though, if only to squelch my joy. As long as no Canadians medal and Plushenko wins his well-deserved Olympic gold, I should be able to cope with the results...given a little time and a load of sweets. ;-)

I think it's a bit funny that I'm flying to an island 100 miles from East Timor after enduring "Manufacturing Consent." A tip of my hat to the white wash, gents.

Wish me luck, boys and girls. When a trip starts out with a deleted manuscript, it has nowhere to go but up.

Gizmodo had a contest to see who could make the best song by sampling the horrible noises your computer makes before the harddrive dies. It's the best idea ever. Either go to Gizmodo and check out the sample entries, Or follow this link to listen the Winner. It's very rock n' roll fun.

In four months, I might have to worry a little bit more about $$, but I'll have to worry a little bit less about cleaning things, and talking on the phone when I feel like talking on the phone and having sex when I feel like having sex and playing guitar when I feel like playing guitar. I am 99.9% quiet! Why do I feel like such a burden when I'm the slightest bit loud? God, I can't wait to have my own place.

oh my god. I try to be responsible for an hour or two and I just get smacked down! The office is closed, so I can't turn in my externship application. My class has moved to a new room, and no one can seem to tell me where the frick it is. So now I'm here, blogging, having accomplished NONE of the things I intended to do. Well, that's frickin it. I am having a beer and making music by myself. Because what is the point of being here?! This semester is destined for disaster.

The city of chicago is a bunch of bastards. my car got towed last night. and honestly, I'm beyond caring about the fact that there were NO SIGNS anywhere denoting that it was illegal to park there. I'm really mad because this is just the worst timing ever for trying to get my car back from the stupid city. hate. hate. hate.

I carry my joy on the left, carry my pain on the right

A scar is a funny thing -- it's completely numb and sensationless, but it's a constant reminder of a past trauma -- one that inevitably involved a lot of blood. Sometimes we get so used to seeing our scars, though, that they no longer remind us of their traumatic origin -- the scar and the trauma that caused it are simply part of who we are.

I am aware that this is a clumsy, cliched metaphor. But bear with me, I'm out of practice when it comes to thinking about myself in these melodramatic, self-obsessed terms.

I got over the specifics of the trauma, but I never realized how deep the scar was, and what other organs it encroached on. It's had a huge, and mostly negative, impact on me for years. And, until today, I barely remembered how the scar got there and that it wasn't always part of me.

In sum, web browsers' inconsistency in rendering em dashes is a source of eternal frustration to me. Look to the above. I love me some em dashes, and if they look like hyphens I go into shock.

I live on a secret plane. really.

JoseCarreras was rather handsome when he was younger...and rather closely resembled JoseMourinho, who remains rather handsome today, despite being in his fourties. He's so blatantly self-assured. Confronted with his infinite confidence in himself, his superiority and everything he says or does, a woman can't help but yearn to bear his strong sons.

I'm watching BBC4 right now: "Omnibus follows the 1984 recording of West Side Story, made by its composer Leonard Bernstein, and featuring Jose Carreras and Kiri Te Kanawa." It's fantastic. I'm so terribly envious of anyone with enough talent (and luck, and persistence, and discipline) to forge a proper career out of classical music performance, or direction, or composition. What a lovely way to spend one's life. Certainly lovelier than auditing or serving as a director of finance, but there are so many things so very much worse than auditing or directing finance that I can't justly complain. I'm lucky to have landed the career opportunity I have.

At least I can look forward to someday having the money to attend classical performances in style...this season, the best seats at LaScala cost $245 per seat, per performance (and frankly, if you're already going to LaScala, you may as well pay for a good seat). Plus the flights to and from Milan, meals, accommodation, American sweets to munch during the performance (I'd have a packet of sweets in my pocket at a funeral), etc.

The delivery company has failed to deliver my candy today. I paid extra to have the candy delivered today, instead of next week. Apparently, the candy is "being held" in Birmingham. No further explanation was provided by the delivery company, and the recording on the candy company's customer service hotline informed me that the customer service line is "not always staffed, but please feel free to send us an email".

I am the angriest right now that I have been in months. I will not roll with the punches where expensive, imported sweets are concerned! And I feel entitled to a refund of the extra charges I paid supposedly to guarantee delivery today. I don't expect to get the refund, but I would very much like one.

You are lesser because you do not equal the chandelier’s

Party the Fourth: The Drake
Or how our hero learned to stop worrying and love the art school party.

Lammmmmmmmmme

I will be the first to admit that I am kind of a drag to hang out with. No no, that’s sweet of you to say, but look at the facts. I am hyper-responsible, a know-it-all, and have moments of great social awkwardness that alienate even my closest friends. I don’t even make good arm candy: I’m not really sexy in a conventional way, so having me at your table won’t attract more men or women (if that’s your scene). But the most salient point for this essay: I don’t drink, smoke, swear, sex, or drug, and who wants to drink, smoke, swear, sex, or drug when they feel self-conscious? No one. My most annoying bit: I am always sober. Which means that when you wake up the next day and your head is bleeding from the inside and you say, “Oh, man, what HAPPENED last night?” I’ll be there to crisply chirp, “Why, you drank half a bottle of scotch, urinated on the couch, and then fell asleep in the bathtub.”

Erin did not, in fact, urinate on a couch or drink half a bottle of scotch. But he did put in some quality tub time.

While I am primarily known for my perceived judgment of things/culture/people, the truth is I’m much more damning in my critique of large groups of people than I am of person A or person B. Despite my love of the stereotype and the generalization, I am fully cognizant of individual differences and circumstances, which means I tend not to make moral judgments on how people behave. I believe everyone has a moral framework, and if I judge someone’s actions as being good or bad, it’s in relation to the integrity of their system of value, not my system of value. That still doesn’t mean people don’t FEEL as if I’m judging, FEEL self-conscious.

Margaret and Flynn, absorbing the majesty that is

I start off with this long-winded introduction as a way of explaining how excited I was to hit Fran’s party at the Drake. For those of you who haven’t been following this weblog since its 2001 inception, Fran went to Hockaday with me, about a year or so below me. She managed to somehow live on as legend, due to her capacity for great conversation, her natural brilliance, her social gregarity, and her fantastic sense of music and scene. A bit like Dallas’s Seth Porges, but genuine. Her photography (at age 16!) was being sold in Dallas galleries. She had blue hair and was constantly out of uniform, she slept in the hall when class was boring—all without ever receiving a substantial punishment. Most importantly for Hocakday, she was the only vocally ‘Out’ lesbian at school, and for many of us, was our first impression of the LGBT scene. Needless to say, many were converted. Fran, I suspect, always felt I was too much the mom, too critical, and thus never invited me to a party or attempted to seduce me. So when I got invited to THIS party, I was completely thrilled. Finally, some rock n’ roll!

Love the Drake

Fran has moved back up to Chicago to finish her tenure at the Art Institute of Chicago, this time with a Creative Writing concentration. Word on the street is the Drake has been bought out by the Hiltons, so Fran wanted to go and indulge in some old world luxury before the Hiltons came in and effed everything up.

The Hiltons will make this gaudy, cheap, and dirty. Like their daughters.

She rented out a family suite and invited all of her Art Institute friends to come up for a night of decadence.

When it’s time to party we will party hard

When Flynn, Margaret, and I entered the room it was like this: A couch full of hipsters.

Paul Thomas Anderson is God!


Goth girl. I envy her dreds, as I have not the courage to grow my own.

A goth and punk girl on the floor. (see Goth, Above)

Leo and Margaret—some of the Straight-But-Not-hip-Hipster crowd.

The Straight-But-Not-Hip-Hipsters by the TV, Allie and her Northwestern friends peppered on the beds and by the booze table. There were 5 huge bottles of alcohol, including the biggest Sky Vodka bottle I had ever seen, and more cigarettes than a Velvet Revolver show. Fran was sitting in a chair chainsmoking in boxers, socks, and a bathrobe.

“Actually yes, I am ready for my closeup.”

“You guys missed the gay porn!” someone shouted. Excellent timing for Margaret and me, though the Flynn was disappointed.

Mike, Goth, Margaret, Allie (Art Institute). I am apparently the only one who thinks Mike looks like the singer for Mars Volta

My conversations went in the following order:
1) Re: Julie about her lesbian-dinosaur-movie
2) Re: Goth girl about whether Dan Flavin was a good artist, and whether Darger was overrated

Goth girl, Flynn. Cuteness abounds.

3) Re: punk girl (also called Allie, but from the Art Institute) about the Field Museum’s back room (they keep flesh eating beetles to clean skeleton and it smells like decaying flesh! Awesome!)
4) Re: Rachel about my idea for “interactive” erotica literature. She is now my partner. I can’t tell you about it, lest someone steals it, but it’s brilliant. We will make a billion dollars.

Life’s a drag

I actually had a great time talking to everyone, considering how drunk they were getting. The crowd was bright, obviously talented, very sweet. When someone shouted that Margaret and I were Mormon sisters, the goth chick turned to me and asked, “Really? That is so cool! I had a Mormon friend in high school.” It doesn’t seem like much, that comment, but people—especially punk rock and indie people—tend to be very close-minded about my religion, so it was nice to be with a group of strangers who acted like it was no big thing. Cause guess what? It’s no big thing.

Margaret and Flynn: Trespassing

Since Flynn had an early plane to catch and couldn’t indulge excessivly, and since Fran was baiting me by shouting out things about Mormons hating gays or whatever (Fran is very good at taking the piss out of me), Margaret and I decide to join Flynn on a photo tour of the Drake.

Fashion: we are the goon squad and we’re coming to town

The photo tour was one of those wildly ridiculous outings where drama and intrigue get made out of nothing at all.

Hansel—so hot right now


The timeless art of seduction

We explored the stairwells and the becouched elevators.
The elevator has a couch! Why am I so impressed by this? Because I am. Unabashedly impressed.

We went to the basement shops

I want to be the kind of person who can wear things like this

and skipped around.

Weeeeeeeeeeeeee!

We explored the nice chairs and chandeliers of the lobby.

I have much to teach you child.

We stole Chex Mix from the bar area.

You may look rich, but you are one box of Chex Mix poorer!

Disappointed that the Drake lacked a pool/health club, we decided to make up for it by exploring their hosting areas.

“Please Watch Your Step”

The first—and best—room we discovered was a huge ballroom, where all the kitchen and catering utensils were being stored.

The future egg coddlers of America!

The entire place glistened and shone, very much a Versailles Palace sort of mood, and I had to dissuade Margaret and Flynn from running off with a set of silverware or a velvet chair.

Eh, it’s ok

Right next to it, a very ominous-looking kitchen.

People stage indie-thrillers in such kitchens

Across the hall we discovered a waltzing ballroom with large windows overlooking the street and a polished wood floor we kept sliding on, trying to master break-dance moves.

Neon ballroom: Flynn looks down on the little people.

A bit of advice: don’t try running and then sliding across a dance floor on your knees unless you’re a professional.

After a series of uneventful board rooms and phone booths,

Flynn and Margaret, Trapped in the Closet part 1.

we stuffed some buttercream candies into our pockets and went back to the room, only to discover the best surprise of the night: Titz McGee!

I will dissuade from mentioning the phallic overtones of this pose. I’m classy that way

The initiated will remember the name Titz McGee from “Anchorman,” when Will Ferrell has the Channel 4 announcer refer to Veronica Corningstone as “Titz McGee.” OUR Titz McGee got her name from her well-oiled, protruding mammaries. She was also sloppy, messy drunk, and kept laughing REALLY loudly and snatching away my and Margaret’s cameras and slurring, “I’m totally going to take a picture of my nipple. Who wants a picture of my nipple?”

“Good evening, San Diego. I'm Veronica Corningstone. Titz McGee is on vacation.”

I should probably refrain from blogging about this, because Goth Girl assures me that Titz McGee is really smart when not drinking and got her degree in English from Mt. Holyoke and is really very sweet and all of those good things that we say to reassure people when our friends act retarded under the influence. I also know that I’m probably violating some sort of unspoken sober-code-of-silence, but here’s the thing.

The Flynn’s unspoken-code-of-hotness

I’m not infallible. I found myself judging Titz McGee, solely because she was SO obnoxious when drunk, and I never had a chance to meet her sober. She kept straddling everyone and shouting in that drunken whine college girls have mastered. Everyone kept shooting each other these furtive glances whenever she said something new and horrible, i.e. whenever she said something. Totally awesome.

[Insert Salt-n-Pepa lyrics here]

Rachel—a friend of (Northwestern) Allie’s and my erotic novel partner—had come to the party looking for action, and dangit if she didn’t find it in the shape of (Art Institute) Allie. It’s been a long time since I’ve been to a party with real lesbian kissing—as opposed to what the Flynn calls “Spring Break” lesbians (the sort Girls Gone Wild exploits). Good on Rachel. I got flashbacks from that time The threw his Junior High School Dance party and I made out with Mark on the couch for 2 hours even though everyone was hating on me. Gosh, college was awesome.

I want action tonight! Satisfaction all night!

Margaret is reeling from the fact that in real colleges—and by real, I mean colleges that aren’t in Utah—guys think she’s hot. One of Fran’s friends, a beautiful hipster named Eli, told Marg that she was terribly cute and asked her if she’s seeing anyone. While one could brush this off as a quotidian occurrence, for Margaret, it was almost without precedent. Margaret got more stares, smiles, and flirts this weekend than she’s had the ENTIRE 3 YEARS SHE’S BEEN AT BYU. Look at this face!

Look at it! It’s ridiculous.

While some of this is surely exaggeration (Margaret has inherited the Jones obliviousness most male attention), it’s still sad that Utah’s definition of beauty is so narrow that if Margaret wears torn jeans and a robot t-shirt, she’s considered ‘ugly’ by the male population. I seriously want to kill nearly every Mormon man in the face when I think about it. In the face! But as Molly Shannon’s stand-up character would say, “Don’t even get me started.”

Eric the Red

While Titz McGee was cuddling up to Fran, I started a conversation with a cute hipster named Eric who’d been eyeing me most of the night. Eric was a mixed bag—on one hand, he was tall enough that I didn’t feel massive (hanging out with Allie, Flynn, and Margaret for days will make anyone feel huge, fat, massive), his hair was lovely, but his face wasn’t amazing and he was missing as tooth. Also, he was from Missouri. Still, he was Mr. Right Now, and I was down for 5 minutes or so of affection. Unfortunately, we got to talking about Erich Fromm’s theory of linguistic possession, and by the time we really got anywhere, his friends were ready to go.

Raise your hand if you aren’t wearing pants!

Still, I doubt anything would have happened. Whether I want to admit it or not, deep down I am a Good Girl,™ and Good Girls™ don’t make out with strangers, especially in front of their sisters. In my life I’ve only kissed 4 or so people, and only made out with 3. Each one of those kisses was transcendent and rather sacred, and I associate the kiss with trust, reward, and love. Despite the fact that I’ve been actionless for 6 months (the agony!), I just can’t make myself hook up with someone, no matter how much I want to.

At this point, I believe, Eric, Mike and I were discussing the value of Trapperkeepers vs. Lisa Frank. For Serious.

After Eric and the main posse left (it’s about 1am at this point), the stragglers are Goth, Sarah, Allie, Flynn, Margaret, Fran, and Titz McGee. It’s sort of like getting the gang back together, only the gang are members of an elite Dallas all-girl school. We are also out of cigarettes. And by we, I mean Fran and Titz. Titz picks up the phone and calls the front desk, wanting to know if room service would deliver cigarettes. When the (likely annoyed) concierge said the Drake only carried cigars, Titz started screaming, “I hate you! What kind of a hotel are you. Fuck you dude!”

Please ignore that last call. She isn’t well.

I'm giving Fran a hard Time about Ms. McGee, and the truth of the matter is, Fran was very sweet to her and handled the whole thing very graciously. I was very impressed with Fran's generousity--the evening wasn't cheap, and she gave everything freely without any sense of guilt attached to it. Fran is just a darling sweet girl, despite the sometimes gruff exterior, and I felt very lucky to be able to spend time with her. Back to McGee. We forced her to hang up the phone, Erin and Margaret (conviently) volunteered to go to store for fags and and tampons. As you do.

I am so lonely

I was left alone with the slurping sound of Titz McGee trying to suck Fran’s face off, so I did what I do best: I sewed pages of notebook paper together with the complimentary sewing kit, polished off Sarah’s corn tamales and carrot cake from the Cheesecake Factory, and watched “Best Week Ever” until Allie told me to turn it off because she had something to say. Or whatever.

Seriously you guys, I have something to say

Two of Sarah’s friends arrived at 1:30, completely missing the party, but staying long enough to eat the leftovers from our Gino’s East box.

They’re retarded.

Margaret and Flynn came back, Titz McGee stumbled out (“I love everybody! Bye you guys! You’re the best!”), Sarah left with the two guys, and it was finally Fran, Goth, Allie, Flynn, Marg and I.

The darkness makes me glow

We spent the remainder of our night finishing the alcohol (by we, they), drawing cartoons, making fun of Titz McGee, and watching some makeover show where Vanilla Ice was being a dick. Sometime, maybe 4, Flynn, Marg, and I crawled into a king bed and fell asleep—fully clothed.

Day’s dawning. Skin: crawling

I had to get up at 9 for the airport. It was snowing outside. Walking down Michigan to the el, my clothes smelled of smoke, my hair hadn’t been brushed, and the lack of sleep made me stumble. Eff yeah. That was a weekend. That baby, is commitment.

*shocking* One more email, and I'll have completed EVERY TASK on today's to-do list. I don't remember EVER in the past having completed every task on one of my lists. Never ever ever...hooray!! I'm so proud of myself.

Then again, I haven't completed that last email yet, and it's a rather involved (and unpleasant) email w/re/to my (as yet STILL non-existant) dissertation. And really, I'll still have done remarkably well today if I complete every task except for one.

My spirits are so high today. I'm expecting a rather large delivery of American candy tomorrow morning. And because I'm hopelessly addicted to sugar, this delivery is a big deal. And I'm very excited about it. I may be unemployed, and low on funds, and dissertation-deficient, but I'll be high on sugar tomorrow!

Watertowers at night remind me of Cheddar Goldfish

Part the Third: The Brian Bouldrey Luncheon
In which our hero learns that rumors of her death were greatly exaggerated.
Mmmm....delicious cheesecorn

By Sunday morning, I was already feeling very much the glutton: I had consumed, over the past three days: 5 slices of giordano’s pizza, 4 slices giordano’s garlic bread, 2 cheese and veggie omelets, 2 eggs (over medium), 3 bagels with cream cheese, 2 order of hash browns, 1 tomato and cheese tart, 1 slice of cake, 1 bag of caramel corn, .5 bag of cheese corn, 1.5 full orders of buffalo wings, 1/3 a bag of chips, expected ratio of salsa, 10 crackers, hunk of cheese, 1 bottle of Gatorade, 1 bag flavor blast goldfish Various: nacho cheese Doritos, powdered doughnuts, Pepperidge Farm cookies, chocolate glazed doughnut holes, hundreds of Pepsis

I love you so much

I will admit this is excessive. Am I nauseated as I look over this list? Absolutely. But when I go up to Chicago for a balls-out weekend of high school friends and college gluttony, I go for it. But man, was my stomach churning the next day. But I pulled myself together—after all, I had slept 14 hours, and I had people to see. Namely, Brian Bouldrey’s party. Brian, my old fiction teacher, is starting up a salon for all the writers still in Chicago—I happened to be in town on the inaugural meeting, so I was going to drop by with Mary South and Kat. I was more than a little nervous, because I had a general impression that due to various impolitic blog entries, as well as my tendency to be an odd mixture of aloof and warm, I had alienated the majority of the writing department. But the rumor mill spoke whispers of the presence of John Dony and Chris Shannon, and I couldn’t NOT see them, double negative or no.
I met up with Mary and Kat at the Golden Olympic—a Greek diner in Evanston we used to frequent when we were complaining about the writing program. I got a chance to see the two of them in proper daylight for the first time on the trip, and I have to say, I felt a little underdressed. Both Mary and Kat looked gorgeous—they were always beautiful, but they’ve developed an enviable polish. I wish I had some photos for you of Kat, but the few that I took were at odd moments—eyes half closed, about to say something—so you’ll have to make do with Mary South. I don’t know if it’s the California sun or the new man in her life, but her hair was so much fuller, the circles under her eyes were gone—she looked rested, healthy, vibrant.
Mary South, El. Turn on the bright lights

Talking with the two of them was wonderful, I always feel a bit more normal after a good Kat/Mary intervention. Whether we want to admit it or not, humans are always looking for members of their tribe, groups and societies they belong to. The modern man’s tribes are no longer bound by country, or race, or religion as much as they are defined by values, music, clothing, politics. When I talk with Mary and Kat, I feel like I’m catching up with members of my tribe—feminists, writers, artists, pragmatic dreamers.

Look how CUTE everybody is! Gosh, I could just punch them in the face

In fact, most of the Brian Bouldrey Experience was just that: like being part of a like, being loved. The feeling of the day was more than the drippy nostalgia I get whenever I return to Chicago—it was a sense that maybe, people do like me after all.
At some point I will stop sacrificing image quality for flash. That day is not yet here

I had foolishly left my quilt/coat at home, as it was still warm when I left. However, upon leaving the Golden Olympic (after gratuitously flirting with the adorable Greek cashier), the temperature dropped in true Chicago fashion and I was left shivering my way to the Davis el stop. The walk to Brian’s was only 4 blocks from the brown line, but it was enough to remind me of why I was happy to leave Chicago in the first place.

Mary South, Chris Shannon, looking up to something

Brian Bouldrey’s apartment is small—one imagines it was a converted garden shed. But he has two stories, wood flooring, an adorable dog, and many dark bookcases (though not as many as Mary Kinzie). The party was in full swing when we arrived, and everyone seemed genuinely happy to see us. It seems that rumors of John Dony's attendance had been wrong, and though devestated, I was still happy to see everyone else

Abby, fiction writer, fellow VH1 devotee

Abby and I had a long, involved talk over the merits of Celebrity Fit Club 2; Neil had been to the gym, gotten a hot new haircut, and was working for a neuro-science magazine. Chris Shannon looked rested, glowing with the success of his Ravinia job.

Tony Rella, losing focus

Tony Rella was working for a small publishing company, and he looked happy and healthy. Tai Little had cut her hair in the asymmetrical bob of my dreams—the exact haircut, in fact, that I’ve been coveting since the age of 14, but have been unable to execute on account of my unruly hair.

Look at her hair! Look at it!

The most wonderful surprise though, was Jen Frank. I get the feeling that Jen Frank has a deep, profound sadness, but at the same time, this immense capacity for joy. She’s such a darling, huggable creature, and so humble about her accomplishments—her art, her projects, her job at an art gallery. I’m excited for her, and I hope she has the success she deserves.
Mary South, Chris, and Jen

The old poetry and fiction crowd seemed successful and, more importantly, very happy. They were genuinely interested in me and what I was doing, genuinely happy to see me. Without getting drippy, I will say I was touched by the warmth and the familiarity, a sense of respect and—dare I say—love between all of us. Maybe I’m reading too much into the event, but I felt part of something sweet, and I felt loved. It was a really beautiful party.

Tai Little, genius. Hard G.

Tai Little read this magnificent excerpt from her novel written in three points of view. The subject matter was a girl in an asylum for cutting herself—a topic which is very delicate because a) it’s been done so often and b) it is so difficult to do without melodrama. And eff me if Tai didn’t pull it off. BRILLIANTLY. It was funny, self-aware (in a good way), poignant, and intelligent, with turns of phrases and descriptions that cut out any sense of the predictable.I honestly think this woman is a genius.

Chris Shannon's having a baby!

Chris Shannon was next, reading some of his poetry on “Mozart, the glass harmonica, and couches.”Chris’s poetry is hit or miss. It’s always clever, but can occasionally venture out into strange-for-strangeness sake. And while there was some of that in his poetry, the pieces he read were delicious. I was crazy about the idea of building an entire series of poems around the glass harmonica, an instrument I hadn’t even heard of before.

Taken from some random website. I want to make earrings out of these

For those of you like me, not in the know about obscure 18th century musical instruments, the glass harmonica was invented by Ben Franklin (I think) and operates on the same principles as the wine glass rim trick. It makes an odd, very haunting sound similar to the drones of a synthesizer. I’ve included a link to some sound samples if you’re interested. Truly delightful stuff.

Well done, Chris Shannon.

The poetry was very intelligent, very well crafted. It made me realize how simplistic my own poetry has become.

Jen Frank with game prototype.

The final presentation before I had to leave (meeting Margaret downtown) was Jen Frank, who got up and talked about her art projects. The one she brought as an example was a metaphysical board games she had been working on. It was a bit hard to follow her train of thought, probably because the game is still in it’s beginning phases of development, but I was really excited about the direction she was going, turning everyday objects into high art. I wanted to talk to her about some of my ideas on multimedia books, but I was running late. After giving everyone a hug, I slipped out with another fiction grad and headed towards the city.

I did break down and use the flash. I hate myself.

As a side note, the fiction grad was a fascinating companion. She had done the fiction sequence a year before I had, and she was now in law school. Every once in a while you meet people for brief moments whom you click instantly with, and then just as quickly, you leave them. Law School and I talked about our careers, about the stark realities of the fiction market (many teachers live in denial about the true nature of modern publishing), about the necessity to suppress the artistic impulse (temporarily) to make a living. I told her I was meeting my sister at H&M, and she gave me some tips to shave 15 minutes off my commute. She shook my hand, and got off the el at Southport.

Light canopy by the Watertowers. Also doubles as a net for catching lost hats, souls

It was dark by the time I had gotten to Chicago, but I was on time, quite a shock considering the day's schedule.

Hancock building, angel of Mies Van der Roh architectural heaven

Sunday had been a very scheduled day: 1230-200 breakfast/lunch with Kat and Mary, 200-300 buy drinks for the Brian Bouldrey Experience, make way over to Andersonville, 300-500 Brian Bouldrey part and reading, where I had to stay long enough to see Tai, Chris, and Jen; 500-600 take el to Chicago, 600-630, shop at H&M; 645-7, walk to Gino’s east, meet Adele; 700-900, dinner at Gino’s East, 900+ party at the Drake. Despite the tight schedule, Sunday managed to be one of those miraculous days where every single thing happened chronologically that was supposed to happen, without any tardiness or missed connections. The three people at the reading I had come to see all spoke during the first 2 hours of the party, then I made it down to H&M on time, then managed to walk the 12 blocks to make it to Gino’s East on time. I was amazed by my own luck.

Margaret, looking taxed, at Gino's East

Margaret and Flynn had spent all afternoon in the taxidermy section of the Field Museum, so their minds were on stuffed squirrels and fanged deer, not the clothes. Not that it mattered: H&M sucks this season. Unless you’re very thin and curveless, nothing will look good on you: all horizontal stripes, high necklines, tons of trim, cropped lengths, cap sleeves. Also, it’s ugly. When will ugly stop being in fashion? Michigan Avenue is stuffed to the gills with boring, ugly pantsuits and sherpa-chic coats and boots. I want to look sexy, dangerous, chic, sweet, pretty, boyish, elegant, whatever, but I do NOT want to dress like a grandmother or a 70’s fashion victim. So let it be written, so let it be done.

Yes, but is it clean?

Joel and Adele were going to meet us at the Gino’s East on Ontario. Joel used to work there and described it as a coke-addled den of sin, so I was anxious to have him come back and point out landmarks of debauchery. Sadly, Adele had a massive rewrite on a project due the next day, so she could only stop by for a while. Like Mary South, Adele has somehow managed to get better looking since I’ve last seen her. The hair isn’t different, neither are the clothes—she just looks good. Rock n’ roll agrees with her.

Belies Adele's beauty. However, only picture I have of her on the trip.

Adele was kind enough to drive us to the Drake, where Fran had rented out a suite for a night of senseless acts of liver violence. Gosh I love Adele. The Flynn admitted she was one of the hottest girls he’d ever seen. It’s true. what a strange, lovely woman she is.

Part the Second: B-fest 2006
In which our hero learns what it must mean to suffer for art.

B-fest is sort of what my life used to be, before every Hollywood movie became a big budget B-movie: the participants watch bad movies, laugh at said movies, shout smart-alek comments at said movies, and eat things made from processed formaldehyde (yes, I know what’s in preservatives, and it’s delicious). Sadly, b-movies are not as enjoyable for me now, since every movie I see is a b-movie. You need to have something good to juxtapose the bad, and I’m sorry, but with the exception of the brilliant Syriana and Capote, I’ve been very hohum about the movies that stay around long enough for me to watch them. Though I did think “New World” was one of the most underrated movies of this year. But despite this, b-fest has its appeal. The audience is filled with the comic book store owner from "the Simpsons", which is both a pleasure, a privilege, and insufferable.


“Please do not lean on the glass. That is a first edition of ‘Radioactive Man’ and cannot be looked at”

Flynn, Marg, Allie, and I got up early(ish) to get some shopping done before we had to be at Norris. The only significant purchase: the RoboRaptor, a lovely little toy we gave to Allie’s dad, who just got over an illness. It roars! It’s remote control activated! I am sated in my lust for both dinosaurs and animatronics!

Margaret, in 3D!

Fran came up to Evanston, in all of her punk glory, and we went shopping for food/electrolytes. As a side note—and I’m not making any judgment call when I say this—without Mary South’s ex-boyfriend, we managed to feed three times the people on half the budget. Interesting. Margaret and I headed to Norris early to meet up with the guys who had our tickets, as well as stake out some spots. While waiting for the others to arrive Mary, Kat, Marg and I talked to the locals, and read bad fiction out of the latest edition of Helicon. Mary South also brought Buff Joe’s wings, which were seriously so good I was crying over them. Right into the stytofoam plate—sobbing like a little girl.

The first movie was that brilliant, underrated gem “Superman IV: The Search for Peace.” Maybe its “the Quest for Peace". Either way, Superman wanted peace, dangit, and he was going to save us from nuclear holocaust whether those commies liked it or not. It was probably the best movie of the whole series—the crowd energy was great, and some divine paraplegic man kept zipping across the stage in his wheelchair and superman costume.

The low point was without a doubt “Creature from the black lagoon in 3D”. Not only did we have to wear 3D glasses which gave me a headache, but the movie was pointless and without any sort of redeeming badness at all.

Imperial glasses!

I fell asleep sometime after “Plan 9” by throwing my quilt/coat over me and lying down in an abandoned row. I woke up during intervals of “Tromeo + Juliet” and I have to say, the sound effects in that movie had me completely nauseated to the point where I wanted to throw up. The point of a Troma movie is obvious badness, and in the case of Tromeo and Juliet, they were trying to restore Shakespeare to its original tone—i.e. violent, baudy, and cruel. Which is fine, in theory, but they decided to take out everything highbrow about Shakespeare that made him so enduring. “Tromeo” was in the porn time slot so there was a lot of sex, and I heard all the (unsexy) squishy noises, plus Juliet gets raped by her father (repeatedly), so there were her screams, THEN there was the violence. Imagine, if you will, lying on the ground, and hearing all of the gruesome sounds of skewering, stabbing, cutting, ripping, sawing, mangling. Then, imagine having an actor who plays the victim of most of these verbs having the most realistic screaming voice you’ve ever heard. He sounded so desperate, so horrified and bloodied, I became sick. And the times when the screaming was so bad I had to look, it was always something awful—fingers severed, a chunk of hair ripped out of his head, blood pouring, hunks of flesh, none of which did anything to calm my stomach. But apparently those who actually watched it liked it well enough, so I think my reaction had something to do with the isolation of the picture’s sound.

Winding down

I woke up in time to catch “Earth Girls are Easy” (Who has a renewed crush on jeff goldblum? That would be me.) and prince, in all his small half-naked glory, singing and dancing his way through “Graffiti Bridge.” Then there was ‘98’s Godzilla (not even fun awful—boring awful), “Superbabies 2” (Jon Voight! Jon VOIGHT! You won an Oscar!”), and 1933’s “King Kong” (oh Fay Wray, how I love you). King Kong has a decent story, it’s just the special effects are terrible, so you can’t really mock it, but by hour 23, you’re too tired to care about the story, and Adrien Brody wasn’t in it, so I wasn’t interested.

Flynn, the last good man

Our friends had disappeared one by one, and by the end there was only Margaret, the Flynn, and myself. Someone handed us leis as a tribute to our suffering. And even though we had done nothing but eat cheese-flavored poison for 24 hours, we somehow found the motivation to hit up Giordano’s. The suffering! Look at the suffering!

I don't think I have ever been this exhausted, ever. Take a good long look into my face. That, dear friends, is the face of someone hardened by b-movie battles.

The funny thing...they went home and watched TV. I am not joking

Due to my failure to blog anything substantial in months, forgoing both descriptions of Christmas and San Francisco (shorthand: antique lace and a Dali etching; amazing and great sourdough), I will overload your senses with the longest, most colorful, scrumptrulescent travelogue ever seen by human eyes. Get ready to have your senses dazzled!

Part the First: The Pre-fest days
In which our hero arrives in Chicago for adventures unknown.
The b-fest weekend was shaping up to be a disaster. By the time I had arrived at O’Hare, there were still people in our group without tickets, Fran couldn’t keep Erin at her apartment, my plane was late, and Chicago was very, very cold. The ball was slowly set in motion. Mary South finally got a ticket. And Erin Flynn, bless him, ended up being the light of my life during his stay in Evanston.


This is Erin, being his sexy self.

The first night, Allie’s stud Mike cooked us a delicious vegetarian feast at his apartment—goat cheese and tomato tart—which made me long for my old days of dinner parties above the Sherm. Mike is the creator of one of the most brilliant things I have ever heard of: the drunk talk show. He and a cohost invite guests on, crack open some 40’s, and start the interview. Everyone drinks, and as the hour goes on, everyone gets more and more inebriated, and real opinions start to come out. Recently, they had on Henry Bowles, president of College Republicans and, I learned, recently fresh from the closet and dating some guy in the theater department.


Julie!

And speaking of gay, I got to talk to Julie, who gave me the rundown of the movie she recently was given a grant to do: It involves a cheerleader who falls in love, and she and her girlfriend help resurrect a mail-order dinosaur with the power of rock, and dinosaurs are free to roam the earth again.

The conversation at Allie/Mike’s party was really wonderful. I miss being around people and having sharp, funny, conversations where I can say things like, “I love chicken; it tastes like baby” and no one looks at me like I’m crazy. It also didn’t hurt that everyone was, to some degree or another, a Smashing Pumpkins fan, so we dug up old chestnuts like Billy Corgan’s “Christmastime” and rode down Nostalgia Lane for an hour. Flynn and I went back to Allie’s under the pretense of sleep but ended up engaging in pillow talk until 2 in the morning. What can I say? I like the way he’s put together.

Margaret missed her flight, which was bad news, as it meant we had to rearrange our day, since her next flight wouldn’t make it in until 6. Flynn, Sarah and I decided to head to Michigan Avenue to do some shopping.


Sarah, Flynn: Afghan Kin

We stopped by Walgreen’s so Flynn could get cough syrup, an outing which devolved into a series of juvenile jokes. Oh ha ha, look at these dipping sticks and icing! The anthropomorphic cracker looks like a cock! In white stuff! Gross! Hey look at all the Billy Bass Singing Fish! Let’s press all of them at once!


The sweet song of the Billy Basses could be heard long after the batteries had died away

Since I am still refusing to shop for pants or dresses until I get back to the 28-30 waist area, Michigan Avenue held few joys for me. It was mostly a chance to swing by Garrett’s and get some of that sweet, sweet, caramel popcorn. I did manage to spend too much at Urban Outfitters, though I resisted the urge to buy a sundress, a decision I now regret.


Cough Syrup Tribune! Series 1, 2, 3

As an interesting sidenote, while I was waiting for Sarah and Flynn to validate their parking ticket in Nordstroms, who should walk past me but Christian Wiman. I wanted to stop him and thank him for writing me a rec and being so lovely, but he looked like a man with a plan, and also, I was late for the airport, so I let him slide by unharassed.

Margaret’s desire for pizza is as deep as the sea, as vast as the universe. She wanted Giordano’s, dangit, she had been in an airport for 12 hours. The ride back to Evanston wasn’t without thorns—Flynn and Allie expressed a real anger at my stance on refusing to support movies with female nudity (on grounds of sexism), but this isn’t one of those issues that I back away from. I will admit, for example, that my decision not to back gay marriage (the result of both my libertarian inclinations and my religious background) isn’t a very defensible platform, and I dislike mentioning my stance because I can see very clearly the reasons why gay marriage should be allowed, so I tend to not express my opinion on the subject unless pressed. However, I fill will verbally attack at every opportunity Hollywood’s sexism and degradation of female sexuality. The impetus for the argument was “Brokeback Mountain,” which I refused to see because of the female nudity. Why on earth would there be a movie about gay love and then only show female nudity? Now, I am at a disadvantage in this argument for many reasons:

1. I haven’t seen “Brokeback Mountain”. I get all of my reviews on content from screenit.com, but I haven’t actually seen the movie, hence I don’t understand “the mood” or “the scene”
2. The nudity was care of Ang Lee, so of course it will be “tastefully done”
3. “BrokeBack” is an art movie, and no one seems to be able to believe that indie directors have the same prejudices and the same desires to market their movies as big directors have
4. I am Mormon, and therefore my point of view will be dismissed as prudishness

Despite the tension this argument caused, Flynn managed to diffuse it with some well-timed comments, and Mary South and the beautiful Kat Rekkis (rekkais?), agreed to make the slog up to Evanston to join us. They brought with them one of Mary’s exes, some voice major named Louis, who knew both Andrew, Mark, and Nickd. When I asked for stories, though, all I got was, “Those are crazy guys, they haven’t changed” which helped paint an overall impression of a man as doughy as he is agreeable. Afterwards, we took everyone home to see “Wet Hot American Summer”, in lieu of our Latke Party at Robot House being canceled (don’t ask). Gosh I love that movie. I could seriously watch it all day.

anorexic

For your consideration...

Sex in a sex shaped container

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Come back later today--I may have something substantial for you outside of photos.