You know what? I’ll say it. I’m lonely, lonely, lonely and bored without the dissing and the petty arguments provided by the Craig-curated, Flaxman-officiated Rolling Stone best songs tournament. It also looks like Flax is going to take a (deserved) break after a (really very well-run, despite my whining) tournament before starting up his next one. And it’s time people get to yell at me for a change. So… Susan suggested, perhaps, a best alterna- or indie-rock songs contest. This sounds lovely to me. How do we feel about this? Nominate songs by emailing me at jleahwill latter former irks Susan. Current idea is a 192 or so tournament, ties possibly broken by me or the majority decision of me, Susan, and Greg. But let’s just nominate now. Rank if you’d like. Unlimited number. Go for it, kids.
ETA: I meant that Susan hates U2, though I suspect that at least four songs in a field of 192 would be from them (something early, something Joshua Tree, something Achtung, All I Want Is You, maybe?).
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
Yet another blog-based music tournament.
Sunday, September 25, 2005
Bitterness and Bad Puns
First off, congrats Dave and Emily! I had a great time at the wedding yesterday, and I look forward to seeing you for the K-zoo show (and yes, I’ve decided to go after all). Hope you didn’t mind when I hid the camera up my skirt, but Mike was gonna take it and erase the photo otherwise.
Now on to more unpleasant, but possibly more amusing things.
So the day I got attacked, i was IM’ing someone about it, and his response was:
Ass: You know why this happened?
Ass:Sex appeal.
Now, despite his subsequent claims that this was just a lame attempt at humor that backfired, I found this fairly appalling, and I’m not exactly on speaking terms with him anymore, but this faux pas has at least spawned a fun new time waster.
Susan and I, when going to some concert or another recently, were talking about the above statement, when I mentioned I’d been thinking about similarly inappropriate things to say in response to various calamities, things that would also be come-ons and really bad puns. Because I am nice and oh so subtle, I’ve declared these statements "Litvakisms". Susan thought composing Litvakisms was a fine idea, and we started composing some (though I’ve forgotten some good ones):
You know why your house burned down? ‘Cause you’re so fucking HOT!
You know why you got lung cancer? Because you’re smokin’!
You know why that guy stole your purse? Because you stole his HEART!
…etc, etc.
So, anyone have any good Litvakisms they want to share? Comment.
Friday, September 02, 2005
Green Zebra! Talking Heads rap!
After discussing it for many moons, Susan and I rather spontaneously decided to finally eat at Green Zebra last night. It was very, very good, though I was less entranced by the Avocado panna cotta and Susan less enamoured of the lentil cakes than either of us thought she'd be. But the food was overall great, and the desserts were to die for. I do love a mint ice cream that tastes of herbal mint, instead of mint extract.
In addition to the food there was, of course, booze. I'd been volunteering earlier at the Old Town School; since I was the only one of four expected volunteers to show up, someone gave me a free Honkers as consolation. I then got a Purple Haze (raspberry beer!) when we first showed up... and then we ordered a bottle of wine. Needless to say, Susan consumed most of that bottle.
Thus we were both a bit in our cups when we caught a cab back to the red line station. During this trip, rap was playing in the background. At some point, I broke off the conversation when I heard a rap song with the lyrics "She put the sugar on my tongue/She's gonna gimme gimme gimme some."
Me: That's... that's... a Talking Heads song!
Susan: Yes, yes it is.
Me: But rap!
Susan: [nods sagely and/or intoxicatedly]
Me: [high pitched whimpering and incoherent arm pointing and waving]
Susan: You are hurting dogs with that sound!
Having investigated the situation, apparently a southern rapper named Trick Daddy recorded the song, which features Ludacris and Cee-Lo. So there you go.
I'm heading into a five-day weekend, though the latter two days will be a trip to Ann Arbor to deal with the crazy guy who attacked me while jogging last weeekend. I will be going to pub trivia in Ann Arbor, though. I'm trying to find the silver lining of this situation, and pub trivia seems to be it.
Friday, August 26, 2005
I'm about to rename this blog "Bookprude".
It's been awhile. Believe it or not, I've been busy reading. And going to a reading. At this reading, Jessa from Bookslut misidentified me as a Woman and Children First Books worker. Apparently I have the "Women and Children First look" about me.
Well, I bought 10 more books last weekend (8 within 12 hours... stupid slutty Hyde Park! Having high quality bookstores!), but I promise I didn't pay full price for any of them.
From Powell's:
Aunt Julia and the Scriptwriter, Vargas Llosa
(shelved both in the L's and the V's!)
Heart of Darkness, Conrad
(Yes, I am the one person who didn't read this in high school. We also read Ibsen in American Lit. What can I say?)
Goodbye, Tsugumi, Banana Yoshimoto
The Quiet American, Graham Greene
The Name of the Rose, Eco
From 57th Street:
The Pursuit of Love/Love in a Cold Climate, Nancy Mitford
Sentimental Education, Flo-bert
Dandelion Wine, Bradbury
From Unabridged Books:
Jonathan Norrell and Mr. Strange, Susanna Clarke
Nowhere Man, Hemon
So yeah, glad I got that book problem under control. Maybe I will get some of them read on the train when I'm travelling to and from Ann Arbor this weekend. Or maybe just on the way back-I have a Gaper's Block function (join in!) tonight at a bar tonight, and I'm getting on a train at 7:50 tomorrow morning. Yup, that's going to work out well. Especially since I've not yet packed. I imagine I'll be getting up at 5, and running around my apartment looking for clean underwear and my iPod charger (sadly, not necessarily in this order).
I see more concert excitement in my somewhat distant future-Andrew Bird at the LSA the weekend after Thanksgiving! I hope Kevin O'Donnell will be pitching in, but at least I'll see him at the Hideout Block Party. (Incidentally, am I seriously considering taking a half-day to ensure that I see all of the Friday portion of the block party? Yes, yes I am.)
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Since I've given up posting, here's some stuff that mentions me.
Well, if I can't get on WWTBAM, at least I helped contribute to Dee's column about the tryout.
Also, I am the orange-haired lass with the red shirt in this webcomic. No, there are no pop stars or ninjas, despite the name.
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
More books, plus music
The book binge went well and was relatively small. I picked up Kitchen, as well as a Donna Hay cookbook, at Powell’s. The bit of the Powell’s trip that was totally worth it, though, was finding a book I’ve been intermittently looking for over the last four years, and finding it for five dollars. Oh, Anthony Burgess’s Nothing Like the Sun, I’ve been waiting for you. Then, met up with Susan at the Co-op, where I dissuaded her from buying Marriage of Cadmus and Harmony, since I can loan it to her. Do I now have three, count 'em, three copies of The Master and Margarita in my possession? Yes. But the Vintage translation (look at the version linked to through the title) was so noticeably better that I had to get it. I’ll have to put up example sentences at some point.
Moving on, I need to decide if I’m going to take any classes at the Old Town School this quarter. Although I have enough volunteer points for two classes right now, I'm a bit at a loss on this one for a few reasons. I'm a little loathe to take a weeknight class again right now, since I have book clubs twice a month on Mondays, pub trivia on Tuesdays, and may be taking some sort of Spanish instruction before the end of the year. However, both of the voice classes I'd like to take (Jazz Vocals and Harmony Vocals 1) meet at 6:30 on Wednesday, which means I'd have to haul tail down from Evanston to get there. I could do Guitar 1 with Jason on Sundays, but I'd have to figure out where my mom should ship my guitar, goad her to ship it, and take it to get restrung and fixed at the Different Strummer and hope that everything would be resolved by September 4th, which seems like a somewhat optimistic estimate. Plus, this would be the best time for Dan and I to take IO classes, if we're going to do that. And I might be gone several weekends in the next eight weeks. I might just wait until next quarter, or next year.
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Shameful secrets
This is hard to talk about, but I feel like I need to.
Back when I was living on the South Side, I developed a little bit of an addiction. I was mostly a clean-cut kid, just trying to stay in school and get ahead, but even those with the best intentions can get swept away by chance. I thought I was just a casual user, but the stuff was so easy to get in Hyde Park. It was everywhere! I found myself hanging around the familiar haunts more and more, just hoping to score a good deal or find that magic trip I’d never taken before.
One of the better things about moving out of Hyde Park is that there just isn’t as much of a trade on the north side. Sure, there are a couple places dealing near where I live (one just around the corner, actually), but it’s not as strong, they don’t have the same sort of stuff up here. I was safe again.
Then I started going to Hyde Park for pub trivia every Tuesday. I was pretty good about going straight to the Pub most nights, but… the old places were so close! If I just got to Hyde Park a few minutes early, I could score some quality stuff. And all of a sudden, I was showing up late for pub trivia, breathless, with a package in my bag distracting me all night long.
That’s right, kids. I’m hitting the bookstores of Hyde Park again.
Powell’s, 57th Street, sometimes the Co-op, I’m looking at you. No matter how many times I go to Unabridged or Myopic or Women and Children First, nothing compares to the books you can find on that dangerous stretch of street. (Though for the overall maximum of attractiveness plus book selection: Unabridged for gay guys, Myopic for straight hipsters, and WCF for either lesbians or sincere glasses-wearing guys who want strong feminist girlfriends.)
Pretty much every surface of my apartment is covered in books right now, including the following to-reads (not a comprehensive list, only those I can think of right now):
Atwood, Cat’s Cradle
Bellow, Adventures of Augie March (terminally unfinished, but a future book club selection)
Bellow, Humboldt’s Gift (unfinished, but currently seems more likely than the above)
Borges, Collected Fictions (a re-read, but from so long ago it’s like a first read)
Bulgakov, Master and Margarita (re-read, but I recommended recently and discovered there’s a new annotated edition, because I clearly need to own three copies of one book)
Hofstatder, Gödel, Escher, Bach (partially read, re-read)
Rushdie, Satanic Verses
Rushdie, Ground Beneath Her Feet (on loan from Susan)
Sontag, In America (partially read)
And yet I have this list, crumpled up in my bag:
Yoshimoto, Kitchen (read while intoxicated, don’t remember)
Young Fem Bookclub books: Mommy Myth, Undivided Rights, Regarding the Pain of Others, Can’t Buy Me Love, Women as Lovers
GB Bookclub books: Dandelion Wine, Nowhere Man, I’m Not the New Me, Division Street: America
Denis Johnson, Fiskadoro
Findley, Famous Last Words
collections by Raymonds Chandler and Carver
More Flaubert!
Lethem?
Heavens. At least this will keep me from buying the DVDs I want. Books are better, right? Right?
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
Who wants to be a $20-aire?
Today and yesterday have been very trivial, although in a potentially profitable way.
Yesterday, I ran off to scenic East Chicago, IN with Greg and Dee to try out for Who Wants to Be a Millionaire. Although I thought I utterly muffed the test, I managed to qualify for a perfunctory and unsatisfying little interview for the regular (not movie-specific) show. We shall see about making the next cut, but it doesn’t seem likely. I think my only hope is if they do the interviews purely to make sure you’re not a freak that talks like Betty Boop, and the fact that I’m a non-hideous girl-type person with interesting stories on her application will pull me through. (Also, yet again, the Polaroid they took of me is hotter than I actually am. My hair doesn't look red in the pic. I don't understand.) But again, I don’t think I’ll hear anything for weeks on this. Ah, limbo. At least I got hours of enjoyment standing or sitting in line with Greg and Dee. And a magnet.
For more immediate (though smaller-scale) gratification, I’m looking forward to tonight’s first convening of the PUB TRIVIA SUPERGROUP. Susan will get lots and lots of smart people things; Dan will get comics, Kevin will get the gay trivia I don’t get, as well as any legal stuff thrown our way; Phil will get shameful things and alcohol, and, um, I forget who the other person on Kevin’s team is, but he or she is totally going to help us out. I will get random music every third round. We will occasionally regret our lack of geographic knowledge. I might even show up by 8 tonight. A team name will be created (Black Market Subash?). Baked goods of high quality may appear. Perhaps we shall actually win money. As much as I love hanging out with the Hyde Parkers, the pirate discomfort would be more tolerable if monetary gain occurred.
Friday, July 15, 2005
My Freaks and Geeks box set now reads "To my favorite mathlete! Paul Feig".
Paul Feig is so completely the real-life embodiment of Professor Frink that I was shocked when he did not mutter the nonsense word that a Prof. Frink website tells me is spelled "gyvyvn".
Thanks to Greg and Mrs. Greg for taking me along.
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
My Post-Pride Parade Party spread
I threw a party!
Bevvies:
Fresh-squeezed OJ
Margaritas (no mix, just Cointreau, Tequila, and fresh lime juice)
Rosemary Lemonade (vodka/no vodka, still/sparkling)
Vodka tonics
4 bottles of Southern Hemisphere wine: unoaked chardonnay and cabernet sauvignon from Australia, sauvignon blanc from New Zealand, and a red from South Africa
Foodies:
Crudite plate including all the regulars plus jicama
red pepper, guac, and hummus (thank you, Whole Foods deli case)
Parmesan-rosemary-walnut shortbread
Bruschetta with goat cheese and balsamic-glazed fig
Rainbow fruit with sweet yogurt dip
Cheese plate with crackers (2 ea goat, cow, and sheep)
Deconstructed sushi (seared and marinated sashimi tuna served on cakes of rice and nori)
Le Foof and I have decided to co-host the Best. Oscar Party. EVER. next year. It will be heralded througout the land, forever more. It will likely also be at my place, as my TV is better. Unless Le Foof wins the lottery and buys a flat-screen plasma.
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Impotent anger storytime hour
There are anti-choice protestors lining the street next to my workplace right now. I’ve verified that we are in no way involved, that they are on city property, and no, there isn’t much we can do to make them leave, and I figure going down during my break and saying “Hey guys [and they’re almost all guys], wanna hear about the time I used to be part of a bodyguard squad for patients in Wichita that summer when you kept on threatening doctors and talking about pipe bombs?” isn’t going to fly. So instead, I will critique!
This is a personal thing, since I work here, but there are a lot of protestors lined up directly outside our sister building across the street, right in front of where there’s a big plaque reading “THE UNITED METHODIST BUILDING”. Way to make us look involved, even though most UMCers around this area are probably at least tentatively pro-choice.
I'm not sure if anyone but Tyler and Flax are going to understand this, but these protestors are lining Ridge with "graphic" photos of aborted fetuses (and, well, Jesus). Ridge Avenue is an utterly dangerous, fast-moving street on the best of days, and this isn't exactly making it any safer. Also, like I said, cars drive quite quickly on Ridge. Are they even going to see your signs? Did you not get permission to do it on a more logical street, like Chicago Ave? Because I really would have enjoyed the patrons of the Chicago Ave Whole Foods putting the beat down on you.
About those "graphic" photos--and you might want to stop reading if you're of delicate constitution or eating--but I'm sorry, the results of a first-trimester abortion do not look like a dismembered baby doll covered in marinara sauce. I know it sells better for you, and that's part of why it pisses me off, but fuck you for doing it regardless.
And back to work!
Thursday, May 19, 2005
Oh NYT, you're a little daft sometimes.
Wow, I just read the New York Times article on inter-class marriages, one part of their extended coverage of class in America. While I'm somewhat happy that the Grey Lady is actually aware that there are classes in America, I'm not sure this is the best way to spend one day of a short series on class.
First off, it's just one family, poor guy, rich woman. While they make the argument that there are more marriages in this configuration these days than rich man and poor woman, couldn't we have had an example of this type of marriage? Perhaps even a well-educated but poor woman?
Beyond my specific critiques, parts of the article just made me wince. Choice quotes:
"[S]he grew up in a comfortable home." Now, anyone who's talked to me about class knows I hate it when people use the term "comfortable", and especially the line, "I'm not rich, I'm just comfortable." Let's look at this comfort:
"My mother's father had a Rolls-Royce and a butler and a second home in Florida"; "When I was little, what I fixated on with my girlfriends was how I had more pajamas than they did. So when I'd go to birthday sleepovers, I'd always take them a pair of pajamas as a present."; "to New York City, where Ms. Woolner's mother lives in the winter"; (where does she live in the summer, you ask?) "[T]hey were at Ms. Woolner's mother's house on Martha's Vineyard."
"Mr. Croteau comes from the working class, and Ms. Woolner from money." (Apparently "Money" is now its own class.)
"Ms. Woolner began paying him a monthly stipend - he sometimes refers to it as an allowance."
"I said, 'Mom, I want you to know Cate and her family are rich,' " he recalled. "And she said, 'Well, don't hold that against her; she's probably very nice anyway.'"
"Isaac [Ms. Woolner's son from an earlier marriage], who also attended the school, is now back at Lewis & Clark College in Oregon after taking a couple of semesters away to study in India and to attend massage school while working in a deli near home."
"Isaac fantasizes about opening a brewery-cum-performance-space, traveling through South America or operating a sunset massage cruise in the Caribbean."
I think I need a brewery-cum-performance space about now.
Friday, May 13, 2005
Friday morning, 5 am
So I woke up this morning to the sound of a woman having a very good time, indeed, if you know what I mean, and I think you do. Points of particular interest:
-I was in a dream when I first heard her. I’m pretty sure, while still in the dream, I made the declaration “Wow, that woman is really enjoying her omelet.” I have no clue what this means, either.
-When I fully woke up and looked at the clock, it was 5 am in the morning. On a Friday. Who gets their sex on at 5 am in the morning on a Friday? Next-door neighbors, I salute you.
-I was reminded of a sign that had been up in our lobby a few months ago, which basically stated “To the people who were having loud sex all night last night: Please shut the hell up.” I wonder if that was them.
-Speaking of neighborly annoyance, I begin to hear loud staccato knocking on what I presume is their door. I noticed that the knocking is quite a bit louder than the sex-noise. If their apartment is set up the same as mine, it would make sense that their bedroom is the furthest room from my bedroom, so I’m getting this noise through our mutual wall, their kitchen, and their front room. Damn.
-Even so, who would be knocking? Their apartment is the last apartment before the front of the building. There is a foyer between them and their across-the-hall neighbors. Our ceilings seem thick (I don’t really hear much from the people above me). I suppose they are pretty loud, though, if I can clearly hear them.
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
I’ve recently decided the best way to induce myself to work out as much as I should is to, twice a week, haul my sorry self out of bed around 5:30 in the morning, go to the gym then, and leave my bag at the gym, inducing me to have to return after work to do another workout. It’s been working pretty well this week, but I ran into a bit of a snag today.
Because my frontal lobe simply isn’t functional before 7:00 am, I’ve been packing my gym bag the night before. I was doing laundry yesterday, though, so I packed it as I was running out the door today. And I forgot to pack a regular bra.
By the time I realized this, I really had to go to work without stopping by my apartment. I had two options—born free, free as the wind blows, or nasty blue sports bra I bought on clearance in 2002. Since I have pretty severe issues with not wearing a bra (thank you, Department Store Lady who when fitting me for my first bra made gratuitous comments about National Geographic and told me I should wear a bra to bed), and because the Board’s dress code specifically mentions wearing appropriate undergarments, I opted for my old, ratty sports bra. It’s only a little nasty; at least I did weight training this morning, not cardio.
The brilliant thing about this is that even if one of my coworkers notices, they can’t exactly bring it up. “Hey, I notice your chest is a different shape than it normally is” just isn’t going to fly.
Tuesday, February 01, 2005
Monday at Schuba's
Angie Heaton was opening for Andrew Morgan and Kevin Tihista last night. I worked with Angie back at Parasol and hadn’t seen her in ages, plus I enjoyed the last Tihista/Morgan show I’d attended, so there was no way I was missing it last night. As I walked into Schuba’s purposefully, I managed to knock into someone, that someone being Angie. I hugged her and squealed about her cute new hair cut, then she spun me around and pointed to Michael, my old boss at the label. I talked with him for awhile, subjects ranging from “So how’s life in the big city?” to “Did you hear Bill’s not working at the label anymore?” to “So… I read you had brain surgery in your blog… how about that?”. I adore Michael, he’s just this big, gentle, sweetheart of a man, and I miss the hell out of hanging out at Parasol, so it was great to see folks. Angie introduced me to a couple of her friends, a horticulturalist and a police officer in training/former WLUW dj who live near Midway, and I was their near-constant companion during the night.
Angie played to a pretty sparse crowd, but was lovely and gentle and nervous as hell, like she always is. I got to hear lots of my favorite songs of hers, including “God Speed the Plow” and “Tattoo Blue”, and I was happy when she used the line she often uses in concert, “All my songs are about crushes, or death, or being crushed to death. I guess this is one of the latter.” Everyone in the room fell in love with her and her “funeral folk” (her brother’s term for her music), and lots of people came over to talk to her afterwards.
Once Andrew Morgan started up, we moved to the back of the room. Not to jeopardize my chances of scoring this prime location in the future, but I’ve realized that standing on the platform in front of the oven in the back of the room is a great spot. You get to see all the socializing in the back, but can still see the stage because you’re six or so inches taller than everyone else. Angie held court back there for awhile, as the police officer and I agreed that even when Andrew played his own songs instead of Moz covers, they still sounded like the could be old Smiths songs you’d never heard. A friend of Angie’s who has apparently been to every show anywhere since 1985 or so started chatting me up about improv, which I proved to know a lot about for someone who doesn’t take any classes. I’m apparently going to see his Improv Olympic 5B performance next weekend. Angie leaned over to me and whispered, “He’s hitting on you, but he has a girlfriend!”. I shrugged. “He doesn’t flirt with me.” I pointed out that maybe that’s because she’s a lesbian, though I later realized that, having hung out in the corner with three lesbians all night, I was probably not giving off the straightest vibe ever.
Kevin Tihista started playing soon, singing many of the same gorgeous, miserable, beautiful songs that I heard a couple weeks ago. At some point, I turned to Angie and said, “I don’t believe this, but I think you played the most upbeat set at this show.” She agreed this maybe the first time ever this has happened.
After the show, I chatted with Angie and Michael and some old C-U folk for a little while, and also confirmed that I had in fact brushed by Andrew Morgan on Diversey on Wednesday. Apparently his friend was convinced that I’d said “Hi” instead of “Pardon me,” making Andrew’s response of “No problem” silly enough for them all to remember who I was. We chatted about Kansas-Oklahoma jokes, the labs we’d worked in that got shut down by the NIH, and our various Hyde Park experiences. Altogether, a lovely little night, and worth the sleep-deprivation caused froggy throat I managed to get despite not smoking or drinking a thing.
Sunday, January 16, 2005
Hyde Park Vortex, Hideout edition
Oh, so my friend J’s boyfriend is the rockabilly boy from my dorm, and he happens to be a friend of the infamous Mr. Unequal Ex, who doesn’t show. Hello, girl from J's party, oh dear, you have a story similar to mine and UE’s, and it’s about you… and my best friend’s roommate? Heavens. Going to have to talk to my friend about that. Speaking of my best friend, he’s not here, but a good friend of his ex-girlfriend’s is, as is the person who was RA the year before him in that house. Speaking of that house, I run into someone who lived there with my ex-boyfriend, and I agree with his use of the phrase “and it took 16 federal agents to finally restrain him” when it comes to describing his future. Oh, and hello, odd fellow, hope you didn’t mind my allusion to my good friend’s ex-boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend, but I just happened to find out about that after you got mildly famous locally. Then I point out the boy I made out with once when he was a prospie to my friend J, and lo and behold, she informs me that they made out once also, and he’s gay now. Isn't that always the way? Say, young fellow with four names, hitting on me quite severely, inviting me to frisbee parties, weren’t you just making out on the dance floor with the girl from above who shares a story with me? Combine this with the fact that J and I both wore my pink bobbed wig last night, causing someone to cry that it was like he'd just met four people instead of two, and it was a very odd night at the Hideout.
Tuesday, January 11, 2005
Idiocy.
After describing the new iPod shuffle as "Smaller than a pack of gum and much more fun," does Apple's website really need to put a note at the bottom saying "Do not eat iPod shuffle."?
Friday, December 24, 2004
24 hours of improv
Upon a very old recommendation from Jan’s lj, and because I adore both Jeff Tweedy and the Second City, I took a day off work and stayed mostly awake for Letters to Santa , the 24-hour improv endurance test at the e.t.c. theater that ran on Tuesday and Wednesday of this week. Not to make it even more difficult to get tickets next year, but everyone should go to this next year. It’s a benefit for an organization (run by Heather Whinna, who made a very nice Christian-rock documentary earlier this year) that picks out letters kids have written to Santa and sent through Chicago post offices. Good cause, good music, good comedy, good time.
Due to my sleep schedule still being completely fucked up from this event, my memories are a bit scattered. This is roughly what I remember:
7:30 pm, Tuesday: I show up an hour before it’s supposed to start; this is a foolishly late time to be showing up for any event featuring Jeff Tweedy. For my folly, I’m relegated to the back of the room for the first few hours. Most of the VC’ers (VC=viachicago.org, the Wilco message board I frequent) are up front, but Rosie and the rest of the B family end up toward the back, also.
8:50 pm: I remember that I once decided T.J. Jagodowski, a really great performer who was a mainstage SC performer for most of my college career, is a cross between an angry leprechaun and my father. This still holds true. Joe Canale, another performer, looks like my uncle, which may explain why I cheered so loudly for the several groin injuries he sustained through the night.
10:00ish pm: Tweedy plays. It’s the first time I’ve seen him solo, and it’s very quiet, very lovely, and very different from the current configuration of Wilco. Much to my delight, he brings up both Sally Timms and Jon Langford for guest spots. At the end of the set, a few Jeff-related items are auctioned off, including a personal concert for 20. A fairly large collection of VC folks (including fellow ironwomen Brianne and Gina) manage to put up a winning bid of $9,000, and then most of them rush off to find ATMs. They’re followed by a good portion of the rest of the crowd. Rosie and I rush up to the front, and we’re rejoined by Gina and Brianne after they finish liquidating their life savings.
1:00ish am, Wednesday: I get pulled up onstage to portray Tony’s “fucking whore sister” from Tony ‘n’ Tina’s Wedding. I don’t really do much on stage, as I am the only person in the Chicagoland area who’s never seen the show. The performers get me off stage with merciful speed. I heart Sally Timms and Jon Langford.
1:00ish am: Things start getting blue. I cover 17-year-old Rosie’s ears a good deal for the next several hours. Kelly Hogan can belt like none other.
3:00ish am: Rosie and I are both fading. To stay awake, we decide to pick a pretend improv boyfriend. She immediately picks a fetching performer who looks like Jake Gyllenhaal but had already left. I reserve my decision until later in the day.
3:30ish am: Pretend boyfriends can only keep a girl awake so long, and I start doing the “fall asleep, head falls forward, feel like I’m falling, head snaps up, repeat” motion. We are made to do various activities through the night, including “Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes” and a jog through the backstage area. The number of stayers eventually drops to 12 or 15.
Jesus Christ it’s latish am: Andy Cobb, another of the performers, corrects himself on a mispronunciation of my name. He jumps ahead in the pretend improv boyfriend race.
What the hell was I smoking when I decided to do this am: Animatronic dog humps dead guy's face. Man with animatronic dog looks like Mr. Void. Everything seems unreal, and I can't figure out if it should be that way or not. We get to the point where the performers aren't just improvising, they're pretending to be other performers improvising. It's interesting, and pretty entertaining at some points, but there's only so much "I'm going to pretend to be Mick Napier pretending to be a pirate" that I can take before I start chanting "don't take the brown acid" to myself.
7:00ish am: A respite--BABY IMPROV! Joe Canale’s daughter Sofia shows up and does some scenes. This is most amazing because she can’t be more than 3. I believe it is during her time onstage the groin injuries begin.
8:00 am: Rosie’s dad Lou drops by to see how we’re faring before going in to work. I run down to a Starbucks that’s in the same building and come to the horrifying realization that it’s light outside.
9:00ish am: A scene is staged where the terms “Brown University” and “academic rigor” are used in the same sentence. Gina (also a UChicagoan) and I both bust out laughing very loudly, not realizing that we’re the only two people to find this to be one of the funniest jokes of the night.
10:00ish am: Steve Albini shows up to get interviewed and harassed mildly by Heather Whinna, who is also his gf. I have my only snack of the day, a handful of Rosie’s trail mix. I move beyond hunger, I move beyond sleepiness, I move beyond any concept of the passage of time, and I move to a place where I’m that annoying girl at the show who shouts out the only slightly workable suggestions for scenes. Why nobody threw a shoe at me or begged for my silence, I don’t know.
3:00 pm: Billy Corgan does depressing, slowed-down, minor-key renditions of Frosty the Snowman, Silver Bells, and Jingle Bells. He then cuts out without saying much. It is the best Billy Corgan show ever.
5:15ish pm: Rosie gets pulled up on stage to do a scene. At some point, she is supposed to use another of the performers, Pete Grosz, as her life raft. She never really climbs on him, probably because her dad is directly in front of her. As cool and calm as Lou B is, I really wish he’d yelled “Get away from my daughter, you old pervert” and rushed the stage.
5:30ish pm: Kid rock! But in a good way. The Blisters play. Heather comes up and talks about the charity. She starts crying a little bit, and it’s very touching. Andy Cobb gets her a tissue, and earns extra bonus points in the pretend improv boyfriend race.
7:00 pm: Robbie Fulks! A brilliant set by him, including the old holiday chestnut “God Isn’t Real”, as requested by my angry leprechaun father. He does a rap about the dead people from 2004. There’s a Derrida joke. I crack up. Andy Cobb cracks up. I declare to Rosie that Andy Cobb is my fake improv boyfriend for the day, but note that Robbie Fulks is the overall winner of the fake boyfriend contest.
8:30 pm: Done! I really can’t remember this. Rosie, Gina, Brianne, and I all managed to make it, and we get invited up on stage, where I hide in the back. Lou B is kind enough to cart my deranged carcass home. I pass out in bed with my shoes on. Make mental note to see more bloody improv since I live blocks from IO and the Playground.
Sunday, December 19, 2004
Holiday fun.
I sang Christmas songs adapted with details about the pension firm I work for, in front of almost the entire pension firm, this Friday at the Christmas luncheon. (I keep trying to call it the holiday luncheon, but since I work for Christian organization, it's really all about baby Jesus.) I ended up sitting next to the person who is functionally our CEO, though under a different name. Then I went boozing with some of the folks (Methodist organization, so no alcohol at the party), and discovered that, among the people I work with, almost everyone I can stand is in the 40-55 range. Huh. At least they can afford to treat me to Belvedere on the rocks.
I also finished voice lessons at the Old Town School this week. I want to start guitar soon, but I think I'll wait until the second session of next year so I can (a) volunteer enough to get the class for free, and (b) take Spanish lessons so that I can do that entire graduating from college thing.
Now on to the holiday shopping spectacular; I tried this year to buy as much as I could from local stores, and to avoid downtown shopping like the damned plague. I didn't quite succeed, but I got close...
I'm keeping it to family here, because apart from Collin, I don't buy much. I need to get something for my trainer, and maybe little things for folks like Tyler or Emmie (to whom I owe a backlog of several years of Xmas and Bday gifts, rather daunting), but the major gifts are familial. So, to the rundown of how much I supported big chains this holiday season...
1. Mom. She's getting a big healthy-eating basket o'fun in my ongoing attempt, post-bypass surgery, to get her to eat some fucking vegetables. Thus, I got her a vegetable grilling basket from Bloodbath & Beyond, since she still grills like mad. In addition, I went to The Spice House (feautured on Good Eats!) and got her two salt-free seasoning gift backs, the American Regional and the International. Hope she likes lemon pepper, because she's got three different kinds now. I also headed north to the Southport Grocery and Cafe to get her fancy olive oil and balsamic vinegar, grapeseed and canola oil-based grilling and saute sauces, another veggie rub, and a Vosages chocolate bar, because she needs a little indulgence.
2. Grandma. Independent bath and body crap tends to be EXPENSIVE, so I crapped out and got her an Origins Lavendar and Vanilla gift set, along with some saffron from The Spice House.
3. Drew, brother, 21. He said he wanted posters, booze, or music, so I got him three posters from Beyond the Wall (Boondock Saints, his favorite movie; Trainspotting, the movie I think should be his favorite movie; and some wildly inappropriate beer, weed, and sex poster, because he'll love it). Then I got him The Streets' latest album at Reckless, because really, it's better than Insane Clown Posse, which is what he listens to these days. I decided not to get him booze, but I may hit the Crate and Barrel and get him some roly shot glasses, because he will also love that.
4. Christian, nerdy cousin, 14. Got him what I've been wanting for ages, a neighborhood map of Chicago, from 57th Street Books, and a book on great philosophers from Seminary. I plan on wrapping one of these gifts in a piece of wrapping paper that has the London mass transit map on it, which he'll take as a bonus gift.
5. Annie, cooler cousin, 12. She loves lip gloss. I've gotten her lip gloss for the last two years. I can get cooler lip gloss than she can in Oklahoma. So... lip gloss globes from Sephora it is. I tried to branch out with comics, so she's getting a copy of Persepolis from 57th Street Books, and the first trade paperback of Hopeless Savages (thanks, Dan) that I picked up in Evanston at Comix Revolution.
6. Jonah, youngest cousin, 5 1/2. I'm glad Mom told me he likes dinosaurs, because all his parents had to tell me is that he liked Batman and Spiderman, and... ick. So I ran over to Unabridged Books (you can see the gay porn mags from the childrens' section; I love it) and got the Eyewitness series book on dinosaurs. I also got him Neil Gaiman's The Day I Swapped My Dad for Two Goldfish. I hope I didn't just get it for him becuase Neil Gaiman is cool. Guess we'll see if he starts crying on Christmas when he reads it...
So ho-frickin-ho-ho-ho, now all I have to do is get this stuff wrapped. Now I can go to the gym and clean this week... unless I decide to just sleep and watch Gilmore Girl repeats, which is a distinct possibility.
Tuesday, November 02, 2004
Democracy inaction.
So... I just snapped at an election judge. An African-American old-old-lady election judge. Here's the scenario:
I arrive to vote at 6:00 am. I'm 20th or so in line. They don't open the doors until 6:20. The first person (also an old lady, so there may have been old lady communication problems) gets her ballot at 6:30. Things get marginally quicker as time passes, but as we get closer, everyone around me notices the judge in charge of looking people up in the big book o'registration doesn't have the world's firmest grasp on alphabetical order. As in, she's looking for McCall, gets to McGreevey, and keeps heading back through the book until Ms. McCall sticks her finger in the book and says "M-c-*C*".
Here comes me:
Me: Williams.
OL: [flips to "T", looks confusedly at the book]
Me: Williams. W.
OL: [flips to "S", starts conversation with other election judge]
Me: (loudly) WILLIAMS. WITH A W.
OL: [flips to V, tries to answer question asked to election judge a table away from us]
Person behind me: HER NAME IS WILLIAMS. [begins commenting to head election official, right next to old lady, that someone else needs to maybe be in charge of the book]
OL: [flips to blank forms behind the alphabet, keeps flipping through them.]
Me: Ma'am, those are blank. You've gone past Z. Williams. With a W.
OL: I didn't even know there were blank ones back here! [Gets to w-a, starts flipping forward]
Me: WILLIAMS WITH A W-I-L.
Person behind me: [ever louder complaining that somebody else seriously needs to be in charge of the book]
OL: It's going slow because we're short one election judge.
Me: I don't see how another election judge will help you grasp the concept of alphabetical order.
So, yeah. I'm a bad, bad voter. I ended up not voting until 6:50, though, and it's gonna be a HUGE problem as the day wears on if she doesn't speed it up. Four of the eight booths were empty because the pace was so slow.
Anyhoo, on a more positive note--Go out and vote! Vote early, mainly because the lines are gonna be FIVE MILES LONG after work! You, too, can snap at elderly election officials!
