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Nature's Revenge
I accidentally stepped on a honeybee in the park this weekend and it stung the shit out of my toe. It really wasn't too bad after the initial OUCH-HOLY-HELL-WHAT-THE-FUCK-JUST-GET-IT-O
But I did feel very bad about stepping on the bee and probably adding another casualty to the species' decimated ranks.
So nature got back at me. And sent an intrepid grasshopper envoy to terrorize my living room. At least the critter matches the decor.
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Put My Thing Down Flip It And Reverse It (Independence Day Feat. Monsoon Wedding Remix)
You truly haven't lived until you've danced to a bhangra mashup of Missy Elliott's "Work It" with your dad. |
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Age Is Only A Number
I had my first summer session Evidence class last night - it looks to be an engaging and exciting subject, taught by an enthusiastic bear of a man. As the professor was striding up the stairs and out of the classroom, chatting with a student who had come in late, he turned to me as he passed and said, "Oh, well, the first part of class was just riveting, wasn't it?" And I, clearly not thinking properly, didn't respond in any normal, appropriate, respectful manner. No, I just threw up the horns. Rock the fuck on, Prof. Good grief. A 33-year-old woman should not be giving the sign of the devil to her professor on the first day of class. It is a boon that final exams are graded anonymously. My parents woke me at 6:15 this morning with the traditional family birthday greeting (though, unlike when I was in high school and still living at home, the ritual was conducted over the phone and not by bursting into my bedroom as I slept): Mom and Dad belting out an accented-and-not-entirely-harmonious rendition of the "Happy Birthday" song, accompanied by my father on accordion. For good measure they ran through it twice. *Throws up the horns* Happy Birthday To Me! |
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Reason #77,935 I Love Living in a Real House in a Real Neighborhood
I locked myself out of the house yesterday morning. With the dog. Unwashed, bespectacled, skewed-pigtailed, wearing essentially what would constitute pajamas (if I wore pajamas) with a coat buttoned over top, and panic-stressing about the Constitutional Law final exam (my final final exam of my 1L career, thank you very much) commencing mere hours in the future. I was out walking Iggy in such a disheveled state because my hired yardmen, dispatched weekly to my environs by my landscape-architect neighbor Rick Banks*, were working in the backyard and therefore precluded me from letting the dog do his business the lazy way. So I leashed up the dog and headed out the front door, not taking a key because I had previously switched my front door deadbolt from its automatic-lock setting to unlocked. Except that I hadn't. Which I quickly ascertained after returning from our round-the-block amble. "Fuck," I softly cursed to myself. Oh wait! No problem. I had let Iggy out in the backyard far earlier that morning, as the sky was just starting to lighten, so naturally the back doors would still be unlocked, right? I could just go through my side gate and sashay down the gangway to my back stairs ... except that in my sleep-impoverished dawn haze I had decided it would be a great idea to shoot the inside deadbolt on the outermost door so I could apparently totter back to bed confident that no possum nor alley cat could push its way in. The back door deadbolt. That I never, ever use. "FUCK." Not so softly this time. I stood on my front steps, weighing my limited options. My next-door neighbors to the west, the Finnegans, had my spare key. But they were already all at work or school. I had the foresight to bring my cellphone out on our walk, so at best I could beg and bribe debaclypsenow to travel back north from downtown and let me into my house on his lunch break, or at worst call a locksmith and pay outrageous emergency-situation fees. I began dialing as I watched Anne, Rick Banks' wife, park her car and start walking past my house towards hers."How are you?" she called. "I think I locked myself out of my house." Anne stopped, face falling open in sympathetic distress. "Oh no! Oh NO! It's too bad you didn't give us a spare, what can we do ...?" I waved at the house next door. "The Finnegans have a key to my house." Anne brightened. "And I have a key to the Finnegans'." Anne went inside her house, called Patty Finnegan at work to find out where my spare key was located, used her spare key to retrieve my spare key, and very graciously waited until I had unlocked my door so she could put my spare back inside the Finnegans' kitchen and return herself and the Finnegans' spare to her house and the rest of her day. And me mine. All in less than ten minutes. I think I am going to start distributing spare house keys like candy down my block. And offer up eternal gratitude to the ether for good neighbors with good timing in bad situations. *All human names changed to protect the innocent. Iggy is never innocent. |
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Flava in Ya Ear
I was somehow running late for my jurisprudence seminar on Tuesday on an empty (barring coffee) stomach, though I had literally eight hours from the time I woke up in the morning to the time class started in the afternoon to cover the nine miles stretching between my home and my school and eat some damn lunch, and though I occupied myself with practically nothing in the interim besides aimless shuffling around the house interrupted by periodic bursts of spasmodic-spastic dancing. And a shower. But never mind all that. Given the fact that by the time my train was finally coaxed and cajoled into the station, I had maybe twelve minutes to satiate my grumbling belly and dash to class, you may be more willing to forgive my rash judgment in immediately turning into the proximate McDonald’s once I espied a placard advertising, on this day only, a free Southern-style chicken sandwich with a purchase of a 32-oz. sweet tea. For one dollar. Now, being a fan of real Southern sweet tea, I knew that what Ronald & Co. were attempting to shove down my gullet was hardly going to be up to snuff. I took a hesitant sip, swallowed, and when the cashier’s attention had been diverted dumped the swill and refilled my enormous cup with Coke. The chicken sandwich was surprisingly more than reminiscent of good – a little spicy kick in the breading, accented nicely by pickle rounds and a bit-too-squishy bun. Ever the editor, even as I stood hunched over the formica table, wolfing sandwich and swigging soda with my coat and backpack and iPod still on, I noted the slogan printed repeatedly inside the cardboard box in which the sandwich had been delivered. The slogan is this: “SAVOUR YOUR SOUTHERN STYLE CHICKEN SANDWICH.” Why the British spelling, McDonald’s? The Queen's English is not evident anywhere else in the establishment: no “flavourful French fries,” no “cheques not accepted,” and certainly no “condiment centre.” My first thought was that McDonald’s had batch-printed flats upon flats of containers for use both in the US and in Canada, and had decided in favor (or favour) of the Great White North’s more sophisticated and Sovereign-mandated spelling. (Though, now that I think about it, why would Canadians even care about Dixie delicacies? These new fast-food offerings are surely for American consumption only.) Yet turning to the outside flap of the very same cardboard box, I spot another slogan. “slow down, recharge and savor the moment … i’m lovin’ it.” I then gave McDonald’s Marketing and Advertising Division entirely too much credit when I entertained the possibility that the corporation had deliberately paired the British “Savour” with the words “Your” and “Southern” to take advantage of a lovely visual-alliteration device. And I almost instantly snatched that credit back. And sprinted off to class, slightly bemused and baffled. Let’s not even talk about the missing hyphen, shall we? What do y’all think? |
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Why I Won't Drink The Kool-Aid
This article in today's edition of salon.com is a scrupulous and spot-on treatment of the maddening Obama-hype and resultant distasteful Clinton-clobbering, and it goes a long way in explaining much of (but not entirely) why I find myself extremely leery and frankly repelled by our nominal Illinois Senator's campaign and his vociferous legion of followers. I do not mean to intimate that I consider every Obama supporter of the same ilk, nor am I using this forum to publicly - or privately - pledge my loyalty to Clinton. Neither Obama nor Clinton is nearly progressive enough for me, and of the original Democratic Party frontrunners I would have quite preferred Edwards to these two, but if the hardcore Obama-maniacs (and what a cringeworthy moniker that is) are mystified as to why every intelligent, conscientious, involved, liberal-thinking lady isn't out there rallying for their savior-candidate, here's a fucking clue. EDIT/PSA: I have been reading The Beachwood Reporter daily for a few years now -- it is one of the few websites I feel has consistently incisive, inquisitive, reasoned analysis of Chicago/state/national politics and the media. Steve Rhodes has been a clear and consistent voice calling out the media for its unwarranted and misguided Clinton-bashing, and he succeeds where traditional media outlets often falter in subjecting the Obama campaign to the scrutiny it deserves. A snippet from today's Beachwood might be germane to our discussion here (or at least, if we are going to start weighing the candidates' campaigns against each other, germane to my point of view): "There is a case to be made for Obama's campaign, but you can't be for change and hope without being honest. Obama's prime movers in Illinois were Tony Rezko and Emil Jones (and some would say Jeremiah Wright; he actually bothers me the least). Michelle Obama worked in the Daley administration, which Barack never challenged. And his campaign has been no less disingenuous and spun than anyone else's. Those are facts, whether Obamaphiles want to admit it or not." |
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H&M
Friends, the next time I mention to you that I am going to go shopping for clothes at H&M, please remind me, once again, that the Swedes do not have boobs. Nor apparently do they know what they are. Thank you in advance. |
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Guess That This Must Be The Place
In the cracking dawn on Saturday, February 21, 1998, I wedged myself into the driver’s seat of my red Saturn SL2 sedan, crammed full of books, clothing, stereo, sundry belongings, and my sister, and commenced on a 700-mile journey to start my new unscripted life. I left behind family, friends, job, and headed west, a direction that held no family, no friends, no job. Why? For love, the second-best reason. (The very best reason: Why not? The third-best reason: Greater cheese proximity.) Barring one or maybe two very recent post-undergraduate visits, I’d only been to Chicago as kid; several times, yes, but I retained little memory of the city except one mental snapshot: sitting in traffic downtown in the very back of my parents’ Volvo station wagon, skyscrapers cresting over my head, trunk door popped open (not sure why). My dad started driving while the back door was still ajar, sending my copy of “Animal Farm” skittering off onto the asphalt before I could heave the door shut. My sister, my Saturn, and I waved goodbye to the Virginia homestead and sped across Maryland and godfersaken Pennsylvania and Ohio and Indiana. Finally, finally, in the fading daylight, we turned off I-90 and took 53rd Street all the way east, catching glimpses of Southside ghetto pastoral, to reach my new home, a snug studio apartment at 5214 S. Woodlawn Ave. in Hyde Park. I called debaclypsenow from the payphone at Kimbark Plaza. “Surprise!” It wasn’t really a surprise.He being unfortunately preoccupied with intensive studying or working or both or whatever, my sister and I were left to fend for ourselves on my first night in my new city. So she and I traveled downtown, destination Blue Chicago, the blues lounge at Clark and Ohio, to see Mose Allison, the "William Faulkner of jazz.” Before the performance I made the first of many trips in the coming years to the Walgreen’s at Chicago and Michigan, purchasing a desperately-needed vial of Tylenol for one of my signature migraines (said same vial which I carry everywhere with me to this day, though it’s now filled with matte brown tablets of Wal-profen.) I remember walking past the garishly lit Rock N’ Roll McDonalds and that funny little diner adjoined to the Ohio House Motel, where eventually years later I whiled away a few mornings with dirt-cheap greasy breakfasts waiting for my VW Bug (replacing my tried-and-trusty nine-year-old Saturn in 2001) to be serviced at the former Loeber Motors down the street. Though details have been tangled in my patchy memory, the sense I have of that night is of listening to Allison’s rollicking piano and droll lyrics and feeling charmed, feeling nervous but vibrant but anxious but hopeful, feeling like I was maybe possibly doing a good thing. My sister flew back East the next day, as planned. I managed to stick around. Chicago, we’ve been together 10 years, and I’m still feeling charmed. We’ve had our ups and we’ve had our downs and I love you to pieces. Happy anniversary. |
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Corruption Vs. Saint Valentine
Many of you know that I've been volunteering with 826 Chicago for about two years now. I've had my share of stints clerking/cashiering/reconnoitering at The Boring Store ...  ... the spy shop extraordinaire and "profit"-making engine (graphic design by Chris Ware, natch) of 826CHI's non-profit writing and tutoring center for schoolchildren, located just behind the Boring Store. But more often at 826CHI I've served as a TA for a boatload of different creative workshops, the themes of which have ranged from zines and found poetry and comic strips and advice columns -- where the kids wrote/illustrated all the text/art based both on topics we gave them and on topics they chose themselves -- to learning about fingerprint-testing and blood-analysis while they wrote a forensic mystery, or growing bacteria in petri dishes and making up stories about the bacteria families. And these boys and girls are awesome, amazing, just consistently excited and energetic and tons more sophisticated and savvy and innovative than I remember being at age 8, or 10, or 14. They're the same nerds and weirdos and spazzes that I have always known and loved and surrounded myself with, but here I am always blown away by how fucking cool these kids are, you know? Anyway. Today I started my most recent TA assignment, a four-week workshop (two hours every Friday) called "Creativity Unplugged: Songwriting." The lead instructor Kevin has taught this workshop once before: basically the class breaks into groups, and each group comes up with the theme/genre/lyrics for a song, sets it all to music (acoustic guitar provided by Kevin -- though some of the kids bring their own instruments too, today we had several guitars and a bass and a violin -- plus practice amps and a mic and various percussive items), and eventually sings it/plays it/records it using ProTools for a class CD. This session we're having three groups of four, with one adult (TA or instructor) per group. So my group is three boys (Joel, Matthew, Jacob) and one girl (Angel). All Latino, all about early-junior-high age. I knew Jacob already from my comic-strip class. The three boys are friends from school and are in the early stages of creating their own metal band called Black Skullz. (You see why I chose this group.) I was worried Angel would feel left out, as she was the shy girl and the stranger with an everlasting love for U2 (when I asked her if she liked the new stuff or the old stuff, she breathlessly and wide-eyed exclaimed, "ALL of it!"), but the boys were sweet and gregarious and welcoming. We started by brainstorming song topics. The other two groups were writing songs about "Stuff We Love" and snowboarding. ("Stuff We Love" is an all-girl outfit, and similarly the snowboarder-songwriters are all boys.) My group? Kicks. Complete. Ass. My group decided they wanted to write a song about -- and I am telling you right now I had nothing to do with the conception/development of this song beyond some slight word-finessing and cheerleading -- how the government ruined Valentine's Day. They came up with the ideas and stories and verses and refrains. They came up with the style (a sort-of angry bluesy folk song.) They came up with the title. And I just sat there and wrote it all down and spurred lagging imaginations now and again and said, "You kids are damn GENIUSES." So, here it is, in all its first-draft, work-in-progress, half-finished glory. (You'll have to ignore the seemingly-off rhythm of the lines; we tried it out with Kevin and his acoustic guitar and trust me, it works. Mostly.) Each person in our group sings one of the first three verses, then they all sing together for the fourth verse and the chorus. Enjoy the freaky fruits of the future leaders of tomorrow. CORRUPTION VS. SAINT VALENTINE [1] I was going to buy a chocolate heart for my Valentine today But the government raised taxes on chocolate and I became outraged [2] I went home to find that the government didn't send me my tax refund When I told her that I didn't get her a thing she threw a huge tantrum [3] I broke up with the President's daughter so they sent me off to jail The government ruined my Valentine's day and I couldn't even make bail. [4] We all meet to discuss our stories and realize one thing We all hate the government and that is why we sing [chorus] The government will pay one day and we will get revenge No one knows the pain we feel because of the government *Please note that the government of which the song speaks is the current, GWB-administrated one. The kids want you to know that. Also, they are not Ron Paul libertarians -- they are just anti-The Man. Ideas for subsequent verses include the government foreclosing on their house and the government making Jacob shave his moustache (maybe as part of a military draft thing?) |
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Some Perfunctory and Somewhat Peremptory Suppositions About Law School II: Springtime Boogaloo
* Everything I need to know about Criminal Law (and thereby the Criminal Justice System) I learned from watching "Law & Order." Dunh-dunh! * LAW 489, also known as "Perspectives on Law and Justice," also known as my two-credit elective, is going to kick. my. right. brained. ass. Those of you who are of the more scholastic/philosophical/cogitative bent are welcome to contemplate my first reading assignment (which will prove to be relatively straightforward, methinks) and submit any brilliant discussion points I might be able to deploy during class tomorrow. To be sure, I am intrigued and enthusiastic about this class, but damn. |
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Two Bugs Enter, One Bug Leaves
THIS is what the Internet is for, people. Three simple rules: 1. Two bugs to a fight 2. Bug fights go on as long as they have to 3. No outside weapons in bug fights Genius. |
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Can I Put This On My Résumé?
I just received a congratulatory phone call, lauding me for finishing two of my law school exams and pep-talking me for the third ... from Cornel West.
Yes, that Cornel West.
My life is very strange sometimes. |
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Call Me STARDUST
I have a new heavy metal nickname. That's all. More after final exams -- which means more after Wednesday afternoon, whence I commence my rendezvous with the finalest final for the semester. Fingers crossed, y'all. |
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Sign Of The Times
Law school exams darkly loom, the first of which menaces failure from a three-hour slot beginning at 9 a.m. Wednesday. Torts review session. The professor slips through rapid discussions covering 15 weeks of intense instruction and hundreds of pages of notes: implied indemnity, the Judge Hand formula, transferred intent, res ipsa. Our palms are sweating. Behind the lectern, the retractable shade dims, the projected computer screen blinking over to the screensaver. Rueful chuckles as we watch the words "Oh the humanity" scroll across the wall over and over, over and over. |
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Fantasies Run Vapid
I usually don't remember my dreams, if I have any. But sometimes I can capture bits and glimpses emanating from the subconscious just as I'm starting to shake off sleep in the mornings. Ergo, two scintillating snippets from last night's features: 1. I am banned from the comments section of a website because of some mildly snide remark. I think it had to with an Independence Day celebration of India/Pakistan, and the website's writers didn't give the proper credit to the posted photo, or some stupid nonsense, and I comment about their lack of intelligence and research and their apparent xenophobia, which leads to an e-mail that cheerily reports, "Sorry [username], you're now banned from the comments section!" 2. I take a dog to Taco Bell. I believe I am excited because this office-building food-court-type Taco Bell started allowing dogs into the establishment, so I take a dog (note: not my dog, but a Yellow Lab) into Taco Bell, but decide against eating inside and therefore just order the food at the counter with the dog sitting at my feet, and take it to go. I am the worst dreamer EVER. I mean, if I'm not having inappropriate ghastly-erotic dreams about co-workers and passing characters, then I'm dreaming about blogs and dogs? Perhaps my newest art acquisition will facilitate higher quality, if not cuter, nighttime reveries.  Nest of Bunnies painting by Wyatt Gaswick |
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Strike Out Like A Wolf's Endeavor
Maybe like three people reading will appreciate this as much as I do, but the Mountain Goats encored their as-always-brilliant set tonight with the Misfits' "We Bite." Twice. It was awesome. Seemingly they spotted Glenn in the "true crime" section of a bookstore in Denver a few days ago. Also awesome. |
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Can You See The Sunrise From The Southside?
 Iggy on Point November 3, 2007 Promontory Point, Hyde Park 7:59 a.m. Not bad for a cellphone snap, eh? |
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I TOTALLY Win
Check out the third or fourth item, y'all: Really Quick Contest: Graveface Puts on a Party I am awesome. "Oh, Snap" Edit: I need a costume. And a plus-one. Ideas? Or applicants? |
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