Monday, August 31, 2009

the socrates of metal

the more you know!

pearwithlegs: lemmy is a bear/god/man and i am making him a shrine
me: whatever the fuck that means i love it so goddamn hard i wanna cook it green beans and casseroles for the rest of its days.
pearwithlegs: it means you need to walk your ass over to the youtube section of the internet and watch some Motorhead or Hawkwind videos and just make sure you brought a change of granny panties
pearwithlegs:

pearwithlegs:
I saw that fucking half-god last night...in person...live...in the flesh
me:
holy shit. did yo face melt off? the fuck off?
pearwithlegs:
yes...my face? a puddle of pulsating goo on the house of blues floor. some poor custodial worker had a lot of mopping to do last night
me
: is he rasping "killed by death?" yeah. that's exactly what he's saying.
pearwithlegs: yes ma'am
me: incredible.and so logical.
pearwithlegs: he is like the socrates of metal

ARRRRRRRRRT!

jonny gomez, scoundrelest of scamps, prince among men, and immensely talented artist, breezes into chicago this week. his work and his smirk would be a credit to our little village, so everybody, you see him, you be sweet. he likes the sweet stuff.

look at this, though. just look at it. my my. it's a thing he does well.


gorgeous, no? texture, chaos, color - all things i want to brush up against. sometimes you find yourself lost in an image. sometimes you want to stay there.



one of these is going to end up in my living room and my home will nearly be complete. your favorites? i'm partial to all of them, myself.



i don't know how i missed this before, but hey new favorite. this is an aesthetic, and it's one we all strive for, on occasion, if not daily.


go on then. look at the rest: jon gomez


p.s. should you know anyone who has completed or is currently enrolled in the mfa program at saic for fine arts, painting, etc, do let us know. insight is in demand.

Sunday, August 30, 2009

dear advertising wizards responsible for the following:




"hump" is not a sexy word. take whatever the opposite of sexy is, multiply it by denim chafe and misguided animal instinct (these two are not mutually exclusive), divide that by seriously, and that more nearly approximates the semantic force of the word.

do you think this is sexy, overpaid creative geniuses?


let me answer that for you. no. you don't. you, like the rest of us, thought this was hilarious your senior year of college and, even then, you only found it hysterical because of all the milwaukee's best and by that time you were well out of your dry-humping-your-girlfriend-of-two-weeks-on-a-polyester-fold-out-couch days.

i'm making a lot of assumptions here, i realize; first, that the cw asked brainiac and fingeronthepulse, inc. to create a "sexy" poster for their upcoming terrible and televised crapfest - which was horrible the first time around - and if that could include a subversive double-entendre (french for sexy wordplay), even better! $$$! sexy!

assuming my assumptions are correct - and let's be for real, they are - i'm going to need someone to toss me in a pile of money and let me fart out brilliance that gets hollywood alchemy-ed into more dollars or i swear to the god of shitty garbage i am fucking done with television.

these days

you want this. you need this.

st. vincent - these days (nico cover)

how do you know?

Above is the phrase that I said to my mother ad nauseum growing up every time she answered any question, no matter how banal, to come out of my mouth.

Today at brunch, in front of God, boyfriend and country my mother said, "You know what your dad and I always say, right? If you would have been the first child, you would've been the only child."

Dear Momma, I love you. That is all.

i hope to one day be as good at anything as tina guo is at cello metal

for serious, you guys.


wouldn't mind being good at anything in that dress either.


then this. holy shit. this.




because. she. CAN.


bonus bee girl:





bee girl [goldenfiddlr.]

Friday, August 28, 2009

bme: baby, forgive me, come back edition

summer, my love, between the late nights out traipsing carelessly about with nogoodniks and scamps of all sorts, i realize i may have upset you. do not think for a second i have not noticed. you have been so cold, so dark. it's chilling.

i know i can be flighty darling but please, don't go. not yet. i'm not ready for this. barry white said it best, and baritoniest, and way fucking better than lisa stansfield, when he said "i'm never never gonna give you up." i don't have that track in my computer brain, but here are 22 other ways that ought to tell you that i can't stand the you-shaped lack you want to leave in my heart. 22! that's a shit ton of real talk.

one more chance. please, i need this. summer, i'm lost without you.

mary j. blige - i'm going down
otis redding - pain in my heart
ryan adams - why do they leave
bill withers - ain't no sunshine
she & him - you really got a hold on me
jens lenkman - pocketful of memory
sufjan stevens - for the widows in paradise, for the fatherless in ypsilanti
stars - one more night
peter gabriel - in your eyes
jenny lewis - tryin' my best
the magnetic fields - i don't want to get over you
billie holiday - night and day
al green - let's stay together
tv on the radio - lover's day
jose gonzales - heartbeats
pure prairie league - amie (falling in and out of love)
menomena - wet and rusting
the knife - heartbeats
the national - start a war (white sessions, live)
band of horses - no one's gonna love you
lykke li - tonight

and because not so deep inside of me, summer, there is a drunk, mexican woman howling at the moon for her wayward love:
chavela vargas - paloma negra
deal with that.

if even still, even now, you must go, maybe one last quick roll in the hay? for old time's sake?

Muscle Shirts: A Quick Q & A


Muscle. Shirts. do I kid? I do not. If you seek a flippant skate across pop cultural trends a la late 90s mullet-obsession, move on.


Who?

A muscle shirt is great for the woman- or man-about-town who needs to maximize his style and minimize his body temperature. This style of shirt is especially key for individuals who believe that running, biking, hiking, strolling, or cruising without a shirt on is an uncouth action.

What?

First, according to the dictionary:











Second, according to everyday sightings:




It is important here to note that I mean this kind of muscle shirt:



And not this kind:




Third, in a helpful d.i.y. demonstration:

  1. Begin with a t-shirt like this one. Notice its typicality.


2. Second, cut off the sleeves with some scissors.



Often, you will find that t-shirts have two sleeves. Cut them both off. You might choose to recycle the sleeves as sweatbands.



But that's a tutorial for another time.


3. (Optional) Cut off t-shirt neck. This is a good choice if you frequently feel restricted.




And that is all it takes to make a regular t-shirt a muscle shirt.

Why?

Many people find t-shirts a little too much fabric. Many of those same individuals feel that total shirt removal, whether for a man or a woman wearing a sportsbra, draws unwanted attention and makes unwanted ogling seem wanted. The muscle shirt, for some human beings, is a great balance of dressed but not overheated, particularly in situations requiring physical exertion that may result in sweat.


Wear?

Yes, sometimes.

Thursday, August 27, 2009

let's get presidential!


well. work friend Erika has presented me with not one. not two. not three. not four. not five. not six. but seven! parts of John Adams: The HBO Film.

in times like this, in times that try men's souls, there seems no better solution than to camp out on the ol' love sack, eat some en fuego mexican stew, and live blog this event. get ready for seven parts' worth of magic spread out over god knows how long.


the ending's easiest to imagine

the assignment daniel gave me is straight forward: write a poem about bricks without using any adverbs. due sunday, 5pm.

i arrive only at the last line: "another weight without belonging." i know that's how it ends.

there were others. lines, i mean. none worth noting yet. "rendered to edifice" maybe but that has the distinct sound of trying too hard.

the scrawling began as i was taking the train from the south side to the loop and, bless my stars, there were bricks upon bricks, piles and buildings, new ones, old ones, ones destined for slaughter as the city grows newer. what happens to bricks when they are no longer wanted standing as they are? scrap metal, wood chips - they probably even recycle asbestos somehow, the bastards. but bricks? where do they go when they have outlived their purpose? when st. boniface is finally, inevitably, torn to the ground, to what form will it return?


where are you going, little brick pile?


do you remember what you were?

i am not going to google this. let me keep this mystery for myself. i've got some work to do.

and then you tell someone to buy two tickets

where the wild things are benefit screening!

september 29, 7pm at the music box theater. i got two, and told him to get two, who told her to get two, who'll tell another, then another, and in this way, everything will be the best.

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

paging all hopeful domestics

I find it hard to believe that in the almost-forty posts to date, this hasn't come up yet.

Reader, if you are there, meet Ree Drummond: confessor, cook, teacher, mother, girl-about-town, mentor. role model. amazon. wife. novelist. I'm gushing. This is a little embarassing.



she also took this resplendent pic


She's the best thing to come from downstate Illinois (sit down, juggalos!) and almost makes the prairie seem like a good idea. Some suggestions for building a relationship with her:
Girl crushing abounds.

Debt: A National Problem

remix videos are so weird:


because the "epic internetting by an old person" label needed some padding

with many thanks to brooklyn lindsay, who ought to be much closer:
old people talking about the internet

a word or two of advice from diana

it's mom week round the office, and the fun doesn't stop with naomi's exquisite foul (the ethiopian dish, not the gross) and robin's account of the snowglobe incident. my very own mama sends me these pearls of wisdom this morning:

Try to eat 2 whole oranges if you can and take a vitamin if you have one. Always remember to dress appropriately and look polished, yet like a lady who loves to be a woman.


and a minute later:

and a lot of liquids - I mean water, juice - not booze! And try to fit in naps - they are rejuvenating!


where would i be without diana? probably bone-tired and scurvied out of my drunk, floozied brain in a gutter somewhere smoking parliament 100s and mourning my childhood. thank the god of subtle mercies for good mothers.

bonus diana news: october 1 - 4. my love rains down on chicago.

so when she asks you "what's your favorite word?" you might know how to answer

from the oxford english dictionary:

consider, v.

[a. F. considérer (14th c. in Littré), ad. L. considerare to look at closely, examine, contemplate, f. con- + a radical (found also in de-siderare to miss, desire), according to Festus, derived from sidus, sider- star, constellation. The vb. might thus be originally a term of astrology or augury, but such a use is not known in the Lat. writers.]

1. To view or contemplate attentively, to survey, examine, inspect, scrutinize. arch.

2. intr. To look attentively.

3. trans. To contemplate mentally, fix the mind upon; to think over, meditate or reflect on, bestow attentive thought upon, give heed to, take note of.
b. to consider away: to drive away by consideration or reflection. rare.

4. with obj. clause: To think, reflect, take note.

5. intr. To think deliberately, bethink oneself, reflect.
b. To take heed, be careful to do a thing. Obs.

6. trans. To estimate, reckon, judge of. Obs.

7. To take into practical consideration or regard; to show consideration or regard for; to regard, make allowance for.

8. To recognize or take account of the services of (a person) in a practical way; to requite, recompense, remunerate: see CONSIDERATION 5, 6. Obs.

9. To hold in or treat with consideration or regard; to think much or highly of; to esteem, respect.

10. To regard in a certain light or aspect; to look upon (as), think (to be), take for.


i've never met another word i could love this hard.

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

strap on your tact, let's meet some mothers!

meeting naomi's moms tonight. i have some questions for her. naomi's mother gave birth to naomi, raised naomi, is responsible for the personthing naomi is today.

just some reminders:


this is naomi breaking the rules.



this is naomi handling a gun.



this is naomi destroying some property. note the "who me" smirk, the self-satisfied slouch.


questions for the mother may include, but are certainly not limited to:
*what was little naomi's worst fear as a child? heart failure does not count.
*why don't you tell naomi that participating in an indian food eating competition with a man half a foot taller than her is a terrible idea?
*when was the first time you knew naomi was lying to you about where she was going/who she was with/what she was doing? isn't she a terrible liar? (here we will laugh and bond and laugh and bond and naomi will get redfaced!)
*why did you let naomi become a vegetarian?
*robin's a pretty name. what does it mean?
*would you call me a good influence or a great influence on your daughter?
*if you had to describe naomi's greatest weakness, besides her feeble, crippled heart, what would you say it is? and how might you exploit it?
*would you like another glass of wine?

i look forward to a night of education and great friendship.

come over. i'll make you popcorn.

love sack

+

snacks

+



+



=

some sunday afternoon.

If you can't get em with Jesus, give snow a try.


Liberty University, shut up. Full text.

Sunday, August 23, 2009

I love Bill Murray and I love being helpful

I hope I'm friends with someone who will head out to Wilmette on August 31 - September 1 and drop knowledge about Bill. I hope even more for a cable-connected household by the time this Biography happens. See below for the opportunity of a lifetime:
Hello,
I am with a production company in Philadelphia working on an A & E Biography of Bill Murray. We will be in the Wilmette/Chicago area August 31 - Sept 1 to hopefully sit down with anyone who has had a Bill Murray experience- especially from his early years in Wilmette. We're hoping to speak to anyone who was a neighbor, a friend, a classmate, someone who played little league with him or maybe went to church with his family. If you or someone you know has a Bill Murray story or personal connection please let me know.
Thanks!
Bridget Hoyle
bhoyle@ccfv.com

Saturday, August 22, 2009

hey summer, i burned you a cd

the collective subconscious is a powerful beast; i was just opining to cc the other day that i couldn't wait to make the Best Mix Ever for my boyfriend, summer 2k9. i threaten to make a lot of Best Mixes Ever - for instance, i have yet to make naomi's Best Mix Ever in celebration of her newfound loveaffliction, or the one i promised an old something or other whose serious catholic-guilt-flavored fickle has secured his position as my favorite non-boyfriend ever. that Best Mix Ever was going to be nothing short of genius, and it was absolutely going to include the cribs' "men's needs" and mariah carey.

as ever, taking my cues from the internet and figuring an invisible hand at work, i thought it time to act upon the impulse. presented here, my Best Mix Ever, made with love by me for summer 2k9. i have to wonder if my enthusiasm for this project and for all of my many, very real, very nuanced feelings is at all responsible for the summer's sudden chilly streak these last few days. i'm just going to play it cool tomorrow, have a good time with my skippy and my friends. he'll be back. he's gotta be. i just made him the Best Mix Ever.

beyonce - halo
broken social scene - tbtf
king floyd - groove me
the cars - just what i needed
michael jackson - the way you make me feel
inxs - need you tonight
pj harvey - this is love
toto - africa
grizzly bear - two weeks
cocorosie - by your side
chris isaak - wicked game
beirut - a sunday smile
common - come close to me
rihanna - umbrella
los campesinos! - you! me! dancing!
bound stems - happens to us all otherwise
janet jackson - love will never do (without you)
smokey robinson & the miracles - i second that emotion
cream - sunshine of your love
r. kelly - step in the name of love (remix)
otis redding - that's how strong my love is
yo la tengo - the summer

(download folder here)

upcoming Best Mix Evers that may or may not ever happen: BME for dudes who think talking about twitter is going to impress the ladies; BME for planning what you're going to say during your impending break-up; BME for your dog whose inevitable death is probably going to destroy you; BME to blog to

music bonus: pitchfork's top 500 tracks of the 2000s
so many BMEs made therein by emotionally repressed hipsters the world over.


every relationship has a soundtrack [jezebel]

GQ and Paul Newman said Now, mother fuckers. Go shirt shopping.



GQ, you've been passing for straight for all these years and there's a reason we just hag along wherever you go. Because where you go is so god damned good sometimes.

Slide through this lovely showing of GQ's 50 Most Stylish Men. Try to do it just once. And when you get through the second time, just keep going, but for round three, jot down some of these style tips. Then run through the streets after dark with spray paint and plaster the walls and the pavement of your city with the apparently crypt-kept secrets to male style, e.g., "If you want to be taken seriously, pay as much attention to your hair as your suit," "Find your inner dandy and let him loose," and, my personal favorite, "Go buy a white Oxford cloth button-down-collar dress shirt. Now."

Fifty small sentences for man, fifty giant statements for mankind. GQ, you keep it real and live the lie and we'll dream the dream that they'll all come 'round.

wherein i transcribe textual messages

stop me if this gets distasteful!*

n: are you watching overboard?
k: just finished. best hangover movie eva.
n: good. any other answer would have resulted in a text in all caps. question: how long was i awake at coyote's last night?
k: anti-long.
n: thought so. also we should make a sequel to overboard set at guantanamo bay and call it "waterboard." now that shit'll give a bitch amnesia.
k: woman forgets identity after being tortured within an inch of her life. torturer takes advantage of her endangered subjectivity. shenanigans ensue.
n: kurt russell can still star. the revelation scene is gonna be real awkward. but not as weird as the reconciliation scene.
k: stockholm syndrome! the rommiest com trope since singing into hairbrushes!


yup. i'd still hit it.


*you cannot stop this.

I'll tell you, diddums. I was whacking the donkey with painted ladies.

A healthier alternative to Edward Herman's suggestion in the greatest line in his movie career is this recipe, provided by my awesome friend Kristen Shoe (name changed to protect her identity), for fudge. It is tailored from her original to account for peanut allergies which are real because if they weren't real then people who had them wouldn't get tickles in their throats when they ate peanut candy at movies in the park. If you love eating peanuts, and you don't have almond butter, then get some almond butter. Or make this with peanut butter.

Anyway.

Preheat the oven to 350.


Add 2 c. canned pure pumpkin (a 14 oz. can will do just fine) to one box of brownie mix:



+


Stir them together until it's smooth. No brownie powder left. No pumpkin. Just pre-fudge.

Spray an 8x8 or similarly sized pan with nonstick cooking spray.
Put the pre-fudge in it.

Then, get some of almond butter. Like two tablespoons or so of it. Or more. Or don't. Do whatever you want. Don't even make fudge. Why are you reading this?



Drop some spoons of this stuff on top of all the pre-fudge, and swirl it around.

Bake it for 35 minutes at 350. It won't look done. Whatever. Let it cool. Stick it in the fridge. For hours.

That's what it looks like.

Now, I just had a bit of this concoction, and let me warn you: it tastes good.





a taco is a way to love yourself

cc: "today is all about winning."

about 9 hours ago, confronted with a bottomless bag of tacos, i made all the right decisions. some were made on a rooftop. a bulldog was involved.

after a longish nap, i woke up and breakfast happened to me. it just happened to me! we are now involved in this:



spectapicnic later.
world sadness loses.
today is all about winning.

Friday, August 21, 2009

World Sadness

I love used books. I love used bookstores, messy book fairs, online book warehouses. I love new books too, for the smell and the freshness of the page. But I love used books because geography and history intersect in these lovely local objects and besides that, they're not too dear (wallet-wise, I mean; they're perfectly dear in the other way). Also, you can read them. Also, they might have notes.

Sometimes the notes beat me. I had to read an excerpt of John Barth's Lost in the Funhouse for a class. The piece is titled "Night Sea-Journey" and the book from which I read it is nothing short of a disaster of use. The binding is creaky and numbers are inked in red felt-tip on the tips of the pages. "Night Sea-Journey" (SPOILER ALERT) begins:
One way or another, no matter which theory of our journey is correct, it's myself I address; to whom I rehearse as to a stranger our history and condition, and will disclose my secret hope though I sink for it.
It continues:
Indeed, if I have yet to join the hosts of the suicides, it is because (fatigue apart) I find it no meaningfuller to drown myself than to go on swimming.
It concludes:
Love! Love! Love!
(do you get it yet?)

These pages are littered with liner notes: "MERCEDES!!!" "Journey," "***" are only a few of the awesome thoughts someone (Mercedes herself? Her bf?) penned whilst bedazzled by Barth (on the title page: "Whole bk--ALLEGORY???"). Maybe, you courageous thing. Maybe.

Anyhow, when I first read it with my Absurdist Literature and Its Vision hat on, I chuckled to myself knowingly at the end. "College kids," I thought. "Always making notes about sperm in the margins of books they don't want to read." But I felt a little sheepish during the discussion that week when it became abundantly clear that everyone else in the room had caught on to Barth's joke.

Sometimes--often--the previous owner's notes are, in fact, nothing more than full disclosures that
  1. Someone had to read this for class;
  2. Someone was bored in class;
  3. Someone assumed there would be a paper due on this book for class.
Such is the case with the annotation to this passage from East of Eden, this passage in which Steinbeck indicates that he is for real:
It's my duty to take this thing of yours and kick it in the face, then raise it up and spread slime thick enough to blot out its dangerous light. . . . I should hold it up to you muck-covered and show you its dirt and danger. I should warn you to look closer until you can see how ugly it really is. I should ask you to think of inconstancy and give you examples. I should give you Othello's handkerchief. Oh, I know I should. And I should straighten out your tangled thoughts, show you that the impulse is gray as lead and rotten as a dead cow in wet weather. If I did my duty well, I could give you back your bad old life and feel good about it, and welcome you back to the musty membership in the lodge.

The note in the liner, the thought that Briana Culmo decided she absolutely needed to record, the interpretation that she thought necessary to note:

world sadness

About three pages later:
An ache was on the top of his stomach, an apprehension that was like a sick thought. It was a Weltschmerz (shut up, Naomi; J/K! I LOVE YOUR GERMAN)--which we used to call "Welshrats" (it's only a little racist)--the world sadness that rises into your soul like a gas and spreads despair so that you probe for the offending event and can find none.
And the note:
world sadness


That's a win, Bri. In fact, 2-0.
Used books, you're 2-0 too.



leave your business pants at home

get your bacon lil' darlings, it's a weekend!

summer 2k9, love of my life, and i are going to do all sorts of party romance.

eyes up, kids:

free da funk
because the funk needs freeing, and little says liberation like $5 cocktails and constrictive american apparel dresses.

crab rangoon.

26th annual ukrainian days festival

did you know that this was a thing that existed for real talk? god bless democracy, god bless the ukraine.

throw the wine in your bag, pack your fanciest cigarettes and wheel yourself to fous de bassin:


sunday is yours to deal with however you choose. but my plans involve a whole roasted pig, a hot vodka injection, a tub full of skippy, and mop sauce. which is a sauce, that is mopped.

a fucking mop sauce.

Thursday, August 20, 2009

so long, ginger kid. i'm keeping all your art.

this morning, i woke up thinking of water and advil and possibly breakfast. a very close second in thought was this ginger kid i knew and know and hope to god i always know, genetic misfortune aside. in addition to being rad at mischief and surprisingly earnest conversation, he's an accomplished painter/screen printer/comic booker/graphic designer/animator/all around artist and there's a drawing he did years ago that is pressing hard on my whimsy button at the moment. here it is:

much of what i adore about kyle's style is the unabashed vulnerability and dreaminess of his little animals. there is something in his work that i long for in myself, which is maybe a bullshitty self-involved and thoroughly bastardized way to appreciate anything. but i rather think that it is part of his intention, to innocently push buttons we'd rather not admit to having. that's all i'm saying. check out his blog and his final solo show in chicago before he leaves us all for south korea.

enjoy these in the mean time.

this is one of several kyle harter-flavored reasons why my living room is the best.
















pocket pages!

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

Dear Winter/Spring 2k9

it was not the weather. it was not the lack of light(ness). what made me need to hate you was your unrelenting commitment to misery. all the oscar-baiting holocaust films; the ice on the streets as black as your soul; overdraft charge increases - winter/spring 2k9 you had no joy in your heart.

even worse was the sadism, winter/spring 2k9. two days of "unseasonable" sunshine and warmth, followed by weeks of rain and bitter chill. had you no care for the magnolias, the cherry blossoms, for me? i even suspect you tricked me into gaining weight just to keep me with you; after all, who could possibly want me with 5 extra pounds of carbohydrates and heavy stews on me?

you kept wanting to blame chicago, blame me, blame me for deciding on chicago. i could have been anywhere, anywhere but here. in california maybe, and we'd have never met and could have avoided the entire tragicomic toboggan ride to despair and soaked through socks. but you know what, winter/spring 2k9? i will not blame chicago and i will not blame myself and i will not even blame you, really. you're a real son of a bitch, to be sure, but even still, i have no regrets.

i need to tell you this, you cruel and crazy bastard: i. have. moved. on.

summer 2k9 is far from perfect. we got off to a rough start and you'd done such a number on me i wasn't sure i could really throw my heart into it. but something happened.

it may have been around july 4, when those tiny little mexican children were trying to set our sidewalk party on fire with the thousands - literally thousands - of fireworks they handled more deftly and casually than full size, albeit shitcanned, adults. those children were tiny! and they were the best. summer 2k9 and i stood about, hands shyly shoved in pockets or fumbling with beers. we looked at each other and laughed and knew this night had a bit of wonderful in it.

perhaps it was the new apartment where in the perfect agaves and honey tones, i first appreciated the life and light and darling contrasts of summer 2k9.

maybe it was the july trip to boston, where i realized i could not get summer 2k9 off of my mind, and certainly could not keep it from my heart. it was a sudden awakening: i remember tearing back the shades and seeing fog for miles, and i melted with the certainty that this flimsy veil would burn right the fuck off and we'd finally admit our love.

and we did. oh how we did. we've danced into the morning hours, seen the sun rise from bicycle seats, cooked for friends, laughed with friends (even my friends are wild about summer 2k9! THEY HATED YOUR DUMPY ASS!), traveled, kickballed, beached, sung, screamed, written, read - yes read so much we've read!, and we've loved. my god how we have loved.

i know i will see you somehow again winter/spring 2k9, and i know you will be older and i hope that you will be wiser and, if there is any of the grace of god in you, perhaps you will be kinder. when that day comes and you see me - golden, 5 pounds and a thousand terrible memories lighter - please leave me be. we can share this city from our separate perches, of this i am sure. and if you're not such a prick we can maybe be pals. but this is it for me, winter/spring 2k9. i'm in love, the real kind, the kind you announce on facebook, and i'm never going back.

best wishes you gnarly, psychotic fuck,
kristin

p.s. i was cheating on you with bronzer for months.

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

poor choices

it's true that the time to be writing my first post on this workbench of genius is probably not whilst ripping apart a tortilla and dipping (nay, double-dipping) it into a nearly (cum long) empty tub of roasted red pepper hommus at 11:39 pm on a tuesday when my workplace expects me bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for a basement shift at 6:30 am sharp on a wednesday that's about to happen in 21 minutes, nevermind the angry ovaries portending awful things and moods in the following days.

so here:

this

watch this.

roots project (part 1?)

the project was this:

throw on elvis perkins in dearland. saddle up to the underwood portable.

scan the 1,740 words - spread out across 34 pages and 29 poems - that somehow got me a master's degree.

note words that recur, words that control images, enjamb, skew meaning. put them aside in a pile. transcribe to computer box, in case of fire.


marvel at how the one page pile amounted to 405 words. a year's work, and 25% could fit onto one page.
see?


of course.

what to do with this tidy pile. it reads, strangely, melodically aloud. not strange, perhaps - bobby von and his "poetry without music is prose." something about a drive toward rhthym. i want to believe there is, in this abstracted clusterfuck of so many words and repetitions the same resonating ideological and tonal shifts that i tried - holy shit how hard i tried! - to insinuate into the work as a whole. but i cannot be trusted, no. hardly ever.*

i've sent this list along to a dear friend and poet with the earnest request that he not ask why or what or where but that he just do what he would like to do with my little word cloud. i want to see what he would write given similar roots. i'm not sure that i have expectations, i just have all sorts of curiosity and a terrible desire to get myself writing more often or at the very least thinking about it. should he consent first to participating and then to sharing publicly (?), i'll share his work in this space.

happy bad poetry day, indeed.


*you can trust me, though.

I am the friend who will blog you a fudgesicle




Bad poetry Tuesday? Hardly. And now for our next experiment: text message nachos.

I know what you like.


titles of poems i'll never write but would

ode to an ode on my backwards cubs hat

emotional constipation: a haiku

my lover's eyes are brown, because aryans freak me out

reasons to shut the fuck up*

valediction: forbidden morning

dave eggers

onamatopoeia the acrostic

eating out**



*i actually did start to write this one, but after the first line "and stay that way," i just sort of gave up.

**fodder for years, or at least the remainder of today

i always struggled with my locker.




via holy shit, it's a fucking rainbow

friends, pals, and some friends

figuring the internet far too unwieldy an expanse, i have secured the support and occasional musings of some of the smartest, funniest, drinkiest broads to come out of the university of chicago with their senses of humor and subjectivity intact.

a b: pretty thinking proprietor of frills and furbelows. easy on the eyes, hard on the jameson.

carrie: resident funtime mathematician with an excellent head of curls and ideas. we share a dog and a mutual appreciation for terrible jokes.

emily: wears pearls and rompers without a trace of irony, god bless her soul. an extraordinary playwright to boot. hours of idleness ain't a bad place to be, either.

naomi: the littlest sister with the toughest mouth. the source of much innovative, if uncouth, textual analysis and all the best weekend plans. she'll probably make some dirty jokes and bicycle off into the sunset.

we love experiments round here.

Are Pranks Crummy?

As I learned earlier this year, the only way to handle a roommate who steps out of line is to put crumbs in her bed and leave a note that says "(spoiling movies/swapping hard-boiled for regular eggs/fake proposing to my significant other) is crummy."

But I've recently found myself in the role of inadvertent prankster, and Kristin recently found herself in the role of someone covered in dog hair clippings on the beach.

On one hand, pranks are awesome.

On the other hand, they make boys in college feel great about dropping five benjamins on making his best friend's relationship really uncomfortable*:

best/worst prank ever

Most importantly, Kristin owes me one. And if I know her, she's going to pay up. In prank dollars.

*if K didn't figure out that the title of this post was really a link, no one would. so: link update

Monday, August 17, 2009

"different from most tuesdays, how?"

says a b, upon hearing that tomorrow, tuesday, august 18th, is bad poetry day.

things to watch out for on august 18th:
bad haiku.
simply shit awful
and shamelessly asinine.
see how i'm clever?*

rhyming couplets

inadvertently anti-semitic readings of paul celan.
just to ensure we're all on the same page, "death fugue" features a profound lack of triumphant moments.

metaphors made out of oceans, eyes, parasitic insects/vampires, good nights

percy bysshe shelley

in case of shelley, break glass.

pale boys in silly hats certain that reading a poem entitled "eating out" (yes, about exactly that) from his iphone to you and your friends at a party is a whiskey and cigarette lined road to late night glory.
(right here is where, were i a slightly less good person, i'd post the video of this happening with the perfect, concise caption reading: No.)

and now i'm finished and it's well past midnight and it's officially bad poetry day. so g'nite my loves, i've got some feeling and expression to do.


*full disclosure: i fucking love haiku.

voici! une petite sourire

file under: maybe i'm not so hip.

ralph kramden is - how the kids say - hip?

i will admit to several things:

the subversively cultured urban male is, in fact, a preference.
i certainly appreciate a dude in a good t-shirt.
these parts have seen a soft belly or two.

that said, i am a touch disarmed by the frequency with which this has been forwarded to me since its doughy burst into the public consciousness last week. slightly more alarming is that the new york times continues to consider itself a publication with some stake in the real world - a world in which, if one had all the abs and wanted to forward said abs to my attention, i would do my best to appreciate those too.


p.s. the first to say "coolster" in the aforementioned real world is the first to go when the apocalypse comes at last.

Sunday, August 16, 2009

"punch your weight" and other true things

legs on the fritz, love in the heart, blood on the walls. team summer wins the weekend.

let's call this a round-up.

including but certainly not - no, never! - limited to:


@ metro, where the proactive decision to take over an unmanned bag check is not looked kindly upon. see below.

(photos courtesy of labrabbit)

a total of 4.5 terrible/exhilarating minutes of this sort of thing:

gold sprints: (old style + metal + stationary bikes) x midnight = "LET'S DO THIS"
maybe more water, fewer parliament lights next time.

bikes to the beach. bikes to the bars. bikes bound for home as the sun comes up over chicago.

papa bear, the raddest, stopping through for dinner and some serious life lessons. i'll never order cappuccino after 11am again, pops, i swears. he reckons i ought to stay in chicago forever. he is very difficult to disagree with most times.

with only 9 hours of sleep in 72, there are other details. some of them are 5am milkshakes. others are pure and concentrated stupid. a lot have to do with oliver, the dog, being a general force of love and awesome at all hours of the day.

if you happened to dvr mad men or true blood, let a kristin know. i'll bring candy and wisdom*.


*mostly just candy.

that'll do, fsu. that'll do.

T-Pain for President of Florida State University

you do this to yourself, florida. you really do.

Saturday, August 15, 2009

nostalgia/dissonance


http://www.poladroid.net/

who asks love to make sense? polaroided digi pics scattered across my desktop? sure!



this one says, between bites of eggstuff and sips of morning drink, "oriental is a flavor according to ramen." she's right, you know.





we did not get all dressed up to listen to your twitter feed, dude.

now you have fun.