(this is annie)

john cusack daydream

I am quite disappointed because on Thursday, Al Gore (who deserves your vote) is going to speak here in Chicago. And guess who is joining him? That's right! MY FUTURE BOYFRIEND, JOHN CUSACK. I was so excited to find out about this, already planning my smooth introduction, giddy that JC and I are both voting for Gore -- when I noticed that the rally is at 10:30 am. And at 10:30 am, I will be at work. If only I worked in the Loop! John would brush against me in the crowd while I nibbled my Au Bon Pain bagel, making me smear my schmear on his lapel. We'd simultaneously apologize, smile, and then The Clash would suddenly swell over the
loudspeakers. "Oh, no hard feelings about my lapel. What?! You like 'Career Opportunities,' too?" John would say to me. "Why don't you join me in the VIP area? You simply must." And how could I refuse?

Then I'd talk with Al, giving him some relaxing pointers, a pep talk, and a Nader voodoo doll. Onlooker John would be so impressed by my political knowledge, sparkling wit, and knee-high boots that he'd ask me to join him for the rest of the day. "I'll talk with your boss, she'll give you the afternoon off," he'd say in that slightly rough voice of his. And then we'd join Al and Joe in the ol' campaign bus, and I'd get to honk the horn, and everything would be better than apple pie.

Three years ago,
Ethan and I went to see Guilt in Louisville. It doesn't seem like that long ago. I'm hoping that when I'm 40, the things I do now will seem as familiar.

ned's atomic dustbin

In the interest of brevity (and from the soil of laziness) I am going to write just a few little things today:

I like to dance, all right? You'd never guess it by my self-conscious
back-and-forth at shows, but I do like to shake my ass around the casket. Now that my precious precious precious mp3 collection is farther than Coeur d'Alene, I've resorted to hookin g up a ghettofab stereo system (computer speakers, walkman) with all my old cassettes from 8th and 9th grade. On Saturday, before going to the Rainer Maria/Cinerama show, I was punching the air to "Grey Cell Green." I don't know why, but lately I've been going back to the old standbys. It's not exactly nostalgia; it's familiarity and the known-ness of something.

True confession: Once I stole some chocolate from Amer's on Liberty and Main. I overtipped the barista, as though that's some sort of moral compensation. Good stuff, that hot chocolate. Get it? Hot chocolate?

TREVOR BOYER, dear friend and wonderful person, looks like Edward Norton. A second viewing of Fight Club confirms this belief. I miss him.

DAVIDDE STELLA has a new web site. Not much of his photography is there yet, but his writing is, and that's nice stuff too.

thinking about kalamazoo.

I feel like the rollercoaster inside me keeps climbing, up up up, and
there's a drop to come sometime, but there's no reason to think of that
now: I'm giddy, so happy, because I just heard from Derek and he's
still in Chicago. I have this perfect memory of driving to a farmers'
market in Derek's Comet. We entered the parking lot with a wide, smooth
left curve, and we picked out cider and pumpkins. I remember the way the
air felt, the pull of the engine, my hair feeling hot under the sun. See?
Perfect. I'm staying up beyond the fall.

Tonight the computer guy is coming to fix my computer. About damn time, I
say. Computer Guy kept complaining about the parking situation in my
neighborhood, which is not really my problem. I mean, hello, I'm paying
you fitty bucks an hour to fix this. It's not my job to find parking for
you, too. And this means that, as long as my files are in good shape, I
can finish the redesign.

hilarious rock joke

The next time I get in an argument with someone, I am going to leave a package at his or her door. Inside will be two CDs: a KISS compilation and one by the Make-Up. Get it? Ha ha ha.

I've written three paragraphs, only to delete them. So in simplest terms: changes happen, but that doesn't mean that those very changes can't change someday.

cake lust

Yesterday I had a bite of cake for pre-breakfast (I like to eat all day, so I have about eight meals instead of three). I thought this would be a sweet way to start the morning, but boy, was I ever wrong. From that initial taste, I was obsessed with getting more cake. Initially I planned to hold out for lunch, when we often have cake available. But luck was not smiling down on me, and I had to settle for yogurt instead.

Then I started asking my co-workers if they had any cake lying around. They looked at me as though I were trying to be quirky, but my wild-eyed cake-lust was no laughing matter. I couldn't concentrate on anything; always in the background was that craving for cake.

I consulted Andrew, who can often be found talking about cake. Years ago, when he first told me, "I like cake," I thought he was kidding. Now I understand the cakey
frenzy that plagues him. It is no thing to joke about.

Anyway, I tore out of work like a bat out of hell, licking my chops (and elbow) in sweet anticipation for the cake in my refrigerator. It was a nice yellow sheet cake with thick white frosting—the kind of preservative-laden cake brick available only at chain grocers. As soon as I entered my cave of an apartment, I grabbed a plastic fork and pulled out the glorious cake-brick. I ate that sugary devil for at least fifteen minutes. Bliss at last.

After gobbling about an eighth of that fine, fine cake, though, an unexpected and horrible thing happened. I started to feel very ill, like I might want to throw up or die or something, and as the cat was vomiting rosebuds, I didn't really want to join him in some weird cat/owner barf bonding. With considerable effort and groaning, I managed to waddle my ass out of the apartment and join the regular,
non-cake-obsessed world. Only now, almost 24 hours later, has my body stopped punishing me for the cake incident. I am never eating cake again,
or at least, not until next week.

straight as the line...

Gravity, along with everything else, is weighing me down.

Four years ago, I wrote this funny little thing about how frustrating it is when people get funny about straight edge. I don't align myself with the label these days, mostly to avoid its accompanying jockular, exclusionary, ridiculous strings, but I'm still a teetotaler. I mean, I have my reasons, and they're far more valid to me than a quartet of 17-year-old hardcore kids from Jersey.

Four years later, I still find myself dealing with people who are weird about me not drinking. I've finally grown comfortable with being around people who do drink, but they haven't grown comfortable around me. I feel like a social outcast, and even though I think it's not my problem, I'd be lying if I said it didn't make me feel spectacularly lousy.

New glasses and friends would be nice.

i stole this, obviously

Weekend mantra (already silently chanting):My nerves are on edge—on edge. We must leave this terrifying place tomorrow and go searching for sunshine.


Every day I come home from work and have, like, ten messages on the answering machine. "Dang, I am popular," I think. "Aw yeah." But inevitably, when the messages play, all of them are from the cat playing with the machine. So tonight, knowing full well that the phone would not ring, I went on Napster and snagged this odd group of songs. The list, and commentary:

Rye Coalition: Baby Puts Out Old Flames — one of my Brugger mix-tape favorites. I think it was from a split with Karp.

Rye Coalition: Baby's Got a New Flame — I mistakenly downloaded this, thinking it was the other Rye song about babies and flames. Less chaos, more booty-shakin' dance action. Still good.

Native Nod: Bread, Mimsey, High Tide in Alaska — Ted Leo has a new record out (go pick it up, as everything that Ted does is marvy. I am sure that the most mundane Ted activities, including flossing and sock-shopping, are done with special stylish flair) and so I started thinking about his brother Chris. Two years ago, I walked into my kitchen, and there Chris was, and me in my unstylish plaid pj pants! Oh, the embarrassment. Anyway, if memory serves, said Leo brother was in Native Nod. I somehow mis

placed my copy of their CD, and at 2 pm today I suddenly had to hear "Bread." Eight hours later, here I am.

Mogwai: Don't Cry — Yes, the Guns and Roses song. Or is it Guns 'n' Roses? Oh, who cares. Axl Rose wears collapsed spandex anyway.

Go-Gos: We Got the Beat — As do I, as do I, my sisters. I was trying to teach Evan how to dance, but he insinuated that all I was doing was moving my derriere around. Hm.

Mohinder: The Static Cult — "But I thought emo started with the Promise Ring, man."

Guns &/and/'n' Roses: Sweet Child O' Mine — Maysan used to sing along to this after work at UBO. Now I will carry on the tradition at my newish job!

To come, if I can stay awake: Journey! Bleed! Bleeding journey!

stereolab and eggs

The big goal for October is to update this mofo every day -- and to also incorporate funny alternatives to profanity in all my goshdamn conversations. That last one is actually what I say; I have never said its profane sister. It's all that Catholic schooling that did it to me. I'll never be able to do anything without fearing airborne chalk thrown from the hands of one Sister Mary Courtade, fourth grade teacher, St. Basil Catholic School.

We used to drive around with toilet paper, streaming it down the streets of South Haven, dressing Teddy up in it (a tiny mummy!), leaving bologna on the cars of rich boys who thought we were merely stupid townies. Mark and Dave and I made signs one day. All they said was 'hookers,' if memory serves, and we stealthily drove up to the high school parking lot. "Faculty parking only" became "Hookers parking only." What pranksters!

So I think I know what things would be like if I were to get drunk. The other night around 1:30 am, I fell into a sleepy, talkative, ridiculous mood. Usually when I'm sleepy, I talk more than a sassy audience member on Ricki Lake. But instead of playa-hatin', I spout off the dorkiest stuff, all in what I suspect is a slurred purr. This occasion was no different, but rather embarrassing. "Did youuuuu know"--here, I swivel a half-turn and tap my finger on people--"that FAULKner's whole 'good ol' boy' Southern schtick was only half truuuue? Y'see, he spent"--tap tap, toothy delirious grin, walk into wall--"a while in PAR-is, just like all those other drunken expates! Have you ever read Light in August?" And the whole time I have this silly accent going, and I'm aware of it but not quite able to stop it.

Stereolab and eggs: like I said, what's not to like about the whole deliciously lazy thing?

say hello

    it's anniet at gmail.


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