Worms Everywhere

Saturday Dontmatterday/Sunday Funday

2006-08-01T17:10:00.000-05:00

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!

2006-06-28T18:18:00.000-05:00

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...

2006-04-24T22:50:00.000-05:00

...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

2005-09-26T00:45:00.000-05:00

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

2005-09-18T22:47:00.000-05:00

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

2005-05-16T09:21:00.000-05:00

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

2005-04-20T10:40:00.000-05:00

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.

Arachnophobia

2005-04-15T11:26:00.000-05:00

I am terrified of spiders. I hate to admit this fact, because it is just so cliche to be afraid of spiders. I wish I were afraid of paper clips or cheese or something quirky like that. At least being afraid of heights or the dark has a certain romantic charm to it. It's just as silly to be afraid of a tiny little creature that generally causes no harm, except to commit suicide by crawling down your throat 8 times a year while you're sleeping. The occasional spider bite might cause a day or two of minor irritation, but really, is the shuddering fear and near-hysterical screaming really worthy of that tiny, soft (albeit ugly as sin) little being? I say NO. I mean, let's get a little perspective here. We are not afraid of Chicago drivers, and believe me, they are a whole hell of a lot more likely to kill you.

Thus far, my means of combatting my arachnophobia have really been quite simple. Ladies and gentlemen, prepare yourself to be amazed: I have successfully taught my brain to be blind to them. I don't know how exactly I have managed this, but I can guarantee you that although my apartment last year was infested with gigantic, monstrous black spiders with TALONS - I am not joking - I somehow managed to avoid seeing a single one of them. Usually, that's because I would hear Becky screaming in her room in the basement (which was the evil lair of the exponentially multiplying creatures), and instead of rushing to her aid, I'd book it out the back door and pretend I wasn't home. But, when I WAS home, and living in the room right next to the aforementioned evil lair, somehow I never saw one - at least not alive. (I did see a few dead ones that Becky couldn't bring herself to dispose of after the horrifying experience of having to kill them on her own, which is how I know that the talons were real.) I can only come to the conclusion that my brain is a highly evolved, complex piece of machinery and that I am a genius.

However, since I have moved to my new apartment, I have noticed that although I rarely see spiders, there to seem to be quite a number of spiderWEBS around that my brain hasn't quite figured out how to block out yet. Maybe it's the translucent, intricate nature of the web itself that discourages my brain from even attempting to block it out. Too much work, and we all know that I am nothing if not a lazy bastard. So, this brings up the problem that although I can't see the damn things, I KNOW THEY ARE THERE. WATCHING ME. Waiting for me to make one false move and then BAM! They strike when I'm least expecting it. This situation actually results in constant, excruciating paranoia that is way more pervasive than the giant dragon-spiders of my old apartment.

So I'm trying to come up with a new coping mechanism. My latest bright idea: positive associations. Thank you high school AP Psych. After brainstorming for awhile, I came up with a fantastic positive association. My grandfather. When I was little, my grandpa was the best grandpa in the world. He was the kind of grandpa who told us all about what it was like to be a secret elf for Santa Claus (he always put in a good word for us via telephone conference), and about how he used to work as a chef for the Queen of England (she liked her steak medium rare). He grew up playing baseball with Yogi Berra on the Hill in St. Louis, and was drafted to the minors by the Cleveland Indians, but didn't end up going because apparently Uncle Sam's draft somehow supercedes the MLB's draft (this story, I believe, is at least partially true). He taught us a card game called Horse's Ass, which he used to cheat at, and he'd take us down to his Bocci club to hang out with all the other old Italian guys and learn important life lessons, like how to make fun of the Irish.

But by far, my favorite activity when I was little was a made-up game aptly-named "Bar." My grandparents have a bar in the basement of the small St. Louis house that my mother grew up in. Starting probably when we were aged about 4 and 6 respectively, my sister and I would go downstairs and pretend to patronize my grandpa's bar. We'd clamber up on the stools, and our grandpa would ask us what we'd like to drink. He'd pull out a shot glass for each of us, and pour us a couple cold ones. And we would sit and chat and tell war stories to each other across the bar, all the while happily sipping our shot glasses of beer. My grandpa would, of course, be drinking an actual full-sized pint of whatever Anheuser-Busch product he happened to have chilling in the 50's-style fridge, and knowing that we were allowed only one shot glass' worth, we would ask him for sips of his. He would always deny us, but (I'm finally getting to the relevant part) he'd promise one of us that we could drink "the spider." For those of you under the age of 70 who may not have heard of this term, "the spider" is the last sip of beer at the bottom of the glass, which upon maturation I did fortunately learn generally contains more saliva than beer and would be more precisely termed " the dregs." But, at the time, in my naivete, all I cared about was winning the coveted "spider" from my grandpa's foamy glass.

Aside from revealing the origination point of my love of and possible dependence on alcohol, this story warms my heart and makes the idea of a spider seem like a cuddly, fuzzy little animal incapable of causing anyone pain or distress. Nothing at all to be afraid of. So now when I see spiders or spiderwebs, all I have to do is go get a Bud Light and I will be at peace with the world.

Chiz to that.

(Not to toot my own horn, but my talent for rationalizing my overuse of alcohol as a coping mechanism/social crutch is startlingly brilliant, and provides even more evidence that I am, in fact, a genius.)

Things Just Got Weird

2005-04-13T10:27:00.000-05:00

If ever there was such a person who claimed to have mixed feelings, I guarantee they didn't hold a candle to the mixed feelings I'm experiencing right now. I am not sure where to begin. I guess I'll start from the very beginning, a very good place to start (Julie Andrews is a wise woman).

At this very moment, I am struck by the way that two people start out at the same place, and end up in such different places that they can hardly relate to one another anymore. No matter how much you had in common at one point, there are just too many different experiences that create an impenetrable gap between you now. All you have left is the memories you shared when your life was the same. Which is so profoundly sad that it is difficult to think about.

From the opposite perspective, I now have a deeper understanding of why it is so difficult to find people you do have things in common with and who are on the same page as you. If two people on the same path can diverge so permanently, how can you ever expect two completely different paths to converge into one?

So back to the beginning. Don and me. When we started dating, we were so young (18 and almost 17, respectively) that I hadn't yet had time to even imagine what kind of man I wanted to be with. I had had relationships, but I was not seasoned enough or old enough or cynical enough to have any opinions about what I was looking for. He just appeared out of nowhere. I was both terribly fortunate and terribly unfortunate to have met him when I did, in those early years of emotional development. He molded my image of the perfect man, which to this day is etched in my brain, and while he was deserving of the title, the image will probably cause me trouble for the rest of my life.

When we met, the fact that he was the star swimmer on the swim team, and the lead role in all the school plays, and the student body vice president, and that his attention was sought-after by everyone - guys, girls, teachers, parents, kids....everyone - didn't matter to me. Not one bit. What mattered to me was that this dynamic, generous, kind, and sincerely beautiful person sought MY attention. Me, of all people. All that mattered to me was that he made my heart race and my stomach hurt, that kissing him was so agonizing and so satisfying all at once that I could barely control myself. That I saw more in one gaze into his blue eyes than I had seen in my entire life.

Back then, we were of the same fabric. We came from relatively similar families, we had all sorts of interests in common. What interests we didn't have in common initially, we combined. We were both successful, happy kids, and we drew envious looks (and acts) from day one. We both had goals - he wanted to go into film, and frankly all I cared about at the point was going to a good college. I guess our first divergence was that we went to separate, very different schools. I went to a mid-sized private university in Chicago, while he went to a large state school in Ohio, which he attended because it had a relatively distinguished film program and because he could swim Division I there. Neither of us flourished at our respective destinations at first. I couldn't get used to the North Shore, east-coast influenced pretention of my school environment, which was driven by every form of competition imaginable, and was usually centered on money and degree of wealth. Something my small midwestern college hometown did not prepare me to deal with. He had a lot of trouble balancing schoolwork and athletics, he couldn't stick with a major in fine arts, and he got discouraged quickly.

But, as they say, and is ironic given that he was a much better swimmer than I was, you have to sink or swim. He went in one direction, and I went in the other. I struggled to stay afloat my first two years, and after living abroad my junior year, I cut the bullshit and finally flourished. Don, on the other hand, quit both swimming and film after his freshman year, and spent the next two years in a downward spiral of indecision and paralyzing depression. He transferred to school back home to start his senior year, and quit altogether at the semester. He moved to Chicago to get a job and be with me while he figured things out. I tried to remain as supportive and understanding as I possibly could, but I could never entirely comprehend what he was going through. Not finishing school was not an option for me, and I could never completely wrap my mind around why he didn't. In the end, as I graduated and got a job and he continued to struggle, we were already moving too quickly in opposite directions. So we broke up.

Fast forward three years, and here we are, so far removed from each other that I can't help looking back and wondering how this all happened. He's spent the last three years working in bars and dating older women and trying to get over his depression and figuring his life out; I've spent the last two years working at a law firm, generally enjoying the break in the game as I prepare to go to law school. The fundamental difference between us, that has always created a barrier, that was the reason for our break-up and ultimate divergence, and that is the reason why we will never make it as I naively thought for so long that we would, is this: my life is moving forward, his is stagnant. I like who I am and who I am going to become, he does not. I am happy. He is not.

But, now for the first time, his life IS moving forward. Forward and even further away from mine. Last night, he sat across the table from me, looked me in the eyes in the same way he always has, and told me he has decided to go into the navy. It seems he has made an informed decision, that he has truly thought a lot about what he wants from life, and that the navy is the medium through which he means to achieve his goals. He wants to do some diving and he means to go to school after his first two years of service. There really wasn't much for me to say in response. I am in no position to judge him, especially when it is clear that he has made up his mind to do what he thinks is best for himself. Aside from breaking up with me, this is the first real decision he's made, completely for his own benefit, since high school. After he told me, he looked at me expectantly, waiting for me to be critical as usual, to force him to defend his decision. But, I wasn't critical. I didn't try to hide my shock, but I did take the news in stride, and I smiled and told him that I was happy for him. He is moving back home on Sunday for a few months before he goes to boot camp.

Although I came to terms with the fact that we are over and done with some time ago, I am going through a fresh period of mourning for us. It feels like the last nail in the coffin of our once-vibrant relationship, like the last shovel of dirt on our still-fresh grave. And it is sadder than ever because we still look at each other the same way we always have. I am still in awe of his pleasant demeanor and unyielding generosity, his wit and that bright smile that shines halfway across the room. He is still the only person I know who listens with both ears and both eyes. As ridiculous as it sounds, I can tell that I'm still the most beautiful person in the world to him. Despite how far we've both gone and how different our lives are going to be, despite the aforementioned impenetrable barriers, we still have one thing in common: the connection that somehow sustained us for almost six years. The spirit of us is not dead, and I honestly don't think it ever will be, no matter how far apart the paths of our lives diverge. That spirit is something that I am certain is going to haunt me for the rest of my life.

TGIF

2005-04-08T16:14:00.000-05:00

Elliot loves blonde jokes more than anyone I've ever met. If you tell him one, he will laugh about it for the next week, and then will tell the joke to everyone he sees. Or rather, he'll say, "Cori, tell that blonde joke that I like," and then laugh so hard that he can't breathe before I even get to the punchline. Here is Elliot's current favorite blonde joke:

A business man got on an elevator. When he entered, there was a blonde already inside who greeted him with a bright, "T-G-I-F." He smiled at her and replied, "S-H-I-T." She looked puzzled and repeated, "T-G-I-F," more slowly. He again answered, "S-H-I-T." The blonde was trying to keep it friendly, so she smiled her biggest smile, and said as sweetly as possible, "T-G-I-F." The man smiled back at her and once again, "S-H-I-T." The exasperated blonde finally decided to explain. "'T-G-I-F' means Thank Goodness It's Friday. Get it, duuhhh?" The man answered, "'S-H-I-T' means 'Sorry, Honey, Its Thursday.

Let's Get It Started.....

2005-04-06T12:05:00.000-05:00

I have a officially made the switch from "online diary" format to "blog" format. The purpose of this transition is my feeble attempt to actually garner the attention of some readers. I have not done any writing since December 28, 2004 and am therefore a little rusty, so I request your patience as I try to recapture my essence (which, incidentally, was recently stolen by a band of thieves. more to come on that topic).

A few anecdotes to give you an idea of who I am:

1. A couple of weeks ago, my roommates and I had a party. While at the party, the following conversation took place between my friend Deena and me:

D: Cori, I love that shirt.
C: Thanks, it's Becky's. My whole outfit is from Becky's closet.
D: I feel like you always wear Becky's clothes.
C: Well, yeah, I just don't have any. I can't afford them. I don't know what I'm going to do when I move away from her in a few months.
D (suspiciously): Cori?
C (sensing her suspicion): Yes?
D (even more supsiciously): Do you spend all of your money on music and booze?
C (bashfully, concentrating on my perpetually untied shoelaces): Yeah.....

The above anecdote exhibits a number of my personality traits that you may or may not find attractive. Lucky for me, Deena then proceeded to tell me that my lack of responsibility somehow made me cool. I am not exactly sure how she came up with that conclusion, but I'm just going to go with it. I can be flexible now and then.

OK, just one anecdote for now, no time to write more today.