Too Much Awesome

From now on:

2008-09-18T14:03:00.000-05:00

All posting and bloggin' will take place on my Tumblr.

Alissa and Adam's Wedding and All Our Friends

2008-08-25T13:09:00.005-05:00

Alissa and Adam made it official on Saturday in Chicago and it was quite a party. I can't remember the last time I had so much fun.

The first dance was "I'll Be Your Mirror" by Clem Snide. I'm sure Alissa and Adam got the idea from the "Indie Wedding" mix on iTunes.

There was a lot of crazy-hat wearing:

There were some very intense moments of staring-and-pointing:

AC showed up, all the way from Japan!

I cut a rug with one of my favorite little ladies:

Mindy made some new friends:

I made the hottest chicks take pictures with me:

Alissa was lovely:

Adam and me: Bros!!!

We all danced to "All My Friends" by LCD Soundsystem, which was quite appropriate.

John and I were sweaty messes, but I wish we could go back and do it again.

Honesty = Vulnerability

2008-08-12T16:07:00.002-05:00

I wrote a piece for This Recording about my dad.

I was kind of hesitant to do it, not because I thought it'd be too hard or anything. I'd been wanting to write something long about him for a long time, and TR is a good venue for long essays. But I get really nervous when it comes to being really open and honest about things really close to me, especially since TR has gotten much more traffic lately with links from Defamer and Gawker, etc. But so far, I've gotten some nice praise from people who have linked to it through Tumblr, so I feel less anxious about it than I did as I was writing it.

I was also nervous about posting about my parents. My mother doesn't know about this and I'm sort of afraid to show it to her, since I expect her reaction to be kind of angry that I used pictures and stories of my parents.

But, in my way, this is how I wanted to pay some sort of tribute to my father, who didn't read a lot but enjoyed the writing of mine that he actually did get a chance to look at. And I think he would be flattered and appreciative. He'd probably cry, too, because he was a big baby.

Anyway, here's the link: In Which This Is How I Know Him: Pictures of My Father.

Back to the Real World

2008-08-11T09:57:00.002-05:00

Well, I am back from vacation and officially unemployed, which means that I have to get my ducks in a row and find a job this week. So you'll probably see more frequent posting on this site as I won't have much else to do.

But right now, I have to get an Illinois driver's license, as I have lived here for three years and haven't gotten around to doing that yet. So, in the meantime, here are some pictures that I found while I was home over the weekend.

Isn't it always amazing to imagine that your family had a LIFE before you were born?

So that's what I'm going to do.

2008-07-29T16:21:00.002-05:00

I have two more full days of work at my job before I throw away my 37K+ salary, medical benefits, and fairly generous discounted tuition for (hopefully) temporary unemployment.

I'll say that the two weeks since I've made up my mind and given my notice have been pretty great. I haven't felt the need to tip-toe around my boss, I've been generally productive and busy with the administrative tasks I actually enjoy doing, and I've checked-out mentally enough to not feel guilty for coming in every day at nine instead of eight-thirty. (Trust me: the extra half hour of sleep is worth it.)

I actually have a good chunk of money in my account, so I'm not too terrified about being unemployed for a while, since I plan on temping anyway since sitting around in my hot apartment doesn't sound very appealing. Of course, I get to go on a free vacation to the Outer Banks, so I get that week to avoid the real world while reading books and swimming in the ocean.

And you know what? This is the first time in the three years since I moved to Chicago that I wasn't freaking out about what to do with my life. Ever since I graduated I've come up with about ten different plans, all with very detailed goals spanning from weeks to months to years. I'm rather surprised myself that I'm so uncharacteristically optimistic. I came to the decision that my only major goal for the rest of the year is to find a job that I like enough and will let me keep hanging out with the friends I love in Chicago, and maybe allow for trips to visit some friends in other cities, too.

I think there's some nice timing here - I moved to Chicago on August 6, 2005, after all. In the three years since I've spent several months miserable from unemployment, underemployment, being underpaid, and being lonely. I came out and had a shitty relationship and a really good one. I've fallen in love. I've gained some skills. I lost my father and two grandparents. I've made a lot of friends. It's hard to imagine that it's only been three years here because I feel like I've done so much, and it's probably the reason why I don't feel like I'm in a hurry to do anything right now.

When I turned 22, I thought I had to "make it" and be successful by the time I was thirty. It's an arbitrary number and a subjective goal, as I don't even think I knew what "success" meant to me three years ago. Now, on the cusp of turning 25, I realized that I'm a lot smarter than I was then (and still, I am aware of how silly it is to think one is smart at 25). I've learned a lot about myself since I moved here, with every positive and negative experience giving me something to think about. I'm not really in a hurry to do anything; I just kind of want to sit back and enjoy things as they come.

Sorry is the hardest word, etc.

2008-07-25T09:23:00.003-05:00

I've been really terrible lately and avoiding my blog here. I have things to write but they're kind of overwhelming (but they are positive things!), and I promise I will come back to this site. I will!

In the meantime I am trying to get through the last five days of work (!!!) and I am looking forward to whatever the hell I am going to do next.

In the meantime, I have two recent posts on This Recording, so please, take a look.

IN WHICH TYLER SLUMS IT AT PITCHFORK MUSIC FESTIVAL

IN WHICH ALL OF OUR OPINIONS ARE RIGHT

I just quit my job.

2008-07-16T13:02:00.002-05:00

I feel like a giant weight has been lifted, and I am really, really happy. I have two weeks left and then I go to Nags Head for a week so I can avoid responsibility before returning to the Real World.

I've been planning this since Monday and had my letter of resignation ready yesterday. I talked ot my therapist last night about how happy I was, that I have been feeling uncharacteristically optimistic, considering that I don't really have a plan for what I'll do for work other than temping when I come back to Chicago. But, I feel like I've learned a lot about myself in the last seven months, and for the first time since the beginning of the year, I actually feel pretty happy.

It's a really good feeling.

And, um, if you happen to live in Chicago and know of any job leads, do let me know!

Don't read your idols' blogs.

2008-07-14T18:58:00.003-05:00

I've been having a big of blogger's ennui lately, which is a sillier sentence to write than it is to read.

I was going to write a post for This Recording that talked about the five bloggers I had blog-crushes on (nearly all platonic). It was going to include Rich from Four Four, Tracie "Slut Machine" Egan from Jezebel, and Emily Gould. I was considering including Alex Balk because no one else on the Internet can make me laugh and then shake my clenched fists at the computer screen with rage, and then there's Julia Allison, just 'cause. I know enough that name-dropping Julia Allison in a blog post (in the same as Emily Gould!) would certainly guarantee an extra five to ten hits.

When the whole Lizz Winstead / Jezebel thing went down two weeks ago, I watched the entire Thinking and Drinking episode featuring Tracie and Moe Tkacik from Jezebel and had a lot of opinions about it; I thought they were unfortunately unaware that the show could turn serious, and, like most of us under thirty, suffer from the curse of the "like and y'know?" generation that makes everything we say sound incredibly dumb despite what brilliant thoughts are buzzing inside our brains. At the same time, however, I was a little disappointed with what they said, but it was representative of a generation of feminists (and really, a generation of people) who forget about the progress of previous generations and how it opened doors for those that followed.

When I thought about writing this, I clicked around Tumblr and saw that everyone was writing the same stuff. People were arguing about how Moe and Tracie represent (like Emily Gould) a generation of women who are too willing to share personal details about their lives for their own gain (whether that is true and a bad thing is debatable, but I'd like to go on record as saying I never want to read the word "overshare" again, ever). And I don't want to go into a gender studies rant about why male bloggers aren't criticized for the same issues, but the idea is exhausting, much like the idea of writing about bloggers who are all related to Gawker.

The thing is this: I used to avidly read Gawker. I still do, on occasion, but with less frequency. Once I made a comparison on this blog to how the old generation of Gawker editors seemed like "the old people in charge of your college radio station." It was a comparison I made because, as a blogger, I sort of emulated those writers because I really enjoyed what they wrote and how they said it. They really were to me a sort of cool clique on the Internet, much like those music snobs who ran the radio station in college. It took me a while back then to realize that, even though I felt like "knowing" those people was a big deal, it didn't make much of a difference a year after graduation.

What's funny to me is that my friends, most of whom read this blog, don't give two shits about Gawker, and they don't recognize those names that used to be on the masthead. Nick Denton doesn't mean anything to them; neither do Julia Allison, Emily Gould, or Slut Machine. Most of them might not know anything about the "scandal" behind the Thinking and Drinking show, because they don't live their lives on the Internet.

I used to write here with the anticipation that one day I would write professionally, and I would turn this blogging hobby into a way to make money and do something that I really enjoyed. To be honest, the idea seems kind of repulsive now, probably because I realized that work is not necessarily something I'll enjoy, even if it's blogging. And I think that I've changed how I feel about writing about myself on the Internet; I've got a lot to say about myself, but that doesn't mean that I should, especially when having my personal shit become public makes feel a little gross.

I talked to my therapist about this (of all things), and she asked me why I don't keep a private journal, wherein I write about myself for myself. I told her I didn't know, that perhaps it's a generational trend: not only does it feel great to type away at these plastic keys (and save time doing so instead of writing everything by hand), but it's also exhilarating to risk putting yourself on the Internet and to let people read what you have to say. After all, as soon as chat rooms became unfashionable when I was seventeen, I joined my first blogging site, and I've been doing this since.

Things I did this weekend:

2008-07-14T09:28:00.002-05:00

1. Watched nine hours of Mad Men.

2. Vlogged:

(That's about it.)

Congrats to Marjilla!

2008-07-11T12:40:00.004-05:00

I just hope he will be able to put up with this:

and this:

aaaaand this:

But seriously, I'm very happy and excited for Marjilla, even though she can no longer be my default beard (we had baby names and everything!)

It Ain't All Bad

2008-07-07T17:10:00.000-05:00

I feel like I've been slacking immensely when it comes to this site. I blame Tumblr, which I have kind of fallen in love with despite my best intentions. Also, I don't think I've had much to talk about in detail lately, and what I have written about has been rather depressing. On Tumblr I just post links and songs and stupid shit that I enjoy, whereas on this forum I go into great detail about feeling like crap most of the time.

I should fess up, however, and admit that in the last week (well, since Monday), I've been doing pretty well. I had a fantastic weekend, especially a wonderful Fourth of July evening with great friends (even though Adam, who has taken on a role of abusive big brother (karma, perhaps, for being one myself to David), somehow managed to leave a giant bruise on my arm). And outside of work and thinking about Dad, things have been generally great.

John and I are back together, which was the best part of my Gay Pride Weekend (ha). Without rehashing details and stepping into oversharing territory (by the way, "overshare" is turning into the most over-used and annoying blog buzz words of 2008), I'm just going to say that things make perfect sense, and I'm full of positive emotions for a change because I get to spend a lot of time with someone I love and makes me happy.

Now, having said all of that: it is because of John that I can now say that I've heard a Miley Cyrus song. I was doing pretty well up until last weekend and it's all his fault. But, even though nobody's perfect, he comes pretty close.

Sometimes life lays it on really thick, just like a Nicholas Sparks novel.

2008-07-01T09:52:00.003-05:00

My dad's birthday was on Monday. I dealt with it pretty well, considering I had other issues that were driving me batshit crazy to focus on at the time. I didn't want to dwell on it; I've tried very hard to keep myself together since he died. I don't know if that's what I should be doing, but that's what I've been attempting to, anyway. I've thought about him a lot, obviously, but I've tried not to be too sad about it because I don't think he'd want me to be.

I was telling John last night that my biggest fear is that I won't be able to get the image I have of him out of my head. When I think about him, I don't remember what he looked like two years ago, or last Christmas; I only see what he looked like a month and a half a good, a few days before he died. I'm trying very hard to think about those good memories and images, instead, and I want to share this story because I think it helps me, at least.

My dad worked for the Coca-Cola bottling plant in town for about thirty years. He drove all over the area - sometimes driving a hundred miles a day - fixing Coke machines and fountain units. That's how he met so many people; he knew every single shop and restaurant owner so well that they wouldn't have a problem calling him at home with a problem (much to his dismay).

He also made signs for businesses, those old-fashioned metal signs with the name in huge white lettering framed by two Coke logos. These were all over the place back home.

My dad returned to work at the end of last year when he went into remission, and he left work shortly after he discovered that the cancer had returned. But one of the last projects he worked on was a new metal sign for Driftwood, which is my parents' favorite restaurant in the area (it's owned by a couple they knew back in high school, of course).

The Coke plant had phased out the signs (like they did the bottling several years ago), but after Pam and Spencer, the owners of Driftwood, practically begged for him to make them a new one, my dad agreed. When he finished the sign, he signed his name at the bottom, which happens to be centered right above the front door of the building. He said he did it so that whenever my mom goes to dinner at Driftwood, she'll know he's with her.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is a goddamn love story.

Mystery solved.

2008-06-27T07:29:00.003-05:00

I can't believe it took me this long to figure out that the early morning visits (in the 5:00 and 6:00 hours of the AM, as well as on weekends) were most likely coming from a Blackberry. Now I can go back to living my life knowing full well that there is nothing mysterious at all about the Internet.

Pat that weave.

2008-06-26T09:56:00.000-05:00

I'm not sure what it is about this video (which YouTube will not let me embed here), but last night Christina, Rachel, and I were at Halsted's and this came on and we could not stop watching it.

I think it's B's weave.

There are two things I'd like to share with you.

2008-06-24T13:57:00.002-05:00

First, this Craigslist ad that Mindy found:

There are no words.

Secondly, I wrote a post on This Recording about Liz Phair. You should read it.

What It Feels Like For A Girl

2008-06-23T11:09:00.003-05:00

I posted the following on Tumblr, but since I don't have much else to talk about today, I figured I'd post it here as well. By the way, I am seeing Liz Phair perform Exile in Guyville tomorrow night and I'm already about to pee my pants with excitement.

I’m surprised the Pitchfork review of the Exile in Guyville reissue wasn’t more offensive; I’m glad they gave it a high rating (a 9.6; I still think it should be a 10, but I guess their biggest problem was the reissue didn’t offer more extras, so fine). But, as always, I have an issue with the way Pitchfork publishes its “reviews.”

My big issue is the first three paragraphs:

You break all kinds of unwritten rules when you’re a guy who admires a girl. The white suburban kids who idolize gangster rappers are old news, and the rich kids have always loved to rub elbows with the poor. But when a man tries to identify with a woman, he doesn’t just hit the normal problems of “white male gaze” and “exploitation of the other” and “being a jackass”: There’s also the third rail of male sexuality, where identifying too closely with a woman might make you seem, perish the thought, sensitive. So instead, the guys who dig a girl like Liz Phair have to play up the attraction, the lust, the submission to a rock’n’roll goddess— even when, for many of them, the lust ain’t the main draw.

The other tactic is to take credit for what she’s done. And guys can take plenty of credit for Phair’s early career. Rock critics like Bill Wyman brought Phair to Chicago’s attention when they ranted and raved about Guyville weeks before the thing came out. The Rolling Stones recorded Exile on Main Street, the loose template for Guyville’s 18 tracks— and one of the blues-rock genomes that saved this from being just another singer-songwriter set. And a couple other guys, co-producer Brad Wood and engineer Casey Rice, helped nail the minimalist production of Guyville and its follow-up, the underrated Whip-Smart.

It was the guys like her Johnny or her Joe— the titular guys in the indie boy’s club centered in and around Chicago’s Wicker Park— who preened for her, dicked her over, and taught her how to push back, inspiring her and making it necessary for her to write these songs in the first place. And it was guys who took the piss when she started headlining at venues that were too big for an amateur. Playing a New Year’s Eve show at the Metro as your sixth or seventh gig is a lot to bite off. And if I recall correctly, she bit. But stagecraft and starpower weren’t the point: Those of us who were taken in by Phair loved her because she was— sorry to use the word— real.

I’ve bitched before about Pitchfork’s reviews; I generally just look at the rating instead of reading the actual article because, as in the case of Exile, it isn’t so much about the music as it is about the author writing the review. So here we have this guy who, ironically, is one of the targets of Liz Phair’s album. And he spends the first third of the review talking about how hard it is for him to like the album because he’s a guy?

I think that’s silly, and I could write a whole other essay on the subject of this stupid societal construct of masculinity and blah, blah, blah. I think the point I’m trying to make is that the album is good because it is good, not because it makes you know how it feels to be a girl. Hell, I relate to this album and I don’t think it’s solely about dating guys.

Sure, the “woman thing” has certainly been an issue in how Liz Phair has been received as an artist (I truly believe that is why she is such an outsider in the music industry, because no one knew how to manage her music), but I don’t think all of her music has to come down to that black and white issue. Most of the time, Liz Phair writes and sings in character, not as herself, and in several instances those characters have been men

Naturally as a guy, I can’t speak for what women saw in the record back then, or how young women will take it now. But of all the albums written from a woman’s perspective, this is one of the most accessible to men. It’s intriguing to watch her deal with us— not as a mere revolutionary, but as someone who knows that sex will always be tough, so she always has to be tougher. She’s been tested in ways we never will be, and we understand just enough to admire her for it. Men don’t get what it’s like to be a woman. But spinning this record, you swear that you could.

“Men don’t get what it’s like to be a woman.” You know what? If you put forth a little effort (which doesn’t mean just listen to an 18-song album), you could probably figure it out sometime.

A Very Scientific Study.

2008-06-20T13:11:00.006-05:00

Proof that homosexuality is genetic:

My pre-adolescent fascination with Mommie Dearest

and Valley of the Dolls.

On the other hand, the reason why the jury is still out on this case:

My general ambivalence toward Grey Gardens.

(PS. It is really difficult to find a video of Mommie Dearest on YouTube that does not feature drag queens.)

A Tumblr Primr

2008-06-17T20:23:00.002-05:00

For those of you not on Tumblr (and, really, it's just a matter of time - remember MySpace?), here's a video that does a good job of explaining what it's like.

tumblr. - The Documentary from DaveAOK on Vimeo.

Also, Real David Karp is not as hot as Fake David Karp.

Melancholia

2008-06-17T14:43:00.003-05:00

Sometimes I wonder why I'm so predisposed to being angry, sad, and bitter all of the time, since, generally, I'm doing okay for myself. I mean, I can only use my dad's death as viable excuse for so long, you know?

I'm in a general malaise right now. (I hate writing about it on my blog, but bear with me.) I don't think it's one thing that's making me feel like things are such shit, but rather the last four months of hell that have been home life and work life. After I broke up with John I finally made myself go into therapy, thinking that the break-up (and my general failures with dating in general) were a major part of what's bringing me down. I mean, I think that lately, most of my rage and anger comes out of romantic disappointment; why else would I still want to scratch someone's fucking eyes out every time I see them (yes, them, because it's plural)?

With my dad's illness and death, one would think that I spend most of my therapy talking about grief, etc. The truth is, I've spent more hours talking about my job that anything else. I'm not going to go into great detail because that's uncouth and such, but something must be said for spending eight hours a day feeling ten times more miserable than you do anywhere else, and on top of that feeling like you're an idiot at the same time. I told John today that I was in the mood to go cry a bathroom stall somewhere, and he replied, "You could work at the New York Times building where they have 'crying cubbies!'" But even before I could respond, he said, "But then it's expected that you would be crying."

I don't even know if therapy (or, as I call it, "my five-hundred-dollar deductible") is doing me any good, but I continue to go because it's worth a shot, right? Of course, here's the shitty thing: I have to work because I need the insurance, since therapy isn't affordable without it (especially since it's just now covering it). So basically, I need to work for the therapy, and I need the therapy to make it to work. Such is the irony of the twenty-something, depressive, professional lifestyle.

I don't think exclusively listening to Exile in Guyville is conducive to a good mood either, but I'm too excited for next week to examine that.

Poor choices.

2008-06-16T09:42:00.002-05:00

Drinking eight beers while watching the Tonys alone is probably a new low for me. I don't know; when I think of the other dumb things I've done when I was drunk and around people, I feel like live-blogging the Tony Awards on my Tumblr (live-Tumblin'?) is probably not that bad. Whatever; it was Father's Day and I was depressed. I have an eternal excuse for my stupid behavior. Well, it might at least last me through the rest of the year.

On Weddings.

2008-06-12T13:43:00.003-05:00

I love weddings, at least in theory, since I've only been to two as an adult and wasn't of legal drinking age at the time. (Side note: This isn't related, but let me explain. Most people would let a twenty-year-old drink at an open-bar wedding. Unfortunately, I got in trouble at the last wedding because I was just a few months shy of my twenty-first birthday and had a friend get me a beer after I was refused. At the other wedding I was eventually goaded into drinking by the mother of the bride, although it wasn't until I was sure that the county sheriff had already left the reception.)

Anyway, I get jealous of people like Justin and Katy who seem to be going to weddings all the time. But then I realize that they went to a Catholic college, so they are obviously more likely to know people who get married at our age. My friends are all heathens who live in sin, if they even manage to keep a relationship going that long. (Seriously, friends! Get it together! There are ice cream makers and flatware in your future!)

Adam and Alissa are getting married in August, and it will honestly be the first fun wedding I will ever attend, since I'll be of legal age and my family won't be there. I don't have to worry about embarrassing myself in front of my mom - Adam and Alissa will have to hope I don't embarrass them in front of their moms!

Ever since they started planning the wedding, I tried to give them ideas on how to make it totally kick-ass, from a themed wedding (Cowboys and Indians! Pimps and 'hos!) to recreating the opening to the musical in The Muppets Take Manhattan. This is for my own entertainment, because it's not like I'm going to enjoy the food or anything.

I was talking to my friend Laurie today (happy birthday, by the way!), and she was telling me that she and her boyfriend have started thinking about a wedding next year. Immediately I said, "Oh my God, PLEASE HAVE IT IN COLONIAL WILLIAMSBURG!!!" Not because either of us like Colonial Williamsburg - in fact, we both kind of despise it. I realized then that maybe because I'm not allowed to get married (and, let's face it, even if I was, who would I fool into entering into a legal contract with me?), I act out my aggressions by trying to imagine my friends' weddings turn into train wrecks for my own amusement.

But friends! Really, I'm sure I'll be totally happy for you or whatever, and I'll support you if you don't want to get married in costume or you allow children to come. If I dislike the person you're marrying, I'll politely keep it to myself (or at least only talk about you behind your back). But please, make sure Christina is also invited, because if she isn't you know she's going to just end up being my date (the idea of ever being at the wedding-date stage with someone I'm dating seems TERRIFYING and UNLIKELY). And can you do me a favor at and have something on the menu I like? Otherwise, I'll get really shitty at the open bar.

Adam once said that the wedding is really more for their friends than for family, which is a pretty good point. As the years go on and people end up hitched and have moved on, think of how often you're going to see them (if you don't immediately cut them all out of your life on the way to your honeymoon destination). You'll see your family every year at holidays, birthdays, and, eventually, other weddings. But your friends are the ones who you'll want to remember at your wedding at having had a great time - they're the ones who will actually be in the wedding, after all. So make sure they're the ones who have a good time. And by "they," I mean specifically me.

Good lord.

2008-06-11T12:13:00.000-05:00

This is why I moved to the Big City.

2008-06-10T08:43:00.004-05:00

On Sunday I went to the Printers Row Book Fair to see Tracy Letts, the Pulitzer Prize-winning author of August: Osage County and Steppenwolf Ensemble member. I got there late, thanks to the wonderful CTA, but I managed to find a seat in the surprisingly packed tent (I did not expect so many people would want to see a playwright, but that's mostly because I rarely think a lot of people would share my high-brow tastes).

I had seen Tracy Letts in two plays at Steppenwolf while Christina worked there: The Pillowman (an amazing Martin McDonagh play, and the first big production of a straight play I'd ever seen) and Betrayal (a Harold Pinter snoozefest that was saved by the three actors' strong performances). I unfortunately missed August, even though Christina raved about it. And now it's on Broadway, winning the Pulitzer, and expected to pick up a Tony next week. Luckily, the production will be going on a national tour next year, so I will get to see it (although without the original Steppenwolf cast).

Tracy Letts was a great speaker; to listen to his experience as a member of a supportive ensemble that allowed him to create a three-and-a-half-hour play with a three-story set is pretty impressive. And he sounded surprisingly modest for someone who just one a Pulitzer, who said, "You know, I don't feel a lot of pressure about my next play [Superior Donuts, which opens this month]. If it's a disaster and bombs, it's not a big deal. I'll just write another play." He also had a lot of great things to say about Chicago theatre, and the actors who live and work in this city. "A lot of New York producers didn't understand why the cast wasn't absolutely thrilled to be taking the play to New York and living there for several months," he said. "They seem to think that people in Chicago live here because we have to, not because we like it here."

During the Q&A session it started to downpour and thunder a bit, but the huge audience stayed under the tent as the winds blew it around and water sprayed those of us sitting in the back. When the talk finished, and the thunder started clapping, I ran to the front with my copy of the play, as my goal for the day was to get Tracy Letts to sign it. As I stood in a line of about ten people near the stage, one of the Book Fair volunteers stood up to the microphone and said, "Not to alarm anyone, but everyone must evacuate the tent and find shelter. It's not safe under here."

I followed Tracy Letts and another small crowd of people into the glass-enclosed vestibule of a condo building. There were about ten of us standing there watching the rain pound on the sidewalk outside, knowing full-well that of all the places we could be, a small glass-enclosed shelter was probably not the safest. When the rain let up, we ran back outside, and a security guard informed us that another condo building three doors down was open and we could take shelter there. So, again, I followed Tracy Letts and a few other people into the building.

I was a little nervous about asking him to sign my book, as he was talking to a couple who announced that they proud Steppenwolf subscribers. They had some friend, apparently, who was a theatre producer, so they had stories of all of these shows in New York they had seen from the current Broadway season. Finally, when they stopped gushing over their new friend, I asked Tracy Letts to sign my copy, which he did.

And that's the story of how I took shelter from a possible tornado with a Pulitzer Prize-winning writer.

Nothing much to see here.

2008-06-09T22:41:00.003-05:00

I've been trying very hard to be happy lately. I know no one can blame me for being bummed about life and shit, considering the first half of my year, and I feel like the events from the last month took place ages ago. But unfortunately, and understandably, returning to Chicago hasn't been like flipping a switch and made everything go back to normal. I still have to work, I still find myself struggling to figure out what I want to do with myself, I continue to go to Berlin and drink too much and spent Sunday evening feeling stupid for going back then, and occasionally, I write about it here with the self-awareness that I probably shouldn't because who the hell knows who even reads this anymore.

I've always had this thing where I've had to have a plan. Well, I have to always construct a plan. I'm pretty terrible at following things through. Right now my goal is to write more, specifically write more things not on the Internet and try to do something with that writing.

My other goal: to stop whining on the Internet so much.

I started reading Rachel Shukert's Have You No Shame? It's pretty funny, and well-written; so far it's one of those good memoir/essay/story collections, in the vein of Sedaris but written by an overwhelmingly (and not in a bad way) Jewish gal. As I was reading it, and having had someone tell me last night I really ought to write a memoir, I keep thinking, "There's absolutely no reason why I can't do this, too." So maybe that's a goal? I dunno. But it would be a project, at least, and I could use one of those.

How to lose friends and alienate others.

2008-06-09T09:30:00.002-05:00

I've never smoked pot and I always tell people that the reason why is because I get paranoid when I'm sober. It's not really the reason (frankly, I'm just not interested, thank you very much), but it's somewhat based on truth. I'm not crazy paranoid in a schizophrenic way, but occasionally I have thoughts that everyone is out to get me. You know, it happens!

Right now, my big fear is that the people I make fun of on my blog are forming some unholy alliance and will take me down. I know that's kind of silly, but nothing is more disturbing than imagining my ex, the guy from Facebook, Emily Bronte with a Gmail account, my Southern Lit professor from DePaul, the guy I described as looking like the front-half of a satyr, and, eventually, my roommate will all unite and form some sort of militia whose mission is to destroy me. I know it's a little far-fetched, but such a fear is probably a good thing in the long run, one that will perhaps push me into some sort of maturity enlightenment.

omgz fridays plz.

2008-06-06T16:33:00.003-05:00

It's been one of those weeks.

To do this weekend:

Buying an air conditioner, as it is already eighty degrees in my room and I don't particularly enjoy sitting in my underwear and sweating a lot.
Getting drunk because duh.
Seeing a show at the Chicago Improv Festival with TJ Jagodowski, Lutz from 30 Rock, and Jason Sudekis.
Haircut! (My head is constantly sweaty.)
Tracy Letts and the rest of the fun at the Printers Row Book Fair. I will be buying a lot of books.

UPDATE:

This is what I look like when I discover that the air conditioner is too big for my window by half an inch, and then I spend thirty minutes unsuccessfully installing it into another window. You know? Fuck that air conditioner.

Another year of keeping my tank tops tucked away.

2008-06-05T09:03:00.002-05:00

The week of Spring that we get in Chicago is already over, which means that Summer is here! (Otherwise known as Arm Issues Season.) It will now be constantly sizzling and muggy outside and my forehead and underarms will not be dry until September. Sexy, right?

You like me!

2008-06-03T14:42:00.000-05:00

Today I received the 100,000th visitor to my blog!

It was a visitor from Mesa, Arizona, who clicked a link from Erica's blog at 2:37 Central Time!

Thanks for the memories!

The Strangers was not good.

2008-06-02T11:00:00.006-05:00

I hated The Strangers. So much, in fact, that David and I spent twenty minutes screaming about it in the car. Because we were angry.

I was mad, for one, that they somehow managed to get a Joanna Newsom song on the same record (as in VINYL) as a Gillian Welch song. I don't think that the "strangers" came in at some point, switched the album from The Milk-Eyed Mender to Time (The Revelator) just so that the needle would skip during the part of "My First Lover" when Gillian sings "Quicksilver girl" (a reference to the Steve Miller song). Also, how did they get a demo version of "At My Window Sad and Lonely" by Billy Bragg and Wilco? (Here's a note to the film's director: just because you use non-mainstream music in your film doesn't mean you're not going to get someone who isn't a Daughtry fan to come see it and CALL YOU OUT ON YOUR SHIT. Sure, a lot of people didn't notice it but I DID and ALL OF MY OPINIONS ARE RIGHT.)

I was also very angry when the film started and the placard told us that it was based on a true story - which it is not, by the way. What's worse is that someone narrated that, as if the director anticipated that his audience would be too stupid to read what's on the screen. That should have tipped me off right there.

Welcome to the 21st Century, Montross.

2008-06-02T09:08:00.001-05:00

I think this picture best explains my weekend home: things are changing way too quickly.

Here's another one!

2008-05-29T15:31:00.001-05:00

Obituraries always leave out the really interesting stuff, like how he not only lived to see fifteen presidents, served in the Navy with John F. Kennedy, and almost got into a fight with Henry Fonda in a bar in New York.

Just for the record, I'm doing okay right now. Sure, I'm angry at life, but my bitterness is only, like, two notches above normal. We're still on level orange at the TMA headquarters.

In Which No One Ever Gets Over Middle School

2008-05-29T10:36:00.003-05:00

If I ever become famous for my writing, I certainly hope my middle and high school misdeeds don't come back to haunt me. I really don't want to rehash my one trip to the principal's office in ninth grade.

Related:
Emily Gould Broke Some Hearts Back in Middle School [Gawker]
Exposed: Blog-Post Confidential [NYTM]

Dear 2008: You can go fuck yourself.

2008-05-27T14:48:00.002-05:00

My grandfather died this morning.

That is all.

This Is How I Deal With Rejection.

2008-05-26T23:45:00.003-05:00

Tomorrow is my first day back at work in almost three weeks. I am not excited, because I feel like I'm starting a new job. I'm so out of the loop.

When people ask me what I ideally want to do for a living, I'm just going to say, "Not making a living." Because, honestly, the last two and a half weeks - despite the whole death thing - have been great because I haven't had to go to work.

I've had a wonderful weekend back in Chicago. I haven't done much; I went to Berlin on Friday night and it was fun and not the usual mess. Sure, all the normal dipshits were there, but I did hang out with friends and make out on the street after closing, and you can't really complain about that, now can you?

The rest of the weekend was low-key: drinks with friends on Saturday night, a pre-Memorial Day cookout on Sunday, and an afternoon walking about Lakeview, buying books and sweating my face off (it's hot all of a sudden!). And after a great night of burgs and brews at Big Chicks, I came home kind of dreading work tomorrow because it means I have to go back to the real world.

And then I got an annoying bit of news I'm not going to share, because I'm trying (honestly!) not to overshare on the Internet these days. But still, I'm kind of bummed and I feel like I'm slipping back into the bitter guy I was four weeks ago. Of course this all happens right before I go back to work. I don't think this is a coincidence.

I will tell this story, because I think it's indicative of how that embittered guy is still resting just under my skin, and how I don't even give a shit about letting him out anymore.

There's this guy that I had a crush on about a month and a half ago. And it was a generally big crush, the kind that grew out of daily IM conversations and at least one actual date that cost me a good fifty bucks. (I know that's lame as hell to say, as if I should be able to write-off any investments I made in courtship.) Anyway, things, obviously, did not progress beyond me professing interest (um, a few times) and him being a general douchebag who didn't give me a straight answer. Finally, after the last time, I took him off my buddy list; a few weeks later, I deleted him as a friend on Facebook and MySpace, and was pretty happy about it.

Then, last week, when I was knee-deep into my "red wine boot camp" as Adam referred to it (you know, the two weeks I spent drinking at least four glasses of wine every single night), I happened to visit his Facebook page for the expected aggravation it would cause me. I saw that he posted a note about songs that reminded him of friends or something (because that's what people without blogs do, apparently), and he mentioned a Neko Case song. But he spelled her name as "Niko."

And this is what I did:

And you know what? I'm still pretty pleased with myself.

Maximum Exposure

2008-05-22T10:21:00.005-05:00

Whenever anyone asks me what it was like growing up in a small town, I tell them this story.

In seventh grade I started having a lot of trouble in my pre-Algebra class. I just didn't get Algebra, and it was the first time I had any problem with math, much to my mother's (the mathematician) chagrin. Add to the fact that I was the first-born, and even though I didn't have the typical amount of pressure put on me that most first children receive (because my parents were, sigh, NICE, I guess), there was an understanding that I was to stay on the honor roll for the rest of my school career, and, if it were possible, for the rest of my life.

So pre-Algebra really screwed up that plan. I thought I was smart enough, however, that I could hide the occasional bad grades I received from my parents; as long as I got a B every nine-weeks, they didn't really need to know about the Cs or Ds I got on tests, right? Well, this plan seems to fail when you live in a small town and you happen to get the one math teacher in the middle school who has been teaching there for years, who is married to the man who owns the furniture store where your parents bought all of their major appliances, and happens to take an early evening walk around your neighborhood block every single day. So, of course, Mrs. Sisson, when seeing my dad cutting grass in the evenings, would stop and chat and inevitably say something like, "Tyler (pronounced, mind you, as "Tyyylaaah") got a C on a math test today."

One would think that moving six hundred miles to Chicago would protect my identity a bit, and make me more anonymous. Nearly everyone I went to high school with, at least the ones that I was the closest to, have moved out of the area (albeit mostly to Richmond and Fredericksburg). And my father was indeed a local celebrity, given the numbers at the funeral home visitation and the funeral this week, but I never considered that I knew or was close to many people around here. Sure, being home for an event like this has certainly made me appreciate growing up in a small town, because the emotions expressed by everyone we have encountered have been very comforting instead of overwhelming.

Of course, here's the weird thing, which has shaken me up quite a bit: I've had a few people, people who are friends with my parents, say, "I've read your blog!"

I used to think having potential or current employers finding this site was bad. Imagine the people who came over for dinner, or the parents of people you went to high school. People who aren't extremely close to the family, but close enough that it's, um, weird.

When I said something to my mom, she just rolled her eyes, because ONCE AGAIN we all knew she was right. She refuses to read the blog because she's convinced I'm chronicling my crack cocaine addiction, or she'll read about my patronage of prostitutes, or be embarrassed by my jokes about her. (All of the previous don't happen, of course. Except for when I make fun of my mom. But I'm laughing WITH her!) She said, "Well, if you're going to have a blog, people are going to read it." Well, yeah, but not people from Westmoreland County, Virginia. Didn't we just get the Internet, like, four years ago?

I don't mean to sound like some elitist here, saying that I'm this big city big shot here. I still put my pants on one leg and a time, and I still use Spell Check just like everybody else. I know most people wouldn't read this site if they weren't generally interested in what my life was like, and they wouldn't say anything about it if they didn't enjoy it somehow (I think).

But to put it in perspective, I'd like to quote from Janeane Garofalo's 1997 HBO stand-up special, because, you know, I'm obsessed and it's also been a weird basis for my life's maturation. She had a ruptured ovarian cyst that, she said, was discovered after she passed out and had an "thorough" exam by the gynecologist. "Whilst he's down there," she said, "he peers up from between my knees and said, 'You know, my wife and I LOVE you on The Larry Sanders Show!'"

Janeane says she has a don't-ask-don't-tell policy with her vagina; man, I'd love to have that same policy with my blog.

The Aftermath

2008-05-20T22:10:00.002-05:00

Someone once told me that he was afraid to watch Lars and the Real Girl because a friend described it as too "earnest" for him to enjoy.

I'd probably feel the same way about such a feel-good movie six months ago. Not only do I love that film, but I could probably stand to watch some shittier version of a movie targeted to my emotions and come out of that two-hour experience just fine and dandy.

Today was my father's funeral, which is a hard way to start a sentence, but it's true. I woke up in an understandable funk, but right now I'm actually in an okay mood. I did cry, sure, but I kept myself together much better than I thought. I think what helped was the amazingly HUGE amount of people there today. The funeral procession from my mother's Episcopalian church, where the service was held, to my father's family's Baptist church, where he is buried, was insanely long. I've honestly never seen so many people in my life. Last night, at the funeral home visitation, I stood and shook hands and hugged people for three hours straight. Paul, who is both a distant cousin and the man who organized the visitation, told us he estimated nearly four-hundred people came last night. I think about that many people came today, as well.

After listening to a pretty great sermon and eulogy, and thinking about how my father, who certainly had his sad and angry moments at home, was rarely in a bad mood with anyone else. So many people have said in the last few days that my dad never met a stranger; it's certainly true: he made everyone feel that they were his friend, despite the fact that, most of the time, he couldn't remember anybody's name.

I didn't cry at the grave site and I was pretty proud of myself. I knew that my father would have; the man couldn't keep a dry eye during any sad moment on TV or a movie (Hell, he cried during an episode of The Brady Bunch when Marcia was punished and couldn't go on a school ski trip), but I knew that he would have never wanted anyone to be sad for him. My uncle told the story about when my dad called him to tell him that his cancer had returned during his eulogy. He said, "Johnny said to me, 'You know, to have to tell people that kind of thing must be a really hard job.' He was more worried about the doctor than he was about himself." I think that sums up the nature of my father's personality: he loved so many people, and that obvious affection really rubbed off on everyone he met.

A friend of my parents came up to me at the reception today and, looking at the hot, crowded room, said, "Well, I guess this means I should be a lot nicer to people." If there's anything I have taken from this experience, it's that I shouldn't be so negative, I shouldn't let people upset me or make me angry (and, when they do, be overwhelmingly nice to them, because killing them with kindness and pissing them off is much more rewarding that all of the negative energy it takes to hate them), and I should, as my father would say, take it easy.

Again, I love and appreciate all of the messages I've received from people, many of whom I only know through the Blogosphere. And I want everyone to know that, surprisingly, I am doing okay, and as cheesy as it sounds, I think it's how my dad would have wanted it.

Obit

2008-05-19T01:21:00.000-05:00

Funeral Blues

2008-05-18T05:21:00.000-05:00

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

W. H. Auden

The Kindness of Almost-Strangers

2008-05-16T16:11:00.003-05:00

I have nothing new to report. My father is still with us, physically, which is a feat that has astounded all of us, including the hospice nurse, who told us today she didn't understand it. I think he'd be surprised, too.

Two days ago I walked into my parents' room and my mother was talking to him. He had turned to her and said, "We need to make a decision." Assuming he thought he was in the hospital (he's in a hospital bed right now), my mother said, "Well, it's up to you." He said to her, "I'm ready to go."

I woke up my brother (this was around 9:30 in the morning, about four hours before he was really ready to be awake), and we stood on the other side of the bed. He turned slightly and looked at us, managing to say, "I'm sorry, but I need to go." He told us he'd say hello to Pop for us, and my mom asked him to look for her mother, too.

When the nurse asked my mother today if she had told him that it's alright if he leaves, she replied, "Hell, I've done everything but call the President to tell him it's OK."

I for one have managed to keep it together, mostly because I'm so exhausted from this experience to be really upset anymore. You kind of get used to the sight; my mother told me that she's afraid she won't be able to get the image of him lying in bed, reduced to a skeletal frame out of her head. One day I hope we'll all be able to forget that and instead focus on what he used to look like, which is almost unrecognizable by now.

One great thing to come out of this is a realization of how many people have been thinking of us. I've gotten a lot of emails, Facebook messages, texts, and IMs from friends (and even blogger friends I have never met). I haven't responded to most of them, but I want to express my gratitude; it has really helped me get through this. On top of that, we have tons of new flowers sitting on our porch, and we've been kept in lasagna and chicken salad and red wine, enough to last us another two weeks.

Tomorrow is the Relay for Life at the high school. My father's first cousin's husband (it sounds complicated, but not really) will be presenting a check to the American Cancer Society, which is from a golf tournament he organized a few weeks ago in honor of my dad and another woman from the area who is suffering, albeit surviving, from cancer. When he came by the other night, he told us that past tournaments in which he's participated usually raised around three to four thousand dollars.

Today he brought by a copy of the check for us to see. It's written for $12,738.02.

It's incredibly comforting to know that no matter what, my family is not going through this alone.

I've been out of it since the day I was born.

2008-05-14T11:09:00.004-05:00

Yesterday I went to Fredericksburg to buy a suit, and that was a wonderful trial as I discovered I am the only man this side of the Fall Line who wears a 38L. Macy's didn't have one, JoS. A. Bank (stupid name, by the way) had one that was over three-hundred dollars and it was still too big, JC Penney was closed because of "severe flooding," and Belk didn't have anyone working the men's department. By the time I got to Men's Wearhouse, I was beyond relieved when Ronald pulled out several suits in my size. I didn't even scoff at him when he suggested that the classic dark gray jacket would look fine paired with a turtleneck.

That's not what I wanted to write this post about, but I do want you all to imagine me wearing a turtleneck with a blazer. Just fucking try, people.

Anyway, after I left Men's Wearhouse (by the way, do you see what they did there?), I planned to go to DSW for shoes, and, conveniently for me, Best Buy was on the way. Hey, I just spent over an hour just trying to find a place that would sell me a suit, much less buying one, so I was going to reward myself with a DVD. (Sure, I had already bought I'm Not There and All The Sad Young Literary Men from Borders between my first two trips to the Spotsylvania "Towne Centre" (very exotic, indeed, Maura), but that's besides the point.) I spent just five minutes in Best Buy because I immediately found what I wanted: the Criterion Collection edition of The Ice Storm.

This recent purchase made me realize I have spent entirely too much money on The Ice Storm. Before I saw the movie I bought the screenplay, as I was in my I-Want-To-Be-A-Screenwriter-When-I-Grow-Up phase. Then I bought the movie on VHS. And then I bought it on DVD a few years ago, which I recently sold to Reckless with a bundle of other DVDs (I only made twenty bucks for the lot of them).

I watched one of the documentaries on the second disc last night, which featured brand-new interviews with the stars of the film. As I watched, perplexed at Christina Ricci's terrible Speed Racer bangs and Joan Allen's Botoxed forehead (even you, Joan? Please, take a cue from Sigourney: her forehead moves), I was kind of shocked to realize that it was released eleven years ago. Not only did it make me feel a little old, I decided that my near-obsession with The Ice Storm speaks volumes of my personality, especially my pre-adolescent mindset. I mean, what kind of fourteen-year-old loves a drama about '70s-era, suburban wife-swapping?

That, my friends, is why high school was miserable.

Battery in your leg.

2008-05-11T23:11:00.002-05:00

I'm kind of an idiot and brought The Diving Bell and the Butterfly home with me. I'm about halfway through after trying to watch it two nights in a row. It's very good, but it's very difficult to watch, especially when my father is laying in a hospital bed in my parents' room down the hall. I keep thinking about what it must be like to be in a morphine-induced haze, barely able to communicate.

Tonight I sat next to his bed, holding his hand, watching his chest move up and down and counting the breaths with a constant pain in my stomach hoping that every six to eight seconds another one will come.

I'm surprised that I've held myself together so well. I've cried a few times just looking at him, and have only seriously broken down twice since I've been home. I suppose it's a relief for me to be here and watch this progression instead of being in Chicago; I'm so glad I'm here, but I hate to have to watch someone go through so much pain and anguish.

The house was full of people all weekend. On Saturday my godparents brought a huge dish of lasagna, and there were about eight of us sitting in the kitchen, emptying the fifth bottle of red wine since I arrived on Thursday night. Every now and then someone would walk back to the bedroom to check on him to see if he needed anything; he slept through most of it, at least I think he did. I can't help but wonder if he can hear us back there.

At one point my mother said to him, "Everyone is so angry this is happening to you." I don't feel angry, really. I don't know what I feel. I think because I'm not a spiritual person, I'm not questioning why it's happening in the first place. Of course, at the same time, I've caught myself actually praying - I don't know know to whom or to what I'm praying, but I'm doing it nonetheless. I'm directing my thoughts and wishes to something.

A daisy grows from a turd hill.

2008-05-07T14:56:00.004-05:00

An epiphany, and not a very nice one at that:

By the way, John and I are friends again, which is the best thing that happened during The Week That Exploded All Over My Face.

No, srsly, I totally am nice sometimes.

2008-05-01T09:01:00.003-05:00

Hi everyone.

I am feeling better today, but I want to say that I very much appreciate the emails, texts, and IMs I received yesterday. As hard as it is to come up with anything to say in those situations, it's just as difficult to come up with a response sometimes.

There's a poem by Julia Kasdorf that I really like called "What I Learned from My Mother." It has this great line that I've always loved: "I learned to attend viewing even if I didn't know the deceased, to press the moist hands of the living, to look in their eyes and offer sympathy, as though I understood loss even then. I learned that whatever we say means nothing, what anyone will remember is that we came. I learned to believe I had the power to ease awful pains materially like an angel. Like a doctor, I learned to create from another's suffering my own usefulness, and once you know how to do this, you can never refuse."

ANYWAY, enough of that.

I do want to share a link to an essay I wrote on This Recording which I'm pretty proud of. It's my take on the emosogynist idea of the "nice guy," which of course, in that sense, does not exist. I should also mention that I'm pretty sure Molly changed my byline to include that I'm "a really nice guy." TRUE LOVE.

Et shitera, et shitera, et shitera.

2008-04-30T08:52:00.003-05:00

Last night, after therapy (sad sack reference number one!), I decided to finally face my fear of eating at a real restaurant alone and went and got dinner by myself at Nookies in Boystown (#2! jealous?). And it was fine; I read a book while I waited for my chicken sandwich, and it wasn't weird at all. Sometimes it's nicer to not have to worry about splitting the bill with someone else at a cash-only restaurant.

When I was about to leave, I checked my phone and saw I missed a call from my mom, so I called her back. She asked me how I was, how therapy went, etc. I was like, "Eh, as usual, just generally disappointed with life, etc," which is kind of my response lately for how I'm feeling. I asked her how dad was doing tonight and she said, "Well, he's not feeling well today." And then I remembered that they were supposed to meet with the oncologist today and I had completely forgotten about it.

The cancer hasn't reacted to the treatments he was taking, and the doctor told them that there's really nothing else they can do. My parents have already called hospice care and a nurse came by the house last night for the first visit.

I'd like to spare the details of how sick he is because it's hard enough for me to think about it already. The worst part about the situation is not knowing what the time frame is. I suppose that's the thing with mortality: you know it's going to happen sometime, but normally you have the benefit of positive thinking. Generally, unless you're incredibly pessimistic and sad, you have the feeling that death isn't just around the corner. Of course, with cancer, you don't get that; instead, you have to sit there, knowing it's going to happen, possibly sooner than you exepct, or vice-versa.

After the phone call, I managed to stay pretty calm. I was in Lakeview, and I had nothing to do, but I knew that if I went home I'd just spend the rest of the night crying. I tried to walk around Broadway, barely keeping it together, and finally got on the bus, heading back home. Riding the Broadway bus is depressing enough, but it's a little more miserable when you're crying in front of strangers.

I'm alright, I guess, other than the bouts of sobbing and the overwhelming feeling of heartbreak. I'm staying home from work today and I'm going to sleep for a while and maybe watch some movies and order pizza or something. And then, this afternoon or tonight, I'm going to figure out what my plan is. I've already got a flight home next weekend (I bought the ticket a few weeks ago), but, honestly, I don't want to have to come back to Chicago and leave that behind. My mother thinks I should, and part of me agrees, but I also don't really want to be six hundred miles away while this is going on.

In other news, British children:

Vlogging.

2008-04-29T15:15:00.002-05:00

Remember when Christina and I were going to start vlogging? No? Well, I can't remind you, since I pulled the post asking for special vlogging requests because Christina chickened out because she "doesn't want her face and her voice on the Internet together," or something equally lameassed. Then she told me she'd only do it if she could have a hand-puppet play her, but that didn't happen because she didn't want to use just a sock and is too lazy to put the effort into making a sock puppet that looks like her, especially if it's something for MY benefit.

It was suggested that she vlog as her Bea Arthur puppet, but then I realized I'm not that ghey.

Today on Videogum, Lindsay challenged Gabe to create a vlog. And I think it's safe to say that I no longer have the desire or energy to add anything to the VLOGISPHERE. (See what I did there?)

Poophead.

2008-04-28T09:24:00.003-05:00

I've had a rough couple of weeks and the shitty thing is that I haven't necessarily wanted to write about it here. There's only so much one can take of my whining, and there's only so much of my own boring bitching that I can handle, as well. But still, self-censorship sucks, which is why I've been so active on Tumblr recently. That shit is blogging crack, and it's rather terrible. (Admittedly, though, the nice thing about my Tumblr is that I don't have a SiteMeter, and don't plan on putting on there. It's somewhat refreshing to not be paranoid about who is watching the YouTube videos I post.)

I'm in a general life-funk, wherein every aspect is a little shitty. I've been thinking about going to school again, but I don't want to work: I just want to go back to school full time. I told Christina last night that the idea of going to grad school is incredibly appealing, but at the same time would be like me having a baby to fix a bad relationship. I need a master's in English like I need a child. Sure, it'd be cute and everything, and I'd be proud of this thing I made, but after two years I'd realize that it's not getting me anywhere and I'll have to pay for it sometime. (I'll stop now, because I'm too lazy to think this metaphor through and make it work. Which, I think, is part of my problem.)

I also decided recently that I really want to write for a living. I just want to publish things on the Internet and somehow get paid for it. I really hate having to worry about being insured; if I didn't have that hanging over my head, I think I'd be much happier doing something more creative for a living. Yet, as I am my worst critic, I'm generally disappointed with everything I write, even if someone tells me that they enjoy it. I lack the discipline and motivation to do anything, and I think my self-awareness is possibly more dangerous than my laziness.

Tumblin'

2008-04-24T10:25:00.003-05:00

So, I'm sort of cheating on you, Blog. But not in a bad way!

I started a Tumblr a while ago and was just posting pictures that I took. And then I was bored one day and started reblogging things. And then I posted IM conversations. And then links. And I realized that Tumblr is really fucking addictive and fun, especially since the presence of people "following" me appeals to my vain sensibility.

Plus, it's nice to have a venue to post random shit online without cluttering up my blog here. I think that I can manage to keep both sites up and reserve it for the wonderful, charming, well-written narrative pieces you all love. (Right?)

So, it's not that I'm cheating. It's just that I want an open relationship. Is that okay, Blog?

Attend the Tale.

2008-04-24T08:54:00.004-05:00

When I was home a few weekends ago, I got to watch a filmed version of Company on PBS's Great Performances. It was the revival that appeared on Broadway last, directed by John Doyle. It was fantastic, mostly because the actors played their own instruments and the play's staging was so fucking amazing.

I knew of the play and the director because he also revived Sondheim's Sweeney Todd about two years ago, and like Company, the earlier revival was a stripped-down production where the actors doubled as the orchestra. It's almost unfair to use the term to describe the group of musicians, since there are only about ten people on stage above the empty orchestra pit.

Last night, Rachel and I went to see Sweeney open at the Cadillac Palace, where it'll be for a week before the touring production leaves Chicago and goes to somewhere like St. Louis or something. It had been a while since I'd seen a musical; I think the last was Les Miserables in Richmond about five years ago. I'm no Broadway connoisseur, I'm just some gay who likes musicals sometimes. And I can't formally criticize the show, since I don't know enough about putting on a big production and how all of that theatre shit works. But let me tell you this: the production of Sweeney Todd blew my fucking face off.

Seriously, I rarely notice how much influence a director has on a play, especially when it's a touring cast (I've never seen a show in New York, and I've only really seen musicals when they came through Richmond on tour). But I sat in the front row of the balcony last night in complete awe as I watched a group of ten people pull of an amazing feat. It was thousands of times better than that stupid, lame-ass Johnny Depp mess of a film. All of this considering the flaws in the production!

Seriously, John Doyle. I want you to direct my life.

Rachel and I had so much fun last night. We even ate at a fancy-assed restaurant where our bill was waaaaay too much and we split a fifty-two dollar bottle of wine. But good lord, it was delicious. I want to see more shows as they come through town - Avenue Q will be here in May, and hey, maybe I could even convince one of my non-musical inclined friends to go. It's got puppets, you guys!

Eat my PETA.

2008-04-22T13:09:00.003-05:00

It is World Laboratory Animal Liberation Week. Since I work in a research center, the staff was told to be on high alert. Which also means I have to carry my ID with me at all times and show it to security guards when asked.

Here's yet another example of how the animal rights movement only affects me in a negative way. I'm gonna go get a hamburger for lunch now.

Today is Adam's birthday.

2008-04-21T13:36:00.003-05:00

Here's a bad picture of Adam from his birthday last year:

This picture will never cease to make me feel all warm inside. Whenever I'm blue, I look at that picture, and I'm happy again. Thank you, Adam.

In case you're wondering, Adam is 30-Next-Birthday.

"Oh, The Wire? HBO, right? I get HBO. That's cool."

2008-04-20T20:54:00.006-05:00

I am inspired to write a blog post, even though I don't really have anything to say. But I'm in a surprisingly good mood, because despite a miserable week, I had a pretty fantastic weekend.

I went back to Berlin twice this weekend, as is my wont, and I managed to leave without feeling completely lousy. Friday night was Bjork night, which was kind of bizarre, but still rather fun. I managed to not run into anyone I was avoiding - again! - which always feels like a success. I did see this guy I had a brief, two-week thing with that kind of fizzled out for no reason. I only really saw him when we were out, and after the last time we saw each other I never called or texted him back. I was feeling a little bit guilty about that this week, and when I first saw him on Friday night I was nervous. But then when he saw me he said, "I'm so sorry I haven't called you!" It was kind of funny because, honestly, it was fine. And I hung out with him and his friends and it wasn't weird and nothing happened and it was perfect. Maybe that is how I will end up making friends with gay guys: after drunkenly making out and realizing that we really only like each other enough to hang out platonically, and we can do so without it getting weird.

On Saturday night I went to see Todd Barry at the Lakeshore with Mindy, which was my birthday present to her (I got free tickets). Afterward we went to Simon's in Andersonville, which was the first non-gay bar I've been to in forever, and it was nice and relaxing and fun and cheap. They had a jukebox and I was very tempted to play "Oh Comely," because it's a gorgeous song and, also, why the hell is that on a jukebox in a BAR? After I had a few G&Ts, one of which was on the house for some suspicious reason, I left to go back to Berlin. Saturday nights at Berlin are much lamer and, apparently, trashier, as I was hit on (literally, to the beat of some seven-minute house jam) by a guy who tried to have first-date conversation with me in the middle of the dance floor. "What's your favorite TV show? Who is your favorite singer? Are you an artist? I'm not hitting on you, I'm just curious." I don't know; if you have to specify to someone that you're not hitting on them, there's a reason why your behavior could be mistaken for a come-on.

A quick thought.

2008-04-18T17:02:00.002-05:00

If M.I.A. was from Maine instead of Sri Lanka, do you think she'd have a song called "Bangor Banga"?

Shake a Fist.

2008-04-18T08:50:00.004-05:00

Last night I went with my homies (or something), which included Adam and Jackie, to see Hot Chip. I had fun, although the show didn't blow me away or anything (there was that period in the middle where the songs were really long, kinda slow, and unfamiliar and I got bored).

Everytime I go to The Vic I remember how much I hate shows in medium-sized venues, which are the kinds of places where you get to experience humanity full-on, right in your face. For example, at shows like that there are the assholes who say, "I HAVE TO GET AS CLOSE TO THE STAGE AS POSSIBLE BUT I AM NOT GOING TO GET THERE UNTIL TEN MINUTES AFTER THE HEADLINER STARTS TO PLAY." (I'm pretty sure they think in all caps, and, if it were possible to think in a specific font, their thoughts would be in Comic Sans.) Unfortunately, we were standing near the stairs so most of the traffic bumped into us at some point during Hot Chip's opening song, and Jackie, for one, got a little aggravated, and I think scared a lot of people.

The best part was when this group of three young ladies, two white and one black, who tried to push by Jackie. I noticed it when the black girl yelled at him, "You spilled my beer!" She then turned her almost-empty cup upside down, spilling the rest on Jackie. Immediately, I thought, "DON'T DO ANYTHING JACKIE. IT'S THE ONE BLACK GIRL AT THIS HOT CHIP SHOW AND IT'S PROBABLY BRITTANY." But then I realized that it was, in fact, not Brittany, and I turned around. I approve of you being an asshole if I like you, but if you're some stranger, you get what's coming to you.

(I should mention that about ten minutes later, Jackie turned to me and said, in a daze, "Oh, shit. That wasn't Britticisms, was it?" He had mentioned before the show how he hoped to meet her if we saw her at the show. OH, BLOGOSPHERE.)

Also, why the hell do people stand directly in front of me while I've been dancing? I'm talking to you, my tall, Aryan friend in the red track jacket with "POLSKA" on the back. I was confused; did you want me to grind you? Did you want to be the little spoon? I wasn't going to stop dancing just 'cause some dude was all up on my jank, even though I knew he wasn't REALLY into that. But I had to teach him a lesson, which was that you don't throw off my groove, no matter how straight you are. I have an angry, half-Mexican, possibly-hallucinating gay on my side who will break your face open.

I didn't see that many people I knew last night, which was good because I didn't have to avoid eye contact after all. There was the moment, of course, we all can relate to: you're five feet away from someone you're not really talking to anymore, and you're both aware of it, and you're trying to hold off that uncomfortable, but unavoidable, greeting. That happened, and it wasn't too awful, and I survived, as we all do in those situations.

Also, Hot Chip ended the show with a cover of this song, and it was a delight:

Coincidentally, I'm sure you care about what I have to say, as well.

2008-04-17T08:37:00.004-05:00

Adam and I, unfortunately, live in an Internet world where we know who Jako Blodwick (HA HA HA) is, and I'm not proud of it. Adam had a good post this morning about online commenting in the context of Blodwick, and instead of leaving a comment on his Tumblr, I wanted to add my two cents here.

I'm reading this really good book by Michael Ondaatje called Divisadero, and I was on GoodReads and came across this review written by "Tony," and it may be one of the best things I've seen on the Internet all week. Please, take a gander:

Obviously, the best part is this: "First off, he doesn't use quotes for dialogue and I love every writer who can do that. Since I'm actively submitting my novel in it's current form to agents for representation, I can't even push that envelope since the publishing industry is scared of my theme....so why give them something else to be scared about?"

You're right, Tony. Don't push the envelope too much. The industry - nay, the world - can only take so much of your edge.

I love that Goodreads comments are essentially as bad as the comments on YouTube; it just proves that literacy doesn't necessarily equal intelligence, especially when any asshole can call out a Booker Prize-winning novelist on the Internet and expect some sort of response. Everybody knows that Goodreads is just Facebook with a focus on books: you collect friends and show off how smart you are.

Don't you love me anymore, Mama?

2008-04-15T15:14:00.003-05:00

I suppose the fact that my mother hasn't called me about possible cougar attacks means that she's finally comfortable with me living in The Big City and Far Away From Home. Perhaps it's because when she said that she probably make a ton of parenting mistakes with me, I replied that I thought "she did things right 90% of the time." (I also think that's why she gave me forty dollars FOR NO GOOD REASON. Flattery, folks!)

But still, it'd be nice to get an email making sure I'm okay and safe from cougars. I suppose she assumes I'd just forward it to other bloggers or post it here.

The absence of any kind of potentially embarrassing missive could be for those reasons, or because I called her today in a panic because my tax returns were rejected for the second time and she knows full-well that I am absolutely safe and in my usual, neurotic state.

I hate MySpace.

2008-04-15T12:04:00.001-05:00

Goodbye, Ruby Tuesday.

2008-04-14T14:08:00.003-05:00

On the way to the airport, my mother and I stopped at a Ruby Tuesday in Bowie, Maryland. Southern Maryland is a magical place, one which rivals the entire state of New Jersey for the title of Grossest Place on Earth. As we drove north on 301, I thought, "Well, the Northern Neck is sad and slightly pathetic, but at least it's pretty. And not in Maryland."

An aside: We drove by this place:

Anyway, getting to the point: We were sitting in Ruby Tuesday, which has recently gone through some kind of transformation, apparently, into a modern, classy joint. They got rid of the Tiffany lamps and took chicken fingers off the menu, and all of the meals came on square, white plates, the kind one might find at CB2. They still have a salad bar, of course, so they manage to retain an air of lower-middle class despite the fiber-enriched wheat holding my hamburger.

As I stared at my half-eaten burger, I suddenly realized that "I Feel It All" was playing on the radio. It was as if I had entered some strange dimension: a modern eating atmosphere with Feist playing on the stereo... in Bowie, Maryland. (By the way, that is pronounced "Boo-wie," and not like the famous singer.) I kind of chuckled and said, "This feels weird."

My mother replied, "What?"

"Well, Feist is on the radio in small-town Maryland." Again, I had to explain who Feist was, despite hearing "Inside and Out" an hour earlier on a mix-CD I made for my mom two years ago. ("Ooh, I like this one!" she exclaimed.)

"It's just weird that I saw Feist play in a small bar three years ago before she got famous, and now she being nominated for Grammies and being played on the radio in Maryland," I said.

There was a brief pause wherein my mother tried to come up with a response. She then stated: "I saw Seals & Crofts before they were famous."

I think she wins.

Literally and figuratively.

2008-04-12T22:04:00.001-05:00

(I know a lot of things, one of them is how hard it is to go into a self-imposed blogging exile.)

I recently finished my third book of the year, which is a terrible thing to admit because I used to be able to read that many in a month. I've always so tired in the mornings that I save my commute downtown for a quick nap (which usually leaves me groggier than I was before I got on the train), and in the afternoons the trains are so packed that it's hard to find room to pull out a book.

Anyway, the book I just finished was the much-lauded Then We Came to the End by Joshua Ferris. It was hard for me to get into it, honestly, and I felt like it was a little over-hyped. But once I got the thirty-page interlude in the middle that detached itself from the central storyline, everything changed, and the second half of the book was pretty damn good.

Anyway, the book takes place at a Chicago advertising agency at the end of the 20th century. One of the many plot lines is that the workers in the office have to come up with an idea for a pro-bono project for a cancer awareness campaign. Their task is to create an ad that can make a cancer patient laugh, and, of course, they have issues coming up something that's funny about cancer.

I'm not going to give anything else about the story away, but I will share this one that came out of a conversation I had with a friend about a month ago. We were discussing cancer; I was talking about my dad and she was sharing stories about the cancer that her family members have dealt with. I can't remember what relative was stricken with this certain cancer, but she said, "She [a grandmother, or an aunt, whichever] had melanoma...on her anus."

"What?" I said. "You can get it there?"

"You can get it anywhere," she replied, "even where the sun doesn't shine."

Virginia in April.

2008-04-11T14:44:00.002-05:00

I'm sorry...

2008-04-09T14:02:00.002-05:00

...but I had to come out of my break (I haven't been seeing anyone else, by the way, I promise) to post this picture, because holy eff:

1AM Declarations

2008-04-07T01:05:00.002-05:00

I've published things about myself on the Internet in some form or another for the last seven years. With each year, and each new blogging site, I've become more and more personal and, at the same time, more aware of what I'm writing about. I'm no longer putting stuff out there I don't want people to read about; on the contrary, I do a very good job at keeping a lot of things secret and censored.

In the past month, I've thought about this, especially since I haven't written about myself as much as I used to. Whenever I've tried to come up with one of those long, rambling yet well-written missives about something personal, I find that I'm kind of embarrassed about what I'm writing about, and instead I delete everything and post a YouTube video or a screencap of an AIM conversation I had with a friend.

I've become much more closed-off for a couple of reasons. One is that I've had more readers recently, with an average of 230 visitors a day. A lot of these come from Google searches, yes, but many of you out there are people who check my blog a couple of times a day. I know a couple of you because you're friends of mine, or, in one certain case (you know who you are), someone I don't wish to have contact with. My Sitemeter gives enough information about where people are visiting from, so I recognize friends from the companies and universities they work for. There are still a lot of people out there, however, who I don't know personally, and as much as I used to long for people to read my writing, it's started to make me kind of paranoid.

I've looked back on what I've been posting lately and it kind of makes me mad. I've always created a sort of character here, a version of myself who, well, does exist sometimes. Lately I've been writing with much more bravado than usual, probably to cover up how much I dislike myself and everything around me. Because, generally, I'm disappointed with a lot of things. Work is kind of shitty, because I feel like I don't know what I'm doing and look stupid a lot of the time. The love life is, basically, non-existent, and I've put a huge focus on that part of my life, I think, because I'm too fucking upset about things at home to deal with them.

I'm going home to visit my parents on Thursday, and I am both really excited and also really apprehensive. I've avoided writing about my dad here for a couple reasons, mainly because I don't like talking or thinking about it too much, and because my brother reads this frequently, and I don't want to upset with my pessimism. I'm really fucking upset about things these days, and I'm kind of terrified to go home to have to face things up close. It's hard enough to call home and have him audibly be sick - too sick to even talk very long - but it's quite another thing to have to see it face-to-face, at what might be at its worst point.

The worst part about all of this is that, despite having a ton of great friends who have listened to me bitch about everything that is going on right now, I feel like I am completely alone here. I spend five days at work without anyone to talk to in person, and then two long, usually hungover days on the weekends where I sleep past noon and wander around Lakeview, blowing my money away. When I do see people, it's brief. And frankly, I don't even like talking about my problems with them in the first place, because you can only make people uncomfortable by talking about your father's cancer so often before it gets old and tiresome. I don't know what I expect from people, because it's not an easy subject to talk about, and no one is particularly able to come up with brilliant, wise, and consoling things to say back to me. It's incredibly awkward.

I've been drinking a lot, too, sometimes five to six nights out of the week. Usually I manage to get really shitfaced at least one night on the weekend, as I did on Friday, and I manage to be so hungover the next day that I spend the following night alone and sober. Coincidentally, I stayed up until 3AM on Saturday watching Inland Empire, which probably didn't make me get a tighter grip on the everyday bullshit I'm dealing with.

I started seeing a therapist; I've been to three sessions so far. It's the first time I've actually felt comfortable in counseling, probably because for once I actually have some real issues to work on. Sure, there's my sudden awareness of mortality and growing up and shit, but on top of that there's the issues I have with relationships. I'd like to figure out what the fuck dating Theo did to me, why I get so much pleasure out of hating him and why, at the same time, I can't get past the fact that it still bothers me at all. I mean, I'm aware enough of the fact that he's a real shit (as my mother would say), someone who spent a lot of effort to fuck with my mind and make me feel bad about myself, and someone who will write me condescending emails because he still reads my blog and then have the balls to tell me to stop writing about him. And, worse, I'd like to wish I didn't feel like as big of a shit as him for breaking up with John, whom I loved and thought of as one of my best friends, who I can't talk to any more, which hurts me more now than it did two months ago, because right now, I miss him more than ever. And I'd like to know why I keep bothering to try to meet someone knew, when I keep finding myself following the same patterns over and over again, ones in which I start to develop feelings for people who, frankly, aren't people who are worth putting energy into liking at all.

Clearly, I have a lot going on. Half of it are things that are making me feel bad because I can't control them, and the other half are things that I can control or actions I've done that make me fucking angry at myself. And all of it is really goddamn exhausting, and, for the first time, these aren't things I can resolve by bitching about them online. And that's why right now I feel like taking a break from blogging is the best thing I can do, because I don't want to air my dirty laundry for the entire Internet to read right now. On top of that, I feel completely uninspired to write anything. All I really want to do right now is lay around, watch movies, and listen to sad music.

I wanted to end this with something wise, or remotely funny to at least lighten my mood, but I can't, because it's forty minutes after I started this post, and I am exhausted. So, know that I'll be back, I'm sure, but right now, I have to put this whole blogging thing on hold.

Charlton Heston is finally dead.

2008-04-06T01:29:00.002-05:00

"Well, I guess they can get his gun now. Too soon?"
--Adam

On Elitism, Specifically My Own.

2008-04-04T11:21:00.000-05:00

I rarely get unsolicited friend requests from people I don't know on MySpace. When I do, I usually add them because I think, "Hey, maybe they read my blog and want to be my friend!" I don't like looking like a total asshole, despite my self-awareness that, most of the time, I can a kind of jerk (at least when it comes to my Internet-protected bravado).

Occasionally, though, I get a request from someone who is just adding random people, and that's annoying. Especially when that person's pictures look something like this:

Note: I deliberately cut off this guy's face, although I'm rather shocked he doesn't have more pictures of JUST his torso.

Now, here's one thing: Abs freak me out. They don't look natural, and when I (rarely) see them in real life, they scare the hell out of me. So, sorry, your six-pack is unappealing.

Also? This:

I know I'm one of the thousands of hipster snobs who emailed / blogged about the NYT article about literary dealbreakers, and I feel like I should explain that I don't think I'd ever end a courtship with someone because they liked Ayn Rand. (Having said that: Would I date an Objectivist? Absolutely not.) Hell, I loved The Fountainhead, but in the same way that I love Valley of the Dolls: it's a guilty pleasure, terribly written, over-wrought, and it has a lot of rough sex. I think that everyone's allowed a few missteps when it comes to their cultural interests, because why would I want to date myself? I can't argue with myself, because I am always right.

But when the entirety of your cultural interests are made up of shitty things, I am not interested. And, frankly, those are the kinds of people who are more apt to pimp their profiles. If I can barely make out what your interests are because you have animations and videos and pictures of Kylie Minogue floating around all over the place, I think it's safe to say that, on a base level, I don't think a friendship would really work out between us.

I hate everything about this.

2008-04-03T17:28:00.002-05:00

Could you imagine what kind of person would read this and say, "Oh, that's about me! I must write them back!" That person is clearly into 34-year-old men who LOL at their own poor attempts at making a move and the pathos of a missed connection posting in general. And Franny and Zooey, probably.

Chan Marshall: Sober, still crazy.

2008-04-03T10:35:00.001-05:00

Finally!

2008-04-03T08:51:00.006-05:00

And now: a New Yorker cartoon that I get!

(via Cute Overload)

BEST ONE.

2008-04-02T20:37:00.000-05:00

(Click for link.)

Entertainers bring May flowers.

2008-04-02T14:16:00.001-05:00

I have been extremely busy at work for the past two days, so I haven't had time to even think about posting anything, but I DO have an article up on This Recording about Exile in Guyville, and I think you should read / listen to it, especially if you're my friend (which you must be).

Stratford-on-Guy

2008-03-31T22:57:00.001-05:00

I think about this song whenever I fly in or out of Chicago.

Idiots.

2008-03-31T15:14:00.001-05:00

OMG OMG OMG.

2008-03-31T10:01:00.004-05:00

Oh, good news! Liz Phair, who was recently (and silently) dropped from Capitol Records after they completely bungled her career and last two albums (Yes.), has signed to a new label, which is reissuing Exile In Guyville in time for its 15th anniversary (it is currently out of print). And it comes with bonus tracks: a few of her demo recordings, which I already have. But still, it's good news! And a new album in the fall, which will hopefully redeem her last two efforts!

This is all very funny because I have been listening to this album religiously over the past week, as it is still hitting very hard. And I was planning on writing an article (maybe two!) for This Recording about it.

NOW, Pitchfork just needs to add Liz to the lineup for ATO's Don't Look Back and my life will forever be complete.

Also, I was JUST about to post this thought:

That album cover made so many people angry because Liz Phair was 36 when she posed for it.

But this, apparently, is JUST FINE:

Oh, Mom.

2008-03-30T23:44:00.001-05:00

She's still mad about this.

I'm glad I'm not alone.

2008-03-29T14:34:00.003-05:00

“I did have to break up with one guy because he was very keen on Ayn Rand,” said Laura Miller, a book critic for Salon. “He was sweet and incredibly decent despite all the grandiosely heartless ‘philosophy’ he espoused, but it wasn’t even the ideology that did it. I just thought Rand was a hilariously bad writer, and past a certain point I couldn’t hide my amusement.”

It's Not You, It's Your Books [NYT]

The Internet's best Muxtape.

2008-03-28T16:05:00.001-05:00

(Click for link.)

Afternoon Delights

2008-03-28T15:20:00.000-05:00

This morning was kinda shitty, and I wrote a couple of drafts but they were all kind of whiny and boring, blah blah blah. Then I discovered that I have one less friend on Facebook, MySpace, GoodReads, and Netflix than I did two days ago, and that didn't make me feel any better.

But then, on my way to meet Rachel for lunch, I saw two Lamborghinis and realized my day was going to get better. That's good luck!

Rachel and I had a great lunch and it made our day much better (she told me she tried - and failed - to quit her job this morning). And now I may actually have plans to hang out with friends tonight, instead of my earlier plan to drink a bottle of Syrah and watched Enchanted. Saved!

I also bought tickets for Sweeney Todd, which comes to Chicago on its national tour in a month. I'm super excited, and just spent a good half-hour watching scenes from it on YouTube, as I am wont to do.

I heard the rest in your head.

2008-03-28T11:22:00.001-05:00

(Previously deleted, but put back because Jackie bitched about not being able to leave a comment. FINE.)

Forbidden Love

2008-03-27T17:20:00.003-05:00

Last night I met up with Chris and Maura. I had never met Maura before, but we've been reading each others' blogs for about a year and I was excited to see her during her trip to Chicago. We had "martinis" (mine was gin, ginger ale, and lime juice in a martini glass - on special!) and talked about stories we already knew because we BLOG. But she did tell me this amazing story that blew my mind. And Megan's, as you shall now see, because I'm obsessed with screen caps and iChat:

Alex Balk is a voice of reason in our times of chaos and confusion.

2008-03-27T11:39:00.003-05:00

I always forget that we are a fairly conservative country: twelve years of democratic leadership in the past thirty years? Hardly a dent. Jimmy Carter, bless his heart! And Bill Clinton, whom we now dislike because his wife is running for president. I'm still leaning toward Hillary, only because I can't get past how everyone treats Obama like America's Cool Dad. But I'd be happy with either of them, honestly, and I think anyone who would vote for McCAIN because their preferred Democratic hopeful didn't get the nomination is a dumbshit to begin with and shouldn't be allowed to express opinions.

Dear Blog:

2008-03-27T10:52:00.005-05:00

On Monday's night's weekly trip to Big Chicks for dollar burgs, Adam, Jackie, Mindy (no blog) (UPDATE: OMG, SORRY, SHE DOES HAVE A BLOG), and I decided to start a group blog called "Dear Blog." Also, we took a lot of shots.

On Tuesday, I was very, very tired at work, and had forgotten about most of what happened during the previous night. (Except that some guy stopped at our table, patted me on the back, and said, "You're really cute!" And then he walked away. He hasn't even had the decency to write a Missed Connection about me since.) And then I got this email:

I laughed out loud really hard for a good ten seconds. And then I thought, "Wait a minute, why was this so funny?"

Unfortunately, the other three can't remember, either. But that doesn't mean we're not going to make it happen anyway.

From the Obvious Department

2008-03-27T10:18:00.003-05:00

From yesterday's post:

I don't even have a response to this. And I will go back to my personal blogging hiatus and post a video of Kate Bush and interpretive dance.

(PS. Thank you, Brit, for posting the Chromatics cover of this song - now I know I don't hate Kate Bush after all.)

I hope you [dance].

2008-03-26T11:00:00.001-05:00

Christina and I have this joke where we're really fake-angry at each other, one of us will say, "I hope you dance." This started when I kept telling her that I hoped she'd die, and she finally retorted with, "I HOPE YOU DANCE!"

It's all in jest with Christina, of course, but the list of people I legitimately hope will dance is growing.

Somewhat related: Adam and I had a big bro / little bro conversation this morning and I, for once, did not want him to dance. Excerpt:

The future of Mix Tapes

2008-03-26T09:26:00.002-05:00

There's this really cool new site called Muxtape, which allows you to host up to twelve MP3s online for free.

And yes, I have a mix up already.

Be sure to also check out Adam and Brittany's mixes, as well.

I've had that goddamn Yelle song stuck in my head.

2008-03-25T10:18:00.003-05:00

And then I discovered this:

The Yelle video is daffy enough, but this version really takes the cake. First of all, it's some weird French version of the Go-Gos, heavily influenced by Robert Palmer? And it's a live-action version of the video for Dire Straits' "Money for Nothing?"

In any case, the song is catchy, in a somewhat annoying way. I have a theory that Yelle is only hip right now because she's singing in French; I bet if we could understand what the hell she was saying, people wouldn't like her so much.

Soulmates?

2008-03-24T10:14:00.004-05:00

Yesterday, after she cured her hangover by sleeping on my floor for two hours while I listened to the soundtrack to Jesus Christ Superstar (happy Easter!), Christina mentioned that she spent an hour watching clips from Laugh-In on YouTube.

We both agree that the show was NUTS and would never be on television today, and again were sad that we didn't grow up watching stuff like that in the '60s. Then as we watched more clips from JCS (specifically this one), Christina turned to me and said, "Tyler, what makes us so attracted to this stuff? I mean, I've always loved this kind of thing."

I laughed and said, "And how lucky are we that we found each other?"

And then the both of us were temporarily sad that the idea of finding a mate who is as interested in weird shit like this is almost a pipe dream. I love Christina and all, but I think I'd love it more if I could find someone else who would want to spent an afternoon watching Match Game on DVD and sleep with me.

Happy Easter!

2008-03-23T12:38:00.001-05:00

Or, if you prefer:

Thank you, Google Maps

2008-03-22T17:50:00.001-05:00

(via Gapers Block)

Still HATE.

2008-03-21T14:00:00.002-05:00

(Click for link.)

I am someone's bestie.

2008-03-21T11:00:00.004-05:00

I just bought tickets for Christina and me to see The Kids in the Hall at the Chicago Theatre in May. Excited? You bet we are!

Here, enjoy some hilarious Canadian sketch comedy from the '80s:

Speaking of comedy, Attila has another show tonight at the Cornservatory! Come check it out, and bring beer!

I don't think loophole means what he thinks it means.

2008-03-20T14:21:00.000-05:00

Odds & Ends

2008-03-20T11:32:00.003-05:00

Until last night, I had not bought a pack of cigarettes all year. I smoked one last weekend, but it was the first I'd had in over a month. For some reason (read: beer), I really wanted one last night. I got off the train at Bryn Mawr a little after midnight and said to myself, "No. You are not going to buy cigarettes." And then I stepped out of the station and discovered a wad of bills on the ground. The street was completely deserted and silent (of COURSE I looked around), and I picked them up. Eight dollars! I felt like it was a sign. I went right into Walgreens and bought a pack of Parliament lights. And I smoked one and immediately regretted it. It wasn't even enjoyable! So I do not resent my desire to quit, and I think that'll be the last cigarette I have for a long time. Unfortunately, I now have nineteen more to get rid of. Any takers?

The Ice Storm is now on Criterion Collection. What a brilliant way to talk about how it's the first day of Spring and Chicago is expecting six inches of snow tonight! Hurrah!

I already own The Ice Storm on VHS and DVD, but it's Criterion! And one of my favorites! (I have a problem.)

Finally, if you apply for an internship at Megan's company, she will make fun of you and then lock you in the stairwell:

Megan: also, we're testing the intern (the one i didn't like) for a full time job
Megan: oh i told you that
Megan: i'm grading his test now
me: wait, the hot guy?
Megan: yeah
me: you don't like him?
Megan: hottish. hot in a short, jewish way. he looked much hotter in his facebook pictures
Megan: no, he made me very uncomfortable
me: hahaha
Megan: and i locked him in the stairwell four times accidentally. he probably holds it against me
me: FOUR times?
Megan: yes
Megan: well he kept coming up the stairs in the morning, but the doors are all locked
Megan: and he'd leave a message on my office phone
Megan: but i don't check my messages ever!
Megan: so, he would be in there until i realized he was missing
Megan: it took 20 minutes once
me: jesus, megan.

Oh, you old people keep me YOUNG!

2008-03-20T09:30:00.004-05:00

Last night I went to see X at the Metro (by myself... JEALOUS?), and it was a very, very good show. While there may have been about thirty other people in their twenties there, it was still pretty goddamn amazing to see so many old, former-punks dancing around in their leather jackets. And turtle necks! I swear to God, Jerri Blank was there!

Before X came out, I was standing behind two older guys. One was wearing what I believe to have been a Champion sweatshirt. The other had a ponytail and male-pattern baldness. I got to overhear a ton of gems, like Bald Ponytail's theory that Material Issue's Jim Ellison killed himself because Paul Westerberg made fun of him at the Taste of Chicago in 1991. "CAN YOU IMAGINE YOUR IDOL MAKING FUN OF YOU?" he yelled. Before I went back to the bar to get another beer (MGD makes things like this much less uncomfortable), I heard him tell his friend that he saw XTC open for The Police at the Aragon. "That was back when you were afraid of general admission shows." WHA'?!

I really was compelled to turn to turn to one of my more mature concert-goers and ask how long they've been listening to X. "Really?" I'd shout. "I just got into them! They were on the soundtrack to Margot at the Wedding!" (Coincidentally, and much to my dismay, they did not play that song.)

Despite how goddamn young I felt, I still had a really good time. It made me start to think about how many bands I currently listen to will still be able to sound as great in thirty years, or even be around to set out on a tour. Also, will I still be going to shows when I'm that old? I sure hope so. One day I hope to make THE KIDS envious when I talk about seeing Of Montreal and Sufjan Stevens in a theater of three-hundred people in a small, Virginia town, or getting the chance to see Feist at Schuba's. GOD, those were the days.

Thax Douglas was, of course, in attendance, but I bet he was just ecstatic to be around people his own age for once.

I have been banned from Gawker.

2008-03-19T11:20:00.003-05:00

Well, not really, but I can no longer leave comments.

Related:
Gawker-Baiting [This Recording]
My last comment on Gawker. Coincidence?
NEVER FORGET.

Faulkner and Obama

2008-03-19T09:10:00.008-05:00

I missed Obama's speech yesterday, but I was reading it this morning and was surprised that he quoted Faulkner. From the transcript:

"Understanding this reality requires a reminder of how we arrived at this point. As William Faulkner once wrote, 'The past isn’t dead and buried. In fact, it isn’t even past.' We do not need to recite here the history of racial injustice in this country. But we do need to remind ourselves that so many of the disparities that exist in the African-American community today can be directly traced to inequalities passed on from an earlier generation that suffered under the brutal legacy of slavery and Jim Crow."

It's an incredible soundbite (of course, isn't everything he says compulsively quotable?), but here's my problem: he misquoted Faulkner. It comes from Requiem for a Nun, a play Faulkner wrote very late in his career as a sequel to Sanctuary; it's a seldom-read book, but the quotation is the most frequently repeated line from all of Faulkner's works. It comes from the following exchange between Gavin Stevens and Temple Drake:

STEVENS

Yet you invented the coincidence.

TEMPLE

Mrs Gowan Stevens did.

STEVENS

Temple Drake did. Mrs Gowan Stevens is not even fighting in this class. This is Temple Drake’s.

TEMPLE

Temple Drake is dead.

STEVENS

The past is never dead. It’s not even past.

I get that Obama is paraphrasing in his speech, and that doesn't belittle the meaning of what he was trying to say, but it still bugs me. It kind of reminds me of this girl I went to high school with who graduated the year before me. She was co-valedictorian basically because she managed to take the easiest classes for four years and get straight As, but was honestly as dumb as a brick. (This was before AP classes were offered, so those weighted grades didn't place the people who actually put forth more effort higher in the class rankings than those who took Home Ec.) In her graduation speech, she quoted Charles Dickens as writing, "It was the worst of times, it was the best of times." Sure, that fit in perfectly with the way she spoke about high school ("You guys, ninth grade English was so scary with Ms. Wagstaff, but we learned a lot, didn't we?!?!"), but that's NOT what Charles Dickens wrote.

Related:
Transcript of Obama Speech [Politico]
Requiem for a Nun [WFotW]

Common mistake, I'm sure.

2008-03-18T20:03:00.003-05:00

I saw the following on IMDb briefly and freaked out.

I saw it for a split second as I was leaving the page, and I shrieked and went back to IMDb. Because I thought Dennis Farina had died.

He's still alive. Thank God.

A quick thought.

2008-03-18T00:14:00.000-05:00

I once saw this episode of Mad About You where Paul and Jamie* get into a fight with another couple over a cab, and the other couple were on their way to see Cats, and Jamie snaps, "Cats has been out for fifteen years and you haven't seen it yet?!"

I think about this whenever I see someone reading a David Sedaris book on the El.

Coincidentally, has David Sedaris entered the same lame collective consciousness of Cats and Mad About You in the sense that he's now so popular and a mainstay of funny little personal essays that he appeals to the lowest common denominator? Could one compare his career to that of the greatly underrated Paul Reiser? I'm sure someone must think that.

*To be clear, I had to look up their characters' names on IMDb, because I never watched Mad About You because that show sucked.

Michael Stipe is gay?

2008-03-17T15:10:00.003-05:00

REM-frontman Michael Stipe came out of the closet. I always think it's a little condescending and offensive to say stuff like, "Oh, that was obvious," but it's different when you thought that the person in question had been out for years.

Megan and I are terrible people.

2008-03-17T14:00:00.004-05:00

If you apply for an internship at Megan's company, she will most likely make fun of you.

Megan: you know what i've decided?
Megan: foreign language majors shouldn't look for internship that don't require foreign languages
Megan: because if your only distinguishing skill is spanish? you're not very special
Megan: and if you say you're in a sorority
Megan: I'M GOING TO DELETE YOUR RESUME
me: i fully support you on that.
Megan: hahahaha
Megan: i feel like this is my one chance to really stick it people like that. even if they have no idea who i am
me: or even know at all.
Megan: exactly
Megan: i did write one girl back to tell her that her resume was too long
Megan: it's five pages, tyler
me: hahahahahahaha
Megan: tyler, this guy wrote that his "skills and abilities" include: Cataloguing and Pricing Rare Books
me: i wish i got to look at resumes all day
Megan: it's the best part of my day, i love it.
Megan: under "language": Italian- Intermediate, English- Mother tongue
me: sigh.
Megan: nobody cares where you studied abroad either. i know you think it makes you fancy. but everyone went to europe in college.
Megan: "Public Relations, MOEF GA GA, Lloret de Mar, Spain, summer 2007.
Talking to thousands of tourists, and bringing them to my disco with a minimum of ten tourists a night. Responsible for knowing the special deals of each night and be able to explain it in at least five languages."
Megan: tyler, i'm going to start crying i'm laughing so hard
me: i'm tempted to put ads on craigslist now just to read the resumes
Megan: i'm totally going to test this guy. let's see what disco-customer-sleuthing does for your editorial skills.
Megan: "I hereby apply to be considered for position with your organization. I am studying for the Master of Science in Journalism at Florida A&M University.My concentration is in print journalism."
me: "with sound mind, i want to state my desire to work for your company."
Megan: i hereby delete your resume
Megan: bwahaha

Things I saw in a span of five minutes while walking down Clark Street on St. Patrick's Day (Observed):

2008-03-17T12:15:00.003-05:00

1. A man walking straight into another man as he exited a car.

2. At least two people narrowly avoiding collisions with cabs.

3. A man with a two-foot-long red beard smashing beer bottles on the curb.

This is all you've got, seriously? Last year, on Broadway, I saw a man walk out of Avenue Tavern, drop his pants, and hail a cab with his penis. You disappoint me, St. Patrick's Day 2K8.

Love is like a bottle of gin, but a bottle of gin is not like love.

2008-03-17T10:47:00.003-05:00

I'm not very good at writing about music (or dancing about architecture, AM I RIGHT YOU GUYS?), but I would like to say that I went to see the Magnetic Fields last night and good lord, I'm still kind of reeling from it. I went to the show feeling rather apathetic about it, as I tend to forget how fucking amazing their entire catalog because I always remember how nasally the female vocalists are. And while, yeah, they were pretty nasal live, it was still a fantastic experience to listen to gorgeous chamber music for two hours and remember all of the songs that fill me with such joy and despair. Seriously, there are so many songs from last night that made me remember good times and terrible times in the last year. And they played "It's Only Time," and I fucking cried. It was a rather intense concert experience, and I'm not sure I've had one like that before.

Here's a video of another of my favorites, "Yeah, Oh Yeah!"

And So It Goes.

2008-03-14T13:51:00.003-05:00

Just as the only song that shares my name is about rape, it seems appropriate that The Mountain Goats' "Sept 15 1983" (which, IF YOU HAVEN'T PAID ATTENTION, is my date-of-birth) is about the murder of Prince Far I.