PS.

I haven't written about my fair windy city recently, and that's because I no longer live there. You read it right, and I'm sure if you live in that city, you've felt the difference... the air may no longer smell as sweet, the sensitive ferns blush without even a touch, the strawberry trees bear no fruits, the roads may seem safer, the drunks not as drunk... it's because I've gone off to explore the world, or at least the southeastern Asian region... I live in South Korea. I teach English to some awesome - but not nearly as well-behaved as I imagined - Korean children. I still blog, but not about my pretty Chi City. Read about my new adventures as an American Penguin in South Korea (www.iwanttogototheresk.blogspot.com).

Peace be with you, good wheat-eating folks of the Midwest, coastal snobs near the sea, Southern gents and belles, Northern folks with your parkas and sleds. I wish you all well. And until we meet again, take care, take care.

Another Airport Adventure

Man, it's another case of "coulda, shoulda, woulda" as it seemingly goes for most things in my life... especially involving the airport. God, I hate flying. I mean, I love that it gets me places I'm going super fast... unless I miss my flight by missing the check-in luggage deadline of 45 minutes pre-flight by two minutes because O'Hare's terminals are poorly marked and then when I frantically ask someone if they know which way is which they point me in the opposite direction, and I run and run like the McCallisters (minus Kevin) and then when I run up the stairs, passing people on the escalator they say, "Oh, you're strong." And I want to say, "Oh, you take up a lot of space on those moving stairs and if there wasn't so much space between us and if I wasn't insanely late I would jump over this partition and punch you." So, I was in Terminal 1, but that was only for carry-ons so I cried and ran to what I thought was Terminal 2, but no, it was just a slow moving shuttle to Terminal 2 that I totally coulda ran to. And I shoula taken that cab that honked at me and I woulda made the train I just missed and I shoulda gone with my gut instinct of Terminal 2 to begin with, and then I woulda been on a plane right now... oh woe. Is me. So it goes.

But then it was also good, because I realized that I am incredibly strong, like Incredible Hulk strong because I had to quell my strength so as not to pick up my suitcase and throw it through the glass doors, because then I would probably not make it to New Jersey today. At least I'm not on stand-by.

Airports make me hate humanity.

And slow zones on the Blue Line make me want to rip the seats from the fixtures and scream like an animal. And then I would rip my ovaries out like that silverback gorilla does in "Congo" and throw them at the conductor and say, "GO THE SPEED LIMIT" and then I would cry and whimper, "I don't want to miss my flight" and then I would curl into a fetal position and rock myself to sleep, sprinkling my dreams with salty tears.

I'm going to Joisey! I'm excited! I'm moving to Korea! I'm scared!

My friend, Lauren, brings up an interesting point...

So come on, come on, come on and laugh and dance with me...

Really Awesome Candy

Benji Hughes!! I finally got my copy of "A Love Extreme" - it's been on my list for quite some time now, and I luvrf it. Listen to some of the songs, they're about love; pop-y funtimes with quirky, lovely lyrics. The melodies and stories become one in "A Love Extreme" because it seems they are... in love, with eachother, the music and lyrics (which I watched the end and beginning of Friday night, then switched over to "Slaughterhouse Five" but that's not now, and I digress). From an electronic note to his neighbor down the hall to a love ballad about a girl in a tower, Benji covers all genres of music; he's everywhere from Weezer to Poison to Elvis Costello. Enjoy.Also, is it just me or does Mr. Hughes bear a slight resemblance to the dearly departed, Mr. Mitch Hedberg? Probably just the sunglasses, shaggy hair and my overexposure to the sun. Or, they could be brothers.

So it goes...

Rothbury. I don't even know where to begin. How about the beginning? (Note: might I recommend a bathroom/water/stretch break now as I feel a long-winded explanation of things to come.)

Wednesday, July 1, I was filled with an overwhelming sense of joy as I ran my errands for the day; it was one of those days that just make you feel happy that you're alive, aka., Summertime. Smiling was inevitable. My musical partner for the trip, Katie Baby (nickname came from guy hitting on me at an MU party, sophomore year, he kept saying, "Katie! Katie, Baby!" and naturally I gave him the cold shoulder because he called me, "Katie" but Ms. VH and I use it happily to call each other) arrived around 10:30pm and we hit the hay around 11pm, waking in the bird infested pre-dawn darkness at 2:33a. A quick trip to Jewel and a few head slaps at forgotten items later, we hit the road at 3:37a. On the road, via texts from other Rothbury friends, we find out that Roth opened the gates at 10pm Wednesday night, instead of the called for 8am Thursday time. Uncool. Uncool. But, hey, there's nothing we can do, but keep going how we're going. One good thing about the gates opening early was the cut in waiting time - we were probably only in line for an hour, or so. I got a sinking feeling in my chest as we pulled into the campgrounds, surrounded by unfamiliar, far off seeming landmarks of highways and fence borders... this looks miles away from last year, and to prove it, a map of camping locations relative to the festival grounds (if you'll note the main stage is in the top left-hand corner, the entrance to music just below the center lake... our camping spot last year was just before the second cluster of trees off the main road, on the left of center... this year, this year we were camped in the lower right-hand corner, down about 12 tents from the barn, on the right - that's right, we walked).
.

Though the distance was there, excitement was also in the air. As Katie and I were driving to our camping spot, a tall man was running down the line of cars, throwing up high fives; he stopped at our car to catch his breath, hooted and hollered, gave another high five, we laughed and I gave him an ice cold one. "Why not? It's 9:30. It's Rothbury. I already drank a case. What's one more!?" YEAH!! He took his brewski and continued down the line of cars, shouting exultations.

(Above: view grounds from roof of car, KVH. Note: music straight ahead and to the left) Our neighbors were Max and Susie from DC, and Elliot, Colby and Derek from Iowa. We were all smiles. The clouds were perfect nap coverage, so Katie and I took advantage of the cool afternoon and snuggled down; in the tiny tent I threatened farts as we were head-to-feet and my butt was in her face; I laughed, she smacked.

Going into the music Thursday night, we were ready with bubbles and glow in tow. The glow served a dual purpose as a whistle, and so Katie and I made a pact to blow twice if we ever got lost/separated; "Two whistles and we know it's us."

An older, balding gentleman, who was in front of us at the entrance, in a mini-van with his two 20something kids from NY decorated for the Dead, now walked down the dusty lane and said, with goggles on his head, "Don't be afraid to swim upstream."

Thursday night tunes: Toubab Krewe, reminded me of Funkadelic's "Who Says...". Mosied through Keller Williams, who seems to be the DMB of festy jam tunes, also somehow he was integrated into other artist's acts. Baffling. The rocking baby picture was taken at Davy Knowles and the Back Door Slam, lead lead is from the Isle of Man and heavily influenced by Dire Straits. He also recorded a song with Frampton, it sounds very Frampton. Lifesavas and the Mighty Underdogs DJin' MJ shit from the Quannum All Stars. Future Rock was synth happy and bass heavy, super trance! I really liked Lotus. Katie and I opted for a seated side view, and watched the music and lights wash over the captivated crowd with guitar revelation. I really liked 'em. Really a lot. Agreed with the guy grinning giantly, one of the best sets of the fest. For sure. And spectacular lighting, too, but that can be said for a lot, if not all, of the shows. OH MY GOD! The Cool Kids, yes! Yes! They were so good. Ooh! And on the way from Future Rock to Lotus, I found a branch/walking stick that instantly became both a blessing and a burden, though it was the perfect dancing accessory to the hip-hop happiness and stirring it up while shaking it down. I was very happy to finally see the Cold War Kids live, and they were fantastic! Notes while waiting for the CWK:

Want of sleep vs. Want of music.

Sleepaftermusic.

Patience is a virtue.

the jolly policemen

walk past the friendly

game of frisbee and

I say, Hello Rothbury.

The smoke and fog set the stage for the Cold War Kids to appear.

"Hey, Dan."

Dan. Dan. Dan. Dan.... Dan Dan Dan.

I think it wass -- zzzzz

all the Red Bull. (we need to ration the RB from now on)

Technical difficulties with DAN

Jesus walked across

the stage after

the first song,

(he's lingering in the wings in case something goes wrong)

Result of waiting through the mic check 1-2-3. CWK, can I do that? I'm doing that. I dug 'em. I like the Bluesy-rock vibe, and he sure is a phrase repeater, but there's just something about that voice. Wow. 3-4 Red Bulls each seemed a necessary thing as three hours of sleep, then driving and dancing takes toll on the mind, body and soul, all which Red Balls revitalizes! "I'm pissing neon green Minotaur."

At Disco Biscuits,

the stars twinkled and

spoke while the viking

sat laughing nearby.

Though we caught a lot, and I'm impressed with Katie's and my endurance through the weekend, I wish we would've caught the Glitch Mob, and gotten to Man Man's musical mess before the last song, but we did run. We also missed a bluegrass band Katie wanted to see on Saturday, but hey! only missin' 3 out of lots, that's great!

FRIDAY!! Yoga in the morning, and it feels soooo good!! Oh wow. I've never practiced outside before, or with so many people, and it was a perfect peace before the embarking on another day of dancing. There were pigeons and crows and eagles and bows and warriors, dogs both down and up, and even chanting. It was a wonderful way to welcome the day. Then I ran into a friend on the way back to the tent, and another two showed up on their way to the tunes - happiness!

After a nap, we ran the last bit of forest to Man Man. G. Love & Special Sauce was surprisingly honky tonk and white, as I was expecting something in the West Coast line of Mr. Nate Dog and the Warren to the G, funk. Martin Sexton, "coulda sworn it was Keller Williams, and think so as perhaps Martin thanked him later on... hmm, go home Keller, this ain't your show." Rebelution, great reggae. Broken Social Scene made me happy to relive pubescent years. The African sun shone through Femi Kuti & the Positive Force's set in joyous celebration preaching love and togetherness in their golden glow. Damien Marley and Nas were disappointing, to say the least. Soulive and I were in the same place physically, but I think I was napping with my eyes open. Strolled through and refilled water to Flogging Molly's Irish rock which was more pleasant in person I'm happy to report.

Nap and recoup. Glow up and penguin in. Unfortunately, we made it back in the beginning-to-middle of String Cheese's second set. The whole scene reminded me of being in the South Park episode when a festival comes to town and they have to drill through the amassing crowd of hippies and blast death metal so they disperse. You know that one? The jamming was non-stop and played out, basically the band sounded like it was dying onstage. SCI went so far as to have acrobatics, professional glow hoopin' and big balls bouncing through the crowds - with a red one big enough to crush a group of 14 people in one bounce - to distract us from their lame tunes.
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Boredom called for adventure and we frolicked into the forest to freak people out in my peguin-ness. I caused an incurable giggling episode and exit by a burly bearded bear of a man when Katie and I entered the tree tee pee. Some kid from Florida wanted to take a picture with me, and it all went downhill from there. I'm tell you, I was mobbed as this penguin. A penguin needs peace! And there I was, waddling around, and everyone calling me out on it; just trying to enjoy myself like anyone else and I get swarmed like Daisy Duck at Disney World.

Holding hand to flipper - or, wait, is it fin? - Katie and I skipped to Chromeo, who reminded us who they were in every song, though always differently to keep interest up. The lights were bright and the music, bopping. From behind their glowing legs came flashy sounds and shaking songs.
.

I loved to hate Girl Talk, a lot. I'm pretty certain I love it right now. Though the mixes and blends are obscene and outrageous in terms of pairing choices, everything fits so seamlessly like it was always meant to be. So much fun, Greg Gillis truly knows how to make a party, even though he does dance like Igor, he composes like a mad scientist, bending and lurching between his computer turn table system and exciting the crowd by hop-hop-hoppin' around. The screen behind him often flashed through the otherwise dark night, "I AM NOT A DJ (GIRL TALK)" and other things Club Kids love. A penguin went on stage and had it not been the end of the set, I woulda run for it and embraced it in a loving penguin hug - it was a goal to meet the penguin while in penguin (I saw him the next day, I was not in penguin, a greeting seemed not appropriate. Later, I was informed there was also another girl penguin, and overheard people saying, "There's so many penguins this year.") It was chilly. STS9 sounded crisp.

.
SATURDAY, ooh! The fourth! Happy FREEDOMS!

only because the fireworks reminded me, "...they danced down the street like dingledoodies, and I shambled after as I've been doing all my life after the people who interest me, because the only ones for me are the mad ones, the ones mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes, 'Awww!'"
.

Another day started with yoga. Nap, then inside. FREE ICE CREAM!! from Ben & Jerry's. Yum! We went to Wendy Darling because we told the band we would the night before when we met them waiting for SCI to be done sucking. They were great, sounded very good with potential to make it main stream and seeming well on their way. Although I'd like to hear a little more variety in the topic of songs as most, if not all, were about broken hearts over a failed relationship/lost love, "Oh, it started out so nice, and then it ended..." womp, womp, womp. Lady singer's super talented though, as is rest of the band. Kudos to you, WD. Abbrv.s, I know!
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Walked through country-inspired Son Volt on the way to Hill Country Review, bluegrass that sometimes plays with North Mississippi All Stars, and that's who we were wishing they were. Jackie Greene was a good lookin' fellow who played the guitar, harmonica and sang in a slightly rough-around-the-edges twang. Just a country bumpkin playing on his porch, in overalls and a straw hat, inviting Phil Lesh over for a sesh.
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Zappa Plays Zappa was sick rockin'. 110%. Singer in plaid did amazing interpretive-choreographed dance that he stole from my repertoire! Seemingly. Saw a bit of the Black Crowes, wondering what Chris Robinson saw in Kate Hudson. Zing. (kidding)

The Dead played that night, and my. Wow. Well, that was an experience. Awesome and terrifying as there were moments the music felt like it was going to collapse around me. More pictures of the penguin during moments of high anxiety make me curious as to how they turned out... the naked, hopping, spinning hippies made me smile, but they weren't always in view as after half an hour or so their spinning spread a wider radius. There were two or three little hippie boys with their families on a blanket off to the right, in front of us, and one of the little boys wasn't enjoying the show at the same time I wasn't enjoying the show and we were both sitting down, but he had a blanket, and all I had was my penguin costume because we were tired of carrying that stinkin' blanket, so I hugged my knees and laughed as the moon rose through the trees and the sky painted itself from mauve to black. Thoughts of prioritizing penguins, reaching pure penguin potential and worries over origins and habitats were interrupted by one of the little hippies who wanted to know about Katie's and my glow laterns. As he quizzed Katie on the glow, the ends of his long golden hair flew in the fading sunlight, his lil pot belly poked out of his open plaid shirt and he titled his head inquisitively. He informed us that he did not, in fact, like it when glow sticks were thrown in the air in celebration because it was littering. Then he started going off on about how it'd be neat to ride in a balloon packed with so much helium that it'll fly up to outerspace and float around for a while... that's littering, too, kid, and a surefire way to get yourself lost in space, maybe you shouldn't eat so much acid next time. We made fun of his imagination as Katie and I watched his friends try to reproduce our glow latern by his instructions. We danced through the crowd for the rest of the Dead's set.
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Pretty Lights was indeed that (there were swirling balls of light everywhere). And the fireworks were incredible!! Spectacular, unbelievable!! I liked how the common crowd response was that of clapping, cheering and guffaws instead the boring and polite "ooh"s and "aah"s one would hear at the local baseball field's display. With their luring lights we stayed and swayed past a girl who shouted with her glazed eyes, "I love you! Can we take a picture?" (making me feel even more like a theme park mascot) to MSTRKRFT, who played their house music loud and proud and remixed shit up, too; they did a whole spiel on how house is the universal music and how when they play it's "our house" and we're all house. It was a decent fun dancin' show until then end when the speakers finally crackled and fizzed out after a song's length slow death, so that kinda ruined the whole beginning and middle greatness with the shit-tastic end.

Exhausted, Katie and I passed through STS9's PA set beginning and EOTO's dancing, thumping light show. Picture of a man walking down the lane, but on the wrong side so it looks like a cyclopes, ooooh!

SUNDAY!! chillin' [out max and relaxin' all cool]

Finishing the festival out with more yoga. Still kind of tired from no nap on Saturday and end up drinking 5 beers and falling asleep on the blanket throughout different sets in the afternoon. Toots! and the Maytals were a fun time, sunnin'. Peter Rowan Bluegrass Band with Tony Rice was enjoyably Southern. Guster was great! Classic. Perfect Sunday afternoon easy listening. Fell asleep at Grace Potter and the Nocturnals and woke up to Matisyahu's wailing to mosey over to Willie Nelson & Family - I fell asleep in the shade for this one, then Katie wandered away and I didn't want to stay, but we forgot our whistles so I looked around and closed my eyes again. We left to take down camp to "Gotta Get Drunk" so that made me happy.

Tent take-down and once last trek inside for Dylan's closing. Phenomenal. The man has not lost his touch. So good to close on.

Farewell, Rothbury. With your stinkin' happy hippies and fans of music. Through the dust and the clouds we made it to dance in the sunshine and bask in the glory of it all. What a way to celebrate our freedoms by 4 days of fun. Though we forgot a few things, we made due and saw our way through, happily, through to the end, driving home with hopes to do it again.

1. Medicine 2. More costumes 3. Block ice 4. Jeans 5. Blanket/tapestry - and there was something else...

A Couple notes in closing....

"Wishing and hoping don't make things come true without action.
Life and music. Stop rushing to certain points without being aware and experiencing the ride there. It's a musical thing and we're supposed to dance or sing while the music is being played.
Shoulders lowered, elbows drawn in. To be one with and recognize our relation to the Earth. The center of our being. Oneness. The breath of life flowing in and out.

It really was a majestic and magnificent place, I have to say that. And for all the pictures that I meant to take, but didn't, at least I can hold the memory as beautiful and remember the serene, peaceful feeling upon stepping into those woods and breathing in the scent of pine and the cool, damp Earth; marvelous."

Also, I'd like to investigate the level of green-ness at this festival. Lighting, etc. Is it all solar? Didn't seem so. Festival claims to be green, but not all attendees seem to have the same feeling as there was so much trash at the end, yet so many places to trash, compose or recycle your waste. Disappointing, people, and I heard no artists encourage a brother or sister to throw away the trash they see. "Five pieces, everybody!" Noneathat. Though I did see some people helping out. Katie and me, too.

"My face hurts from smiling so much." KVH, 7/4/09

I digress.

There's so much I want to say, about so many things, and yet, I don't know where to write them. To share, or not to share? Will my thoughts inevitably be shared, either way? Either through fame or death will my journals be published; will the world hear my worries and wonders? I might as well write them here as the internet seems as good'a place as any. No fire can destroy my pages with a single lick, though could a virus do the same trick? Maybe I'm rhyming because I've read a few poems this morning, which is what turned me on to be here...

Rewind. So, I volunteer as a script reader for a regional theater here in the city; yesterday I went in to return the last two [terrible, awful, how could the playwrights be proud!?] scripts I reviewed, and sheesh! What a relief it was to get them off my desk. Seriously bad, and I honestly believe I could do better than at least one of them, the second one had potential but was lacking in plot development and comprehension. Annnnyway, the one was so awful that I wrote, "I wanted to rip my hair out, strand by strand, by the end of the first page. Yeah, it’s another one of those, “Here’s my story on how I failed and succeeded at getting pregnant.” There was no conflict, no drama, no excitement. I didn’t care about any of the characters - they all annoyed me. This “play” may do better as a memoir, or a short story, or saved for the kids’ baby books. It read like a love letter to herself and she didn’t care whether or not anyone would be intrigued by reading, listening or watching it (nor did she even change her character's name from her own). Awful; throw it away and set fire to the trash can." So, that was fun to write a mean review rather than having to sift through all the pages singing praise about everything I loved. But so yeah, I'm talking to the boss man and he asks how my writing's going, and I say, oh, not really... at all, it's mostly just in my head. And it's not just thinking, if that's what you're thinking, it really is composition, only I'm not putting it to paper. I "write" and "re-write" in my head on runs and promise to put it to paper upon my return home, but stretching and other distractions lend to my forgetfulness. I digress. I told him that I hope my move to South Korea will be a blessing in terms of my writing because of the loneliness and isolation I will feel from lack of familiarity will spurn me to churn out page after page of prose and who knows. I digress.

This morning, over honey-drizzled strawberry waffles and soy milk-infused coffee, I read The New Yorker and my, how literary I felt, as still feel. The after effects of that magazine are truly dizzying in the most delicious way (note: I hope to be published in it one day). I read about potential panthers prowling in New Jersey, poems (of course) and a writer named Bruno Schulz, who seemed to have touched the lives of everyone he met with the life he lead and the words he wrote. "He was one of those men on whose head God lays His hand while they are asleep so that they get to know what they don't know, so that they are filled with intuitions and conjectures, while the reflections of distant worlds pass across their closed eyelids" ("Spring" a story by Schulz about Alexander the Great).

"And I always admired him, for the way he would talk and we would see a picture. We could smell the things he described. I remember how, for example, he described the smell of cinnamon, which was dominant in the commercial area of Drohobycz, and I, all my life, never could stand the smell of cinnamon, but only when he described it I loved it..." -- Ze'ev Fleischer, a pupil of Schulz.

Anyway, so I was inspired to sit down and write, digressing along the way, sharing things with you, if I may...

SURVIVORMAN

Here's a fact: Some people want to live more

Than others do. Some can withstand any horror

While others will easily surrender

To thirst, hunger, and extremes of weather.

In Utah, one man carried another

Man on his back like a conjoined brother

And crossed twenty-five miles of desert

To safety. Can you imagine the hurt?

Do you think you could be that good and strong?
Yes, yes, you think, but you're probably wrong.

--Sherman Alexie

CRUSH

Maybe my limbs are made

mostly for decoration,

like the way I feel about

persimmons. You can't

really eat them. Or you

wouldn't want to. If you grab

the soft skin with your fist

it somehow feels funny,

like you've been here

before and uncomfortable,

too, like you'd rather

squish it between your teeth

impatiently, before spitting

the sort parts back up

to linger on the tongue like

burnt sugar or guilt.

For starters, it was all

an accident, you cut

the right branch

and a sort of light

woke up underneath,

and the inedible fruit

grew dark and needy.

Think crucial hanging.

Think crayon orange.

There is one low, leaning

heart-shaped globe left

and dearest, can you

tell, I am trying

to love you less.

--Ada Limon

And so my digressions done, for the moment, I must return to the tasks at hand, for laundry, errands and ROTHBURY (2) are waiting!!

I Luff the Library

That's more than love, is how much I love it. It's indescribable to describe my love for free literature and the like. Like in "Annie Hall," when Alvie Singer tells Annie that he loves her so much, that it can't even be called "love" that he luffs/lovures her. Ooh, ooh, ooh! So, I'm still reading "Kafka on the Shore" (wow! weird and awesome) and as Kafka Tamura (one of the main characters) is currently residing in a library, reading lots of books and holding long discussions with Oshima (Kafka's supporting character) about books, I've been thinking a lot about books, and today I went to the library to get books. Specifically T.S. Eliot's Collected Poems, 1. because Oshima spoke about the straw-filled hollow men from Hollow Men and 2. In reading an RS article, Woodstock director Michael Wadleigh said the aftermath of the festival was reminiscent of Waste Land - so I had to, I was pulled, in other words.

Re-reading these poems reminded me of sitting in junior year English class, sighing over failed attempts to comprehend the magnitude of Eliot's words in Prufrock and others, but now I find joy and delight in the memory of those attempts and the newfound ability to grasp hold of said concepts and images. Let me type out one for you....

'Preludes'

I.
The winter evening settles down
With smells of steaks in passageways.
Six o'clock.
The burnt-out ends of smoky days.
And now a gusty shower wraps
The grimy scraps
Of withered leaves about your feet
And newspapers from vacant lots;
The showers beat
On broken blinds and chimney-pots,
And at the corner of the street
A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.

And then the lighting of the lamps.


II.
The morning comes to consciousness
Of faint stale smells of beer
From the sawdust-trampled street
With all its muddy feet that press
To early coffee-stands.

With the other masquerades
That time resumes,
One think of all the hands
That are raising dingy shades
In a thousand furnished rooms.


III.
You tossed a blanket from the bed,
You lay upon your back, and waited;
You dozed, and watched the night revealing
The thousand sordid images
Of which your soul was constituted;
They flickered against the ceiling.
And when all the world came back
And the light crept up between the shutters
And you heard the sparrows in the gutters,
You had such a vision of the street
As the street hardly understands;
Sitting along the bed's edge, where
You curled the papers from your hair,
Or clasped the yellow soles of feet
In the palms of both soiled hands.


IV.
His soul stretched tight across the skies
That fade behind a city block,
Or trampled by insistent feet
At four and five and six o'clock;
And short square fingers stuffing pipes,
And evening newspapers, and eyes
Assured of certain certainties,
The conscience of a blackened street
Impatient to assume the world.

I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling:

The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.

Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
The worlds revolve like ancient women
Gathering fuel in vacant lots.
------------------------------------

And I really liked this one, too:

Hysteria

As she laughed I was aware of becoming involved in her laughter and being part of it, until her teeth were only accidental stars with a talent for squad-drill. I was drawn in by short gasps, inhaled each momentary recovery, lost finally in the dark caverns of her throat, bruised by the ripple of unseen muscles. An elderly waiter with trembling hands was hurriedly spreading a pink and white checked cloth over the rusty green iron table, saying: "If the lady and gentleman wish to take their tea in the garden, if the lady and gentleman wish to take their tea in the garden..." I decided that if the shaking of her breasts could be stopped, some of the fragments of the afternoon might be collected, and I concentrated my attention with careful subtlety to this end.
--------------------------------------------------

And then, after watching a trailer for "Bruno" I watched a trailer for "2012" that made my heart race and think of 'Waste Land', especially the ending ("This is the way the world ends/This is the way the world ends/This is the way the world ends/Not with a bang but a whimper").

So, I got that, and this life and pictures book about F. Scott Fitzgerald, and CDs!! Erykah Badu's "Mama's Gun," Fiona Apple's "When the Pawn," Woody Guthrie's "This Land Is Your Land: The Asch Recordings, Volume 1," "The Best of Grand Master Flash, Mellie Mel & The Furious Five," Priscilla Ahn's "A Good Day," and "The Best of the Girl Groups: Volume 2" - like I said, I luff the library and all its precious treasures. Now to make use of my finds...

100%

I'm a big fan of Haruki Murakami, in addition to the fun of pronouncing his name, he's a wonderful writer. I've only read A Wild Sheep Chase (a fast reading mystery) and Norwegian Wood (a heartbreaking and brilliant "coming of age" love story), and just recently started Kafka on the Shore; my brother shared this short story, in which Murakami plays off the idea of soul mates, that I wanted to share with you. Take a chance, I want to tell the people posting on craigslist for "missed connections" and this falls in that vein; though most stories turn out sad, as death is inevitable, there is always an opportunity to make something good happen in the middle.

Haruki Murakami: On seeing the 100% perfect girl one beautiful April morning

One beautiful April morning, on a narrow side street in Tokyo's fashionable Harujuku neighborhood, I walked past the 100% perfect girl. Tell you the truth, she's not that good-looking. She doesn't stand out in any way. Her clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She isn't young, either - must be near thirty, not even close to a "girl," properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She's the 100% perfect girl for me. The moment I see her, there's a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert. Maybe you have your own particular favorite type of girl - one with slim ankles, say, or big eyes, or graceful fingers, or you're drawn for no good reason to girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant I'll catch myself staring at the girl at the next table to mine because I like the shape of her nose. But no one can insist that his 100% perfect girl correspond to some preconceived type. Much as I like noses, I can't recall the shape of hers - or even if she had one. All I can remember for sure is that she was no great beauty. It's weird. "Yesterday on the street I passed the 100% girl," I tell someone. "Yeah?" he says. "Good-looking?" "Not really." "Your favorite type, then?" "I don't know. I can't seem to remember anything about her - the shape of her eyes or the size of her breasts." "Strange." "Yeah. Strange." "So anyhow," he says, already bored, "what did you do? Talk to her? Follow her?" "Nah. Just passed her on the street." She's walking east to west, and I west to east. It's a really nice April morning. Wish I could talk to her. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask her about herself, tell her about myself, and - what I'd really like to do - explain to her the complexities of fate that have led to our passing each other on a side street in Harajuku on a beautiful April morning in 1981. This was something sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an antique clock build when peace filled the world. After talking, we'd have lunch somewhere, maybe see a Woody Allen movie, stop by a hotel bar for cocktails. With any kind of luck, we might end up in bed. Potentiality knocks on the door of my heart. Now the distance between us has narrowed to fifteen yards. How can I approach her? What should I say? "Good morning, miss. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a little conversation?" Ridiculous. I'd sound like an insurance salesman. "Pardon me, but would you happen to know if there is an all-night cleaners in the neighborhood?" No, this is just as ridiculous. I'm not carrying any laundry, for one thing. Who's going to buy a line like that? Maybe the simple truth would do. "Good morning. You are the 100% perfect girl for me." No, she wouldn't believe it. Or even if she did, she might not want to talk to me. Sorry, she could say, I might be the 100% perfect girl for you, but you're not the 100% boy for me. It could happen. And if I found myself in that situation, I'd probably go to pieces. I'd never recover from the shock. I'm thirty-two, and that's what growing older is all about. We pass in front of a flower shop. A small, warm air mass touches my skin. The asphalt is damp, and I catch the scent of roses. I can't bring myself to speak to her. She wears a white sweater, and in her right hand she holds a crisp white envelope lacking only a stamp. So: She's written somebody a letter, maybe spent the whole night writing, to judge from the sleepy look in her eyes. The envelope could contain every secret she's ever had. I take a few more strides and turn: She's lost in the crowd. Now, of course, I know exactly what I should have said to her. It would have been a long speech, though, far too long for me to have delivered it properly. The ideas I come up with are never very practical. Oh, well. It would have started "Once upon a time" and ended "A sad story, don't you think?" Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was eighteen and the girl sixteen. He was not unusually handsome, and she was not especially beautiful. They were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely girl, like all the others. But they believed with their whole hearts that somewhere in the world there lived the 100% perfect boy and the 100% perfect girl for them. Yes, they believed in a miracle. And that miracle actually happened. One day the two came upon each other on the corner of a street. "This is amazing," he said. "I've been looking for you all my life. You may not believe this, but you're the 100% perfect girl for me." "And you," she said to him, "are the 100% perfect boy for me, exactly as I'd pictured you in every detail. It's like a dream." They sat on a park bench, held hands, and told each other their stories hour after hour. They were not lonely anymore. They had found and been found by their 100% perfect other. What a wonderful thing it is to find and be found by your 100% perfect other. It's a miracle, a cosmic miracle. As they sat and talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts: Was it really all right for one's dreams to come true so easily? And so, when there came a momentary lull in their conversation, the boy said to the girl, "Let's test ourselves - just once. If we really are each other's 100% perfect lovers, then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again without fail. And when that happens, and we know that we are the 100% perfect ones, we'll marry then and there. What do you think?" "Yes," she said, "that is exactly what we should do." And so they parted, she to the east, and he to the west. The test they had agreed upon, however, was utterly unnecessary. They should never have undertaken it, because they really and truly were each other's 100% perfect lovers, and it was a miracle that they had ever met. But it was impossible for them to know this, young as they were. The cold, indifferent waves of fate proceeded to toss them unmercifully. One winter, both the boy and the girl came down with the season's terrible inluenza, and after drifting for weeks between life and death they lost all memory of their earlier years. When they awoke, their heads were as empty as the young D. H. Lawrence's piggy bank. They were two bright, determined young people, however, and through their unremitting efforts they were able to acquire once again the knowledge and feeling that qualified them to return as full-fledged members of society. Heaven be praised, they became truly upstanding citizens who knew how to transfer from one subway line to another, who were fully capable of sending a special-delivery letter at the post office. Indeed, they even experienced love again, sometimes as much as 75% or even 85% love. Time passed with shocking swiftness, and soon the boy was thirty-two, the girl thirty. One beautiful April morning, in search of a cup of coffee to start the day, the boy was walking from west to east, while the girl, intending to send a special-delivery letter, was walking from east to west, but along the same narrow street in the Harajuku neighborhood of Tokyo. They passed each other in the very center of the street. The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each felt a rumbling in their chest. And they knew: She is the 100% perfect girl for me. He is the 100% perfect boy for me. But the glow of their memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the clarity of fouteen years earlier. Without a word, they passed each other, disappearing into the crowd. Forever. A sad story, don't you think? Yes, that's it, that is what I should have said to her.

---

[A] List(s)

Household Items Lil Mama plays with:

- Rubber bands
- Straws
- Receipts
- Discarded Cheerios
- Bottle caps
- Dust
- Mr. Potato Head's Nose, rendering him smell-less with a giraffe's ear replacement
- Whatever string she can scratch out of any fabric surface
- Nothing at all, just jumping around, running through the apartment like some kid of woman possessed
- Paper bags

Items Lil Mama does not play with:

- Whatever my roommate and I spent money on specifically for kitty's enjoyment, ie., all $60 except sometimes the feather fisher thing... Not even her cat nip bubbles does she like.


I'm almost ashamed to post this as apparently I have swiftly become a crazy cat lady... wait, wait, wait, she's in her litter box, scratching around, I don't like her again.

I Just Signed a Contract... With the Devil(?)

I probably shouldn't have even said that much. I'm not so sure what I signed. I mean, I know it was a contract, and it was long, and there were lots of words/phrases that I didn't understand, but besides that and "One Million Dollars (without bail)" I'm not really sure... yeah, awesome, right? I can't really talk to you about what I signed or why I signed it. I'm just saying I signed one which basically gave all my rights and information and privacy to someone to dispense to the world at his or her pleasure, all for a chance to... maybe move on to the next round. I suppose if I do there will be more paperwork. Oh, the contract did suggest that I have my lawyer look everything over. Right. Because an unemployed 23-year old has a lawyer readily on call to handle all my contracts and other legal documents. Right. (And when I said that did you imagine me talking to an actual contract - like, let's say 8' x 5' - like I did? Like how sometimes when I say, "Oh, well I told Korea that I'm going to need to push back my leave date because I want to try and vie for this opportunity where I will most likely make an ass out of myself preventing any future worthwhile opportunities" I imagine myself phoning up South Korea, dressed in blue (it, not me, I'm in a yellow hazmat suit) delivering the bad news. No you don't see either of those? Oh.)

--- I wish my fucking cute cat would learn how to use the scratching post; she was just trying to claw the shit out of the arm chair in the corner and I clapped and said, "KITTY!" and she stopped and then, on her way into the kitchen I tried to scoop her up to attempt to failingly train her on the s.p. but noooooo, she's dodgy. Great, thanks cat. Thanks.

But yeah, so I signed it and sent it (and my life) off into the sunny, smoggy, traffic-y abyss that is Lake Toluca, California. And now, because I signed it, I can't talk about it... or, at least, I don't think I can. And A.) I don't have a lawyer to show it to, and B.) even if I did, it would have to be read hunched over my laptop (or their computer) because there's no effin' way that I'm paying another $14 at Kinko's to print that shit off. RIDICULOUS!! Fucking Kinko's and their nice, thick paper with their bold inks and efficient service; bastards.

What else? Oh, I don't think there is anything. Just that we're back at square one. Waiting. Oh. My. Oh. My. I loathe waiting. I am impatient! And I know, I know. Patience is a virtue, but one which I do not possess, nor wish to. I mean, sure, I guess it would be adultish of me to be patient, but I'm not down with that. I'm already doing a pretty good job at honesty, and I think I'll keep it at that, because I know a lot of lying liars who can wait around just fine, and no thank you, I've got better things to do with my time... except in this case, and really, I have no choice but to wait on decisions coming out of La-la Land (did you sing that? I did) and pretty much twiddle my thumbs or go for runs, or biking in the sun...s - because! did you hear? That one star that's closest to us (second to the sun) is getting closer, and it's actually the cause of global warming, not our particularly outrageous and wasteful habits, and we'll all be dead by 2012, so live it up. No, that's not true. I lied about that first last part, with the second sun coming... so I lie in jest, but not when it counts, any more. Buuut, (am I losing you? Shh. Work harder) that latter last part, the one about the 2012? I was just reminded how much it freaks me out by writing about it, because there were two dudes talking at the bar, when I was working a few weeks ago, and y'know, I'm pretty crazy/gullible (call it what you will, the Jackalope could totally happen in real life. Chupacabra, there are PROVEN documents of its existence!) on my own, so when the History Channel throws in the end-of-the-world music and the movie-trailer guy (I know he's dead, but this one sounded like him, and maybe they filmed it before he died) narrator on their Nostradamus special, yeah, I'm gonna be convinced, but then I easily dismiss it after I rub the sleep from my eyes and step into the light. These guys, let's go back to them, they looked pretty educated, but maybe that's only because they were wearing glasses (probably without a prescription), and they were talking about the planets being aligned and all the calendars ending on that day and how it's gonna happen. That gave me 'deer in the headlight' eyes and an increased heart rate for a minute until I remembered that the HC special ended on a note of, "Well, this could happen and be cataclysmic and the end of everything we know, or nothing could happen at all, so let's just wait and see." Uggggghhh!! Tom Petty, tell it like it is:

EFFIN' ESS!!! I totally know how to embed now (and it's not even hard, as YT distinctly instructs you how to do it under the link, aaaaannnnyyyyway) but this ass clown disabled it, so click here and snap/shoulder shimmy along.

And I love this song, and wow, they play it a lot faster (and better, yeah) than I can... I was going to say it doesn't really relate, but "oh the sweet smell of success," it DOES! Enjoy:

Remember when MTV still played the whole music video, and it was good?

Comradery in the Chaos

Oh-oh, oh, oh!! What a wonderful weekend!! So good, so good!! Started out excellent with a Dave Eggers meet 'n greet (maybe write about later), then wandered into the beautiful chaotic scene of a King Khan and the Shrines show at the Bottom Lounge with fun friends and sweaty strangers. This was my second time seeing them - my first was at Pitchfork '08 and I was heavily imbibing on libations of whiskey and beer, beer, beer and I didn't know much about them and I don't remember much except that it was hot and King Khan was in a loin cloth. I love them; I'm obsessed with them, and seeing them live only furthered my lust.


--

Erin and I walked to the BL from our apartment, in the drizzle, holding hands, skipping and singing what we could remember of "Bohemian Rhapsody" all the way there... we missed the bus. We arrived, met up with friends, sat in a booth waiting for more friends, Werskeroonie and I stayed inside and talked insects while our loser friends smoked their loser cigs, we made comments about the BBQ Show bandmates that sat next to us in all their hip band-digs and gold coated finery, met up with our latecomers and proceeded into the concert area. The first opener (I forget who) was finishing up, they rocked and we rolled to the front left of the stage to catch a close showing of BBQ Show rambling and rockin' - it was good, but I was giddy for King Khan to take the stage. Soon enough, my dreams came true. Erin, Ty and I crowded the front center of the stage as the horn section set up on the left a little behind the keyboardist, while the guitars and drummer went to the right with the center stage reserved for the man himself, the Khan.The lights dimmed, glared red and the horns blared as the crowd went wild. HERE HE COMES!!! Chieftain headdress, cape and all his glory, the show began with "Land of the Freak" and freak we did.It got moshy in T-2 milliseconds and I thought, "Oh shit. I cannot handle this." and so I retreated to the sidelines, only to look back in and think of all the fun I was missing - so I dove right back, shimmy-ing and shaking with the rest of the freaks, young and old, fat and bony-elbows thin. What a crowd! It was loud. And while it was moshy and pushy and seemingly violent, it was not; everyone had huge smiles on their faces while the were throwing their bodies forward and back, side to side, flinging body parts and sticking to each others' skin. Pretty soon everyone was drenched in sweat; your sweat, my sweat, his sweat, her sweat. The stage presence the whole band emitted was incredible. There was a foxy little cheerleader with black pom poms and fantastic moves dancing out the songs, sprinkling glitter and getting the crowd going. It was pure insanity, and I loved it! Guitarists dove into the crowd to be lifted up and played loud; the keyboardist died at the end of most songs, covering himself in his board and stand; and I had a chubbs for the trumpet player who looked like a guy named "Chuck" that came straight out of a 80s porn flick (so commented Wersk) - he had a fro and mustache, what more can you ask?They played everything I wanted to hear and more; they knew when to slow down and when to speed up, they played like a lover who knew what they were doing. Half-way into the show, after a particularly hearty man belly bumped me almost to the floor I realized I had a race on Sunday and wasn't sure it was such a good idea to be in the midst of the moshing madness, but I decided I couldn't leave my concert comrades and made plans to seriously stretch after the show. Good decision indeed. There was one crazy part where the lights dimmed and King Khan took us on an adventure describing a time he climbed inside a woman, part by part - pretty crazy, and when he was fully inside her he had the audience close our eyes and imagine the complete and total darkness with him, then he started making jungle noises and eventually emerged from her, which may've made her his mother and things couldn't be the same after that, then she told him about the back door and he sang us a song.

--

Erin, Ty and I retrieved our bags and moved to the back side for the encore (King Khan came back out with a awesome old-timey gladiator helmet, and the cape[!], on)and we danced danced danced! It was so nice to have space to move around in and get a whole view of the stage, but I wouldn't have changed being up front for the majority of the show for anything in the world. The music took on a whole new meaning for me after that concert experience and sharing it with all those strangers who, while we were dancing, became friends. Cheeseball corny, I know, but there was something there and it was great... except for that lame hipster couple in the very front and center with the tall chick who got up on stage to dance and had totally lame moves and her short douchey boyfriend who was trying to look French with his skinny black and white striped shirt. Laaaaaaaame! but whatev's. Whatev's.
--

The walk to the Ashland bus was a little chilly as we were all drenched, but we sat close and laughed about everything that happened to warm up... from the crazy, large, hairy-chested man who barreled into everyone and tried to pick up Ty after I egged him on to elbow him to Erin getting knocked down and scooped back up in a matter of seconds to the long-haired girls who made bad decisions about wearing their hair down - good times, good times. Pictures from the bus stop follow....

We're just happy we're friends... though Ty seems to be questioning our craziness.

This is what we would look like if we got pulled up on stage.And this is what we would look like if we didn't get asked on stage. We took more pics, as it took the bus a while to come, but I'll save those for myself.

Now to talk about the race real quickly (Yeah right! you're probably thinking, and you're right, I'll ramble...). I did stretch after the concert Friday night, but Saturday day my left hip started bothering me and I thought, Oh, this is just great! I took it easy that night, hitting the hay errrlay and woke up 5:15a Sunday morning. I put on my ADIDAS jumpsuit and pedaled towards downtown and the lakefront; I got my bib, checked my bag, and warmed up to the sounds of the crowd and the cheesy DJ on the loud speaker, aka, running without music - oh man! Haven't done it since the Chicago marathon and we all know how well that worked. Oh, but they did play the Star Wars theme song on repeat, so that was fun and engine-revving. Anyway, so the race began right at 7am and I started my stop watch as my right foot hit the first timing plate and I ran. Run-ning. The weather was beautiful with blue skies and barely a cloud visible, with a nice light breeze. We rounded the park loop and headed under Lakeshore Dr. to the lakefront path -- you don't care about all these details... 13.1 miles in two 6.5ish mile loops - ewww, loops!! The 10Kers only did one. I was feeling real good and my first mile was around 8:30, just under actually - no, no, no I thought because I don't usually run that fast, so I tried to slow down, but I was sticking with the 9min pace group, so I just kept doing that. At mile 7 I was right on the hour mark and thinking, crap, I know I'm going to slow down and I'm not going to make my time (I just wanted sub-2, didn't care if it was 1:59:59, I just wanted that time). I was happy that I didn't wear my iPod so I could focus on my stride and breath and hear the pounding of the pavement from all the other runners - we sounded like horses and it made me smile to think of the student film I made with my friends about Penny "Horsemeat" Sumner (me), an Olympic runner who was wrongly convicted of taking steroids. The film is shots of me running and going into my "downward spiral" drinking in a bathtub with my guitar woven into an interview where I explain my story and how when I was 6 my father would take me out to the ranch in Arizona and I would have to run and wrangle in the horses, and how if I didn't keep up I would be turned into horsemeat, hence the nickname... I also explained that he got in trouble for that in later years, but that's another story... turns out the urine was switched, so mine was clean and I was able to run in the NYC marathon and that just made me so happy.

Then I sang songs to myself, in my head, listened to other runners, thought about how I was going to finish on time, tried not to cry because I was proud, then I thought of that movie "Seven" and how Kevin Spacey might kill me because of my pride and then we came to mile 12 and I started cheering on the other runners and I sprinted to the finish and my stop watch said my time was 1 hour, 52 minutes and 28 seconds!!! YAY!! So, I have faith that maybe I can make my sub-4 marathon time... we'll see, we'll see. But, before all that rambling, I was going to say there's comradery in the chaos of running, as well, and while it is individualistic it is inspiring to see other runners do well and you want for everyone to do well, because you know how good it feels to do well and how bad it feels to not... yeah. So, there's that for you. Confusing food for thought. MMM!! Hey, anyone in Chicago want to be my running buddy? 'Cause while I like running without my iPod, sometimes my intrinsic motivation isn't at its best and I need a little outside help. C'MONA!!!

MEET MY NEW KITTY!!!

I've wanted a cat for a while now, I think I've thought seriously about getting one since September or something... and then a month ago I had a cab driver named, Maurice, who said that dogs are nice, but cats are the greatest because they know when you're sad and then they come over so you don't feel so bad. Anyway, yesterday my roommate/sister bestie, Erin, and I went to the Anti-Cruelty Society and picked up this little precious kitty cat (she's actually 2, so unless she gets fat she'll stay this small and snuggly!!!):Meet Li'l Mama (though she was named, "Bashful" at the shelter, we thought about "Bessie" for a hot second, or at least I did because I thought she looked like a cow and my Mom had a cow named Bessie when she was growing up in Nebraska, this was around the time they also still used an outhouse and she'd be afraid to go out at night because when the wind blew the door she thought it sounded like there was a gorilla inside. And I just now thought of the name, "Cecilia Meriweather Foxtrot" and we could call her "CMF" or "Cute Mother-fucker" for short)!! Welcome, lady face. She's just a precious treasure and I love her so, so much already - though I can't quite say "with all of my heart" just yet because she likes scratching the furniture and not her post, and we bought her some toys and she was disinterested in ALL of them - EVEN THE LASER!! Seriously, cat!? Seriously? But this morning I was able to get her to play with a feather on a string attached to a stick. Silly kitty. She's so cute! When we were driving her home, the ACS put her in a cat carrier box for us, and she kept sticking her cute lil black and white nose out of the holes. Awwww! Kitty, kitty. Also, I'd love her with all of my heart if she learned how to use a broom to sweep up her kitty litter mess that she flings out of her box - note: not my favorite thing to walk on. Buuuuuuut, I think Erin and I underestimated her playfulness at the shelter, which is a good thing. She sure is snuggly and cuddly, and boy does she purr (sounds like a freaking motorboat - nonstop, I kid you not. I'm getting used to it, but it was kind of distracting last night) and she loves to snuggle under covers; I just took a nap with her on the couch. LIL MAMA!!! Hey kitty, kitty!! And I'm starting to develop a crazy cat voice, a little higher than my creepy dog voice that sounds like the Buffalo Bill in "Silence of the Lambs" ("Is she that great big fat lady?" - E and I love saying that to each other and just laughing and laughing, and probably scaring anyone within hearing range).

OOOOOOOOOOH! She's licking her paw right now, sitting at the edge of the sofa. I took some other pictures of her (of course, why not) but she kind of looks retarded in them, like her eyes aren't open all the way. She makes me laugh, a lot, and I almost don't want to get a job so I can play with her all the time. Yesterday, Erin and I brought her home and then we had to go get her things at Pet Smart, when we came home she was hiding between the couch and the wall and we thought, "Oh great. We got a hider, wonderful." But then she came out and started rubbing her catness all over everything. Marking her territory - apparently cats spray pheromones outta their butts, or something. Strange creatures. She has a cute little meow, too. I'm in love, love, love with my kitty!! Okay, I'm sure I'll write more about her later as I'm soooooooo crazy about her already.

I'mma Gross You Out!

Yep. It's that time. I have things I should be doing (script reviewin') so I'm blogging instead. Oh, procrastination, you're such a good friend. For some reason I was just reminded of my last round of finals at MU, the last one I took was my financial planning class. I hadn't slept in close to 2 days and I'm not very good at math to begin with... I think I studied the wrong formulas, or didn't study one that was really important, and that coupled with the lack of sleep equalled freak-out. The freak-out consisted of me looking over the pages thinking, "Oh. My. God. I don't know how to do any of these. I'm never going to graduate. I'm going to have to stay in Columbia another semester. I'm never going to get a job. I'm never going to survive. I'm going to have to live with my parents until I'm 25." and then I started to cry. I didn't mean to, I couldn't help it; I was scared - it was silent, but the tears were streaming down my face, I was in the front row (awesome, right?) and I didn't have a tissue, though one of the TAs brought me one which propelled my crying even more (I was tired! Give me a break or a piece of a cake! Err... sorry). I usually cry during math finals, or just don't show up (calculus - sophomore year was the year of baaaaaad decisions). The first time I cried was freshman year, Spring Quarter at DePaul. My math teacher was amazing, I forgot his name, but he was an older Greek man, and he just had such passion and zest for life that I almost started to love math because he was so wonderful. So, I'm taking the final and I'm freaking out because I'm a retard when it comes to math no matter how much I study, teach gives me his beads... a rosary? Greek thing? I don't know... and I'm clutching them, trying to figure out the problems and I start crying - embarrassing, right? Very delicately (because he knew he was dealing with a crazy fragile girl) he told me to go home, study and then take the test in a couple of days when he was conducting another final. I thanked him so much and went back to my dorm. When it came to take it again I flew through the questions, attempting, but knowing that it wasn't looking good for me. I took the test up to him, completed, but sad-faced. He asked me what was wrong and I told him that I didn't think I passed. Then he told me to write on the backs of the pages a reason as to why he should pass me. Oh! My heart sang a song and I happily went back to scribble out a rambling reasoning of my strengths lying elsewhere outside of applied numbers voodoo and how I attempted, but that part of my brain just doesn't want to grasp those concepts. I passed, got a C+ for the course. Sa-weeeeet! But, oh! how I've digressed from the initial subject, like what I just wrote has ab-so-lute-ly nothing to do with what I want to talk about.

It's embarrassing story time. Eyah! You're excited, right? Are you nervous to read on for my lack of good taste and censoring abilities? You should be. Yes. Yes, you should be.

So, this is the story that I wrote for the reality show application, they asked, I wrote. (It was between the following story or the aftermath of my first marathon - in training I didn't run more than 12 miles [which is dumb because I've since trained better and that race is still my best time], so 26.2 came as a shock to my body and the next day I could barely walk and was so convinced that my feet were covered in hairline fractures and about to break that I went and got x-rays and crutches from the doc... those crutches lasted about 12 minutes until I was like, "Fuck this shit! I'm hobbling to class, I don't care!" yeah, more stupid than embarrassing.)

Here's how I began: Alright, the number one, honest to goodness, most humiliating, mortifying, awful experience of my life came one year at summer camp (oh! I loved this camp, best summers of my life!)... I'm 80% sure I had just turned 11; summer after 5th grade. Normally it was just day camp, but one week a year it would become sleepaway and either the older boys or girls would stay - obviously in my case it was the girls who stayed behind after all the buses departed and camp grounds were basically deserted. Each night held a different activity (movie, Sports World, campfire/midnight hike - first two were basically rainy day activities so they were kinda lame), and this particular night we were going to take a dinner cruise on the Hudson.

Before we left, everyone went to their respective bunks, took out our overnight things from the shed, unrolled our sleeping bags, got ready, watched our counselors put on make-up and asked them about their boyfriends and giggled, and then we loaded the buses. I got my very first period the month before and was on my second go around during sleep week (talk about lame!). Come to think of it, I could've just turned 12, which makes this story unbearably embarrassing. Anyway, so we're on the bus, headed to the city and I feel the urge, sensation really of needing to go to the bathroom right away - you know the feeling, that, "Oh, shit! Toilet." and that's all you can think. We hit traffic. Are you fucking kidding me!?! (yeah, swear words were in full usage at this point in life, that same sleep week I was at breakfast with my two besties, Kat and Mishy [Kathleen and Michelle], and Mishy wasn't feeling or looking particularly well, so Kat and I asked her what was up over a breakfast of Frosted Flakes and bananas, her eloquent and shocking response was, "I'm fucking sick, damnit!" - yeah, we quoted that the rest of the summer.) So, I'm freaking out at this point, my stomach is in turmoil and I'm convinced that I'm dying. The traffic is horrendous, and we're at the point of the highway where you're basically in a tunnel, but not, because there are roads crossing above you - so aka, I'm feeling trapped like a rat in a cage, with digestive issues. There is nothing I can do at this point, but shuffle to the front, tell my counselor, go back to my seat, hold and pray.

By the time we reach the parking lot all counselors and staff are aware of my situation. I get off the bus first, with an entourage of 4-5 counselors and we haul ass to the boat as soon as the bus stops. I swear to God that bus parked at the furthest edge of the lot, away from the boat. OH, we are run-ning and I'm going to lose it - running like I have a stick up my ass. At this point I am crying and truly, truly convinced that I am dying, that this is the end of my life. We make it on the boat and are running down the narrow stairs to the bathroom - so close - when I lose it. My bowels explode and I sob. I now wish that I was dead. My bottom half is entirely covered and I'm standing in the middle of the smallest bathroom known to man with my entourage of counselors trying to calm me down and peeling the clothes off my body which is shaking with each sob. I think they poured pitchers of water on me to clean off my legs, but honestly, my memory has blocked some parts out to save face in my head.

I can remember very vividly sitting in the stall, still crying, and fashioning myself underwear out of toilet paper. By this point other girls need to use the bathroom and they're asking questions. The counselors respond that I got sick, but will be okay. I'm given an over-sized denim shirt (it was the 90s) to wrap around my waist, and I ascended the stairs, shoeless. Once on the main level, I learned that I pretty much had to stay put all night, because I had no shoes it would be a safety hazard for me to be on deck, or some BS like that. I sat, miserably, cramps twisting and turning my already torn insides, for the majority of the night. Friends and strangers stopped by to make sure everything was alright, and when I lied and sadly said yes, they would feel their duty done and run away to have fun. On the bus ride home I sat with Kat and laid my head in her lap, falling sleep trying to wish the evening away. My soiled clothes were put in a black trash bag and sat at the front of the bus. Ew.

So, that was that. It took me 10 years to tell some of my best friends that story (it happened one night, one the way to the bars, with my two Katies - all of us telling our traumatizing poop stories, one after another - oh! There's only one more for me, and it was a quiet shame, on a road in Maine... I was running, that'll be another post, I think you've had your fill today), and then I recounted it to Kat, and she said she had no idea that was the case! She thought I threw up! Everyone did! God bless those counselors and the children who didn't pry.

**Oh, yeah. And I told this story and the marathon story to my co-workers for input on which to use, obvi they said this one, and Erin said she wanted to start calling me: Kate "Shit Pants" - how sweet! I had to laugh.

Hmm. Hmm. Well, Alright.

Well, let's decompress here. Let's sort it all out. Because my mind is racing and second guessing itself right now.

I just had an interview for a reality television show to compete for a position as a personal assistant to a very powerful business mogul. I really would like this opportunity and I think I expressed that very clearly, mostly in the application I wrote (that turned out to be about book length - who'd've guessed, I'm a rambler). I fear I wasn't sassy enough. Some sassiness was needed when the interviewer told me that I was the whitest girl, ever, and wouldn't be able to hold my own in a VIP club setting, brushing elbows with big wigs and celebrities. I take offense, sir! I was also very taken aback and don't think I responded as I should've. I should've (look at me, shoulda, coulda, woulda - shit!) said, "Hey! Fuck you, dude. I had to fight my way into school in fifth grade, because I was the minority. And you're really white! And wearing sunglasses, inside." But I didn't. I didn't tell him about the time I had to fight Nicole Hicks behind the music room during recess because girl wouldn't stop talking shit. She slapped me, and I flared my nostrils and took off my glasses, giving them to Tisheya to hold, thereafter proceeding to push, kick and hit Nicky into the fence. Man. Bitch didn't bother me after that. Also, I watched "Friday" when I was 10, with Cherrelle, and I made Mac and Cheese and she brought over funyons. Yo. My first boyfriend was black, and apparently the only reason he dated me was because I was the only girl in sixth grade with boobs. Too bad they stopped growing after that, and then I found out he cheated on me with Kerri G. (who later turned out to get preggers in seventh grade, and got in a cat fight on the staircase with the other preggers 7th grader, Sarah) -- goodbye! That sucked. Maybe I should've told dude that I always wished I was black and beautiful. I loved how on "30 Rock" this week Tina and Jack discussed how they can't tell the age of black people. What?! Samuel L. Jackson isn't 27? 61!! Whoa! Yeah. Beautiful people, aging so gracefully. White people just get all wrinkley and liver spotty and shit. FUCK! Man! I'm so good on paper and I fail in person is how I'm feeling right now. And I hate how everyone I know is like, "OH MY GOD! You are the only one of my friends who I would love to watch on TV." And it's not like I have boring friends, I'm just crazy. And shit! Just give me a fucking chance. I was only trying to keep myself composed for the "job interview" aspect, but they probably wanted somebody crazier. Damnit, I'm so crazy. And... oh well, nothing to lose and everything to gain, right? I didn't walk in there already having something, so whatever. Things are supposed to happen for a reason, right? I'm not sure if I actually believe that, but a lot of people say it... and so far, life's turned out alright-ish. I shoulda shook him like Adam Sandler's Billy Madison did to that fat third grader, telling him to never grow up. I shoulda said, "Give me this fucking job, motherfucker!" But, guess what? I didn't. Alright, so we pick up, we move on. We put this experience in our pocket as experience gained. And now I've got to go put a band-aid on my heel because I wore stupid pumps for nothin'. And shit, I shared with 'em my most embarrassing experience ever! Like, ever ever. Terrible. I might write about that later.

Man, how to convey to strangers that I rock? Dude was dissing me the whole time, and I think I gave boring answers. SHIT! I'm done thinking about this online, with you. It's just a waste of time.

In other news: Diego Luna came into my pub last Friday, probs in town for the Latino Film Festival. I didn't really know it was him until after, and it turns out I've never seen anything he was in and I just thought he was some dirty, handsome hipster with a lot of Mexican male friends - totally his entourage. But we made eye contact and it was sultry. Then, my coworker, the sassiest tranny of them all, Rubes (I call him), said, "Oh girl, he is married to one of the most beautiful women in the world." (I guess she's cute - whatever.)

MOOOOOLE MAN!!

Okay, so Thursday morning my alarm went off a little after 6am and I hit the 'snooze' button. The next thing I know it's quarter after and I'm still in bed. Shit! I pop out, throw on clothes, don't even bother to re-up my hair, hop on my bike and groggily pedal towards the gym and yoga class.

As I'm approaching Wicker Park, there is a man walking across the street in the same direction I am going. He calls out to me, "Stuart is no longer a mole man!" At first my brain didn't recognize what he said because he said it with such confidence and enthusiasm, as if a street were finally re-opened, or this was the happiest day of his life because a friend finally re-surfaced. Then he wished me a great day and I pedaled onward, very confused. It could have been Simon or Sherman, but I think it was Stuart because it sounds more like a street than the other two. And it also could have been "merman." (Sherman, merman?) Regardless, I sure do love the crazy homeless people in Chicago.

Later that day I was recounting the story to my roommate on a walk up to DQ and we just happened to be passing the same area when a homeless woman jokingly said, "Oooh! I'm gonna tell him! I'm gonna tell him you were talking about him!" and I turned around, laughing, and said, "You better not!" Her and her pals loved that.

We got dipped cones; I got twist dipped in chocolate. It was delicious.

Domo Arigato, Mr. Roboto

You might (or might not) be familiar with my rational fear of robots... they are out to destroy, therefore my fear is rational. Yes, rational. Judge me not, sir or madam! Judge me not. Recently I had the opportunity to work on lessening this fear of mine by attending a prom full of robots, myself included. Baby steps, people. Baby steps. Seeing as how we were all a bunch of people in robots' clothing, my fear came to a hold for the night. Here are pictures to show how much fun robot-people are. I suppose robot-people would be otherwise known as cyborgs, which may actually be worse than real robots because they think they are humans (I believe this is the premise to the new Terminator movie with Hottie McHotstein Christian Bale) and duh(!) they're not! Potentially the reason I did not enjoy AI, in addition to the unnecessary length, was because of all the cyborgs.

Speaking of cyborgs, this weekend I was talking with my bartender (boss at my work, not like my alcohol supplier who I pretend is my 'friend') about technology and how our society is becoming grossly attached. Talk soon went from children who are constantly plugged into their PS player-thingies and will grow up having horrible interpersonal skills outside of their 'IDK's and 'LOL's (with pale skin and poor eyes) to becoming cyborgs ourselves by inserting chips and disks and other sorts of devices into ourselves to make life a little bit easier... I was all about the intellectual debate until he went into chip insertion. Yeah, the idea of knowing and understanding the language of a foreign country is really awesome, but the icky-weirdness of machine parts in our bodies is not. Then, dude patron at the bar brought up the good point of that taking away the joy of learning and life experience. Bartender commented that dude was in the minority and that made me sad to hear and hoped/wished that bartender was wrong about that. I don't want to be a robot, ever. Even partially. No thanks. So I'll probably be one of the first to die in the robot v. human war. Oh God! I'm scaring myself! Hopefully this won't happen in my lifetime, and my children will be technologically equipped enough to successfully deal with the problem themselves.

PS - in terms of the pictures, proof that I like dancing; look terrible in really bright lighting; need to not attend open bar functions for a while (I was convinced I wasn't going to make it through Sunday and have not touched, nor felt the urge to consume, alcohol since... new goal: see how long I can make this last as Mother says alcoholism runs in the fam, guess some ancestor literally lost the farm due to a alcoholic-gambling binge way back when. Week 1 = success! I win!); look really great in leggings; can only wear high heels for a limited amount of time; am sassy.

It's a Musical Thing

"If I should ever die, God forbid, let this be my epitaph:

THE ONLY PROOF HE NEEDED

FOR THE EXISTENCE OF GOD

WAS MUSIC"

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Kurt Vonnegut knew what was up. Apparently he would always mail things like that to his son, Kurt Jr., and in response his son would call and make sure everything was alright, which it usually was, until the last time - as always seems to be the case in life. I read about that in KV's "Armageddon in Retrospect," which was absolutely fantastic. But, as usual, I digress.

The reason I write tonight is to share a little food for thought from Alan Watts. Gave you chills, right? It should've. If it didn't, well then, I'm sorry for you, and think maybe you have a little more life lovin' to do.

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I love dancing, and singing.

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Thank God for music. Seriously. I love all forms of art and creative expression, but I think music is the most accessible for day-to-day situations. For example: without music, last week would've been hell in a file room. I had a temp gig, filing. I have the paper cuts to prove it - they're gnarly. My iPod helped me keep my sanity, and improved my efficiency. I often found myself dancing/bopping and singing or humming along, then realized that since I could hear the people on the outside of the 8x10 windowless room, they could probably hear me too. Oops! Work, running, driving, writing (only classical - usually), showering (with or without the help of the radio DJ), other things, all activity results improve tenfold with the assistance of rhythm and bass... it helps dancing too, duh!

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This song makes my heart swell. And Sufjan Stevens' "Chicago", and Alan Silvestri's "Forrest Gump Suite" -- all three are good songs to run to, to really run - to just let go and fly and let your heart pump blood through your veins and capillaries; to help in the realization of the fact that life is a musical thing the whole way through, with dynamic and dramatic crescendos and decrescendos before the final note. And also, this one (it's "Sitting Still Moving Still Staring Outlooking" by His Name is Alive in case the link doesn't work; fun time flashback: over Christmas break-ish, I was at one of my bestie's, Lauren's, in Kansas City, and she had this video on her computer that she filmed with her digital camera from the back seat of my car in which I'm forcing her, and our other HS besties Lisa and Alli, to listen to the beauty of the song while I'm driving up to the highest point in St. Joe one summer night way back when we were collegian babies and being nostalgic about our HS years that were months in the past... the video is just the song and mostly blackness with the occasional blue glow of dashboard light, until about 3/4 the way through when I say something like, "Oh crap!" and we all scream or yell because I swerved, and someone says, "Was that a raccoon?" or something, and the silence was lost, but the perfection of our friendship was captured. That made me happy... that specific moment itself, and then that Ms. L had captured it, though it was blind on film, it played brilliantly in my memory... PS: Tobes, if you're reading this, I do remember a-one specific promise to send that from your fancy Mac, hmmm!? Hmm!?) is pretty great, too. Totally unrelated (but what isn't here?) is that how you're supposed to write "too" with the statement then "," then "too"? Is that right; sometimes; all the time; none of the time? I'm not good with grammar (duh)! I use it like glitter. What? That didn't even make sense.

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Also, unrelated: when I opened up the Silvestri song, Castaway music was also suggested and it triggered a neuron from a dream the other night in which I was watching the movie and then all of a sudden in it, and I was like, "Shit! Seriously! Of all the Tom Hanks movies I have to get stuck in, it has to be this one?! Why not 'The Money Pit'!?!?" because I was on the island... y'know, it sucked. And speaking of dreams, I've been having some seriously messed up ones lately. Like super duper messed up. A bird flew, and got stuck, in my hair in one. I spoke Spanish, or something in another one while hiding in some basement of a desert house-mansion with other people hiding from Saddam Hussein, like Anne Frank-ish style. Seriously? What's that about!? It makes going to bed kind of exciting and scary all at once.

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Speaking of which, I need to... So yeah, music. It's good. Life. It's wonderful. Sing. Dance. Smell the flowers. If this isn't nice, I don't know what is. I'm gonna make my Momma's lasagna recipe this week and listen to Yves Montand's "Bella Ciao!" on repeat.