I was a daydreamer as a child, and a few nebulous ideas have stayed with me since. I've always been comforted by the simple fact that we all live under the same sun and moon. Day in, day out, all of our little lives happen underneath them. It's not profound, obviously; I merely liked how everyone shares the sky. I used to squint at the sun and think about people in France and China and the Philippines and Florida — how at some point, the sun would bring light to all of our days. But night was better suited to my dreamy mindset. On clear evenings, I would stand on our deck in my nightgown, look into the inky sky, and gaze at the moon. I would wonder how many people were wishing on a star at any given moment, and whose wishes would come true, and why.
Tonight, as Sabrina and I covered the southern edge of the park, we remarked on the unusually beautiful moon hung over the city. It had the soft golden glow of yellowed vellum. Decades after my childhood, a good moon will still conjure thoughts of the faraway friends who I miss and love. Even if their eyes might be looking downward, even if they're on different continents where they see sun while I see moon, my heart swells a little to think of our connection. The resulting warmth is a persuasive argument for nocturnality if one ever existed.
Tonight, as Sabrina and I covered the southern edge of the park, we remarked on the unusually beautiful moon hung over the city. It had the soft golden glow of yellowed vellum. Decades after my childhood, a good moon will still conjure thoughts of the faraway friends who I miss and love. Even if their eyes might be looking downward, even if they're on different continents where they see sun while I see moon, my heart swells a little to think of our connection. The resulting warmth is a persuasive argument for nocturnality if one ever existed.
Sabrina and I are like Salt n Pepa because when it came to this weekend, we pushed it real good. And by "it" I mean "our collective ability to pack a week's worth of adventure into a three-day weekend."
One of the few disappointments was the lack of Jesse time. He wasn't feeling well (h1n1?) So Team Awesome did not get to start our new autobiographical hardcore band, FAILstorm. But otherwise, last night was pretty much perfect. JC was brilliant at his salon series, and from there it was off to the old stomping grounds of the Rainbo. Kenny couldn't have played better songs (Wire, Magazine, Joy Division, The Jam, etc.) and while that shouldn't really matter, it felt like a tiny welcome-back thing. Also, and more importantly, my friends spoil me with their goodness. I am fortunate. Sometimes there are things better left preserved among the people who were there, and so I am filing last night away on the shelves of my memory. It was a wonderful night, and we have the photobooth strips to prove it.
One of the few disappointments was the lack of Jesse time. He wasn't feeling well (h1n1?) So Team Awesome did not get to start our new autobiographical hardcore band, FAILstorm. But otherwise, last night was pretty much perfect. JC was brilliant at his salon series, and from there it was off to the old stomping grounds of the Rainbo. Kenny couldn't have played better songs (Wire, Magazine, Joy Division, The Jam, etc.) and while that shouldn't really matter, it felt like a tiny welcome-back thing. Also, and more importantly, my friends spoil me with their goodness. I am fortunate. Sometimes there are things better left preserved among the people who were there, and so I am filing last night away on the shelves of my memory. It was a wonderful night, and we have the photobooth strips to prove it.
It's funny how a place that was once your home can feel so foreign, so unknown. Sabrina and I were in the back of a taxi on Irving Park, and I tried to point out JC's studio but I couldn't find it. It wasn't until we arrived that he reminded me that it wasn't actually on Irving. Forgetful mistakes like this keep throwing me off, but then other things are comfortingly unchanged. Things like seeing your best friend from grade school and jumping back like no time had passed. And I thought of Karinsa last night as we walked down Fullerton and sat down at the Whirlaway, where we had her goodbye party. Inside, it was the same as it ever was -- drinks $5 and delivered with a smile -- and it felt good to have consistency in a time that has felt anything but.
It's funny to be at JC's and have almost everything feel the same. The house has the same warm scent, and the plant that he took for me when I moved out west has grown and thrived. As has he. I couldn't be prouder of him, or more grateful for his friendship.
This city is a patchwork of memories both faded and vivid. And while it's true that you can never relive the past, it's nice to know you can go home again.
It's funny to be at JC's and have almost everything feel the same. The house has the same warm scent, and the plant that he took for me when I moved out west has grown and thrived. As has he. I couldn't be prouder of him, or more grateful for his friendship.
This city is a patchwork of memories both faded and vivid. And while it's true that you can never relive the past, it's nice to know you can go home again.
I apologize for the abundance of dreams and other similarly self-focused subjects lately. Part of it is due to me working through some heavy losses, and part of it is because my immobility keeps me from regaling you with tales of the city. Sadly, unless you are fascinated by the sleeping patterns of the dwarf cat, you're stuck with what's in my head. And it's my website, anyway, so if I record nocturnal turnings, it's more for me to analyze. If you are just dying to know about last night's anxiety dream that violently threw me out of slumber, here you go.
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You know why some old people are cranky as a bear with a sore paw? Because getting around with limited mobility is a pain in the ass! You'd be grumpy, too, if it took 10 minutes to hobble to the bathroom and take a leak. I'm not even that busted up, yet the smallest tasks become enormous chores when you're on crutches. (If I manage to shave my legs even once over the next six weeks, it will be a miracle.)
It's not all bad, though. Generally speaking, people are nice to you if you are hobbling around on these blasted things. I find that it helps to put on your most pathetic face, especially when approaching entryways. People will hold the doors open for you, and taxi drivers will get out of the car to help you sit in the backseat. It's like everyone in the world is trying to date you, except you don't have to worry that they're going to cop a feel. And my friends have been very kind; Sabrina has even offered to create a crutch cozy so that I can look stylish while flailing about.
Today I went to the podiatrist to get the results of my MRI. Nothing beyond the break, fortunately, and on went the cast. Because I cannot be easygoing about anything, I worried that I was holding my foot incorrectly, which would eventually lead to the cast being removed to reveal a deformed foot. Time will tell. The cast is heavy, and it cannot get wet, which is why today, I came home with this:
That's right, I bought a giant condom for my leg. As I told Meg, I think it really lends a sense of dignity to things.
It's not all bad, though. Generally speaking, people are nice to you if you are hobbling around on these blasted things. I find that it helps to put on your most pathetic face, especially when approaching entryways. People will hold the doors open for you, and taxi drivers will get out of the car to help you sit in the backseat. It's like everyone in the world is trying to date you, except you don't have to worry that they're going to cop a feel. And my friends have been very kind; Sabrina has even offered to create a crutch cozy so that I can look stylish while flailing about.
Today I went to the podiatrist to get the results of my MRI. Nothing beyond the break, fortunately, and on went the cast. Because I cannot be easygoing about anything, I worried that I was holding my foot incorrectly, which would eventually lead to the cast being removed to reveal a deformed foot. Time will tell. The cast is heavy, and it cannot get wet, which is why today, I came home with this:
That's right, I bought a giant condom for my leg. As I told Meg, I think it really lends a sense of dignity to things.
Labels: crabbiness, i can't walk, sabs
Last night, I dreamed that Robert Pattinson and I were in love, driving past wheat fields in Michigan. Blame Sabrina for this. Last fall, she started reading those corny-ass Twilight books, which I have always dismissed as a second-rate Buffy knockoff. Not that I've read them, but come on, the high school girl who falls in love with a "good" vampire? I decided not to read the books, because there are countless pieces of actual literature that I have yet to read. Better to spend my time with those.
I didn't read the books, but when Sabs wanted to go see the movie version of the film, I was game. Why not? The actor was pretty cute, I said. So we spent the entire time cracking wise at the screen and slowly developing teenage-style crushes on Edward Cullen. (Byronic hero-lite! Great hair! What's not to like?) It would have ended there, except dummy me looked up interviews with Robert Pattinson. And then it was all over, because Pattinson is more interesting than his character. He likes modernist literature and le nouvelle vague, which made me think that I could take him on my Mies Van der Rohe walking tour of Chicago and he'd like it. (I always thought that was a great date; the guy I took it on was unimpressed.) Worse still, a colleague had interviewed Pattinson — at the very same moment that I was in cultural hell interviewing Paris Hilton — and when I asked her to please tell me that he was a jackass so that I could squash my crush, she couldn't do it. Instead, she said he was endearingly awkward and open. Crap! I love awkwardness!
Sabrina and I agreed that I only needed to find out something unpleasant about Pattinson, and then I could stop blushing every time a new paparazzi photo came out. We Googled phrases like "Pattinson cokehead" and "Pattinson snob" and, in one desperate moment, "Pattinson bad breath." Nothing! If anything, our endeavors had the opposite effect: The more interviews I read, the more I crushed out on his nerdiness. (In one, he alluded to liking older women. Well, hey, I'm an older woman, I thought.) You can see how Tiger Beat things were becoming. One day, Sabs found out that his favorite musician is Van Morrison. So far, this and his smoking are the only things that have cooled things down. That's not a very long list, which is why, very pathetically, my junior-high self has resurfaced to insist that if only we were to meet, Pattinson would be charmed by my equally oddball tendencies, and I'd make a Nick Drake mix tape, and I'd make him omelets in the morning. This is why I am on a strict no-Pattinson media diet. See, I told you it was embarrassing.
I didn't read the books, but when Sabs wanted to go see the movie version of the film, I was game. Why not? The actor was pretty cute, I said. So we spent the entire time cracking wise at the screen and slowly developing teenage-style crushes on Edward Cullen. (Byronic hero-lite! Great hair! What's not to like?) It would have ended there, except dummy me looked up interviews with Robert Pattinson. And then it was all over, because Pattinson is more interesting than his character. He likes modernist literature and le nouvelle vague, which made me think that I could take him on my Mies Van der Rohe walking tour of Chicago and he'd like it. (I always thought that was a great date; the guy I took it on was unimpressed.) Worse still, a colleague had interviewed Pattinson — at the very same moment that I was in cultural hell interviewing Paris Hilton — and when I asked her to please tell me that he was a jackass so that I could squash my crush, she couldn't do it. Instead, she said he was endearingly awkward and open. Crap! I love awkwardness!
Sabrina and I agreed that I only needed to find out something unpleasant about Pattinson, and then I could stop blushing every time a new paparazzi photo came out. We Googled phrases like "Pattinson cokehead" and "Pattinson snob" and, in one desperate moment, "Pattinson bad breath." Nothing! If anything, our endeavors had the opposite effect: The more interviews I read, the more I crushed out on his nerdiness. (In one, he alluded to liking older women. Well, hey, I'm an older woman, I thought.) You can see how Tiger Beat things were becoming. One day, Sabs found out that his favorite musician is Van Morrison. So far, this and his smoking are the only things that have cooled things down. That's not a very long list, which is why, very pathetically, my junior-high self has resurfaced to insist that if only we were to meet, Pattinson would be charmed by my equally oddball tendencies, and I'd make a Nick Drake mix tape, and I'd make him omelets in the morning. This is why I am on a strict no-Pattinson media diet. See, I told you it was embarrassing.
Labels: men i would have dated, regression to adolescence, Robert Pattinson, sabs, sleep
Longtime readers, all two of you, will remember that I bought a guitar a few years ago. Sadly, my plans to launch a Moss Icon-y (Moss Iconic?) band died before they were born. Which, when you think about it, is right in line with all of the together-for-ten-minutes bands that came out of the mid-90s hardcore scene, so I guess I did that right.
Anyway, I had to sell my guitar to help pay for my move to California. It was unfortunate, but not emotional. In a way, I was happy to see it go, because it represented failure. I wanted to learn how to play guitar well, but my hands always cramped up, and then I got lazy. Typical story. And yet, I missed strumming my cruddy power chords and pretending that I was gonna be in a band. Which is why I bought the Danelectro:
I found it on Craigslist and bought it from a woman in her 40s. She'd put banjo strings on the guitar, so it has a tinny twang. But I love it all the same. I wind up playing it more frequently than I played the old guitar. I'm still a pretty bad guitarist, but I wind up spending hours tinkering around with the thing, and slowly my muscles are remembering chords. So far, I can play these songs from memory and everything:
This list will expand, of course. You can say you knew me when. Just as long as I don't try to join Ghost of Curtis, things should be just fine.
Anyway, I had to sell my guitar to help pay for my move to California. It was unfortunate, but not emotional. In a way, I was happy to see it go, because it represented failure. I wanted to learn how to play guitar well, but my hands always cramped up, and then I got lazy. Typical story. And yet, I missed strumming my cruddy power chords and pretending that I was gonna be in a band. Which is why I bought the Danelectro:
I found it on Craigslist and bought it from a woman in her 40s. She'd put banjo strings on the guitar, so it has a tinny twang. But I love it all the same. I wind up playing it more frequently than I played the old guitar. I'm still a pretty bad guitarist, but I wind up spending hours tinkering around with the thing, and slowly my muscles are remembering chords. So far, I can play these songs from memory and everything:
- "Want": Pathetically, I envision recording this one and giving it to someone who will probably not appreciate it, thereby increasing my misanthropy levels to previously unimagined heights. Tortured artist! (See earlier admission of humiliating love of the original Jawbreaker song.) I also set up the bassline on the 303. Because I am not a very fast guitarist, the song winds up sounding forlorn in its slower pace.
- "Love Will Tear Us Apart" I don't know how it happened, but somehow Joy Division has become my favorite band. I think it's the winning combination of moodiness and beauty. Anyway, the opening chords are so easy to play, and they burst forward shining. I don't have a keyboard for the melody, so I have to sing "DOOOOOO, doo dee doo doo doo doo, DEE doo" like the cut-rate musician that I am. Sabrina is going to learn the bassline, and then Monarchs of Laze will finally be able to complete our first song. Even if it is a cover.
- "Clash City Rockers" My poor downstairs neighbors must have grown so tired of hearing these eight chord-bursts for, like, three hours straight last weekend. Sorry, guys (but, to be fair, I can hear your snoring in the mornings. Call it even.)
- "Ceremony" Jesse showed me part of this song a while ago, so it was easy to delve into the dusty recesses of my brain and produce the necessary plinkings. I still need to look at the tabs for this one, but I only started learning it last night.
This list will expand, of course. You can say you knew me when. Just as long as I don't try to join Ghost of Curtis, things should be just fine.
Labels: jawbreaker, joy division, music, new order, sabs, the clash
Last night, I was at the U.S. premiere of the Joy Division documentary. This sounds like a big deal, until you realize that the film was completed in 2006—or so says IMDB—and so it's not like I'm ahead of the game or anything. Still, it was fun to be in a tiny room with a gaggle of geeks in dark clothing.
The film is great, and footage of the band inevitably reminds me of why I like a band that split up when I was still spitting up in my mother's arms. But I think that's part of the reason there's still a hunger for Joy Division; their music still feels innovative and fresh and relevant nearly 30 years after it was released. Could have done without some of the purple-prose quotes from fans and the New Order-ers, but all in all, it's a good documentary.
After the film, one of the producers stuck around for a Q&A session. One woman asked why the film featured Annick Honore, but not Deborah Curtis. (Exactly the question on my mind.) To paraphrase, the producer said that they chose to film only Annick so the viewer wouldn't be conflicted about how they viewed Ian.
"Bullshit," Sabrina later said. "They just couldn't get Deborah to do it."
I think she's right, and on a larger level, shouldn't a documentary present facts, not merely the more easily digestible parts of someone's life?
The film is great, and footage of the band inevitably reminds me of why I like a band that split up when I was still spitting up in my mother's arms. But I think that's part of the reason there's still a hunger for Joy Division; their music still feels innovative and fresh and relevant nearly 30 years after it was released. Could have done without some of the purple-prose quotes from fans and the New Order-ers, but all in all, it's a good documentary.
After the film, one of the producers stuck around for a Q&A session. One woman asked why the film featured Annick Honore, but not Deborah Curtis. (Exactly the question on my mind.) To paraphrase, the producer said that they chose to film only Annick so the viewer wouldn't be conflicted about how they viewed Ian.
"Bullshit," Sabrina later said. "They just couldn't get Deborah to do it."
I think she's right, and on a larger level, shouldn't a documentary present facts, not merely the more easily digestible parts of someone's life?
Labels: joy division, sabs
Sabrina and I were IMing at the end of the work day, and I said, "We're unfun." And then, because I can't talk about ANYTHING without bringing up some trivial thing about punk rock, I brought up the Jawbreaker album of the same name, and we had a good dance down memory lane. That album contains "Want," the most nervewracking song you could possibly put on a mix tape for a crush. (Do kids make mixes anymore? I doubt it.) Aside from some skeevy slow-jam, is there any other song that's a less subtle admission of a crush? Or any song that would make you melt more? The older I get, the more excited I would be to find this on a mix CD. (See above half-joking transcript for evidence of my shallow, silly and juvenile daydream, which is pretty similar to this.)
One little in-joke is funny. Stretching it to a larger one is inversely so, but I sometimes can't help myself. Sabrina and I talk about starting a band called Monarchs of Laze, heavy on keyboards and bass, and this is the cover of our first seven-inch. You can say you knew us when.
Labels: jawbreaker, milo, sabs
