Saturday Dontmatterday/Sunday Funday

There are two kinds of people in this world: those who can tolerate Devendra Banhart, and those who can’t. Although I already suspected as much, I now can announce that I unquestionably fall into the latter category after witnessing his antics this weekend at Pitchfork’s music festival in Chicago. Admittedly, knowing his mellow (read: boring) folky sound was not my cup of tea, I didn’t even deign listen to his set at all…but seeing him run around shirtless all day sunday was sort of traumatizing. He looked like a skeleton with a ‘fro. You could never really get a good look at his face, but you got a huge eyeful of his bony ribs. Creepy. Plus, he kept climbing fences simian-like to watch the other bands. The vibe was sort of like, “oh, there’s Devendra sitting on top of the fence again.” Please, someone get this man a large branchy tree! And maybe some bananas.

Fortunately, Devendra was pretty much the only anomaly in the most dynamic weekend of music I have ever seen. Granted – my experience is limited, the only other festival I’ve been to is last year’s Intonation Festival, also put on by Pitchfork. But the line-up this year was killer. And with the added bonus of the crew guys (presumably) mistakenly giving me two VIP passes, I can’t remember a more enjoyable music-related experience

Some highlights:

1) CSS – Hands down the best show of the entire weekend. I hadn’t even planned on going over to see these girls, but Mike insisted we leave The National’s performance early to make sure we caught them on the sidestage. I threw a mini temper-tantrum about being dragged away after “Abel,” but after 30 seconds of CSS, I was dancing too much to care. We got over to the packed-in, sweltering tent and couldn’t see anything at first. What we could HEAR though was easily the most energetic music all weekend long. It sounded as if The Go! Team had lost their horns and instead of picking up some random children off the street, picked up some funky Brazilian girls (no, not Brazilian Girls) carrying a boombox and break-dancing. As we inched closer to the stage, we could see some mop-tops bouncing to the hooky dance punk, and finally a pair of rainbow- and leopard skin-patterned spandex leggings surfing the crowd. Well at that point there was nothing else to do, so we broke. It. Down.
2) The Futureheads – I know, I know. I have had a thing for these Sunderland boys since the day their self-titled album was released in 2004. So maybe I’m a little biased after listening to their rendition of “Hounds of Love” on repeat for the last two years. But also keep in mind I’ve been anticipating this show for a long time…so my expectations were high. They didn’t disappoint. Corralled by taut drumming, their distinctive, energetic sound came across as musically tight and original. They have definitely set themselves apart from your run-of-the-mill Brit-rock band. Plus, these guys were having a blast up there – I really can’t say enough about bands who just get up there and their charisma and talent drive their performances. They make it look so easy. Obviously, “Hounds of Love,” “Area,” and “Decent Days and Nights” were fantastic, but the real highlights were new releases “Skip to the End” and the sheer alacrity of the call-and-response number “Yes/No.” How do they move so fast???
3) Danielson – Easily the most agreeable listening experience of the weekend. Before they went on, Mike told me they were one of his favorite live acts of all time, so I skeptically braved the beating sun to get closer to the stage. As usual, he was right. Having been a fan of the Danielson Famile for awhile now, and having had a chance to get to know their new album, I expected a vocally-erratic, almost shrill performance from leader Daniel Smith. In reality, he has one of the most beautiful voices I have ever heard. It is smooth and flawless and has a melodic quality that I think must be rare in male singers. His compositions are purposeful, almost strategic. Mike filled me in on his background: Daniel was a music student who recruited his talented siblings to create an album for his final project and got an A. I don’t know if they always wear costumes, but on Sunday they came out wearing home-made police uniforms. I secretly aspire to be the xylophone/bells girl (I could TOTALLY do that job...see high school resume for reference...) with the bright red lipstick...although her singing left something to be desired next to Daniel’s. All in all, I loved every minute of the performance – of course my favorite number was the cheery, circus-like (prediction: the circus will replace pirates as the most common indie-rock gimmick) closer, “Five Stars and Two Thumbs Up.” It’s kinda hard to say anything bad about a band who closes their set with sincere audience appreciation: “Thank you for lending me a hand/for sharing time today/for giving that idea/that made it a nice and easy day.”
4) Spoon – a band for whom I randomly had low expectations, having never seen them and actually suspecting them to be overrated live, since they’ve issued pretty standard indie rock for the last ten years. Quite to the contrary, I found Spoon to be mesmerizing. Britt Daniels is up there working really f-ing hard for you people. The free beer made things a little hazy at this point on Sunday evening, but every song was strong and clear and they played a sizable portion of their extensive catalog. I was half-surprised they didn’t play “Sister Jack,” as lead single off their 2005 album which in retrospect made sense in context of their set, but a little disappointed that they didn’t play their *jam* (as Mike would say), “The Way We Get By.” However, their performance of “I Turn My Camera On” made me dig out Gimme Fiction immediately upon return to the car.

Those were the favorites for me, although if I knew a little more of their catalog I might do a write-up of the Walkmen, who were fantastic as well. I have their first two LPs and really couldn’t get into them for some reason, but now intend to buy the new one out a few months ago, A Hundred Miles Off. Mike thought The National were the surprise stars of the weekend, and I agree they were surprisingly decent – although I think the above bands stole the show.

Some disappointments/overrated acts:

1) Ted Leo & the Pharmacists – Ted Leo is sort of like the frat boy of the indie scene...which now I guess makes sense why the jury still seems to be out on him. I watched his Saturday set from the shade tree near the stage, throughout which he repeatedly turned me off despite some pretty tight numbers because he kept saying, “uhhh...I think I should say something...but I don’t really have anything to say...” I told Steph I thought he probably had ADD or something...and that was before actually encountering him several times backstage. On Sunday, he spent most of the day running around with his video camera...interviewing people, chatting...he was a little social butterfly. At one point he had apparently recruited a group of guys to play a drinking game that looked suspiciously like flip cup…Mike wanted to play because he knew one of the label guys in the group...but I certainly had no intention of playing Indie Rock Flip Cup with Ted Leo’s posse. Also, at one point, Mike asked me why Ted had a red dot on his forehead (I presume he meant he thought it was a bindi). It wasn’t until later that I remembered Ann running up to me the day before, right after Ted's set, screaming, “did you see all the blood?!!” I hadn’t in fact...but apparently he was rocking out a little too hard and banged his forehead on the mic stand...oops. At any rate, I will say that music trumps personality for me, so I intend to dig a little deeper into my collection of his albums, as musically he put on a great show. And one of my giddiest moments of the weekend was standing shoulder to shoulder with him while watching Spoon perform at the base of the stairs leading up to the stage. That said, I’m pretty sure he still lives with his parents.
2) Destroyer – I’m probably in the minority on this one. I’ve finally decided that I’m simply not a fan, and I figured out why...the guy can write a great song. But his voice is like listening to rocks grinding…it has a gravelly quality that still manages to drone...it really spoils the whole thing for me. Can’t get past the voice thing...never have been able to...hence the fact that Pearl Jam will never make my list of favorites. Unfortunate but true. His drummer was wearing a really cute straw hat though – think Howdy Doody-style.
3) Diplo – perpetuating my image as anti-hip hop despite recent (minimal) efforts to broaden the hip hop horizon...I was unimpressed. We had heard that it was going to be a “party” over there in the sidestage tent, so we headed over after it became clear that Spoon was not going to play “The Way We Get By.” Please keep in mind that it was late in the evening on Sunday and I was tipsily engrossed in an intensely competitive game of four-square, so all I can remember is his sampling of that “Around the World” song from my freshman year of college. There was probably more to it than that. Sorry the details are hazy.
4) Yo La Tengo – even Rebecca thought they sucked and it’s one of her all-time favorite bands.

Bands I was too tired and hot to pay close attention to, but who sounded especially strong from across the park: Art Brut, the Mountain Goats (beautiful piano), Jens Lekman (who is not nearly as cute in person as I had heard he would be). Band of Horses was sadly just OK for me…but I was dripping sweat at that point and more concerned about my water bottle than the music. In addition, my exhaustion by the end of both days prevented me from fully enjoying the headliners. I sincerely regret not being able to appreciate the Silver Jews, as I had been looking forward to them knowing them to be Mike’s favorite band out there right now + Pavement ties + intrigue of Tanglewood Numbers. On the other hand, I am still confused as to what the big deal about Os Mutantes was. I guess they were supposed to be influential and legendary or whatever, but really…just admit that you’ve never heard of them. I think “Tropicalia” might sound cooler than it is. Sure the band sounded good from the little league bench we staked out…and yeah it’s rare to see a 60’s band reunite for the first time in more than 30 years…but honestly, the band seemed to represent no more than a Brazilian interpretation of our favorite oldies. One song was so Beatle-y that mike and I created our own live Beatles/Os Mutantes mash-up: Mike sang “Hey Jude” along to the chorus, while I sang “If I Fell” during the verses. (Keep in mind this is post-drunken four-square, but) it was a beautiful moment. However, then I started hearing The Fifth Dimension and Jefferson Airplane and it was clear that it was time to leave.

All in all a sweet weekend…made even sweeter by the free beer, food and ice cream (courtesy of Matt the Ice Cream Man…look for him at Lollapalooza this coming weekend) and people-watching (best tattoo prize goes to the girl with Van Gogh’s “Starry Night” covering her entire left arm; worst tattoo prize goes to the shirtless guy with a fetus tattooed on his abdomen) and being able to see the Spoon keyboardist’s hands and the Futureheads drummer’s technique and the Mission of Burma singer’s pants which had some sort of orange lightning bolt-plaid design on them…and of course all my Chicago peeps in between sets. Is it starting to sound cliché that every time I come back from the City of Wind, I deem it “the perfect Chicago weekend”? Really. This time I think it was.

extra! extra!

so i am fully aware that i've been promising posts - i have two in the works. but i simply couldn't wait to post this time sensitive item.

i've officially decided that i am a huge fan of yahoo! news. the little headlines really ARE attention-getting, and the articles really ARE newsworthy. go figure. yesterday i read a fantastically humorous article reporting on the mounting tension in chicago. there's gonna be an uprising, and soon: go to www.firedustybaker.com for more details.

unfortunately, i can't find the link to that article anymore, so instead i'm posting an excerpt from an article reporting on prego britney spears posing for bazaar magazine nude, which is equally if not more hilarious.

E! online via yahoo! news:

Spears', shall we say, artsy cover girl stint comes after the singer was reportedly shocked by the negative reaction to her recent tearful Dateline confessional.

In a poll conducted by Us Weekly, 87 percent of respondents said they had less respect for Spears after her sitdown with Matt Lauer. Meanwhile, the New York Post reported that the NBC crew filming the interview was so startled by Spears' disheveled appearance when they arrived that they thought they had the wrong day.

As a result of the backlash, Spears apparently decided to prove that with the help of a little airbrushing, she can be the same Britney we once knew and loved. Except, you know, pregnant.

Meanwhile, according to a report in In Touch Weekly, Spears is considering returning to her roots--and not just the brunette ones. The magazine claims that the Louisiana native is considering moving back home to the town of Kentwood, where she was born.

The magazine claims that Federline is supportive of his wife's wishes, though there's no telling how the move could affect his quest to save the penny...

sheer genius.

Whatever you do...

...don't put your life in the hands of a computer salesman. i know it's hard to believe, but he just wants his commission, and he'll trick you into selling your soul to the devil to get it. he's one crafty motherf-er.

before i get started, i have one little irrelevant bone to pick. may i just state for the record that after a few months of objective listening...waiting...hoping, it turns out that unlike the rest of the natural-born world and admittedly antithetical to my love of both rilo kiley and traditional country music sung by lovelorn-but-fiercely-independent ladies with unique voices, i really don't like jenny lewis' new album. who are these watson twins anyway? are they really sisters? are they identical? if they're fake, i swear...

accordingly, if one more young whippersnapper tells me he likes the elected better than rilo kiley, i'm going to lure him to my apartment with promises of nattie light and xbox, duct-tape headphones to his ears, and put "take-offs and landings" on repeat on my Pod of Death. he probably won't even get the references to "salute your shorts!" because he was too busy being a fetus.

(ok fine. blake can write a catchy little tune. and someone in there is doing some pretty slick intermixing of slide guitar, saxophone and horn sounds. but still not. the. same.)

anyway, been feeling guilty about that one for too long. time to admit it and move on. so. moving on. well, it happened. already. i ran out of disk space on my new computer. i first received the fateful "low disk space" message about two months ago. somehow in my tech-savvy ingenuity, i managed to erase "rarely used" programs (including yahoo! messenger...sorry dad, don't know what you'll do without your harass-your-child-at-any-hour-of-the-day mechanism...), compress files, and effectuate a daily trash-removal system that squeezed out a lot more space for a lot longer then i thought it would. think clown-car style, or mary poppins' carpet bag.

but i think i've finally reached the limit.

flashback: august 2005. picture me frantically packing up my room since i'm moving in like...a few hours. elliot hates me because i have duped him into driving a u-haul down to stl with me, little did he know what he was getting himself into (what...movers cost a thousand bucks...). while he diligently loads the last six years of my life into the smallest u-haul you can rent, i'm on the phone with the lenovo guy since i obviously have saved one of the most important pre-move tasks of buying a computer until the very last minute. the lenovo guy tells me he has a daughter in law school, too, so he wants to give me the best deal possible. right buddy. whatever you say. here is an excerpt of our conversation:

me: i need as much space as possible because i keep my entire music collection on my computer. this is the only thing that is important to me in my life. not school. not exams. not notes. just music. so really, my life is dependent upon the size of my hard drive.
him: ok. you should get the 40GB.
me: really? because right now i have about 10 gigs of music, and that's only built up over about six months, since my ipod AND my old mp3 player were recently stolen out of my apartment, in essence stealing my soul and leaving me nothing left to live for. luckily my roommates wrenched the razor blade from my hands in the nick of time, and convinced me that in fact, it would be possible to restore my life, so we went through album by album, song by song, putting my soul back together piece by piece. so. you think 40 is enough space?
him: oh definitely. the 60 will make it too heavy if you're carrying it around all day long, and the hard drive programs don't take up much space. you'll have plenty of space for everything you want, at least for a year or two.
me: ok. well if you're SURE that the 40 gig will have more than enough space, i'll put my life in your hands. tell your daughter i say good luck on the bar exam.
him: thanks! i'll even throw in a free computer case for you!

flashforward to today: .95MB space left on my hard drive. i can't figure out how to work my external hard drive (so much for tech-savvy ingenuity). and the icing on the cake, i conveniently never received the free computer case. asshole. daughter in law school, my foot. i think i wrote his name down somewhere. doesn't every law student get to file one gratuitous lawsuit before she gets her wings?

so the next logical question becomes, how to use my precious few megabytes? i could download a song, but that would be too predictable, wouldn't it? i feel like it should be something monumental. mind-blowing. life-changing.

the floor is open for suggestions.

The Circus

Today I had a brand new experience. I attended my first non-baseball-related professional sporting event. Sure, I've been to football games before. But this experience did not quite compare with sitting on the hill next to my crush in junior high at mizzou games, or well...not remembering much at all from northwestern games (not that there was much to remember anyway, or so I hear). No, I can say my poor virgin senses received quite the shock today. I think I am still a little shaken up and you better believe my ears are still ringing.

It is my belief that pro football is the modern replacement for the circus in our culture, with everyone from the players to the cheerleaders to the fans serving as the requisite circus freaks. First of all, it is really f-ing LOUD in there. Apparently, the people running this freak show are afraid that if they aren't entertaining you at ear-splitting decibel levels at every second, then they are failing miserably. I couldn't figure out where to turn my attention to because of the force with which my senses were being assaulted. I sort of felt like I was in a surprise ambush without any ammunition. More proof (as if it were needed) that I'm a huge wimp.

Secondly, this was not an athletic game. This is a venue for men to compete for Highest Level ofTestosterone. Every time the players make ANY successful play (NOT just scoring), they do a dance and run around the field like a fat kid in a candy store. One of them had this signature victory dance that involved flapping his wings like a bird and chest-bumping his teammate. LOTS of fist-pumping. These guys are REALLY proud of themselves, let me tell you, and they are showmen. Then, there are the male fans. Every play - good or bad - elicits sort of a primal chant. I was really waiting for them to start drumming their chests and swinging from the rafters Tarzan-style.

And don't get me started on the female fans. In the spirit of stereotyping/judgmental categorizing, there are three kinds: 1) old ladies who are there with their husbands, 2) intense jersey-sporting fans, and 3) girls decked out like they're going to prom. This last category is less understandable to me than any other spectacle at the show. It was Sunday afternoon. It was pouring outside. Heels, minskirts and dangly earrings were the last thing on my mind.

These are the elements that composed my initial shock. However, I have to say, after I got used to it, I quite enjoyed myself. For all of you ADD people out there, I have found the perfect venue for you. The best part is, you don't even have to try to pay attention, they do all the distracting work for you! And, as I have reiterated time and time again, we all know I am nothing if not a lazy bastard. After awhile, your ears adjust to the volume, and although you are never quite able to distinguish between all the different things going on around you, you kinda start to like getting caught up in the fray. The player's wing-flapping act starts to seem pretty hilarious after all. Suddenly you're BFF with the girl sitting next to you in the diamond tiara. Next thing you know, you're on your feet singing and dancing, and wondering why they keep stopping the music while the game is going on.

Well. I can't lie to you, though. I would be remiss if I didn't mention that my favorite part of a football game is still the marching band at half-time. You can take the girl out of the band, but you can't take the band (geek) out of the girl. Even when you try to distract her with the circus freaks.

Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

I have decided to write a new entry in my blog because of this person's comment:

azg said...

whats the point of having a blog if you never writing anything?!?!?!?

I figure his comment is proof that there is a demand out there for my writing, and clearly, a fan base. It is time to appease my adoring fans.

I keep trying to decide if my blog should have a theme, you know, for coherency purposes. And then I can be all glib and stuff and bring things full circle. I could quite easily make this blog an in-depth study of the wonder that is law school. However, I figure you probably want to read something mildly entertaining. I've decided that my lack of coherence is part of my charm, and thus, things shall stay as they are.

Today's first of many entries is going to be another re-attempt to get used to writing. My emails lately have been only minorly witty, but don't worry, things will get better, now that I am back in school and have plenty of procrastinating to do. I am wittiest (and most humble) when I am supposed to be getting things done. Which, now, is 100% of the time.

Like right now, for instance, my Contracts book is sitting open next to me, unread. Unhighlighted. Unbriefed. Neglected in every way. But Seinfeld is on, my laptop is down to 16% battery power, and my iTunes is playing. Yes, I am succeeding in finding every way possible of avoiding that evil little book.

Over the last 3 months since my last entry, things in the life of me have changed drastically:

1) I moved from one midwestern town to another. Yes, I am well-aware I have never lived outside of the midwest, thank you for mentioning it.
2) I am no longer an independent, urban working girl. Now I am a decidedly suburban student dependent on the federal government to pay for my excessively expensive education. This sort of cramps my style.
3) Because of #2, I now have to set foot in the kitchen. The impossible has happened: I finally learned to boil water.
4) Because of #2, I am not only a student, but a STUDIOUS student. Now you all are really starting to wonder what the hell is going on. I know, it's shocking. Try to stay calm.
5) I have started to pick up my phone when people call me. This is because I miss everyone and now live in the alternative universe of St. Louis, Missouri. Alone. Completely alone. Except for my entire family, of course.

To alleviate your fears, here are all the ways I have stayed the same:

1) I still go to lots of baseball games and talk lots of shit to Cubs fans.
2) I am still a music nazi.
3) I still peer pressure people into going out with me, and once we're out, I peer pressure them to drink a lot and stay out late against their will. People thank me for this in the morning at 9:00 class.
4) I still find a multitude of diverse ways to procrastinate. Right now, for example, I am watching a TV show about children raised by wolves. At first, I found this to be bizarrely hilarious, but now it is bizarrely sad and seriously bringing me down.
5) I still find myself to be one of the most amusing people I know, even though the other day my sister told me I was "overconfident." I think what she meant to say was, "arrogant bitch," but upon questioning this, I settled for her final assessment of "interesting, but weird."
6) And finally, and most excitingly, I am still obsessed with Halloween and am already planning my costume for this year. As in, I'm going to be the same thing I was last year and probably go everywhere in it, including the grocery store, class, and even the gym.
7) HA! As if I would ever go to the gym.

See? Things are never as bad as they seem. Don't worry, this is just a three-year undercover operation in which I work under the guise of "serious law student." I'll be back in no time.

Misery is a Butterfly

I once went to see Rachael Yamagata perform at Schuba's. It was right after she got signed to RCA, and the first time I'd seen her play since she finally hit it big. The usually pensive singer was in an upbeat mood - almost giddy. She turned to the audience and said, a big goofy grin on her face, "I'm so happy right now. That's bad, though, because I can't write when I'm happy. I can only write when I'm miserable."

I think about that comment a lot. For someone who's trying to practice writing and figure out if she's any good at it, I certainly don't have a lot of motivation to write. I really think it might come down to the fact that I'm almost always happy. I'm starting to wonder if maybe I shouldn't try to make myself unhappy so I can have something to complain about. I mean, there are an awful lot of horrible, ire-inspiring, maddening, sad things going on in the world. I'm sure I could find something to be disturbed about.

Another example (also musical): One of my favorite singers, Rhett Miller, used to be known for his nerdy glasses, decidedly unhip Texas-plaid shirts, and songs about rebellious, unrequited love and affairs with married women. Somehow this combination gave him an edge and a little bit of vulnerability that made him appealing to his fans. But then, he grew his hair out rock star-style, got rid of the Elvis Costello glasses, released a solo album, married a model, and had a baby. Edge gone. At least according to the critics ("Part of this regression can be attributed to singer and primary songwriter Rhett Miller, who seems to be losing his edge. Perhaps it has something to do with his recent marriage and fatherhood, both of which have immense personal rewards but often exert a settling effect on artists who've trafficked in damaged goods and sly sexual come-ons." - Pitchfork Media. "For Rhett Miller, failed love has been both a bittersweet muse and a theme ripe for exploitation. Emo in a pre-punk sort of way, Miller has gotten more out of deceptively simple, perfectly wrought love songs than any book-smart guitar guy in forever. But his first-person seems less personal here. Maybe it's because Miller's happily married (with a kid), or because his very good solo album got called slick, or because he's working on a novel." - Village Voice). Don't get me wrong, I still love the guy, but I think I might have to agree with the seemingly universal opinion that his music has lost a little bit of the edge that apparently accompanied his former misery.

Why is self-conscious, deeply-wrought depression so necessary for creativity? Probably the most current example is the one and only Mr. Conor Oberst (either "the new Chris Carrabba" or "the greatest poet of our generation," depending on your point of view), who has laid his most private emotions on the table like an open book for all to read. After seeing him in concert last night, I can tell you this is one disturbed individual. At one point, he announced to the crowd, "Oh Chicago, you have a sordid past. But, I'm over it now, so I guess it's OK." I'm thinking, what's he talking about? The Chicago Fire? The history of the political machine? The age-old war over property taxes on the north shore? So, I turn around and inquire to the 15-year-old bespectacled punk (complete with asymmetrical faux-mo and earrings in both ears) standing behind me. The kid tells me that in one of his songs, Conor says he tried to kill himself in Chicago. What? Who announces that to 3,000 screaming teenagers on a Sunday night? Then, during his encore, Conor even further demonstrated his wretchedness. He climbed up on top of a very precarious-looking synthesizer and jumped up and down for the length of almost an entire song. He apparently had no concern whatsoever for what might happen should he fall, and the kid sang his heart out through that wavering voice, as the unsteady stand wobbled beneath him. Somewhat appalled, I turned to Deena and said, "Don't you get the feeling that this guy could use a few friends?"

So, I haven't done any writing since April 20, when as you all are aware, I wrote the monumental break-through article about the Contemporary Woman's Discourse on Modern Views of Sex. Since that time, I can tell you that I am living proof of the theory I proposed. To all of you who sent me emails/comments expressing sympathy for my lack of sex, I thank you for your concern. But, you can stop now. The dry spell is over. And it went out with a bang, I might add (pun totally intended). But the point of this entry is not to put your restless minds at ease, but to pose the question: why, since I have reconciled one of the only personal issues that I seem to have at this point, have I had no desire to write since then?

For me, it doesn't seem that misery necessarily behooves me to write. Rather, it's more likely to happen when I have a bone to pick with society. Or when I'm so goddamn bored at work that I can't sit still. But most notably, it seems that when I've got a lot going on in my life, and a lot to do and think about, I just don't have time or desire to sit down and get my thoughts on paper. It's only when I feel that I'm missing something and that I've got time to process my thoughts that the creative inclination overcomes me.

The question becomes: how do you turn that sort of inconsistency into a career? Is it possible? Am I simply not cut out to be a writer? Is it mandatory that one must be seriously disturbed in order to make a life of the pen? Admittedly, I don't see myself necessarily in the arena of creative writing, more in the arena of criticism, but even that medium requires inspiration. A friend trying to figure out if he wanted to be a writer once wrote me, "Just think I'd rather be an actor in the play that is life, rather than the playwright." I think my response to him was that it is entirely possible to be both. But, is that true? Do his words explain the sentiments I am having, however subconscious? Is everyone either a doer or a dreamer? I'd have to say if I was forced to classify myself, I'd be leaning towards a dreamer, but at the same time, (in the words of Mr. Miller himself) I WANT TO LIVE. Why is it that when I am LIVING, I am not DREAMING? Is one better than the other? Is one more right for me than the other? While I'm living, am I forgetting my dreams? Can't I just have both?

Turn Me On

Forewarning: I have no shame. Read at your own risk. My apologies in advance to anyone who is negatively implicated in the following discourse.

Last Sunday, as I sat outside with a few friends enjoying the unseasonable 75-degree weather and (let's face it) getting drunk, a revelation was made that I have been thinking about over the last few days.

Inevitably, when you combine single girls + alcohol, you end up talking about sex. It is just the fact of the matter, the way of the world. First, you talk about the new shirt you got on sale. Then, you scope the joint for any cute guys, and comment on how they are all a bunch of losers because they don't ever come over to your table to say hello. (Mind you, if by some crazy coincidence, they DO come over to your table, you do your best to look as bored and disinterested as possible, because obviously they weren't as cute as you thought they were from across the room). Next, you go around the table and catch up on your current prospects, which - at least among my group of friends - change so fast that you'd think the world was running out of males. Finally, inevitably, someone says, "God....I need to get laid...."

And off we go.

On Sunday, it was revealed that none of us had had sex in ages. I won't reveal names or specifics (wouldn't want to hamper anyone's game), but of the four girls sitting at the table, one of us had gone 5 months, one 8 months, one 9 months, and one a whopping 12 months without having sex. After going around the table and mumbling our depressing numbers, we all just stared at each other. Wondering how this could be possible. The conversation was really nothing out of the ordinary. It was just the sheer shock of the fact that, after comparing notes, four young, attractive women had not gotten laid in that long of a time.

Now, in effort to save a little bit of face, let me please state for the record that all of us have managed to get our share of action. In that department, we couldn't complain. Even those of us who don't generally engage in random hook-up activity (i.e., me) are feeling relatively satisfied with our near-sex experiences. It's what we crave the most, going all the way, that just isn't happening.

So, in a Carrie Bradshaw-like maneuver, I have decided to get to the bottom of this sexual discrepancy. The fact that we haven't gotten laid is no doubt leading you, dear reader, to imagine a number of possibilities. One, we're prude. Two, we're ugly. Three, we're sexually inexperienced. Four, we're too picky. I am here to tell you that, although we have considered them at length, not one of these reasons running through your mind right now is even remotely true.

What we ARE, though, are discerning people who want the experience of sex to be something positive. I know that I could walk out the door right now and pick up the first guy I see and get my brains fucked out. This would not satisfy my sexual urges in any sort of fulfilling way. Not that I am judgmental of women who do find random sex fulfilling, I just personally am incapable of having sex with someone I have no attraction to. Simple as that. To be honest, I think many women feel the same way. It is not necessarily the social stigma of random sex that is stopping us from getting laid all the time - it is our own need for respect and desire for affection. Don't get me wrong - we are progressive enough to feel that love is not a requisite for sex, nor is a monogamous relationship always ultimately important. Meaning, we are not necessarily always looking for "something special." What we want is to wake up in the morning feeling comfortable, satisfied, and without regret. I am at a loss as to why this scenario is so impossible to replicate. All it takes is two people who respect each other, whether you've met tonight or 5 years ago, and voila! Good sex.

Here's a short overview of my sexual background, which might make my perspective a little bit easier to comprehend: as you probably know, I dated someone for six years. I was intensely attracted to him for two of those years, and the last four were somewhat of a sexual disaster, latent with emotional dissatisfaction and bad communication. Our relationship was long-distance for 4 of those years, making intimacy nearly impossible. After the initial few years of wanting to jump each other, I went from being one of the most sexual people I knew, to having near-zero sex drive. He resented me for it, but was too insecure to try and show me how much he wanted me. We tried to talk about it - I got angry, he got embarrassed. We were both massively sexually frustrated for the last year or so. I eventually decided there was something medically wrong with me. I came up with a thousand self-diagnoses, but not one of my self-prescribed solutions worked. Eventually, we broke up, and since that time, I have wondered if I am just not a sexual person. I have had a number of sexual experiences since then, and honestly they were mostly positive. I made the right choices for myself, and always felt comfortable in the situations, had fun, etc etc.

But, here's the thing: I have realized lately that I AM a sexual person. Very much so. It's just that in the last few years, I have yet to be really TURNED ON. Like, to the point that I can barely sit still. This is what really gets me: we are YOUNG. VIRILE. SEXUALLY-CHARGED. We should be turned on all the time. Everything I do should turn me on - I should be in a constant state of euphoria. I am too young to waste my time waiting for the right guy(s) to come along and do me right. And yet, given my current mindset and circumstances, this is my only option. I can't really change the things that get me excited, but I CAN tell you what they are, in case any of you guys want to remind me of what it's like:

Affection. Respect. Sincerity. Confidence, with a side of humility. Humor. Real, palpable sexual tension. These are not inherent qualities - they are qualities that every person out there can easily acquire. If you can find a way to show me, in a sincerely affectionate way, that you WANT me, then I will want to have sex with you. If you treat me with respect and honesty after it's over, I will a) probably be willing to do it again, but at the same time, b) not resent you if you don't want to. Simple, right?

This may be one of my more preachy entries, but let me just leave you with this one last thought: I have never had sex with someone only once.