Subterranean: An olfactory journey

I work above the eastern end of what is commonly referred to as the Pedway – a series of interconnected tunnels that gives Loop workers a place to walk, eat and travel from place to place when the weather is too brutal in either direction – and gives Potbelly another place to stick a franchise (I’m not complaining). While I have little need for the Pedway most of the time, since I usually bring my lunch and am fortunate enough to have a bus stop right outside of my building, I still troll its dark corners from time to time. Often enough to know it well; sporadically enough to still find it fascinating.

Aside from housing an eclectic mix of businesses – small convenience stores, fly-by-night shops with perfume and Kate Spade knockoffs arranged artfully on folding tables; Cosi, Fresh Choice, Burrito Beach, 16 different Dunkin Donuts; the Pedway also houses an eclectic mix of aromas (odors?). I mean, you do the math: no ventilation + dozens upon dozens of places that cook, melt, spray, fry, process and perm = 40 city blocks of unrelenting nasal assault.

I can’t claim to have walked the entire Pedway, but I’ve memorized my path from Houlihan’s, where I begin my journey, all the way until I reemerge at ground level. So, moving eastward…

(Door), appetizer sampler, coffee, ink, Potbelly (burnt), concentrated sandwiches, coffee, coconut shampoo, overripe produce, Sterno Canned Heat, (door), cigarettes, (door), sweaty kids in summer/melted grape popsicles – a thick, cloying smell (which makes no sense because at this point, I’m walking past some sort of small outfit that makes video presentations for Hyatt), hair relaxer, blow dryer heat, rental cars, curry, steam, (door), cool vacuum of museum air, (door), coffee, Mexican breakfast sandwiches, florist’s foam, (escalator), sunlight.

Things to listen to, read, watch... IMHO.

Truth be told, I do have an iPod (see previous post). I guess I lied for effect, but in my defense, what I own is more like ¾ of an iPod, if that. If Apple is the parent, the iPod Shuffle is its red-headed stepchild’s MP3 player – small, screenless, pathetic, useful only if you are running and/or blind. But you work with what you have, and I recently went on a rare downloading jag, refilling the old Shuffle with new music for an upcoming bus ride home.

Yawns – Frightened Rabbit
We Own the Sky – M83
Quelqu’un m’a dit – Carla Bruni
Shove It (feat. Spank Rock) - Santigold
Re: Stacks – Bon Iver
Lisztomania – Phoenix

Frightened Rabbit makes this summer feel like last summer. Phoenix makes me recall being in Omaha, stuck in hot rush hour traffic. Listening to the French first lady sing makes me think of pastries. All of these songs come with my recommendation (and my $.99).

I just finished reading The Forever War by embedded NYT reporter Dexter Filkins, purchased in haste from the Phoenix airport and relished on a number of recent rainy days. Regardless of your stance on our involvement in Iraq, Filkins’ story takes it out of the news and into someone’s head (his own). Every single thing he sees and hears is jarring and unforgettable. I feel a heightened sense of awareness regarding this war just for having read his relatively short book. Needless to say, this is another recommendation.

For the ladies: DoubleX is a new blog from the folks that brought you Slate.

And one more - happy Thursday!

You can't trust a moai.

My brother, Joe, recently informed the world via Facebook that he lost his iPod on Easter Island. That sucks, Joe.

Really, really sucks.

I’d like to take a quick break from thanking God I don’t have an iPod to lose or a Polynesian island to lose it on to wish said brother a belated happy birthday. Now that I’ve traveled down this road of birthday wishes, I can’t exactly miss anyone for fear of exclusion from future Thanksgiving dinners. So, a month behind schedule...

Happy 21st birthday, Joe! I’m sorry I couldn’t be there with you, but I trust that you underwent a traditional Chilean drunkening, shot glass in hand and tongue firmly in cheek. As soon as you make your way back stateside, we’ll celebrate in style.*

*Style = Sitting on the front steps, drinking white wine out of chipped coffee mugs and throwing rocks at wild turkeys.

Eating my words, as long as they weren't made in a facility that manufactures peanuts.

Putting aside one particular incident 22 years ago when a cap full of Mr. Bubble left my sensitive skin raw, red (and clean), I have never been allergic to anything. I am so unallergic that I’ve developed an allergy of sorts to other people’s allergies, lacking sympathy for even the most severe reactions. I’m student body president of the school of thought in which cat allergies are imaginary ailments created by haters; where mold, ragweed and pollen allergies are simply signs of weakness, often accompanying nearsightedness and above-average intelligence. All in all, I’ve always assumed allergies are nothing that can’t be solved by some good old-fashioned exposure. Eyes watering? Rub a cat on your face.

I have since changed my tune. Wednesday morning I woke up with hives that began on the back of my head and ended at my ankles. A trip to what I can only assumed was an urgent care facility and a discussion with a man I can only assume was a doctor produced little more than a verbal prescription for Benadryl and the recommendation that I go see my real doctor. The kind with a license.

By the end of the day, my feet and hands were painfully swollen, and the idea of walking to the next room, much less hauling myself to the airport as I was supposed to do the following day, seemed an undesirable alternative to sitting on the couch, watching HSN and counting my welts. I was fine by Friday, when the extreme temperatures of Phoenix burned away any remaining histamines. So now, while I am hive-free, I am also insanely paranoid because I have no clue what I am allergic to. I had a very benign day last Tuesday, typical in every sense. No weird foods; I didn’t ingest any new detergents or lather myself with any new lotions. As a result, everything is suspect. I could be allergic to English Muffins, Dell Computers, Starbucks Coffee, one of my many threadbare cardigans, Bud Light, water, oxygen, any number of TLC shows about unconventional families, sleep, public transportation… the list goes on.

And now I am left to view everything I touch, eat and wear with shifty-eyed suspicion. A trip to an allergist this morning should hopefully clear things up, and it if it turns out I’m allergic to anything but ketchup or cable television, I should be able to cope. If anything, this lesson has taught me that scratching will make it worse and that maybe, just maybe, allergies are real – within reason. But next time you accidentally step on a bee hive, Thomas J., don’t come to me for help.

You can't always get what you want.

I had never seen it, but I felt strangely akin to it. I knew enough to know that I would like it, possibly love it, and that it would bring comfort in the way 80s family rooms and Dominos pizza and two-liter bottles of Pepsi bring comfort. Call me crazy or illogically nostalgic, but about three weeks ago, I became determined to watch The Big Chill. So on Friday night, while Lauren browsed the outer aisles of Blockbuster for new releases, I hovered in Drama near the Bs. And when she protested, I reminded her that this has been my lifelong dream for the past three weeks. It was either this or nothing. Truth be told, we ended up drinking and watching Twilight, and The Big Chill was left lonely and unwatched. Until now.

It's actually playing as we speak. So far, my thoughts are as follows: No one drinks glasses of milk in the middle of the night anymore. William Hurt is tall and far more attractive than I had previously thought. Kevin Kline has slender legs. If some unspeakable tragedy brings my college friends together ten years from now, we will all get high and confess, through a series of one-on-one conversations commenced on foggy South Carolina streets and in rainy attic guestrooms, that we have all slept with each other -- and that we are wholly, deeply, achingly unsatisfied with all of it. Everything.

And then the Rolling Stones will swell and we will cry. Because of everything and nothing and the kids waiting at home.

Burying the lead.

(I actually wrote this on Memorial Day and just sort of left it without hitting "publish post")

Keeping up a blog is sort of like adopting a stray cat, in that you do it with good intentions, but if you fail to provide the cat with food, attention and the occasional pat on the head, it could turn on you, or die, or become so poorly behaved that your friends stop coming over. And at the same time, you want to do everything right because it is better to either have an impressive cat or no cat at all (impressive = the occasional trick/litter-box trained/declawed, at least in the front). A mediocre cat makes you nervous. It stares at you when you watch TV and gives you nothing but guilt and one more hassle do deal with when you want to go out of town.

A friend suggested going the narrative route -- just talking about the day to day. I guess I've been doing that to a certain extent already, but it always feel super self-indulgent to simply talk about the goings on in life like everyone should know and everyone should care.

I've been traveling on the weekends fairly frequently, sometimes to other midwestern cities, but usually to St. Louis. This past/current weekend marked a particularly important occasion for travel, since my youngest brother was graduating from high school. Add to that a friend's wedding and Paul's graduation party, and there was no excuse not to come home. My sister had flown in from Honduras the week before, and Joe was to fly in from Chile on Saturday. I came home Thursday night, Matt flew in from Omaha Friday afternoon. I'm so used to experiencing my family in little bits and pieces now, and the idea of all of us at once in one place for one weekend was daunting, and wonderful and now, for all intents and purposes, it is over. On the last day of a long weekend, everyone just mopes around and does laundry.

Today was especially dismal because it rained. Summer rain in St. Louis makes your backyard feel like a jungle and your lungs feel like ziplock bags. Everyone is physically uncomfortable, so there's no point in saying anything about it. We are all in the same sticky-limbed boat. It was planned from the beginning that we would go to the cemetery today. They just put up my dad's marker, and my mom wanted to show it to us. Due to varied post-cemetery destinations, we left in our own, small procession. The marker is unobtrusive and perfectly fitting:

In the evening of life, we shall we judged in love. - St. John of the Cross

I think this quote may be incorrectly attributed to Madeleine L'Engle a lot of the time, but oh well. Better that than, like, Dr. Seuss or Janice Dickenson.

So the day has continued to be a series of releases and temporary goodbyes. We dropped Matt off at the airport, and when we got home, I picked up where I left off on David Foster Wallace's essay, "Consider the Lobster." Mary Clare and I bought Paul a few books for graduation, which I'm trying to get selfish use out of before I leave.

(I ended this post here, probably to go eat something.)

If you have to get through something by chanting, "This is good for me" silently, weakly and with little conviction, it is probably actually bad for you. Exception to this rule: excercise, because it probably really is good for you -- unless you're running through fire or playing snake tennis. Also, taking vitamins and learning a foreign language.

Disjointed thoughts on unrelated topics

bad ideas...
Apparently I can update this blog from my phone now, but it's probably a disaster waiting to happen. If I were to travel down this thorny path, the end result would amount something like, "on bus no i will not give u money. i can CAPITALIZE on my phone? emoticon"

good literature about bad people...
For reasons unknown, I got really into Brett Easton Ellis last year. Selfish, wealthy East- and West-coasters aren't any more fascinating than fabric softener until you add an early 80s backdrop and suddenly the drugs and drinking and occasional instances of death go from tragic to decadent. Anyway, even though the movie's supposed to be kind of crappy, I'd really like to see it. If you'll refer to my last post, this may be a good chance to go it alone.

good wishes to great people...
On a completely unrelated note, congratulations to my youngest brother for deciding on a school. You made the right choice, Paul -- kudos. Also, happy birthday, Matt Kraemer. This is a bit overdue, but I think "better late than never" seems pretty appropriate at this juncture.

Cartoons and forever plans

I fancy myself to be a pretty independent person – I can shop alone, watch TV alone, eat a quiet dinner of broccoli and Easter candy alone... But the true test of this independence comes when those rituals normally reserved for a throng, a gang, a gaggle or at least the company of one other person, are engaged in alone. All winter I endeavored to see a movie alone, but with little success (no success). This wasn’t really out of fear as much as it was out of laziness. But when I saw that Maria Taylor was coming to Schubas, I saw my opportunity to go to a concert alone. It had all the right qualifications for being my baptism into solo-show-going: a smaller venue located close to home, a mellow artist that asked little of her audience, a subsequently mellow audience, no dancing (which I only oppose when alone or on crutches), beer, darkness.

These reasons, combined with the fact I’ve felt akin to Maria Taylor ever since the summer of 2007 when “Clean Getaway” became my unnecessarily dramatic and slightly self-indulgent musical mantra, prompted me to buy a ticket. I didn’t make much of an effort to drag anyone along – I was choosing to go alone, and in the month beforehand, I was proud of my bravery. “This is going to be so sweet,” I thought, licking the ketchup off my fingers and turning the pages of a three-year-old issue of InStyle. “Just me and the music.” I envisioned myself as the mysterious stranger in the corner – the one who knows all the words but only sings them inside her head; the one that ducks out into the night immediately after the encore; the one that doesn’t need the crutch of a friend to have a good time.

I thought I’d planned everything just right – I’d get there minutes before she went on, after the opening band had reassumed their spots in the audience, before the lights when down all the way. In reality, I got there nearly half an hour before the first band even started playing. I nursed a Stella and stared nervously at the Bulls game as it flashed above the bar. The looks of pity from strangers were growing in intensity, and I felt like I had a fever. Crouching behind the sound booth, I began my slow descent into begging. What started as a casual phone call to a friend in another state just to pass the time devolved into a series of regrettable text messages, each one sadder than the last. Pretty soon I was attempting, with thinly veiled casualness, to be rescued from my awkward, awkward loneliness by someone – anyone – who would come meet me… former coworkers, high school acquaintances, creepy people met in bars, 911 operators… I knew it was pathetic, but the house of cards that was my pride had already fallen, and all I wanted was someone to talk to between sets.

As I sent my last text, the lights went down, and we were all equal again. In the dark, I could’ve been there with the person standing next to me, I could’ve sold t-shirts, I could’ve been a confused person who’d wandered in looking for lottery tickets. “We’ll look back on this someday and laugh,” I told my beer. And all nervous thoughts were replaced by the lyrics I was singing in my head. And the show was great, and I survived. But next time, you’re coming with me.

SeeqPod - Playable Search

I'd give the big toe on my right foot for access to HBO on Saturday night.

Bought a sweater for his weimaraner too

I just saw that new Heineken commercial with the walk-in closets, and I dunno... maybe I don't know how to have a good time, call me crazy (or not crazy enough, as the case may be), disagree with me if you will, but I don't think I want to be friends with those people.

If my rich friend took me on a six-hour tour of her new mansion and the final leg involved a glimpse inside her 10-billion-square-foot walk-in closet, complete with a diamond-necklaces-on-pedestals centerpiece...

Oh my God, it's on right now! Bah.

...anyway, while all of my other harpy friends were screaming, I would ask my hostess why she chose to turn the 11th bedroom into a shrine to silk halter tops instead of making it something useful, like a room for watching episodes of Rescue 911, or a room for eating donuts in the dark, or a room filled with Easter grass (much like the room I actually dreamt about when I was four). And I would hope that whoever I'm married to in this commercial (wink wink, nudge nudge Bill Pullman/Paxton) would be doing the same thing simultaneously. As the ex-frat brothers he secretly hates (he joined because his dad made him, and he hates his dad too!) are bumping chests and punching walls over the sight of a giant room filled with fluorescent lights, dry ice and shelves of warm beer, he would be asking where the bathroom is and filling a jewel-encrusted suitcase (stolen from my friend's walk-in closet) with bottles of Heineken.

And then we'd run home to our dark basement studio and wonder aloud, laughing, why we were ever friends with them in the first place.

Free to a good home.

Happy almost-Easter. Here’s the story of a giant rabbit.

I opened my Tuesday by rifling through pictures of Chicago Easters gone by in the Trib and then somehow stumbled upon this picture of a giant rabbit. This man in Germany raises them and sells them to the Koreans for food. Or something. So while giant rabbits might make people in certain cultures think of nachos, they make me think of my childhood. Since my very first pet doesn’t count – her name was Peggy, and she was a cat, and we had to have her put to sleep after only two weeks – I will go ahead and claim a giant rabbit as my first official pet. Hot off of sitting shiva for Peggy, my mom and dad were patronizing the local pharmacy when they noticed a sign on the door that said something to the effect of:

Housebroken rabbit. Free to a good home.

I have this sign memorized because my mom quoted it all the time. So they decided to adopt said housebroken rabbit. His name was Jackie, but my mom thought that name was too white (rabbit) trash and changed it to the much-classier Jamie. Jamie was a Giant Newfoundland that had been abandoned by his previous owners, probably for being too mind boggling. He was the size and shape of a big Rockwellesque Thanksgiving turkey. He had black ears and a black tail and piercing red eyes that meant business. He used a litter box, and his terds looked like cocoa puffs.

Jamie was allowed to roam free – he slept under beds, sunned himself on the back porch and ate from a bowl in the kitchen. Sometimes he would sneak out the back door and hang out on the front porch until my mom let him back inside. When he felt like being an asshole, he’d chew through the washing machine hose and flood the basement. When he felt like being an even bigger asshole, he’d pee on our legs.

Jamie hated being picked up, which made taming him the unspoken goal of all of my friends. Everyone tried to hold him. Everyone was bitten, or scratched or kicked in the chest with powerful giant legs. His teeth were like Bic razors. He existed to confuse – never had anything so cuddly and cartoonish-looking been more intent on eating antiques and murdering you in your sleep.

And yet we loved him.

So much so that we refused to add to our menagerie while Jamie was alive. He spent his days ruling the roost and eating his own poo (I remember my mom informing me that it was due to a vitamin deficiency; for people, it’s Flinstones, for rabbits, it’s feces). I didn’t truly realize the limits of Jamie’s abilities until we moved to a new house with linoleum basement stairs. Jamie slowly became confined to the basement, arthritic and unable to climb such a slippery incline. We got older. Jamie got slower, more isolated and crotchety. We found more exciting ways to occupy ourselves, like eating Pop Tarts and quitting piano lessons, and eventually, we got a cat.

Once in a while, someone would ask about Jamie’s whereabouts, and we’d have to think for a second before answering. Jamie? Jamie! Yes. Good. Basement. Old.

One day, my mom and dad gathered us in the front hallway with sober looks on their faces. Jamie died, they said… We gasped, fumbled with our the drawstrings of our Umbros, wondered what was for dinner.

…a few days ago.

We thanked them for getting around to telling us and asked what was done to dispose of the body. Even though we were a little older, a rabbit of that size still seemed like it would have a corpse rather than a carcass, and we couldn’t recall any body bags passing through the front door in the last day or so.

It turns out my dad had buried him in the backyard one evening, quietly, discreetly - partly out of respect, partly because it was against the law to bury something that large in a city backyard. He led us out to a small mount of dirt near the apartment building that flanked our yard. We stood in silence for a few seconds, the cat making triumphant, youthful circles between our legs; I might’ve pretended to wipe a tear from my eye. We breathed deeply, turned toward the house and went inside for dinner.

And on the third day… just kidding.

There was a moth caught in the soapdish laminated in lye

I’m feeling the signs of a cold coming on, which is probably inevitable, as my office-mate is home sick today and several other folks in my office are fighting their own versions of the plague. One of my coworkers handed me two small syringe-looking… things – small doses of zinc meant to ward off colds. She instructed me to crack one open and dab its contents around my nostrils. So here I sit, staring out the window, stifling the itch in the back of my throat, looking like a dog that just stuck its nose in its own pee.

A recent episode of This American Life detailed stastical changes resulting from the current recession – dentists are reporting more cracked teeth (I think fights, they say teeth grinding), urologists are reporting a rise in vasectomies (I assume casual sex has replaced things like fancy dinners and trips to the mall, they say it’s because people don’t want to pay for more kids), and lastly, the National Shark Council (I made that up) reports the lowest number of shark attacks in five years. And automatically, I’m thinking – wow, what compassionate sharks. They somehow understand that with everything humans are dealing with, from layoffs to foreclosures, the last thing we need are more lost limbs. The NSC went ahead and dashed my dream of human/shark harmony by telling me its because fewer people are taking vacations.

I baked cupcakes for a coworker's birthday last night, and proceeded to make about 50 more than I needed. I ate more than my fair share, unloaded about 12 on Robot vs. Dinosaur cast members, brought 16 into work, left 10 out for my roommates to (hopefully) consume over the course of the day, and stuffed 20 or so in the freezer. Warning: If you’re coming to visit this weekend to see But These Are My Dress Clothes, and you’re staying my house, I will force-feed you cupcakes all weekend long. I will puree them and put them in your toothpaste; I will shove them in your mouth while you are sleeping and make your jaw move like you’re chewing and you will have to swallow or choke. It’s your choice. Oh, and I will wrap what’s left in your socks and put them in your duffel bag. So you have that to look forward to.

Oh, and I am excited to see you.

Have you ever ordered a veggie burrito from a Mexican restaurant and been satisfied with what you’ve received? Because I have not. And yet I continue to try and try and try again. The disappointment is always the same. The hope is always renewed. The cycle is vicious. It came to a head last weekend when Lauren and I hit up a small taqueria on Broadway. This time, the inside of my burrito looked like an overturned grade school cafeteria tray. Pees and green beans and carrots as far as the eye could see. Little peppered potato cubes and day-glo corn. I stared at it for a few minutes in disbelief, not because someone had thought to encase a bag of Jewel-brand frozen vegetable medley in a tortilla, but because I had allowed myself to be duped yet again. And then I proceeded to pick out the peas and dream about what the veggie burrito might be like at the place across the street.

Live each day like it's your third-to-last.

Over the past year, and even more so in the past few weeks, I have grown acutely aware of my own mortality. It's not like I thought I would live forever before I stumbled into this period of reflection. I just didn't think about it at all. And suddenly I'm spending hours online looking at pictures of irregular moles... the passing of celebrities gives me more pause... any sort of risky behavior is now completely off-limits ("Sushi? No thank you. I'll be locked in my room eating canned soup and vitamins.") Realizing the limits of your own existence also makes you prioritize like a crazy person, to the point where anything that seems even slightly unnecessary becomes a big joke in the grand scheme of things (Laundry? Ha! Why? And don't even talk to me about paying bills, clipping fingernails, etc.) I imagine the key to it all is realizing what's important, understanding what petty things will keep you happy in the day-to-day, and striking a balance between the two. So, in my case, I will call home more often and perhaps do a better job of finding my true calling in life, but if I want to waste two hours of my time on earth milling around World Market, so be it. No one has ever died debating the decorative merits of half-price throw pillows.

And the eyes they were a color I can't remember

Just once, I would like to be able to pull off red lipstick without looking like a hooker or a corpse. And here I thought it was just because of my unspoken vow to never spend more then $3 on a tube of lipstick. I proved myself wrong by spending $10 and walking away looking like Tim Curry. Ah well, you win some, you lose some, you add another tube to the bathroom drawer. I should start telling guests I'm the makeup artist for an off-off-Broadway production of "Chicago."

Things at work have slowed a bit to the point where I'm envisioning myself at the center of some trend piece for the Tribune about people who have been laid off twice. It will be titled Double Sided Axe. Or something.

I spent my afternoon writing about gasoline refining and listening to my Otis Redding station on Pandora. I've also grown fond of a secret station I have which plays a lot of Taylor Swift. If this appeals to you as well, let's drive to Sonic and listen to "Love Story" or "Tim McGraw" at full volume, laughing as our blond hair blows in the Georgia breeze. If you're laughing, I will cut you.

Speaking of music, there are a few new songs I can't stop listening to, one in particular to point where I'm driving myself crazy with my own addiction. First I fell in love with AC Newman's band, and then his lisp (yes, lisp! not lips) and now this song.


SeeqPod - Playable Search

I actually broke down and bought the new Neko Case CD from Starbucks one morning last week, essentially paying $15 for a venti coffee with room and a bonus CD and a sample of that horrid looking instant coffee that I'm saving to make the day the world ends and my coffee maker gets trampled in the chaos.

There exists a man who has, for all intents and purposes, stolen my schedule and whereabouts. Or maybe I have stolen his, depending on who set out on this particular segment of life first. He lives two buildings down from me on Roscoe, and on certain mornings, we leave our apartments at the same time. We walk to the bus stop, although I'm usually about twenty feet behind him since his building is about twenty feet closer to the bus stop. We ride the same bus; today I got on first because I am a lady. We work in the same building, which means we exit the bus at approximately the same time (depending on how crowded it is). We get in the same bank of elevators (there are three to choose from). And today, we got in the same individual elevator. Never before has this happened, but it allowed me to pinpoint the exact place our parallel lives diverge: he works on the sixth floor, and I work five floors above, on the 11th. I'm not sure what he does for a living because the sixth floor is one of those plain-label floors with no signs or distinguishing characteristics. Right now, I'm feeling a bit possesive of my weekdays, my block, my buildings. And while nothing else is adjustible at this point in time, I may start taking a different bus.

You're the one that I still miss, and the truth is that it comes as no surprise.

I was recently chastised for having let this blog fall by the wayside, so here I am. That's not to say that I needed prompting to keep writing; I missed having a forum as well. For the past three weeks, my thoughts have had nowhere to go except my restless feet and the refrigerator. Basically, this job is taking up a lot of room inside my brain, and virtually everything else has suffered as a result. But not anymore! Today, I firmly resolve to maintain a sense of balance, to continue to pursue the creative outlets that make me happy, to finish coloring in this fuzzy unicorn poster.

Things that have happened in the world of what's important to me since I last wrote:

Neko Case released a new album.

E-music erased my account, preventing me from downloading it.

I read
Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. (Full disclosure: I never finished Everything Is Illuminated because I just plain didn't want to. However, I really enjoyed this one.)

I remembered how much I had missed someone.

The ARRA passed.

The monkey slamming continued.

My brother Joe left for Chile, and so continues the entire Monahan family's gradual migration to Central and South America. Next thing I know, Paul will decide to attend a party school in Panama, my mom will move to Bolivia, and I'll be forced to find a Nicaraguan Craiglist roommate. Anyway, I'm excited to hear about his adventures, and I imagine there will be many. His first e-mail detailed a wonderland of privatized public transportation and rapid-fire Spanish, where every stranger is friendly and every food item is served with a fried egg on top. This last point ended up being the main focus of his letter, as Joe will eat fried toothpaste as long as it's sunny side up.

Come to this show! But These Are My Dress clothes is my Second City Writing Five class's sketch revue. I've seen it rehearsed every Monday for the past five weeks now, which amounts to watching the same sketches over and over and over again, and yet my amusement persists. Smart writers. Talented actors. It's a good show - I'd even venture to say great, and I only think a few things are actually great (sleep, carbonation, aspartame).

My obsession with monkey attacks is reaching full tilt. Also, I am now more grateful than ever that my dream of having a monkey sibling never came to pass.

Robot vs. Dinosaur

Between working, entertaining out-of-towners and staring at assorted walls, I haven't had a great deal of time or mental energy to blog. However, I'm still posting here on Sundays (or Tuesdays, as the case may be).

You are my sunshine... and my robot voice.

(Tribute Week continues. It's like Shark Week, only with fewer sharks and more college friends.)

In October of 2007, I paid a visit to Portland to visit Annie Wilkins. One morning, after a night of misbehaving, we woke up and realized that virtually the only thing we could both remember was chanting "You are my robot voice" in the backseat of a car. No context. No explanation. Nothing. So that being said,

Happy birthday, Annie. You are my robot voice.

It would be easy for me to ramble and ramble and ramble and throw out hundreds of inside jokes, but it will just amount to confusion and me falling out of my chair in a fit of silent laughter. Instead, I will simply say thank you for being my other half. And giving an amazing hand helmet. Enjoy the pizza rolls and PBR tonight. I love you!

Congrats, Mich and Adam.

I failed to mention last night that the main reason for my going to Omaha is to attend Michaela and Adam's engagement party, which is sure to be epic, and deservedly so. They are my prototype for the proverbial perfect couple. If they're brought up in conversation, the statement usually ends with someone throwing in an "I love those guys," because people genuinely do. They ride their bikes to Target together. They've raised two beautfiul cats. They love watching The Biggest Loser. They turn weekend roadtrips into enviable adventures. They tolerated me during the summer of '07 when I became their unofficial third wheel, using their pool, eating their food and living quietly and vicariously through their happiness. They are not sickeningly similar or questionably contradictory, rather they've achieved a perfect balance that some people work years to find.

So with that, I send out a sincere "we should all be so lucky" and bid you adieu. I still have two articles to write before my date with Southwest Airlines.

Goodbye Blago, Hello Warren Buffett

Did you know that Stars does a cover of Fairytale of New York? I'm listening to it right now... and staring at people through the windows of the Suisse Hotel instead of finishing up a smattering of articles I really, really need to finish. I've always been horrible at working late. I can work early and write a novel between 7 and 9 a.m., but after 5 p.m., my mind wanders and my stomach growls and I am useless.

One vital reason for finishing my work tonight is the long journey to Omaha tomorrow afternoon. I don't think I've ever been this excited to travel from one midwestern city to another in the dead of winter. I know I sing its praises constantly, but the place where you come of age in the most real sense will inevitably hold special meaning... I met my best friends there, I loved people there (in a mostly platonic, occasionally romantic way), I got my first adult-person job there, I had my first solo apartment, my first genuinely solid sense of self, my first Zima... I will never live there again, and I don't really want to. But knowing it exists as a respite from the day-to-day is one of those things that keeps me going. Much like Zima.

The aforementioned song, plus a bonus.

SeeqPod - Playable Search

Goodbye, John Updike.
Thank you for filling my summer with tales of Rabbit Angstrom's adulturous exploits. Also, that cameo on the Simpsons was pretty sweet. You will be mised.

I think everyone has a Normal and an OK, Now You're Being Crazy internet threshold. Checking your e-mail is normal. But Googling holistic remedies for cat eczema or the location of Robert De Niro's summer home or the calorie content of a medium-sized apple or the middle name of Kurt Cameron's youngest child? OK, now you're being crazy. I always try to stop myself before the latter occurs, but I am rarely successful.

Robot vs. Dinosaur

I posted here today.

"We do footwork and spins like the Temptations. All the world's a stage we're going through."

Happy belated Inauguration Day! The national morale boost is palpable - revel in it. We're not in a great place, but for the first time in a long time, we're poised to be.

Speaking of good things, only this time too much of it, I just consumed a lot of broccoli. Like, a Lego forest's worth.

Also speaking of good things, I highly recommend reading anything by Lorrie Moore. Ever since reading "The Kid's Guide to Divorce" in a creative writing class at Creighton, I've been hooked. Second-person narrative can slip into choose your own adventure mode really easily if it's allowed, but she does it really, really well. Just finished reading Anagrams (her first novel, I think), and I loved it. It switches between reality and imagination, time, space, etc., but never loses site of the story at its core - the relentless affection between Gerard and Benna. Depending on the life imagined, they are friends, lovers, co-workers, caretakers... I'm a bad reviewer who can't do a good book justice. But if you're looking for something to read...

Thoughts triggered by a phone call, recorded as an alternative to doing real work.

I got the chance to talk to Mary Clare yesterday, the first time since she left to return to Honduras after New Year's. The conversation brought up several topics I've been thinking about a lot, so it was a nice opportunity to process what have otherwise been jumbled ideas. When you weed out the grocery lists and song lyrics, things start to make more sense.

On what other people think.
If you don't take what other people will think into consideration when making decisions, you are probably either a robot (robot reference! again!) or a true renegade, and if the latter is true, I commend you. Taking the possible opinions or reactions of others into account is somewhat inevitable and sometimes helpful. But it can also be detrimental to growth and change and forward movement. We tend to create this one big fictional ogre of a person, an imaginary "They" that is hiding in the bushes, watching your every movement, hearing your every thought, ready to pounce on you, wrap you in a net and smear you with judgment should you make a decision it deems irresponsible or illogical. (I imagine judgment to look like potting soil and smell like gerbil cage.) But the truth is, there is no ogre or chorus waiting. We are all too concerned with ourselves to give anyone else that much thought. No one is that special, and that's a good thing. So go ahead and join the circus, leave the circus, move somewhere new, return to some place familiar, etc. In the end, if it makes sense to you, They will either support you or be too busy picking their own noses and worrying about their own lives to even give it a second thought.

On grief.
Grief is like those good ideas that people put dry erase boards in the shower for. To make it slightly more sinister, it looks like the leprechaun from those Leprechaun movies, and it is an asshole. When moments come around where its presence would seem logical, it's nowhere to be found, leaving you with an inflated sense of strength, a false sense of well being, a mind too busy with moving forward to make room for looking back. It's at those wholly inappropriate moments that it climbs out of your pocket or wherever it lives and turns you on your head - in a crowd, at the grocery store, at work. Mine is the bus... that all-too-familiar swell of sadness triggered by Lake Michigan at rush hour or the last page of a book. It's predictable in its unpredictability, and to the lady sitting across from you pecking at her Blackberry, it makes you seem crazy.

On peanut butter.
We didn't talk about peanut butter, but I hear they are warning people not to eat peanut butter right now, and it's really bumming me out.

A blessing and a curse.

I actually heard the latter half of this story on Thanksgiving, but at the time I think I'd just written my 600th family-centric post, deciding instead to stick it in my back pocket with the other gum wrappers and save it for later.

Ever since I was old enough to reminisce, I knew I'd been blessed by Mother Teresa. My mom had the opportunity to meet her when I was in utero, and as legend has it, she touched her growing stomach and made some wise crack about my future as a Missionary of Charity (a detail I usually leave out when telling this story because it leaves me no room to question my vocation or overall purpose in life - if Mother Teresa provides you with one, you're kind of obligated to follow up. Ah well...). So, since I probably had gills and no finger nails at the time of our meeting, I obviously do not remember this. That being said, it's a nice thought to carry around and pull out every time a bad day rolls around. You got the last seat on the bus? I've been blessed by Mother Teresa. Sub-zero temperatures? Eat poo, Mother Nature. I've been blessed by Mother Teresa. Anyway, for the past 26 years or so, I've had that to fall back on when everything else seems quietly out of line.

Fast forward to this past Thanksgiving. Sitting at the end of a long table with my aunt, uncle, mom and brother. Conversation makes its usual turn to talk of McDonald's franchises in somewhat unsavory areas of St. Louis. Standard banter. And then suddenly, I'm blindsided with a story I've never heard before. During that same bout of gestation, my mom and dad were grabbing dinner at a McDonald's near their apartment in the city when they were approached by a mentally unstable and possibly homeless woman. She could've asked for money or a French fry, but instead she chose to curse my mom's stomach. To curse me, an unassuming, downy quasi-human who had, so far, done nothing to harm anyone else. Apparently she made my mom cry and blah blah blah, the point being I had just nine months to make it through unscathed. To grow vital organs and eat through my stomach. But in those nine months, I managed to acquire a blessing from one of the most revered humanitarians in history and a curse from some lady who probably collects Bartles & Jaymes bottles filled with eyelashes.

As a result, so I've surmised, I'm destined to be mediocre. It's the ying and the yang of good deeds and value meals, and I am the result. Hovering gently in the middle. If I'd never heard the second part of my fetal journey, I would've continued to believe that I'm some sort of female Emperor of the Sun, called upon to shoulder the burden of holy greatness. It's probably better this way, as I can now reconcile my newly realistic obligations as a human being, my unnatural love of sweet & sour sauce packets, and the faint memory of a wrinkled Nobel Peace Prize-winning hand seen through small, developing eyes.

The true story of seven strangers. And Chet.

Hey you guys that watch The Real World too. I think there may be three of us, four if you include the elderly woman who fell asleep watching Good Eats and rolled over on the remote. What do you think of this Chet character? Because I have a pretty high tolerance for the bros, hookers and robots MTV has managed to dredge up over the past five years or so, and I can't stand the guy. He gives off a creepy vibe that not even his keffiyeh can cover up. Twenty bucks says he either stabs somebody or turns the confessional into pet store/meth lab/ball pit by the end of the season.

Of course, I'll continue to watch until everyone who wants acceptance gets acceptance and everyone who wants to be famous gets their fifteen minutes and everyone who just wants a hot tub and a fish tank wall... gets that too.

Pluck your eyebrows for the crowd

Even though I've given up on openly declaring my resolutions, I still have an unofficial list going that will shrink slowly but surely until it finally dies in June, a death knell that tolls when I realize I still smoke when I drink, I still watch classes at the gym like some spandexed playground monitor instead of actually going to them, I still don't do things I should and do do things I shouldn't. However, I will venture to openly shun meat... again. After four solid years as a fairly dedicated pescatarian, lapsing only occasionally, drunkenly and unashamedly, I started to incorporate turkey into an otherwise eclectic diet consisting of bean burritos, ketchup and airplane peanuts. This small step snowballed into chicken nuggets and cheeseburgers at Duke's with Jo and suddenly my brothers were making jokes about my unofficial Tour of Meat and the next thing I knew, I was eating lamb with mint jelly at my aunt's house. Lamb. With mint jelly. It's one thing to eat baby versions of things. It's another to cover it in something green, gelatinous and completely counterintuitive.

So I'm back where it all began, and so far it's been easy and somewhat comforting. I never really craved meat before, but once I gave myself permission to eat it, I didn't have any guidelines to follow. And as I've now learned, a lack of guidelines makes people dip chicken wings in ground beef. Even if I'm still stumbling around, puffing Parliaments outside of a spinning class in June, at least I have guidelines and peace of mind.

Random, unrelated thought that requires some sort of transition:
When my real iPod bit the dust last year, I decided to invest as little money as possible into its replacement. The result was a Shuffle that I've come to simultaneously love and abhor. When you rely on a Shuffle, you end up hearing the same five songs over and over again, three of which you keep reminding yourself to remove because they're horrible. Anyway, this is an old Belle and Sebastian song, but every time it makes its Shuffle rounds, I'm reminded of how much I like it. And then I listen to it nine times in a row to avoid anything too Fergalicious.


SeeqPod - Playable Search

Prelude to a Kiss

I've never seen it, but it's free from OnDemand, and from the first five minutes I think I'm going to love it. Meg Ryan and Alec Baldwin dancing to the Divinyls and talking about insomnia.

Fantastic.

"...in avoiding specific goals, he had avoided specific limitations."

I sat behind Frank and April Wheeler at mass on Christmas day - a nearly exact replica of how I'd imagined these two characters to look... tall, attractive, poised and casual, at least outwardly. For some reason I'd been able to avoid simply thinking of them as Leonardo Dicaprio and Kate Winslet, forming my own cast of envisioned characters. And suddenly there they were, the most prominent members of my cast, singing "One Bread, One Body" just feet away. They had two young kids to boot - a boy and a girl, just like the book. I had to leave promptly to avoid staring and/or asking them what they were doing so far from Connecticut.

For some reason I was under the impression that the movie version of Revolutionary Road was supposed to be released on December 26, so I rushed to finish it in time for opening day. It was then that I found out I had an entire month to go before it would reach theaters. Oh well... I've actually read mostly so-so reviews anyway, so I might just save my money and buy a bowl of soup.

I guess the point of this meandering reflection (I've been trying to make more sense, to talk more linearly) is that I really, really enjoyed the book. It was more or less inevitable that I would appreciate its context - I'm thoroughly fascinated by Mad Men and the late 50s/early 60s in general, mostly the social mores, apparel and aesthetically curious cuisine. But I wasn't sure how I'd feel about the story itself. It could've been melodramatic, but it really wasn't. Melodrama has highs and lows with typically heartbreaking endings. The difference with Revolutionary Road is that the entire story is heartbreaking, and it never tries to be anything else. Even the events, instances of humor and moments of (apparent) marital bliss that seem pleasant on the surface are tinged with foreboding. As a result, you never get very attached to anyone. You never get attached because you know, as well as they know maybe, that they are doomed. That's not really a spoiler, because doomed can mean a variety of things. Like right now, I am doomed to sit in a airport for a long time. Doom is relative.

Anyway, I'll most likely see the movie (the soup can wait, and I hear you can get the senior discount if you use the kiosk), and I probably won't like it as much as the book. But that's to be expected. No movie can live up to the one that plays in your head, especially when you’re close enough with its characters to stand behind them in the communion line.

Monahans! Ready??

The above title is a quote from my sister, shouted enthusiastically as she jumped into a circle of siblings and strangers. Then the Monahans shotgunned* beers in unison... because that is what siblings do when too inebriated to realize they're just being lame. So sums up my New Year's Eve. My favorite in recent memory, and we didn't even have to leave the apartment. Everyone - friends, brothers, sisters, cousins, strangers, the guy who lives downstairs, came to us.

Happy new year.

Back when I still had misty and ill-fated dreams of becoming a famous cartoonist able to replicate Garfield with one eye closed and create what were mainly glorified stick figures, much to the amusement of my parents and select teachers, I had one particular idea in mind that would resurface every year in early January. Every year between the ages of eight and eleven, whereupon it was forgotten about... sent packing to those dark corners that house the birthdays of friends from camp and the lyrics to Stay by Lisa Loeb and the theme song from Mr. Belvedere. Its memory returned to me last night, and I realized just how unfunny and probably unoriginal it was... however, to satisfy the ghosts of time and the folks at the New Yorker, here it is: (Note: This was drawn using Microsoft Paint and my right hand, both of which suck at doing anything.)



See?? They're unemployed because the year is over. It doesn't get more nuanced than that. The 2008 old man is still drinking champagne, and "unemployment" is backwards because it's for the people outside. Given the economic climate (and the rudimentary MS Paint artwork), I have a feeling this wouldn't fly. Another piece of genius lost to the ages and the documents folder on my family's computer.

I took an unpaid day off today, so I should probably go do something outside or watch Matlock. Thoughts in the pipeline: Revolutionary Road, Fraud Complex

*Never able to finish a shotgunned beer in one round of gulps, I proceeded to sip my Coors Light leisurely from a jagged hole in the side of the can for the next half hour.

This is what happens when you work on Christmas Eve.

I am dreaming about what I would dip these in.

P.S. Happy birthday, Jesus.

M is for Merry Almost Christmas.

Who knew they had special holiday hours at the gym on Christmas Eve. Who Knew. Too late to go back to sleep. Too early to take a shower. Too awake from a brisk and pointless walk down Broadway to justify coffee or Al Roker. And the Today Show doesn't even start until 7:00. What to do when the world sleeps... besides scrapbook.

Do you know what they do with unsold Christmas trees? I'm asking because I don't. I walked by a lot this morning that was fairly full of lonely trees... unwanted by most everyone except the few people (future self included) who wait until Christmas Eve to make their purchase. Like it's something you waffle on... I don't know. Do I want a Christmas tree this year? I'm debating. It's either that or a down vest from the Gap. If I win the lottery, among other things like building a swimming mote, I will fill my spare bedrooms and bowling alleys with Doug Firs.

Because of this, Yo Gabba Gabba and Garanimals, I really wouldn't mind being a kid right now... Maybe just for a Saturday morning or a summer.

Tilly & the Wall on SESAME STREET from Team Love on Vimeo.

I want to play Marco Polo with Gerald Ford.

Moscow Mules at Brothers Lounge

Yesterday I woke up determined to a) polish off half a Brita picher of water and b) buy a last-minute plane ticket to Omaha, leaving as soon as possible, returning today. The water was much needed. The ticket was $918 and thus out of the question. I think there's something preternatural about wanting to be near the people you love during the month of December (and into early January, with the feast of the Epiphany as the general cut-off point for sentimentality). What began as a commercially manufactured season has now become a natural feeling of longing for comfort and security and baked goods. I don't know. All I know is that calling Libby today to tell her happy birthday and hearing the echoed hellos of my friends gathered around her parents dining room table in Lincoln was oddly heart wrenching. I wanted to be there. But $918 is a lot of money, and I still owe the John Merlo library at least a third of my paycheck. Anyway, I spent today feeling itchy and restless, like I was late for something important that I couldn't put my finger on... It doesn't help that the windchill here is -30, leaving sane people housebound and brave people frozen to the sides of buildings.

The Country of Honduras (I'm really not sure whose jurisdiction she's under, so it's easier to create a some sort of imaginary organization) is letting us have Mary Clare back for two weeks, starting the day after Christmas. Sometimes I think about it too much and get overwhelmed - when I was little, I would always wake up the night before Christmas and vomit, this being the adult version of that same sort of feeling. I'm trying to keep my expectations down. She is a puzzle piece. I have been running on only nearly complete capacity since September. I have grand schemes for her visit, but in all honesty, we could sit on the kitchen floor drinking Diet Coke and talking about leave-in conditioner for three days straight, and I would be more than satisfied.

Have you seen Mamma Mia? I get embarrassed for other people really easily, so it made me uncomfortable. I used to love musicals, but now I'm more inclined to think that they go against human nature. We are not supposed to explain things through song unless we're teaching children the alphabet. Feel free to argue with me on this, as I could easily be convinced otherwise.

Grab your brass birdcage and put on your most delicate jewelry. I have a proposal for you.

OMG I think of things to blog about all the time, mostly in those moments when I'm drifting off to sleep at night and dreams intermingle with lucid thoughts. The result is something like this: "That's it, I should blog about my love of tomato-based condiments and then the dragon is eating that dog and the owner is screaming and the owner is a blind gym teacher." See? The first part was real, and the second part was a dream creeping in.

But of course now, when I finally sit down after two weeks of very little creative productivity, I have nothing. Except this - a proposal:

Let's all go live in an Anthropologie catalog. Sounds amazing, right? You can bring the porcelain deer and three polite children wearing oversized galoshes. You, over there - you bring the tree house and the tea party and the hand-knit sweater with the owl-shaped buttons. Someone will need to volunteer to find a winter scene and a well-trained Italian Greyhound that isn't frightened of antique typewriters. I'll bring the whimsy. In the Anthropologie catalog, everyone uses perfect grammar and eschews modern amenities. Nothing is practical and everything is clever. I want to go there. You should come to, but be aware that you will have to leave your cares behind.

Are you in?

So this is what it's like.

When I first moved to Chicago, I made the drive in my Ford Focus (RIP, or Rest in Someone Else's Driveway, I guess I should say), surrounded by literally all of my worldly belongings. This included Rat Baby (a 600lb doorstop/mascot), clothing, books and a few granola bars. This did not include a bed, as I was forced to leave mine behind in Omaha. As a result, I ended up sleeping on an air mattress for the first eight months I lived here. In the winter, the air inside said mattress would drop to ungodly temperatures - I would liken it to sleeping on a cloud of late January and bronchitis. I had to allow an extra hour every morning just to recover from the restless night's sleep I'd just gotten. Despite the fact that in warmer weather it was far more comfortable than one would expect an air mattress to be, I was not sad to see it go. However, its replacement wasn't a great deal better, as it was a floor mattress. No frame or box spring. And even though I'd gotten used to sleeping at eye level with the carpet, it still left me wanting more. No one wants to wake up to the sight of unmatched socks and bobby pins every monring.

Flash forward another five months. When my mom suggested she and my brother spend Thanksgiving weekend up here, I could hardly contain myself knowing she would come equipped with a mini van and the patience (or blissful ignorance) necessary to navigate Ikea. We made a pit stop in Bolingbrook on the way into town on Friday and came away with a lamp, a comforter cover, a table for Lauren, a glazed look in our eyes, an unsatisfied curiosity as to what Ikea meatballs taste like (particle board? paper lampshades?), and a bed. Mission accomplished. It sat unassembled until this morning, when my mom and I set our alarms for 7:00, chugged a pot of coffee and took over the dining room in a flurry of screw drivers, Swedish instructions and good intentions. Three hours later, I had a bed. I don't think it's really sunken in yet. It probably won't until I come upon some newly minted Chicagoan who's still sleeping on a glorified life preserver. Then and only then will I realize my good fortune and think back on the times when I too could "crawl into bed," "roll out of bed" and "deflate my bed" with complete honesty.

Thanksgiving dos, don'ts and general thoughts on gratitude.

Do: Read Persepolis. I read it on the way home last night, and it left me feeling slightly sad, inspired, far more informed on relations between Iran and Iraq during the early 80s. Its honest humor keeps it relatively lighthearted in the midst of extreme turmoil. Anyway, it's a quick read, so if you're looking for something to do while your green bean casserole digests...

Don't: Watch Hard Candy. Lauren and I chose it from the array of free movies available from On Demand. Not even a 40 of Bud Light and a box of Cheez-Its could make it more palatable. I haven't confirmed this yet, but I think it was adapted from a play, as it was chock full of incessant, pointless dialog. We will never be able to watch Juno with the same detached joy now. Our innocence has been stolen. Don't make the same mistake we did.

Do: Rediscover music on an old laptop that has since been adopted by your brother to write college essays on. I spent some time with A & B on iTunes this morning - Architecture in Helsinki, old Belle & Sebastian, Ben Kweller, Blackalicious...

Don't: Take Megabus on Thanksgiving unless you have the patience of a saint and a Nalgene bottle full of NyQuil. It was Mega crowded. The ride was Mega long. The passengers were Mega talkative, which makes it hard when all you want to do is listen to a little M. Ward, lean your head against the cold window, and dream about an imaginary buddy movie starring 1986 Steve Gutenberg and 1994 Bill Pullman. In said dream, I have been cast as the romantic foil.

General thoughts on gratitude...
I will not sit here and prattle on about what I'm grateful for, as everyone has their own respective lists, and most subjects are overlapping and universal. I will say, however, that this past year has made my qualifications for what constitutes gratitude a bit more open to interpretation. In a good way. I recently read a Vanity Fair interview with Carolina Herrera, and even though I'm not normally one to take heed of the wise words of famous designers, it was actually pretty insightful. When asked what she considers to be the lowest depth of misery, she replied "the suffering of someone you love." I couldn't agree more. It is horrid and painful and inescapable. But once you're able to step outside that suffering just long enough to gain even an iota of perspective, it has an immense effect of how you view gratitude. Because when luck is shining favorably on you, gratitude tends to manifest itself in stock reasons that you absentmindedly pull from the same place that makes you say, "I hate mushrooms, too," "How was your weekend?" and "I'm sorry" when you don't mean it. Conversely, the times when it seems like everything could stand to be better than it is... those are the times when gratitude is real and raw and supremely genuine. So to go back on what I said I wouldn't do just moments ago, I am thankful for my family for keeping me grounded, my friends for keeping me sane, my dad for giving me someone tangible to talk to when I find myself talking to no one in particular, my cat for reaching age 16 with only a mild case of diabetes (the feline drivers license I guess), and Bill Pullman for seriously considering that script I sent him.

Happy Thanksgiving!
Best,
Catherine

Cranberry Sauce and Health Insurance

Now I can get this rash looked at, this finger reattached, an antibiotic for this TB.
Because, after two weeks of freelance auditioning (and two weeks of relentless anxiety, night sweats and late-night episodes of Nancy Grace), I am gainfully employed. Knock on this particleboard desk...

And while I will temporarily be mourning the loss of the free time I'd come to know, love and fully exploit, this is better in the long run. Especially when it comes to paying rent. More on the seven stages of re-employment grief later. Now? A song. Because, as the saying goes, when a life event such as a breakup mars one Pogues song, YouTube opens a window and reminds you that there are others that you like just as much, if not more.

So my adventure into 90s Irish pop music continues, to your benefit.

The last bees of summer: Growing up, literally and figuratively

Coming to you live from St. Louis, where I've spent roughly 1.3 of the past 3 months, all told. Now that I've been 26 for two days, the figurative part of growing up has come in the conscious decision to stop playing the martyr. You probably haven't realized it (because I'm so good at it!), but I'm really good at it. I spent my first afternoon home finding stealthy and biting ways to remind my mom that I'd rather be in Chicago. I've since taken a step back, buttoned my lip and chosen to appreciate my time here (for various reasons I will touch on later). Besides, it is best to take advantage of being laid off by getting out of town. A normal person would feel guilty using PTO to lie on a futon and watch License to Wed. A jobless person feels productive.

Yesterday I decided to ignore whatever sinister virus has taken over my bronchial region and go for a run down Forsyth and alongside Forest Park . It was drizzling a little, but the weather was pretty mild, and as I stopped to get a drink of water near the History Museum, I noticed a bee resting feebly on the faucet, picking up its legs individually to avoid the drops of accumulating rain. A last vestige of summer before the weather becomes completely unbearable. This is evident beyond the few resilient insects, as the park itself was still green and gold... a stately reminder of what makes this city quietly beautiful. Last week my aunt took her kids to the park to take advantage of another balmy day. In her email, she referred to these pictures being a reflection of "St. Louis at its best" - a pretty accurate statement.




My mom's listening to AM radio in the kitchen, and apparently we're getting snow today. I imagine I witnessed that bee's final moments on earth.

We had some family over for dinner last night, a small fraction of the whole (which means like, 15 people). I received half a bouncy ball and some phenomenal homemade cards, including one with my likeness drawn on it. It looks sort of like The Scream, only not as pretty. Instead of saying grace, my uncle decided to look up YouTube versions of I'll Tell Me Ma. I think my favorite is Sinead O'Connor. I can't take credit for these amazing montages involving burning embers, kittens and old album cover images. Someone far more genius than me had a hand in this. I just copy and paste.



I ushered in 26 drinking Bud Select and watching It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia with Annie, Kevin and Heather. It was perfectly mundane, and I loved it. Here's to hoping it sets the tone for the coming year. No unwelcome surprises. Business as usual. I have a lot riding on you, current age. If you let me down, I'll be forced to abandon you for something new this time next year.

Wind it up, lean back and show your socks.

The phone interview I was scheduled for at 9:30 this morning has now been postponed until tomorrow afternoon, a factor I did not find out about until 9:30. As a result, I am currently a walking, talking, caffeinated ball of pure adrenaline, and I need something to do. Quickly. I woke up and cleaned my room at 2:30 this morning, I've already been to the gym, I have enough Starbucks and DayQuil in my system to paralyze a Clydesdale. Hand me a box of Lincoln Logs and I'll build you a four-bedroom house with a laundry room, fenced-in yard and central air. I'll build a little matching one for your kids to play in too.

Joe, mi hermano, sent me the Do Da Stanky Legg video as a form of good luck and intellectual inspiration. Check it. And then hit the booty doo.




"In the end the only steps that matter are the ones you take all by yourself."
In addition to being a sucker for Stanky Leggs, I'm also a fool for anything that talks and is made of felt. Therefore the new Weepies video, featuring generic Muppet versions of Deb Talan and Steve Tannen, is pretty great.

DID YOU KNOW?
Did you know that this song was featured in one of Obama's campaign spots? It was.

The Marble Faun

At this point in time, I would liken myself to both the little girl from Signs who collects glasses of water and the mother/daughter team of crazies from Grey Gardens. Presently there are three glasses of water, two half-full cans of Diet Dr. Pepper and two Starbucks cups (which may or may not be filled with old, cold coffee and a delicate surface film of mold) on my desk. Also, much like Big and Little Edie, I've chosen to ignore the rest of our apartment in favor of my bedroom, which is roughly the size of a (small) box of kleenex. I've been working on my computer a lot, mostly to send out resumes and do Google image searches. Said computer is missing its delete key and tethered to the wall by what has now become its umbilical cord of power. Therefore visits to coffee shops and the dining room are more or less out of the question. Point being, my inclination toward untidiness and Howard Hughes-like behavior is reaching new heights during this break from employment. I could excuse it by saying I thrive on chaos, but at this point I'm one camping stove and two raccoons away from official recluse status. I guess I owe my remaining sanity to LVAC. You kind of have to leave the house and go to the gym every day when you know your membership dues could send an orphan to school for a year.

Last night I went to see Bob Schneider at the Double Door with Heather and her friend Kayla. And as I stood there watching a guy in a pinstriped shirt sway with arms overhead in the front row, I decided that Bob's music could be put into a few distinct categories: music to drink Natural Light and make observations about the intricacies of human behavior to, and more importantly,

music for married stockbrokers to conceive second children to
music for thirty-somethings to reminisce about flip cup to
music for otherwise straight-laced white people to get a little crazy to

Oh man, did they get crazy.

Happy Halloween, or Some Detective Work, or I Blue Myself

About twenty minutes ago, I was standing at the corner of Broadway and Belmont, waiting to cross at the light. A group of bald (of the shaved head variety) men came and stood in front of me, looking around with shifty eyes and mumbling to each other. At first I found myself wondering why the residual members of Heaven's Gate were standing in front of Chipotle. And then I noticed that more than one of them had something blue speckling their inner ears. Paint perhaps? And then, seconds before the light turned red, it all came together.

"Only a fool laughs when nothing's funny."

I started in on my library movies last night, beginning with The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. In hindsight, I probably wasn't really ready to watch a movie with its setting and subject matter, and it affected me above and beyond basic cinematic appreciation. I really can't even put into words how moving it was, visually, viscerally, etc. If you are willing to risk your Obama campaign worker stranger roommate walking in on you weeping quietly under a Cubs blanket on the couch, go ahead and rent it. It's worth it.

Montage!

It's so easy and easy and easy and easy and creepy and creepy and creepy and creepy

I just got an email from Lucky magazine offering me the Lucky Guide to Mastering Any Style, and never before have I had more disdain for the publication because it is a magazine about BUYING THINGS. And I am still feeling guilty about my $8 cab ride last night. I imagine the next time I will be able to justify spending $200 on riding boots will be when the money fichus in our living room blooms in Spring.

I always knew I was far more productive when I was heartpoundingly, unimaginably busy. It's during those times that I can turn five spare minutes into a shiny window of output, creative or otherwise. Getting laid off is paralyzing to a certain extent. You're not angry enough to throw a brick through a window/move to Mexico/open a competing banana stand across the street. You're not satisfied enough to simply appreciate your blessings and surroundings. You're not complacent... but I guess complacency is far more paralyzing than the temporary handicap a lay-off brings. There is still a small fire burning in there somewhere.

Annie has the right idea in turning this unexpected time of reevaluation into something tangible and thought-provoking. I suggest checking it out: awesome idea, amazing person, good read. Me? I've been too busy:

Eating my roommate's waffles
Getting hooked on One Tree Hill
Trying out weird cardio equipment at the gym
Ridding the library of their subtitled movies
Not watching said movies
Dressing like a college sophomore
Watching fan-made YouTube montages, mostly of the Pam & Jim variety*
Strategizing endlessly over how I will spend the $10 Walgreens gift card my mom sent

I burned a CD of some of the songs I had on my computer at work, and while a great many are pretty shiteous and only made the cut because of some inexplicable sentimental attachment, here are a few favorites - listened to day in and day out for the past year...



Really, really awesome video starring my mom when she was eight. If you're ever talking to me and I start to stare off into space, this is what it looks like inside my mind.


Change of plans. The Bird and the Bee video extravaganza.


And this one, because it's so pretty.



*A magical recipe of poorly edited clips, the Grey's Anatomy Soundtrack and Final Cut Pro that only a random 13-year-old girl in Tampa can effectively put together

Way to Bee.

Check out my friend Steve's
interview with Samantha Bee.

Those who can't work shave the cat's back.

This afternoon, I spilled half a mixing bowl of liquefied casserole on my jeans and Chucks. Thursday, I was walked Spanish, as is common these days. Both occurrences were and are inconvenient and supremely uncomfortable. Every other event within the last 72 hours has been relatively positive.

Tomorrow I will cope with being a casualty of this downtrodden economy by ridding the family cat of the matted fur on his back. And as life continues its assault on the latter half of 2008, I'm still trying to laugh. I've been successful thus far. This morning my mom and I went to breakfast for her birthday, but given the circumstances, we ended up at IHOP. In the rock/paper/scissors of day-to-day existence, lay-off trumps birthday by smothering it with pity.

This blog never really had a theme before, at least not an overtly detectable one. I'm seeking purpose in the interim. Hmmmm...

Be back shortly with cereal and perspective.

26.Washcloth

Yesterday, at my friend Lauren's* behest, I jumped in at the corner by my apartment and ran a decent portion of the marathon with her. I'd like to think I kept her going for that stretch, but in reality I probably just served as an annoyance. After all, she had nearly eight miles on me by the time she reached Roscoe and Broadway and was beginning to realize just how much lay ahead. I was caffeinated, conversational and held no obligation to reach the finish line. I was a ghost runner put in place to drink free Gatorade and hound my running mate with constant, asinine observations like "look, free vaseline." Anyway, in the relatively short time I spent on the marathon route, I saw Chicago transformed into something similar to Sesame Street with more grownups and slightly fewer muppets. Each neighborhood greeted the participants with overwhelming enthusiasm, bullhorns, worn recordings of "Pump Up the Jam" and assorted gifts. In Lincoln Park, it was beer. In Old Town, green sponges. In the South Loop, it was little Snickers bars. In the West Loop, it was Fig Newtons. And in Greek Town, it was a ziplock back filled with damp, used washcloths. Probably the most questionable offering of the lot, but at that point most runners had reached a state of heat-induced confusion, and any gift was accepted with unnatural appreciation. It was a huge sweaty love fest, littered with paper cups and the occasional fallen runner. I of course ditched out as soon as I saw the gleam of a Brown Line stop in the distance, but for a few hours, I had the opportunity to see the city at its most utopian. And it was sort of awesome.

My mom's birthday is this Saturday, and I'm going home to help her celebrate. I imagine we'll mark the occasion by splitting a can of room temp Bud Light, poured into styrofoam cups and served over ice cubes.** If we decide to take it up a notch, maybe we'll eat soup. But in any event, I've been trying to figure out what to get her. A few weeks after my dad died, Lynn Johnston ran her second-to-last For Better or For Worse strip in our local paper, and it moved my mom so much that she proceeded to clip it and carry it around with her, showing it to the occasional relative and family friend. Maybe I'll frame it, maybe I'll spend the $65 to have Lynn autograph it. Or maybe I will completely forget between now and then and proceed to give her a homemade card and a gift certificate for a manicure that will never be redeemed. Regardless, here it is, for your "this would warm my heart if I were turning 60, too" enjoyment.


* Congratulations, Lauren!
** Fact: I imagine this will happen because it has happened before.

But ships are fallible, I say

They began construction on the lobby of our office building the week I moved to Chicago, and they finished it about two weeks ago, celebrating its completion (and the addition of a half-dozen pieces of questionable modern art) with a reception last night. We milled around for a good hour and a half, refusing congealed appetizers, sipping little plastic cups of wine and gawking at all of the people who actually work in our building, on floors above and below us, every day. I ride the elevator with a few each morning. I've never seen them all amassed in one location. I guess it was eye-opening, possibly comforting. With a good Merlot buzz going (I always talk about wine! I love wine so much I guess), I ventured out into the pouring rain and met some Second City folks for a show at the IO... where I drank a bit more (I also love reneging on promises made to quit drinking on weeknights). When I got home, I made toast (and finally, I love toast) and passed out watching It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia. I woke up a few hours later to a news story about blood spatter conferences. Again: Blood Spatter Conferences. Which apparently exist. I was more likely to wake up to Suzanne Somers selling me a sequined jean jacket, but of course I was roused by blood spatter conferences. It took me an hour to get back to sleep. I guess the last two sentences were the whole point of that entire drawn-out story.

If you are like me, when you are on a plane, you automatically tune out the oxygen mask demonstration in order to do something more interesting, like deciding which Sky Mall page to leave your gum on or playing The Next Song Will Determine the Course of the Rest of My Life with your iPod. Sometimes I worry that I've tuned something out so many times on the simple assumption that I already know how, and that I really don't know how, and that someday I will be forced to actually do it... and not be able to.

These are two versions of one song. In my book, both parties can do no wrong. The only thing Joanna Newsom is guilty of is being incomprehensibly different from anyone else in existence. And the Decemberists could poop in a paper bag and I'd still listen to it.

The cover


The original

I'm taking you to Del Taco...

...and you can get anything you want from the menu. Even one of the more expensive items, like the Macho Burrito.

Happy birthday, Paul! You've made it 18 years without getting arrested or disowned. When Joe dropped that Tonka truck on you the day mom and dad brought you home from the hospital, I knew you'd be a survivor, and you haven't let me down yet. I'll never forget the time you let me give you a haircut when you were two or the time you went to see 27 Dresses with me when you were 17. Have a great day (register to vote). I'll see you tonight.

Dear Sarah Palin,
When you stand on the banks of the Mississippi, you can see Illinois from St. Louis. I just thought you should know that.

Enjoy your time in my fair city.

Best,
Catherine

P.S. I'll be there tomorrow in case you're still around and want to compare bikinis.

Molasses Candy

So for some reason, work completely exploded over the past few days, and I'm back in the mental state I was in Sophomore year of college, when all of my obligations amassed into a semester of Program Board meetings and on-campus concerts and print design projects that resulted in 5 a.m. trips to the Kinko’s on Dodge. Annie and I would eat Chuckles from the vending machine and print poorly designed record store labels while Keith copied his face and butt. But that's neither here nor there. It all amounts to a lot of writing, a lot of sleep deprivation... I brought home some work tonight and rewarded myself with Barefoot Shiraz (viewing that as a reward is a pretty clear indicator of my income bracket).

Recent discussion among roommates of a possible Halloween party (which has since fallen through) led me to do some reflection on last year's Halloween, which in hindsight was pretty supremely amazing. It made up for the year I was Baby Jessica and Jared Nelson set my well on fire. It even made up for the year or two I opted to watch Dateline instead of going out. I ended up in Portland for the weekend prior and, after a trip to a thrift store in Annie's neighborhood, decided to drape myself in $.25 keyboards and extension cords and go as technology (which paled in comparison to her Amy Winehouse). The weekend after, I returned to Omaha to move my final minivan load of belongings home, and went out as Tom Cruise from Risky Business (you say unoriginal, I say a good excuse to wear Wayfarers inside Barry O's). And then I finally came to rest in St. Louis on the actual holiday, drinking White Zinfandel with my mom on the front porch while we handed out candy to the kids I used to baby sit for. In hindsight, I couldn't have spent it better... I was the only kid at home, and as we oohed over babies dressed as pumpkins and a dozen or so Hannah Montanas, my dad sat just inside the front door on the living room couch, writing down every joke he heard in a spiral notebook... commenting on some, laughing quietly to himself about others. He made me repeat the ones he couldn't hear, and half of them had something to do with six being afraid of seven and seven eating nine. By the grace of whomever, last year's Halloween allowed me to be in three pretty meaningful locations within the span of a week. This year I will probably dress as Laura Ingalls Wilder (fingers/bonnet crossed) and end up sleeping in a pile of Charleston Chews somewhere on Clark, but you win some, you lose some, you dress as a pioneer... for some.

Congratulations on passing the IL Bar, Cort! I expect you on my doorstep, looking lawyerly, bright and early tomorrow.