NYC

So yet again, finding a few days off stretching before me, I decided to go to New York. I lived there on three separate occasions, one of which caused a minor nervous breakdown, another of which was the glory days of my misspent youth, and the third of which was some combination of the first two. But I still go back to visit because, although an absolutely impossible city (for me) to live in, it's always a great place to waste a few days. Bonus being that Todd could come and he'd never been, and it's always nice to watch someone else do the gawking for you.

I won't go into the whole trip, because do you really need to know that we went for a walk in Central Park or saw the Statue of Liberty? But I will mention a few essentials. First of all, never, under any circumstances, should you stay at the Mount Royal Hotel. It's the most expensive jail cell you could imagine. If I was paying half the price, I wouldn't have minded, but seriously, folks, would it kill you to put up some hangers? Or give your customers a real blanket?

On to the good stuff: we went to the former greatest dive bar in the world. It is no longer really a dive bar, but a student bar, and I have to admit, my friends and I were part of the cause of this gentrification, but it was just the greatest place on earth back in the day (early 2001, pre-9/11), and we'd dance and get drunk and shoot pool and make out and all the other things you're supposed to do when you're set loose in New York with a passable fake ID and just enough cash to get by. This, friends, was the Sly Fox, and while no longer the falling down glory that it once was, it's still a good bar, Bud on tap is $2 for a plastic cup from a not-unfriendly bartender with good taste in music, and as long as you get out before the entire Tisch sophomore class shows up, you'll be fine.



The other notable event, which is so notable that perhaps in my memoirs it shall be brought up, occurred when we were leaving this club LIT, which I don't remember having ever been to before, not that I would, given my last stint as a resident there.


Headed up 2nd Ave., the alcohol got the better of Todd and he decided it was a good time for a grand romantic declaration. I'm a fan of these, of course, and so we stopped for a minute to enjoy being stupid over each other. Then I hear from behind me the song In Your Eyes. And at first I think, what serendipity, that at this moment there should be a car driving by playing this song which is, as every girl of a certain age knows, the soundtrack to one of the most romantic scenes in all moviedom. But then I look over and start laughing when I realize, no, it's a guy dressed up like Lloyd Dobler for Halloween, complete with boombox, and he's standing next to us holding it up, and people are stopping to watch. Sigh. As though my life were actually a postmodern novel.

Sox Bunny

On the southbound Red Line last night, two hours before game time, appeared this odd creature: 30, maybe a bit younger, but a little hard worn, like she'd been hanging around a lot of Lincoln Park meat markets at a lot of last calls; blondish hair; biggish nose; curvy enough to tell she had curves but not enough that you'd call her hourglass. But the real reason to pay attention to her was that she was wearing a playboy bunny costume with SOX written in white paint on her chest. Like a sporty slutty superhero. She was on her way to wrangle a ticket to Game 2, using only her brains, her pluck, and her tits and ass. Based on the attention she was getting in just three train stops, I'm sure she was front and center for that incredible grand slam. Damn you Sox Bunny. I shoulda thought of it first.

My New Commuting Technique is Unstoppable

I don't know why this works, but it does:

When I commute from Wicker Park, instead of walking up to the Damen Blue Line stop, I take the Division bus down to the Division Blue Line stop. Even though it's the exact same train, getting on at Division means that I get a seat. Every single time. Getting on at Damen means cramming in with some expensively dressed chick spilling my coffee with her elbow. If anyone can explain this phenomenon to me, please, let me know.

The Little Things

The little things that make me happy when nothing else will:

Free cookies at work
Crunching on fall leaves
Putting on converse after wearing heels all day
The boyfriend's half-asleep mutterings while I'm getting ready for work
A ridiculously expensive sandwich
Transmission by Joy Division
Cooking shows
Jeeves and Wooster books
Piles of cash

What Sundays Are For

Staying in bed too long
Hours lunch brunch
Sunny weather
Wearing pajamas in the afternoon
Reading all of the non-news sections of the paper
Cooking an elaborate dinner
Planning to get lots done
Getting nothing done

Returning the Favor

Since my friend Charlie was good enough to put a link to my site on his, I'd figure I'd do the same for him. Check out his new band, Mira Mira, which is far superior to that classic-rock cover band he was in in college. The new band, masterminded by (yet again, I must reiterate, a personal friend, so officious journalism has no place here) Charlie Williams, is billing themselves as part of the Chicago Pop Renaissance. [Note to self and others: Chicago Pop Renaissance. CPR. Must do something with the initials. Something about putting the heartbeat back in rock music... If someone can come up with a non-gag-inducing way to put that, please do so and let me know.] Having gotten a sneak-pre-listen of the debut CD, Midnight for You, I shall now share with you what it sounds like. It sounds like... well... pop music. But not in a bad way. In an intelligent way. It's pop music for thoughtful people, especially if you happen to be pondering false-start romances, endless nights, hopeful dawns, and arty musical pretentions. This is music for the New Sincerity, these are musicians (all apparently highly trained multi-instrumentalists) who wear lopsided red construction paper hearts pinned to both sleeves. You know how it is. Guy may or may not have girl, guy is not really sure about girl, guy composes simultaneously hooky and detailed melodies to describe how he might possibly feel about girl. There's lots of piano and strings. It's highly Romantic, in the sense of Young Werther, but not so drastic. And yes, Charlie knows he stole that one riff from the Cure, but he doesn't care. It sounds good. Further attempts at description fail me. Just give it a listen.

No Penalty?

I'm sure no one is paying attention to this anymore, but remember all that hubbub about government propaganda masquerading as news? Well, it's finally come to a resolution, and the independent body that investigated the matter found that, yes, the government did something pretty wrong. However, from the New York Times article: "The ruling comes with no penalty, but under federal law the department is supposed to report the violations to the White House and Congress." Supposed to. Like it's optional. Like, well, you should tell the world that these people are liars and con artists, but, really, it's up to you, and we'd just as soon you not bother.

Sigh. I really love this country, but the people running it are morons.

Why I Need to Carry a Camera Everywhere

This happened a few days ago, but:

Walking down Broadway home from the grocery store, I saw what looked like a suitcase open and abandoned on the sidewalk. On closer inspection, it was an old-fashioned typewriter in a case, which appeared to have been dropped there or maybe thrown down in disgust -- something with great force, because the S and V keys had popped off and were laying on the pavement next to the case. Even stranger, there was a sheet of paper in the typewriter, on which it looked like someone was trying to type a letter, but had failed. On one side was an address, and nothing else. On the other side was:

Jameson

Jimmie


Jimmie Jameson

And that was all. Clearly, Jimmie Jameson got fairly upset with his letter and/or typewriter and was unable to finish. Who was the letter to? Why was the typewriter thrown down in the middle of the street? It was all so strange as to make me pause and think, was this perhaps installation art? I have no idea. But I wish I had a picture.

Dance While You Can

Just heard from a reliable source that my favorite local band, the Scotland Yard Gospel Choir, is calling it quits. "Creative differences." Ahem. Anyway, get them while supplies last. Apparently they've got several shows booked before they head off in whatever surely interesting separate directions they'll go next.

It's Happened Again

You know how it is. You're sitting on a crowded train in the morning, lucky to have gotten on early enough to get a seat. Then a woman gets on, stands right next to you where you can't fail to notice her, and... she bulges. In a spot that first makes you think, hey, pregnant lady. But then, just as you're about to get up and offer her your seat, you check yourself and think, what if she's not pregnant? What if she's just oddly fat? I mean, this particular woman wasn't obese, but she was a little heavy in other places. She wasn't reading What to Expect When You're Expecting or anything. She wasn't hugely round in a way that makes you think she might pop the kid out right there. I had no idea. So I sat quietly from Belmont to Fullerton, half pretending to doze and hoping that someone else would give up her seat for the lady. Finally, one woman (who the lady was standing directly in front of) offered her seat. The standing lady said no thank you. Now, does that mean that she just didn't feel the need to sit, or that she wasn't pregnant at all? She didn't seem offended. But she also didn't rub her belly in that protective way mothers often do. I was so perplexed that at Fullerton I got off and took the Purple Line. I couldn't bear the stress.

Winner, Most Distrubing Descriptive Phrase of the Day

"My bladder is the size of the Bean."

Meet the Parents

So, we went out to the suburbs today for the official Meeting of the Parents. When I met Todd's family, they basically loved me, for whatever odd reason. But I have no idea what my folks think of Todd. Their general point of view is that if someone treats me well and makes me happy, then they're good with him. But the rents today both seemed very engrossed in each other and not that much into getting to know the new boyfriend. So who knows what they think. I expect I'll get a phone call tomorrow with the scoop, and if not, I'll see them next weekend and we'll see what's what. I mean, what's not to like?