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I announced Saturday night that I intend to go through a cheap and tawdry phase. And what do cheap and tawdry people do? WEAR EXTREMELY FUCKING HUGE EARRINGS.
the end.
It's from this thread over here:
"A group of indie rock boys is called a satchel..."
HA.
I had a dream last night that my mother called to tell me that she found my webjournal and posted a comment on it. I have no idea which subconscious anxieties this points to. Also at another point in the dream I dreamed that my old refrigerator (the one that my landlords FINALLY FUCKING REPLACED two days ago after the door stopped closing over the weekend) was in my house and the door was open again (this happened a couple times over the past two weeks; I would wake up in the middle of the night for no reason and look over and it would be wide open) and in the dream I walked over to it and just stared inside.
Re: The O.C., because I knew y'all were just waiting for my one-line opinion on it: O Plot Contrivance, Up Yours.
Something I learned this week: It is incredibly, in the long run, expensive for me to befriend cute indie rock boys, because when they make mix CDs for me (it's a trait of the species) I am typically discombobulated in the best way possible by at least one or two tracks, and they get cross-sectioned under Sweet Baby Jesus, Where Have You Been All My Life, Band? In fact, the pursuit of the full album of one of these bands from this Indie Rock As Fuck Mix (specifically: Broken Social Scene) made me late for work this morning. I couldn't find it at the Exclusive Company last night and was standing across the street from Borders, and it they had it for $8.fucking99, and I now have made my peace with Borders as a Huge Gigundor Corporate Chain and love and cherish them and whatnot. I would like to think the fact that I found it for so cheap is indicative of the fact that today is going to rizzock the crizzib (what?). Here, in full, is the list of albums I have bought because of mix CDs from boys, pictorial style:
And that is all I have to report. Tomorrow=Modest Mouse. The day after that=THE WORLD.
It's happened.
There is someone I used to know who is in this building as a patient.
He's a couple years older than me and we always ended up in the same poetry classes--I was in awe of him and at the same time petrified. He was always the one sitting in the back, legs stretched out and a taking-it-all-in-curiously expression constantly on his face. He was very quiet--tall, thin, and perpetually looking like he needed a good bubble bath and some soup, and when he spoke it was at a volume that I could barely hear.
His poetry transformed him. It transformed everyone around him. His face would contort into these impossible expressions and his voice would reach volumes it never did while speaking normally--I would often think looking at him "Rage, rage against the dying of the light." We were all obsessed with Ginsberg at the time and the poetry that this guy wrote was something like a modern-day Ginsberg, but less about sex and more about evil in general. He started a couple open mic nights around the city, if I remember correctly, and I remember always getting incredibly upset with my own attempts at writing when I listened to what he had written when we would do group critiques.
I stopped thinking about him after I graduated from school, as I did with most of my school colleagues when I was Trying To Get A Real Job and Remembering How Fucking Easy School Was, Comparatively. I started seeing him periodically within the last year or two, just around. We never really said anything to each other besides "hey," but he always had at least this shy, sideways smile.
The last time I saw him was about a month, when I went to the Comet to get coffee, and he was a shadow of himself. He looked like he had lost about 20 pounds, which for him was, like, AN ARM, and was drinking black coffee (I had ordered a sandwich and considered giving it to him, but as concerned as I was I was kind of scared too). His shoes were taped all to hell with duct tape and he looked like he had lost a tooth, and he definitely smelled like he hadn't bathed in a while.
He took notice of me and asked where I had been and what I had been up to and if I had been writing and all of that, and I told him I was temping and no, I wasn't really writing because I never had time and was so out of practice that I would hate everything I wrote, and he nodded and listened and then I realized he was talking to someone opposite his seat who wasn't me. We stopped talking (but he kept talking), I finished my sandwich and my book, and left, still a little scared. He was able to snap out of whatever world he had wandered into long enough to notice I was leaving and he told me to take care. I wanted to hug him or ask him if he needed help or...something.
Today, when I was coming in for my shift, I saw him doing what I believe Susanna Kaysen referred to as the Thorazine shuffle, still wearing the same leather jacket that I had always remembered him wearing, with someone escorting him past me. I don't think that he recognized me. Part of me is glad as hell that he's okay now--another part is shocked that this could have happened to him and worried for what's going to happen next. I obviously can't help him in any way, I don't know him well enough, and even if I could, how long would it last?
Sometimes I feel guilty because I am able to walk out of here at the end of the day.
I'm exhausted. Last night I had every intention of going straight home and having a quiet night with My Friends, The Library Books, but instead I went out for herbal tea (yes, I am 65 years old) in Riverwest and then on the way out of Riverwest ran into Nicole and ended up having a drink with her, thereby putting my arrival time at home at 11:00, woke up at 6, showered and skipped breakfast, fell directly on my ass whilst getting off the bus this morning, and now I am here, in pain and tired and cranky. As much as I love this job I am actually kind of going to be relieved when it ends. I don't think I am so much cut out for, you know, work. Okay, that's not true but it's not entirely untrue either.
That has been my life this week--work, drink, make mixtapes, rail against my nonfunctional goddamn CD burner that I really wish would have worked because it was a gift and I have unintentionally made the gift-giver feel Really Bad, watch my mail patiently-yet-obsessively for these earrings, (I have recently uncovered the fact that I have a newly undying love for huge gigundor goddamn earrings), covet the hell out of a messenger bag that I can't get the link for cause the site is down, goddamnit, sleep, and then finally bore you with the details.
Oh, and the Oscars? Will rule.
That is all. Random mp3 coming soon because I am beginning to feel guilty.
Hunter S. Thompson is dead. I don't really know what else to say. I tend not to get terribly worked up over the deaths of celebrities, but this feels different somehow, like the rest of the earth's time under this country's political administration is pretty much fucked if a man like that just...gives up.
And meanwhile the fucking president is a total stoner. Insert your own well-worded reaction here, because I just fucking don't know anything anymore.
I am about to murder my next door neighbors. I thought they had gotten over their tendency to play the same Alicia Keys song 70 times in a row, but apparently they haven't. And it's loud, and I'm tired, and cranky, and go to the photojournal to find out why I'm tired, because it's a very good reason, and thank you and goodnight.
(yup. still doing it.)
Today is shaping up to be the longest day ever.
I have no work to do, but I have to sit here in case someone comes by with something for me to do. These computers run on Windows 97 (snicker, snicker) and so when I tried to download YIM a couple days ago everything slowed down so much that I think I actually went BACK in time. You could see the steam coming out of the monitor's ears--you know...if monitors...had ears. So I can't even message my friends and bitch about how bored I am.
Even the weather is boring--even though I know this isn't true I have the nagging feeling that I haven't seen the sun for months.
My valentine to myself yesterday was a bottle of wine and a borrowed copy of Lost In Translation. Fuck you all. Especially fuck you, the Milwaukee County Transit System for running "horoscopes" on the televisions on my ride home last night that basically amounted to giant glaring advertisements/reasons for people who get easily depressed by that sort of thing to go home, run a warm bath & break out the boxcutters it's party time. I, however, am not one of those people, but I enjoy any excuse to give myself presents and swear copiously in the general direction of the Man. The DVD extra footage of Bill Murray (BILL MUR-RAY! Groundhog Day, ghostbustin muthafucka BILL MUR-RAY!) dancing around in a bathrobe to "Allison" by Elvis Costello literally made me laugh so hard that I fell off my bed.
The Ex (clever wordplay there) was here this weekend and the phone situation (yeah, there was one) got taken care of. This is a fantastic thing for several reasons:
1. My new phone is shiny and has a cameraphone, which was deemed "wonderfully redundant" by Angelique, and it has blinkydoos. LOVE THE BLINKYDOOS.
2. I no longer have to dread seeing him and doing this because [strongbad]IT'S OVER![/strongbad]
3. One of the most liberating things you can possibly experience after going through a breakup with someone is realizing that not only do you feel nothing for them anymore, you were wrong about yourself when you said tearfully that you are always going to love them, you're always going to be searching for a poor replacement/carbon copy of them, this that & the other thing. BECAUSE YOU JUST DON'T REALLY CARE ALL THAT MUCH ANYMORE. And you realize this because there is so much more to life than pining away and deconstructing how you could have been so wrong about everything. And all you can do is wish him the best, and like Mike Doughty said: "Move on, move on."
Thursday night I have a veritable crew of scensters and hangers-on accompanying me to Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings, which should be fantastic but mildly exhausting. And earlier in the evening I plan to spend an entire hour yelling at Sandy Cohen. Because last week? Was bullshit.
In conclusion, here is a picture I took of a robot.
courtesy of this recap:
"A Day At The O.C.
One day, [NAME OF SHOW IN ROOM] premiered on [ANIMAL-NAMED NETWORK] and was the [FOOD-ORIENTED NOUN] of Hollywood. Since that triumphant beginning, however, things have gone [DIRECTION] in both ratings and writing for the show. Now, deep in Season [NUMBER HIGHER THAN ONE], Seth has forgotten how to be [ADJECTIVE], Ryan displays no hint of his former [NOUN], and Caleb is quite unfairly still [WORD MEANING "NOT DEAD"]. Please, Mc[LETTER], for the love of [NAME OF DEITY WHO WATCHES OVER ALL, UNLESS YOU'RE A GODLESS PAGAN, IN WHICH CASE BURN IN HELL, YOU GODLESS PAGAN], fix this or I'm changing the channel and watching [SHOW THAT ISN'T JOEY?IS THAT CRAP STILL EVEN ON?] instead. Much love, [NORTH AMERICAN COUNTRY, PLURAL]."
Clip and save."
(From the photojournal: "how i feel about valentine's day part one.")
saturday and either didn't come home, are passed out or dead while meanwhile your alarm CONTINUES TO GO OFF FOR OVER AN HOUR on what happens to be the one day when I really wanted to sleep in:
I hate you.
I am considering titling all posts from now until the show/Display Of Journalistic Mettle after Interpol lyrics, but I haven't decided whether or not I am that lame. However, what I have decided is the following:
1. I do not like finishing all the work that was given to me by noon and not having anything else to do/waiting patiently for the doctor who told me she had something for me to do. At my last temp job I used to get little thrills out of looking at the internets when I was allegedly supposed to be entering data, as did the rest of the temps, but here? Here is different. It could still be that I am in the honeymoon period of OMG this is so cool and look at this thing over here and you're all so nice and I want to Be Helpful And Stuff, but this is very very strange. Do normal people have periods at work when they DON'T ACTUALLY WORK? And there ARE NO NEGATIVE REPERCUSSIONS? WEIRD.
2. This is possibly the funniest thing I have read all week.
3. Cute boys become like 9200% cuter if
a) they are wearing stethoscopes and
b) if you see them twice in the course of a day in the elevator and they keep looking away and blushing.
4. That said, the fact that you don't feel obligated to make a move to prove some sort of point or some such thing is also very nice.
5. I think abruptly switching tenses when writing is actually a practice that is underrated.
6. If I got something in my email inbox that actually justified me checking it every thirty goddamn seconds, that would be awfully nice.
7. Which is neither a direct or indirect plea, just an observation.
8. This is actually the funniest thing that I've read all week, but it didn't count because I actually first read it weeks ago and it was brought to my attention by my edit0r once again as a cautionary tale, I guess.
9. Oh my god, if I don't go eat something my stomach is going to eat itself.
Holy crap, I should post this site's address in public messageboard forums more often. I hope that some of you come back again, because a) there be songs here! and b) this was great fun. After careful consideration and contacting Mixtape Boy, I have decided that it is down to being between two hoes, mostly because in the course of the conversation with Mixtape Boy he disclosed that he didn't see what was so exciting about live music. This after he came to the Thermals with me and by all accounts, including his own! had a really good time. The only conclusion I can come to is this:
Fucking Geminis. (And I don't even believe in astrology.)
That conversation nothwithstanding, I have become deeply concerned about what having cute boys present could potentially do to my Absolute, Unshakable Journalistic Integrity.
You know how I said there be songs here?
Here's one.
Neko Case--Knock Loud
Thanks again, and y'all come back now, y'hear? I've heard I'm awesome.
Seriously, even if you are a stranger to this website, please answer this. It will take two seconds. In reference to the I-have-a-plus-one-ticket-for-this-Interpol-show-at-which-I-need-to-be-Girl-Reporter-and-there-are-many-possibilities-for-my-Date:
Bros or hoes?
Keep in mind, if you answer, the following caveats: The two people whom I usually go to shows with were fairly lukewarm in their responses when I called/spoke to them and was all "OMG INTERPOL IS COMING." One of them is in school right now and was concerned that she might be all up in her finals (the date is March 13, Emily, if you are reading this and you hate me now, which would be understandable, but YOU HAVE TO ANSWER THE QUESTION TOO).
And there are legions of ehm hoes who I could ask. LEEEEEEEEEEEGIONS. One in particular. Sigh.
HOWEVER: My show friends are a very sensitive lot. And if I don't at least provide them with the option of going I am afraid they will be very angry with me.
Advice? Mockery? Thanks.
AW SHIT. THAT'S RIGHT, BITCHES.
Now I just have to figure out who is going to be my plus one. This is more of a dilemma than I am willing to admit. Stay tuned.
The edit0rs (turn of phrase stolen now and forever from
Mr. John Darnielle) over
here are currently deciding to whom among six of their writers they are going to bestow Interpol tickets upon. These six? INCLUDE ME. (Because I responded to the inquiry over listserve, but hey.) I am extremely nervous about this because I haven't exactly been timely with all of my reviews there (dude, they don't pay me, and I am secretly a terrible person). and I have never written a front page article before. But I REALLY REALLY REALLY WANT TO GO. REALLY BAD. And there's a first time for everything, and I could Prove Myself To Them And There Would Be Violins And I Would Run Up The Stairs Of The Milwaukee Public Library Whilst Punching The Air. Plus, I'm cute; I'm female; I could get backstage and bat my eyes and find out the whole truth behind the carlosdhasherpes.blogspot.com thing. NO, NOT THAT WAY, YOU ASSHOLES.
If y'all loyal readers could please send gift baskets with many types of candy and alcohol to...
Just kidding, but I was tempted to ask people to start a letter writing campaign. Which I won't do either because what is the best way to get on an editor's bad side? Shit like that. Yeah.
I don't have many religious inclinations, either, so I don't feel right praying and shit, although today is Ash Wednesday. If I go to this show and write about it, God, I promise to give up rock & roll for Lent. OH WAIT. (I think the show might fall during Lent, too. Ha.)
I just really want a chance; I really want to see if I am capable of doing this or if my secret suspicions about myself are inevitably going to be confirmed.
In conclusion:
PLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEASE?????
:| ,::| :| :| ++ :| :| :|
,::\::'|::|:\:|`::\`::| :| :::,:::| \::|:|:| :| :::|`::/ :|
,.:/
.::/,::\:\/|
`::\`::/:::|
Because this website only distracted me for about five minutes.
The "about" page has been updated.
Here is the promised MP3: Pink Frost, The Chills
Paper shredders.
I have no idea why the server was offline for that long, and the FTP owner has become (understandably?) uncommunicative recently. How have I been spending my time? Well, taking pictures. And working. In fact, I am not done taking pictures of my workplace. (I AM MOTHERFUCKING HILARIOUS.) But I am serious about taking more pictures--the building is huge and there are so many nooks and weird things and beautiful things that I have to fight the temptation to just blow off the job and run around the halls and take pictures all day.
Oh, and last night I went to see Miz Angelique (who is co-president of the Tiny Geniuses Club, est. 2005) spin records at the Riverhorse (the River 'Ho, if you will) and give her a mixtape and a valentine. I ended up getting hit on by a dude named Juan who, when our brief conversation turned to musical taste, said "I really like Metallica."
...
Modest Mouse (Part Two: Electric Boogaloo) is in two weeks, and everyone who lives in Milwaukee knew this five days ago except me, but OH MY GOD INTERPOL IS COMING.
Things are good. MP3 (perhaps pointed, perhaps not) tomorrow.
I have officially become one of those people who update their photojournals--if not more often, then more expressively--than I do my regular journal.
The First Day on the temp job in pictures over here.
I'm happy but tired, and tonight I am going to see Maritime and the Davey dance for approximately the nine thousandth time despite my better judgment (pffft, that's what they make espresso for). And the lure of The Davey Dance on film is far too much for me to stay away.
Here is a song that I can't stop listening to to make up for the fact that I tried to put a picture from the Flickr here (my favorite one, I'll give you a hint, it's the one with the chicks) and failed and failed even harder when I tried uploading the picture to the server:
Chemical Brothers feat. Q-Tip--Galvanize
Chemical Brothers + my husband=love. Who knew?
I've been rather scattered and cataclysmic today, after staying up see the Arcade [fucking] Fire on Conan O'Brien last night and then waking up at 7 and going "OH SHIT, I HAVE TO BE SOMEPLACE TOMORROW." The day was then spent running around taking care of things that I Totally Meant To Take Care Of Like Yesterday For Real--taxation, representation, new state ID, flaying of the underlings with sticks, etc. Also there was the gym. I think I can bench press 50 pounds now. Someday I will take a picture of my incredibly well-developed and sexy bicep (and stomach! I seriously think there's something going on there) and post it here and you all just won't know what to do with yourselves.
That is really all I have to report. I have no idea what to expect with this job and can't tell you if I will be hyperlinking to shit five times a day from work because I am bored and useless or whether I am actually going to have to do something. In the meantime I leave you with three things that are making me very happy right now: my love for used record stores has never been stronger:
The top ten is updated, and there are almost daily updates to the photojournal nowadays because I have morphed in the space of three weeks or so into a Huge Photographamy Geek.
HULK SMASH!
That is all.
OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD. EMILY, IF YOU ARE READING THIS WE ARE SO THE FUCK FUCKING GOING. OH MY GOD.
