Pet Peeve

When people say, "Much to do about nothing," instead of "Much ado..."

Does that make me a snob?

Review: The Fall

This was not the worst show I’ve ever been to. That distinction goes to the Rolling Stones, who I was manipulated into seeing at one of their pompously bombastic shows at a football stadium. No matter all the pyrotechnics and video montages and gigantic props, I couldn’t get into it. This was sort of the same, except it was a small club show of a seminal postpunk band, and I showed up voluntarily.

The Fall (which is to say, of course, Mark E. Smith, because the rest change so often no one knows their names) are one of those bands. In fact, I had just finished reading the chapter about them in Simon Reynold’s excellent Rip It Up and Start Again just days before attending the show at Logan Square Auditorium. I was excited to see this dark, dry, intellectual wit in action. Unfortunately, there was no action to be seen.

To be fair, part of the problem lies in LSA. Shows can be good there, but they can't be great. It’s a huge banquet hall, and thus not really acoustically fit. Sound turns muddy and sludgey before it reaches your ears. It’s especially a poor venue for trying to understand lyrics. Even the most clearly enunciating singer is going to have a tough time communicating, and this was certainly a problem for our Mr. Smith.

However, it is not the auditorium’s fault that the band on stage appeared not to care at all for being on stage. You know how sometimes you’re walking around in the Loop and someone shoves a flyer into your hand for a Chinese restaurant you will never want to eat at? The hired guns backing up Smith looked like someone had similarly shoved some instruments at them. Not that they were bad musicians; technically, they were perfectly adequate. They were competent. These are not good adjectives for musicians in this case. They were up there doing a job, and it was quite obvious that they were only doing a job, and not playing as a part of a band they were invested in with any passion. They pounded through chunks of the Fall's catalogue like they'd known it all their lives, which they probably did, given that none of them have existed much longer than the band. They were serviceable. While Mark E. Smith's mere presence was enough to make a few cult-member fans jump and shout, the rest of the half-full house just stood around and tried to think of how they would explain to their friends that they got bored and snuck out halfway through a show by such a legendary band. (Full disclosure: I did in fact leave halfway through. I couldn't take it anymore. I was yawning and falling asleep on my feet. So if the show got really good at the end and I missed it, I hereby apologize.)

I imagine that for the first year or so, the Fall were amazing. But as soon it started consisting of other people acting out one man’s orders, it ceased to be a band and became a small factory. I don’t feel the need to go watch a factory in operation. What I would suggest, having learned that Smith started off life as a poet, is that he hook up with Chicago’s Marc Smith, the poetry slam guy, and they go on the road as two solo acts. Maybe freed from the dull processes that he’s locked into now, Smith will again become the sharp and dangerous object he once was.

A Blast from the Past

A few days ago, I was at dinner with my friend Kat, who mentioned that she'd recently gotten in touch with a guy we went to high school with via Myspace. This guy was the subject of much mockery in our younger years, for doing things like fixing his car with sculpy and asking pretty much every girl he ever dated to marry him. But ever since we got out of college, we've pretty well lost contact with him. Except that Kat recently got a Myspace page and so all of these random people from her past are e-mailing her, including this particular boy.

We discussed how this guy, because he's such a walking catastrophe, is the sort of person you want to hear stories about but not actually know. So I figured, what better way to do that than to look at his Myspace page. I couldn't find the page because it's not under his real name (which I won't give you, in the interest of not causing trouble), but while googling him, I got four results: two of them related to his work as a piercer, and two of them for the Counter Pedophilia Investigative Unit. I realize that this CPIU is probably some crazy scam or fake, but it's pretty hilarious to me that someone who clearly knows this guy decided to attach his name to a pedophilia site, given his reputation for dating barely legal girls although he's nearing 30.

Full confession: I dated this guy, very briefly, when I was 17. He was 20. When talking on the phone one night, this was his side of a conversation:

"I gotta go, my girlfriend's here." (pause) "Define legal." (pause) "Define over 18."

Seriously.

The Outlaws

Yesterday Todd and I had a cookout for our families. Both of our families. The outlaws. We were a little scared how it might turn out, and in an alcoholic haze the night before started imagining all of the best fistfight match-ups that could come out of it. His mom vs. my mom. His elderly father with a heart condition vs. my gimpy little sister with a heart condition. My dad against his 2-year-old niece. Etc.

But as it turned out, everything went smoothly. While it's unlikely that these people will ever be the best of friends, taking the two-hour trip between each others' houses on weekends, they did get along quite well. It helps that his brother, his dad, and my mom are all in education. And that my mom and his sister are both well-trained these days in the art of polite conversation. But basically, it was a bunch of decent, intelligent people hanging out and eating burgers. No one got upset, except the kids got cranky by the end, we ate some cake, and everyone went home happy.

Well, his family may have been less than happy because they were under the impression that the cookout was doubling as an engagement announcement, which it wasn't, because we're not engaged. But they seemed to get over that fairly well and enjoy themselves in spite of it.

I was pleasantly surprised. I figured on lots of awkward silences, but in reality, there were only maybe one or two. Out of a four-hour cookout, that's not bad. Hooray for civility!

Inexplicable

My two coworkers who sit in cubes opposite me are good friends, for the obvious reason that they are both 20-something women who had just moved to town when they took these jobs and have utterly bland tastes in everything. But today their relationship has taken an inexplicable turn. The older one has started referring to the younger one as G-Money. I wish I could describe to you how completely inappropriate it is for either one of them to even say this word, let alone use it as a nickname. But I can't. You'd have to see them, sitting over their gigantic pricey salad lunches, in cute little sweater sets, talking about Gray's Anatomy like it was their own lives, for you to really understand.

Suffering for Fashion

This morning on the El platform, I noticed that the lady next to me was wearing a combination of 3-inch heels and an ace bandage on her ankle. Does this make sense to anyone?

To Our Waitress Last Night

FIRST OFF, I get that your restaurant was crowded. I know the feeling. I've done the food service gig myself. It can get a little overwhelming, especially, I imagine, on 25 cent wing night. But that doesn't excuse the fact that you completely ignored us for 3 innings of a televised baseball game, and your only interaction with us prior to delivering our entrees was to absentmindedly scribble down our orders while paying more attention to your cute coworker, and plopping a bottle of beer down on our table without even making eye contact.

FURTHERMORE, your main interaction with us after delivering our entrees was to touch my boyfriend repeatedly. On the arm and the back, which are not the most intimate of areas, I'll grant you that, but still, it's quite obvious that he is my boyfriend from the fact that we are out to dinner with each other (at a lame sporty hipster bar/grill, yes, but out to dinner nonetheless) and that we are holding hands from time to time and looking at each other with those stupid google-eyes we use sometimes when we are very pleased with ourselves for being in love. I'm sure he left you a nice tip, but if it had been my night to pay, you would have gotten $2, and that's only because I can't stand to actually stiff a waitress, having, as I've mentioned, once done the job myself.

IN CONCLUSION, just because you are hot and working at a hip restaurant does not mean that you can be a lousy waitress and it certainly does not mean that you are allowed to paw my boyfriend.

Wow. Sure Messed That Up.

At least according to the ultra scientific definitiveness of the Internet.

See, at work, to keep my mind from getting too strained by the very important tasks at hand, I tend to surf through all of the random relationship-y type articles linked from the MSN homepage. I do not recommend this for anyone, by the way. Sort of like reading Cosmo, it makes me realize that I do everything wrong according to The Experts. So when I read this little tidbit today, it makes me wonder if I've really screwed up my current relationship, because other than the kid thing, I can tick off all of these as mistakes I am making at this very moment.

And yet somehow, everything seems to be going quite well, and we're all very happy. No meltdowns or even any strenuous arguments. Even the loaner cat is content. So maybe The Experts aren't so smart after all.

An Old Favorite

OK, so I'm still addicted to it and all, but Gilmore Girls seriously slipped this year. In fact, it's been pretty much all downhill since Rory became Bad Rory. It's the only show I particularly follow, and I'm disappointed that it's become not really worth following. The acting is overdone and forced, the storylines are getting more irritating and melodramatic, and the characters that I formerly adored for being quirky are just getting dumb, implausible, and irritating. I started to doubt myself. Have I, for years, been loving and admiring a show that is, in fact, really lame? Have I been telling everyone that they should really give this show a chance, even though it is on the WB, and by doing so letting everyone know that I have poor judgment?

Not so. I've rented Season 3 from Netflix and, only two episodes in, I'm reminded that this show used to be amazing. The rapport, the idiosyncrasies, the rapid-fire dialogue, the genuine emotions, it was all there. The characters were likeable, if not downright loveable. Luke used to be the guy you rooted for! Lorelai used to have a sassy snarl, not a shrill whine! And there used to be actual chemistry between... well... anyone and anyone else! These days, I just want to strangle all of them all the time. Back then, you cared about whether Rory chose Dean or Jess, and what Lorelai was going to do about Chris. Now, I just want it to be over. Or to go back to being good. And since apparently the original creators/writers/whatever-ers have left, I'm guessing it's going to be over, and not good. Ugh. At least there's always DVD.

A New Favorite

I had my doubts, but I'm actually quite interested in this project, Blogging the Bible. Basically, it's a Jew who only has a passing familiarity with the Bible reading it all the way through (or at least as far as he can get) and discussing his feelings and questions about what he reads. I attempted something similar around the age of 12, when I was trying to figure out what I believed, but I got really bored somewhere in the middle of Deuteronomy. All those damn begats and building instructions. Awful stuff. Anyway, this guy's thoughts are quite interesting because he's taking the Bible seriously simultaneously as literature, history, and theology, and questioning and observing on every detail. It almost makes me want to pick up a copy myself, but... nah.

Running

I went running this morning. I planned on doing it, and then I actually got up and did it. I was pretty amazed at myself, but I think what pushed me over the edge was that I had a dream in which I did not run, and I felt guilty about it in the dream. So I ran. Around the block. Which is only about .4 miles, according to Mapquest. But still, I ran. Without stopping, too. When I got back in front of my building I paced back and forth for a while and then bent over with my hands on my knees trying to breathe my nice yoga breaths to keep from puking, which is what I felt like doing. But dammit, I ran! I did actual exercise for the first time in ten years! If I keep this up, I may cease to be the batch of vanilla pudding I now am.

In Which We Are International Celebrities

OK, not actually celebrities. But international, certainly.

I've had a tough time talking about the Ireland trip, because not much happened. We went to a lot of pubs. We drank a lot of beer (cider for me, mostly: I heart Bulmer's). We listened to a lot of music. We wandered around without really knowing or caring where we were going. We ate several schools full of fish and chips. It was this sort of vacation:



Of the actual events that took place, here are the top three memorable moments:

3) Stumbling into a singer-songwriter night full of local talent in a basement bar in Dublin. Sitting front and center when an angry young man came to the stage and asked, "Are there any Americans here?" Cautiously raising my hand (Todd was outside smoking) and realizing that I'm the only one. AYM: Well, this song isn't about you then. Me: Oh, it's about the bad Americans? AYM: It's about George Bush. Me: Yeah, he's king of the bad Americans. Seriously, the night was good, it's not my usual kind of music but everyone was having such a good time and there was even a drunken sing-along. I finally felt like I wasn't doing something touristy.

2) Howie the Rookie at the Peacock Theatre in Dublin. I don't see much theatre these days, but my friend Bill recommended I see anything playing at the Abbey. Unfortunately, the show at the Abbey was some kind of esoteric dance performance, so I opted for the one-two punch of monologues that was playing around the corner, at what I gather is the Abbey's more raw space. It did not disappoint. The first act was a little like a knee to the gut. The second was more of a lead pipe to the head. Alternately snarling and laughing, grimey throughout: there's no way talking about it or reading it would explain. If a production of this show ever comes anywhere near you, check it out.

1) Biking around Inishmor. This is probably the most beautiful place I've ever set my eyes on, the natural scenery and ancient ruins of forts and churches helped along by a clear blue day with only one sprinkle of rain in the middle. An island inhabited by only 800 people and probably many more cows and sheep, you can rent bikes for the day and ride around the beaches and countryside barely running into any other human beings. We were, at one point, attacked by a curious goat who decided to jump up on the stone fence of his enclosure for a better look. It takes a while to get to and the transport is a little expensive, but it's worth every euro.



Some general thoughts on Ireland: It's far more expensive than it has any right to be, especially Dublin. Seriously, E7 for a chicken shwarma? Ridiculous. Also, when visiting Dublin, go hang out in Temple Bar one night, and then for the rest of your life be glad that you're not like that. Do not, for any reason, stay in Temple Bar, but if you do, try to get into Barnacles. (They've also got a hostel in Galway.) Clean, decent breakfast, quiet-ish: not a bad place. Talk to the locals all the time, especially in the West, just to try to interpret what they're saying. On the train from Dublin to Galway, this guy tried to explain to us the myth about how the Burren was formed (there is at least one story for every square inch of this country) but I only understood every fourth or fifth word. You may not understand what they're saying, but they say it so beautifully.

Things Are Different Now

Things that are different now:

I live in Wicker Park.
With a boy.
And a cat (a loaner cat).
I have been to Ireland (full update with photos shortly).
I have been afraid for my life in an underground bar full of angry America-hating liberals, despite being an angry America(n-government)-hating liberal myself. (I got out OK.)
My sister and I get along better than my mom and I do.

We've Moved!

Thank god that's over with.

I'd say I never want to move again, but I keep discovering new things about the apartment that are, shall we say, unique? Such as the fact that the Euro-style shower (a detachable shower head on a cord, so you can move it around and get your hard-to-reach bits) doesn't actually work unless detached, making hair-washing quite difficult. And the fact that there are no outlets in the bathroom, and only one in each of the bedrooms and the kitchen. Granted, the place is over a hundred years old, but you'd think they'd do a little updating now and again.

Sigh. At least there's no more manual labor involved.

Plus, super huge thanks to Marshall, Dave, and Charlie for helping. You guys are awesome.