little bohemian

2010-07-15T23:01:00.000-07:00

DEAR TWO PEOPLE WHO READ THIS BLOG:

As per the previous post, I've packed up shop and moved my internet shenanigans to a new blog. It's called redheaded werewolf and yes, it promises to be just as stupid as it sounds.

So, yeah. Mosey on over there. Update your links and your bookmarks and whatnot. And stay glued to your computer monitors, because sometime in the next few days I'm going to leak my top-secret recipe for my world famous "No-Can-Beato Taquitos"! AY CARAMBA!

CALL TO ARMS

2010-07-02T23:49:00.001-07:00

So, I kind of forgot about writing here.

It's like there's this door in my head. When I go too long without writing (or without doing anything that can be construed as "creative"), all the ideas and notions and half-conceived sketches and outlines all get stuck on the threshold, all of them jammed shoulder to shoulder trying to squeeze through the door at once. It's maddening. So many ideas on deck, but no practical means of prioritizing. No discipline to speak of.

My, we've been out of touch, haven't we? Since we've last spoken, I left my job, moved out of my apartment, ended my torrid affair with the city of Chicago, said goodbye to dear friends, moved back to Arizona with all my worldly possessions packed into two overloaded Wal-Mart duffel bags, felt reinvigorated, met up with old friends, suffered a minor meltdown and subsequently became very bad at the whole "socializing with peers" thing and the whole "interacting with others in meaningful ways" thing, went to San Diego and Anaheim and L.A., came back to Phoenix, and continued to expand inward instead of outward, furthering my own personal and creative isolation.

And here we are.

Expanding inward has been enlightening, but I can only hold one-sided conversations for so long before the company begins to grow tiresome. That's my verbose way of saying that I miss you, that I miss this, and that some kind of return to form is in order: we need to reconnect, we need to reestablish our mission purposes and secret identities. We need to establish secret projects complete with secret code words, so that when we're finally together in a crowded room of rubes and pretenders, we can catch each other's eye across the crowded room and speak volumes with our knowing half-smiles and raised drinks.

This will be the last thing that I write here. Continuing to write in this blog would feel disingenuous, seeing as this was created in order to document the experience in Chicago (a task that was only successful in short periodic bursts, inevitably followed by longer periods of silence). Instead, I'll be creating some new internet venue designed to disseminate my essays about celebrities and cans of Pringles and amateurish sketches, and whatever else I deem fit to share (probably porn).

This isn't an idle promise. If I remain silent in the future, if months pass and you realize you haven't read something that I've written, or observed any kind of output from my side of the fence, I encourage you to break my nose. Seriously. Deliver a wicked right-hook, a devastating haymaker; lay me flat with a well-placed blow, and while I wipe the blood away, I'll nod and understand completely.

If you're reading this (or, if you're blind, and your seeing-eye dog is reading it to you through a complicated pidgin language of humanized barks and guttural growls), sound off. I mean it...if you're reading, leave something in the comments, so that I may hold your proverbial feet to the flame over the coming months.

See, we're at crucial points right now, you and I. For too long have we coasted, ridden in place, propelled by our perceived reputations and our comfortable lifestyles, content to talk with others about our vague plans and notions for what we'll become over near-empty drinks and cigarettes burnt dangerously close to our soft, atrophied fingers. Realize that at this current moment, you are merely a sketch; a soft pencil outline, waiting for revision and subtle re-proportioning before well-placed layers of paint and hours of work turn you into your deserved masterpiece.

For too long, we've remained disparate points of light, bouncing and refracting off of the multitude of stimuli that constantly surround us, occasionally illuminating, yes, but instead, we've mostly been absorbed, or worse, faded through the light years that we've traveled thus far.

Let's be lasers instead.

2010-04-01T02:01:00.000-07:00

All of my favorite writers suffered
from a nighttime affliction
that converted
portable typewriters
into molten hunks of slag;
leaving their ribbons broken
(like panting tongues)
after punching out
sixty-five pages of copy
(each letter, telegraphed
thru arthritic digits)
each night, every night,
for years

(but, then again,
most of my favorite writers
also wrote
under the influence of prescription amphetamines,
or mercury poisoning, or, schizophrenia;
when you see the face of God
in the folded crease
of a pair of trousers,
when furniture
conspires against you,
finding something
to write about must
not be
so hard)

This got mixed up and
was supposed to be
about you and me,
and how, if all the things
left unsaid
got typed out, beginning to end,
start to finish,
well, there would be
a lot of panting tongues,
and a line of unbroken text
that could neatly wrap around
the great state of Oklahoma
with room
to spare

Do you ever think about going back
to the Civil War to attempt to explain
the concept of germs
to the field medics, to the medical officers,
of the Confederate and Union armies?
How could you convey
the clusters of staphylococcus,
the kaleidoscopic blooms of
aerobes and anaerobes
beneath the skin?
How could you explain
something that (nowadays)
is so commonplace, so accepted,
far before its science is perfected?

What I meant to say is:

think of things misunderstood, of things left unsaid,
and think of the comprehension that lies ahead.

SCATTERSHOT

2010-03-30T01:54:00.000-07:00

JUST SPENT around three hours or so browsing ratemyteachers and ratemyprofessors, trying to see if my opinions and biases regarding former educators correspond to those of my peers (they do not, by the way). I did realize, however, that (like record store clerks and used bookstore employees) teachers of English and Creative Writing fall into a particular subset of the female population: Women I'm Incapable of Not Having Crushes On.

WRITING THIS in bed right now. Been sick for a few days, and frequent bouts of hacking up gooey throat-shrapnel doesn't exactly make for a pleasant night's sleep. I've been taking quick pulls of cough syrup every few minutes, and a depressing crescent moon of wadded-up tissues surrounds the bed. My right nostril has declared sovereignty from the rest of my body.

HAD A DREAM the other night in which every aspect of my life was unchanged, save the fact that inexplicably, I had a three-year-old daughter named Antoinette. It was one of those dreams that stretched like warm taffy, seemingly going on for hours and hours when, in reality, it probably lasted only a few minutes at most. Antoinette wore child-sized dresses in patterns that would have been all the rage 40 or 50 years ago and had hair like mine that fell in thick, thick curls when she leaned down to pick up a paper sailboat. When I woke up I was incredibly worried and anxious, although I'd be at a loss to tell you why.

"STREET, YOU DOIN' OKAY?" my boss asked me today.

"I'm feeling pretty sick," I replied (adding an appropriate croak to my voice in order to really sell it).

"I could tell, you're looking pretty...disheveled," he replied.

"Thanks?" I said. I couldn't exactly disagree: my tie was slack, strands of messy hair stood out from my head like antennas or errant weather-vanes, and two prominent red splotches stained the front of my shirt. I didn't attempt to hide these splotches at all; I secretly hoped that one of my fearful coworkers would notice them and surmise that I've been moonlighting as a serial killer (not surprisingly, I've been reading lots of Bret Easton Ellis lately, and you could say that it's affected my mood).

THE MORE I WRITE, the more I realize that I'm a very bad writer. Briefly considered writing an email to one of the previously mentioned female English professors, but suddenly became self-conscious of my incorrect comma usage and shoddy metaphors the way a normal person would be self-conscious of crooked teeth or an unsightly mole.

TOMORROW (which is actually today) promises to be breakneck in pace. I must complete the following: 1) find all documents tax-related that I foolishly scattered around the house in a thinly-veiled attempt to avoid the inevitable, 2) assemble scripts, props, and costumes for the show tomorrow night (including a fat suit, by the way), 3) write some of the dozens of emails and letters I've been planning on catching up on, 4) finally make a trek to the store, and 5) conquer the pile of laundry that's been slowly metastasizing in my closet.

None of these things will get done, though. I don't write "to-do" lists; I write lists of things that I'll later regret avoiding entirely.

"FORMSPRING" SOUNDS LIKE A QUASI-RELGIOUS CULT

2010-03-22T00:10:00.000-07:00

&amp;lt;a href="http://www.formspring.me/robotdinosaurs"&amp;gt;http://www.formspring.me/robotdinosaurs&amp;lt;/a&amp;gt;
Finally! You can anonymously find out how many Hot Pockets I eat on average per day!

BEING LAZY = THE MOTHER OF INVENTION

2010-03-14T12:40:00.000-07:00

Are you ready to feel more lazy than you've ever felt in your life...in just five easy steps?

STEP ONE: Go into your living room. Go ahead. It's okay, bring your computer with you. I'll wait for you to get there.

STEP TWO: You're in your living room? Great. Now, walk over to your couches. Yeah, there you go. Hold on, I didn't say sit on the couch. Get up.

STEP THREE: Now, this part involves a little bit of work...go ahead and set your computer down. Now, move one of your couches so it's touching the other couch (hint: this is a lot easier if your couches are roughly the same size). Now, if you've done it right, the cushions from each couch should be touching, and the arms and backs of each piece of furniture should roughly form four bowl-like walls around this cushioned bed of comfort.

Congratulations! You've just made an adult-sized crib. Fill it up with blankets and throw pillows, and strategically arrange small tables around it for the conveyance of water bottles and small bags of cookies. Get ready to wear sweatpants for days and feel ashamed of your rampant sloth.

Last weekend we accidentally pushed our two couches together in such a fashion while attempting to clear floorspace for an indoor game of wall-ball that sincerely seemed like a prudent decision at the time. The crib been in constant use ever since. We've also been casually referring to it as "the crib", which has lead to assumptions that we have a small baby.

Really can't stress how comfortable this thing is. It's stupid to realize that a hastily-made furniture fort is far more comfortable than the bed you've been sleeping in for months, but it's tough to worry about it when you're nodding off in its warm, hug-like embrace. Visitors to our apartment usually seem put off by it at first glance, but within an hour, they're usually laying in it...I also can't stress how easy it would be to seduce someone with the crib's aide:

"Oh yeah, we could totally sit down, but all of our furniture is basically pushed together into the equivalent of a cozy king-sized bed...I guess we could lay in that..."

Good thing no one has used it for evil. Yet.

Customization has occurred. The crib has been filled with stuffed animals, and now resembles one of those claw machines. To prevent them from drifting apart, we've lashed the couches together like a lazy furniture raft. Stacey somewhat seriously proposed cutting doors in the sides, for easier access.

I've beaten Starfox for the SNES three times from inside the crib. Stacey claims to have lost half a cheese danish somewhere in the depths of its multicushioned splendor. As I type this, two people are currently napping in the crib , and are probably dreaming of warm pastry fresh out of the oven or something equally wonderful (and they're probably dreaming of warm pastry because of the wafting scent of that missing danish).

It's good to see that this blog has finally evolved to fill its intended purpose: chronicling advancements in my nap-related technology.

S.A.D.

2010-03-08T18:59:00.000-08:00

Winter continues to be awful.

Eskimos have a hundred different words for "snow" and I've got a hundred different words for "depressing." Relentless snow comes in different forms; occasionally it is superfine and reflective and looks like falling glitter beneath the orange streetlights, and sometimes the individual flakes of it are absurdly large, and briefly feel like wet cobwebs against the skin before they melt away to nothing. At this point, a biblical rain of blood or frogs probably wouldn't surprise me.

It's definitely been affecting me and the way I feel. I mean, c'mon, look at that previous paragraph. So overly dramatic! So glum! Yet, sadly, that sort of though process has become increasingly commonplace.

EXAMPLE: The other day I was doing push-ups in my small bedroom (right off the bat, this is depressing). I looked up at the wall that I've covered with drawings and sketches and postcards, and it suddenly felt like I was obsessively working out in a narrow prison cell.

OTHER EXAMPLE: I was walking home from someone's house sometime in February, maybe like, ten or eleven beers into things and not exactly totally coherent, and very suddenly all the icicles hanging from cornices and rain gutters resembled translucent fangs, and made the edge of each roof look like the top of a yawning mouth. I was suitably alarmed.

Did you know that they actually make lamps to help with this sort of thing? They're called S.A.D. Lamps; they're designed to combat Seasonal Affective Disorder, which is probably what I'm talking about, and which also possesses the most accurate acronym ever.

When you get really depressed (like, "I'm going to stay in these sweatpants forever, and arrange all essential items in a half-circle around my bed so I never have to get out of it" depressed), it becomes very difficult not to view everything through that particular tinted lens of depression. Even the thought of a S.A.D. lamp itself becomes depressing (despite the fact that it's a fairly-neutral piece of furniture designed to combat the exact feeling that it inexplicably produces): when I think of these lamps, I imagine a person somewhat similar to myself feeling sad, and then deciding go buy a lamp for it. In my mind, he gets home, plugs the lamp in, and furtively begins waiting for it to work

Like most people I know, most of my peers, I possess an inability to adequately appreciate the present, choosing instead to feel nostalgic for the very recent past. As time moves forward, the object of that nostalgia continually changes, moving forward inevitably until I find myself missing something just happened, feeling myself wish that I truly experienced it fully, instead of merely looking forward to the next thing.

I've been trying to break the habit, to actually appreciate these things while they're here. My shitty cokehead ex-roommate Andrew used to live his life by a long list of mantras and self-affirmations, and during our brief time together, he repeated the phrase "get busy living or get busy dying" more times than I'd care to admit. I'm not saying I'm suddenly buying into the bullshit motto that Andrew and a thousand other Andrews have posted under their "favorite quotes" on Facebook, but I find myself finding a need to find something beautiful and worthwhile in the moment, instead of finding it when that moment as passed.

Let's go.

THE PINK LINE COMEDY FESTIVAL

2010-02-27T13:31:00.000-08:00

The comedy group I'm a part of is putting together a sketch comedy festival.

That image up there? That's right, that's the flyer. Looks sharp, doesn't it? You're probably thinking to yourself, "Wow, there sure is a lot of pink on that flyer...is this show actually a Breast Cancer Awareness benefit? Are all of the sketches going to be about Breast Cancer?" The answer, obviously, is no. Breast Cancer is a very serious topic, and should not be made fun of. Testicular Cancer, however, is a totally different story.

Anyway, as you can imagine, all of us are rather excited. More information regarding the show can be found here (including bios of the eleven comedy troupes participating, info on the fabulous EP Theatre where we'll be performing, and a comprehensive schedule for both evenings). If you're going to be in the Chicagoland area March 19th or 20th, you simply must be in attendance.

As a special bonus, here's a sneak peek of the t-shirt design Joe and I worked on together. I think we must've gone through like, twelve or thirteen other designs before going with this. This sample image is inaccurate, by the way...wearing the shirt will not make your facial features vanish.

PHONE SITUATION: THE HARROWING CONCLUSION

2010-02-20T16:21:00.000-08:00

As Keith and I set out from the schoolhouse yesterday to meet my phone's kidnapper and complete the exchange, the mood was ridiculously tense, as if we were going to barter for the release of hostages or political prisoners instead of an outdated t-mobile phone. Kyle wasn't able to come with us and provide additional muscle; inexplicably, he was off interviewing for a job writing trivia questions for an upcoming video game. But Keith stepped up to the plate and had grown a menacing stubble for the occasion, so he looked appropriately tough. I was wearing a tie and looked like an accountant.

It seemed like everyone had a different opinion regarding how I should approach the situation. Stacey thought I should just give the guy the money he asked for, since in the end, it would be cheaper than buying a new phone. Others advocated kicking the dude's ass, and some thought it would be a better idea to just call the cops and let them sort it out. My favorite suggestion came from my brother. "Catch him and bite his fingers off one by one, or burn him with a hot iron," he advised. Our shared concept of extreme justice is heavily influenced by the Home Alone franchise.

But as Keith and I were walking to the address he'd given me, I didn't have any kind of plan as to what I'd do when he answered the door. I didn't quite know how to feel about it anymore. Sure, he might have stolen my phone, but for some reason he'd contacted one of my friends and made an attempt to get it back to me. And from Stacey's account of speaking with him on the phone, it sounded like the goddamn "finder's fee" was his girlfriend's idea.

"Are you going to give him the money?" Keith asked.

"I think I'm going to decide when I actually see him," I said. "It will entirely depend upon how many teardrops he has tattooed on his face."

The guy's house, by the way, was officially in the part of our little neighborhood that I generally try to avoid. Once you go further than a few blocks south of Cermak, the buildings seem to become more dilapidated; their right angles leaning precariously to the sides, sagging as if they've become tired from standing for so long. As we walked, we passed a seedy hair salon, a massive vegetable wholesaler, and a foreboding looking industrial park. It was like walking through Detroit.

His house was similarly run-down. Long strips of peeling rust-colored paint clung to wooden sidings. The crooked door and grimy windows leant the front of the house the appearance of a caved-in face. I knocked. Keith stood behind me, doing exactly what you're supposed to do in this kind of situation: he kept his head on a swivel, and stayed frosty. To our right, a guy suspiciously loitered on the porch of the neighboring garden apartment. He seemed to be sizing us up.

The door opened, and a man stepped out. He was white, probably mid-fifties, with a closely-cropped goatee and wispy hair. He was also holding a beer; apparently we'd interrupted him during Miller Time. A tinny television droned behind him inside his lair.

"Um, hi...my name's Brian," I said. "We spoke last night. I guess you found my phone?"

He grunted. "That's not me, but I know who you're talkin' about. I'll go see if he's here." He pushed the door closed.

Keith and I looked at each other and shrugged. I imagined the man walking into his house and retrieving an oily shotgun from a mahogany gun-rack, or possibly releasing dog on us, a malnourished pitbull with gnashing teeth and rolled-back eyes. But the door opened again, and a different guy stepped into the doorway.

As Keith and I later mutually noted, he wasn't menacing or threatening, but he certainly did look unsettling. He was a thin black guy, maybe in his mid-thirties. Lines of premature aging crisscrossed his face, making his skin look like crumpled paper, or a sagging piece of cloth. He was strung-out. He smiled; his teeth were stained and worn-down, and seemed to be tilting inward. He was also holding my phone.

I introduced myself and thanked him for finding the phone. I shook his hand for some reason; obviously, I was unsure of the social protocol for this sort of situation.

The suspicious looking stranger to our right suddenly spoke up, and yelled to the man who'd just handed me my phone. "Hey, you got guys from Boystown visiting you now?" he sneered, implying that Keith and I were from the mostly-gay neighborhood on the north side. For the second time, I silently regretted wearing the tie.

I asked to see my phone to make sure it was okay. It felt as if I were asking to speak with a hostage over the phone to verify that he/she was still alive and unharmed. The phone blinked to life when I slid it open.

"Weird," I said. "I thought for sure the phone would be dead by now."

"No, I charged it for you," he said.

Even as I write this, the implications of that statement still baffle me. He'd charged the phone for me. In all likelihood, he'd purchased the specific charger that accompanied the phone, which is a pretty expensive. Unexpected to say the least. Had he charged it thinking he'd keep the phone and use it, that somehow I wouldn't deactivate it or report it stolen? Or for some unknown reason, had he charged it specifically for me? I was simply too weirded out to ask.

I browsed through the phone a bit to make sure the data and contacts were still intact. Everything seemed to be there, but for some reason the dude had taken it upon himself to completely reorganize my phone: the menus had all been changed, the backgrounds were new, and the phone was suddenly chirping and beeping whenever I pressed a button. I'd later discover that he'd changed my ringtone to a clip of actor Alan Ruck chanting "hey batter, hey batter, hey batter, suh-wing, batter!" from the movie Ferris Bueller's Day Off. Curiouser and curiouser, right?

I looked back up at the guy; at his teeth, at the stretched out collar of his t-shirt. I peered over his shoulder, trying to look into his sad house, but it was too dark to see anything inside. I briefly looked down at the warped boards that made up his ramshackle porch, and looked up into his puffy eyes again. Suddenly and unexpectedly, I found myself feeling really bad for him.

"I suppose I should give you something, for your troubles and everything," I said. I fished around in my wallet and handed him ten dollars.

"The deal was for twenty," he quickly said. His voice wasn't angry, it just sounded deflated and disappointed.

"I'm sorry, but that's all I'm giving you," I said.

"You're lucky to get that," Keith added. His voice was surprisingly firm.

I thanked him again, and we left.

INTERESTING EPILOGUE: I spent a good half-hour going through my phone, noting all the curious things the guy did with the it over the 48 hours he was in possession of it:

-I was worried that he might have made a bunch of expensive calls using the phone (specifically to phone-sex hotlines, for some reason; that would have been an awkward thing to try to explain to t-mobile customer service). He did indeed make around two-dozen calls to local numbers, but puzzlingly, none of the calls were longer than 90 seconds. This made sense when I realized that, ever since I dropped the phone into a Vodka Redbull a year ago, incoming and outgoing calls can only be heard when the speakerphone is used in a specific way. My guess is this: he repeatedly tried to call people with the phone, but couldn't hear anything due to the faulty speaker, and then decided to return the phone to me believing it was broken. Looks like my phone finally justified its shittiness.

-He took pictures of three things inside his sad house using the phone's camera: a worn-out beige chair, a small television, and what looks to be a lamp. All three pictures are really depressing.

-He sent a number of cryptic texts to someone containing obscure references to "a defense."

-Here's something awesome: while he had the phone, a number of my friends sent him text messages on my behalf. Some of them politely asked him to return it; others were far more aggressive. If you were the author of one of these texts, thank you for your support. I like to think that your efforts help convince him to stop acting like a Goofus, and to start acting like a Gallant.

PHONE SITUATION

2010-02-19T00:09:00.001-08:00

Tomorrow, The Phone Situation will draw to a close, one way or another. It started during the show this Tuesday, and like many of the interesting things that have happened over the last few months, it Requires Capital Letters In Order To Fully Convey, and started with cheap, low-quality alcohol.

Ladies and Gentleman, Madams and Mademoiselles, allow me to introduce you to Captain Morgan Bite (with "Lime"):

I say "lime", because taking a shot of this is like having warm old-timey medicine spit into your mouth while the world's most mean-spirited lime viciously insults everything that you enjoy about alcohol, citrus, and jaunty pirate mascots. The internet informs me that it's technically listed as "silver spiced rum" but it doesn't even deserve to be served in an honest shot glass like real alcohol; it should be poured into a paper bag, or a boot.

I only bring it up because before this week's show (our "Seven Sins" show, or ostensibly our "fundraising" show), we kind of decided that it would be foolish and morbidly fascinating if each of us did something painful and outlandish to atone for each of the seven deadly sins and to raise money from our bloodthirsty, voyeuristic audience (and I mean this in the nicest way possible). The whole thing was in honor of Lent or something, I don't know. All of the pretexts fell apart pretty quickly.

I volunteered to take shots of the cheapest alcohol possible. This is where Captain Morgan Bite (or simply "Bite" as it shall be referred to henceforth) entered the picture.

The plan was this: for every two dollars the audience donated, I'd take a shot. Before the show began, I obtained six shots of Bite, anticipating that I'd be able to milk it out for a while, make a show of how horrible it was, and collect twelve bucks of easy money.

What actually happened was this: as soon as Stacey explained to the audience what I was doing, money poured in, and before I'd had a chance to take a single shot, sixteen dollars suddenly appeared on the tray next to the six full glasses of the sickly, medicine-like liquour. I was forced to take all of the shots, one after another. The experience robbed me of any possible future enjoyment of limes.

My memory of the rest of the show is better than you'd expect, but the remainder of the show was so bizarre, it makes me doubt what I remember. I recall Keith sitting on the side of the stage, eating cheeseburgers and frowning. I remember Kyle getting slapped, and then backhanded, and then slapped again, hard enough to leave lasting hand-prints on both sides of his face, making it look as if he were blushing. Alison watched horrible pornography and narrated it, Stacey lit treasured possessions on fire, Kevin kissed floors and belly-buttons. Lauren was forcibly covered with peanut butter (which she apparently has a weird phobia of, because she was trembling when I covered her with it).

The last time I saw my phone was backstage during the show. I checked text messages; one of my friends had asked me if I was still feeling sick, another wished me luck with the show. I set the phone down on one of the wooden tables and walked back out. From what I'd later put together, the phone was probably stolen at this point.

I discovered that it was missing later after I'd come home from the bar. Naturally, I assumed that I'd misplaced it, so I quickly searched the apartment, rifled through my backpack, and checked every pocket in every garment that I own. No dice. I traced my steps back to the bar, searching the ground with close, attentive eyes. Nothing. I asked everyone in the bar if they'd come across the phone, and searched the back room from top to bottom (including the place I'd set it down). Nothing at all.

By no means is it a fantastic phone, by the way. The speaker periodically cuts out and it's prone to dropped calls and poor reception, but goddamn it, it's my phone and I've grown attached. Over the course of these last few phoneless days, I occasionally find myself reaching for it, like an amputee might reach to scratch his missing arm. I resent how much I've come to rely on it: it is simultaneously 1) my phone, 2) my alarm clock, 3) my calculator, 4) my method of appearing busy in public as to avoid contact with people who are awful, 5) my somewhat limited camera, and 6) my very, very dim flashlight, useful only in really dark corridors. I've been feeling like Batman must feel when Two-Face somehow manages to steal his utility belt: forced to survive without gadgets, on karate and wits alone.

And like Batman, I felt a thirst for vengeance. At this point, it was apparently clear that my phone had been stolen: it hadn't turned up anywhere at Martin's, nor at my apartment, nor at the Schoolhouse, and had been in a perfectly accessible position during the show, easily reachable by less-than-scrupulous sticky fingers.

Just when I was beginning to fantasize about catching the guy who took the phone, I found this on Facebook:

I blacked out the dude's phone number, but not his address. Go figure.

I quickly called and spoke with him. It seems that he "found" my phone in an alley (even though I traveled through no alleys that night, and would never leisurely travel through alleys, because alleys are full of stabbings and tears). He reiterated what Stacey mentioned above; that, after speaking to his girlfriend, he decided to charge me a $20 "finder's fee" for my phone. My phone. And I have to pay him. To get it.

I've recruited both Keith and Kyle to accompany me tomorrow to this miserable guy's house in order to retrieve my phone. I haven't decided if I'm actually going to give him any money at all; the guy probably stole it, and giving money to someone in order to get something back from them that I actually own makes me want to punch and kick things. I've constantly fantasized about beating the shit out of this dude, of convincing the police that he's a thief, but then I think about this one text message that I've been itching to send to someone all day, and twenty dollars seems like a reasonably low price for renewed instant connection and communication. Call me a sucker, I suppose.

But the story is only halfway through! Tune in tomorrow for the harrowing conclusion! To READ exactly how miserable and tweaker-ish the phone thief is in exacting detail! To FIND OUT how awful and dumpy his girlfriend is! And to SEE if I provoke him into stabbing and/or hitting me during the trade-off!

TO BE CONTINUED.

INFLATABLE GUITARS, GAVELS, PICTURES OF CHEETAHS

2010-02-10T23:50:00.001-08:00

LIKE SEX ON TOP OF MT. RUSHMORE

2010-01-31T01:40:00.000-08:00

Let me clarify something: I don't give a shit about sports.

I've never really even bothered to learn the rules, or the jargon, or even some of the more revered player's names. In fact, if I know an athlete's name, it's safe to assume that he was probably arrested for trying to rape someone. This sets me apart from not only my friends who happen to be dudes, but also the entire city of Chicago (a place where you have to swear allegiance to either the White Sox or the Cubs, just like you have to join a prison gang to survive in jail).

Now, with that in mind, consider the following:

This Tuesday, the sketch comedy group I'm in will be performing a show about the Super Bowl.

Here's the nonsensical sports sketch I contributed this week in preparation for the big show. I feel confident posting it here, because let's face it, there's no way it's going to end up getting performed.

Characters:

David (Colts fan)

Scott (Saints fan)

Ben (new guy, also Colts fan)

Lights up on DAVID’S Super Bowl party. DAVID, SCOTT, and BEN are settling in, waiting for the game to start. DAVID and SCOTT are sweating, sniffing, and acting agitated; unbeknownst to BEN, they’ve just finished having a coke party. This is never addressed in the sketch.

BEN: David, I gotta thank you again for inviting me over to watch the game! It’s gonna look so much better in HD.

DAVID: Anything for a fellow Colts fan!

SCOTT: Ahh, he just invited you over cuz he’s gonna need a shoulder to cry on when my Saints take the big win! Saints, bay-bee, Saints!!! Yeah!!!

DAVID: HA! Good thing they’re Saints…cuz they’re gonna need a miracle!

Everyone laughs uproariously at this.

BEN: So, you guys wanna make it interesting and put some money on the game?

DAVID and SCOTT get very quiet and very serious.

DAVID: Um, actually Ben…we can’t do that. Scott and I both have serious gambling problems.

(beat)

BEN: Oh God, I feel awful. I’m sorry, I really didn’t know. I just, ah, thought…

DAVID and SCOTT begin to laugh again.

SCOTT: Ahh, we got you! We got you good!

BEN: Oh my God, you guys had me fooled! I thought you were both really addicted to gambling!

DAVID: We really are! That’s not the part I was kidding about!

SCOTT: We’re both really, really addicted to gambling! If I ever set foot in Vegas again, the Mirage Hotel will cut my balls off and feed them to german shepherds!

BEN: What? But you said…

DAVID: What I said was we can’t bet on the game…because we already did!

SCOTT: Yeah, we’ve both already got a lot riding on this!

BEN: Oh nice! How much money did you guys bet?

DAVID and SCOTT laugh at this.

DAVID: Ben, Ben, Ben…we’ve both been addicted to gambling for years! Betting money just doesn’t deliver the thrill that it used to!

SCOTT: We’re both seriously addicted to gambling. Can’t stress that enough.

BEN: So…what kinda bet did you make?

DAVID: We didn’t just make one bet, David. We calculated every possible outcome of the Super Bowl, every single possible way the game could end, and we made bets on all of them.

BEN: Really? I know I’m new to all this, but there must be thousands of possible outcomes for the game…

DAVID: Seventeen billion. We crunched the numbers and there are literally seventeen billion ways this game could end…and we’ve placed a bet on every single one!

SCOTT: I know I’ve mentioned it, but I should say it again…we’re dangerously addicted to gambling.

BEN: That sounds incredibly complicated.

DAVID: Oh, it is! That’s why we had to write all the bets down in this. (holds up a massive three-ring-binder the size of a huge phone book)

SCOTT: It’s pretty simple. We made pretty mundane bets on the more likely outcomes of the game. And for the weird, highly unlikely ones, well, we made some pretty crazy wagers.

DAVID: Like, for example…if the Colts take the Saints down 27 to 14, then I have to wash Scott’s Escalade for an entire year. Pretty standard.

SCOTT: But if the Saints beat the Colts by two hundred points, then I have to beat a Clydesdale horse to death with my bare hands.

DAVID: If the Colts shut the Saints out and win 14 to 0, then I have to wear a dress to work. No big deal.

SCOTT: But if the Saints somehow manage to score a negative amount of points, then David gets to have sex with my wife on top of Mt. Rushmore. No questions asked.

DAVID: If Saints Coach Sean Payton gets a cooler of purple Gatorade dumped on him after the game, then I have to take six shots of Captain Morgan Tattoo. Gross.

SCOTT: But if a talking cooler of purple Gatorade somehow becomes the coach of the New Orleans Saints, then I have to tattoo a crude image of Captain Morgan on my infant son.

TWO HOURS LATER:

BEN, DAVID, and SCOTT are all watching the last minute of the game. They’re all understandably tense.

ANNOUNCER: …and he’s at the thirty yard line…the twenty…the ten…TOUCHDOWN! Reggie Bush scores and the New Orleans Saints win Super Bowl 44 in a huge upset! Final score: Saints, 259; Colts, 0! I can honestly say that this is the strangest game of football I’ve ever seen! I for one am glad that I didn’t make any outlandish bets on this, what is perhaps the most bizarre spectacle held on the gridiron, because those very bets would probably have gone awry!

DAVID turns off the TV in a daze. SCOTT is consulting THE HUGE THREE-RING-BINDER containing the bets.

DAVID: Well…what was the bet we made for 259 to 0?

SCOTT reads the page, gulps, and passes it to BEN and DAVID.

SCOTT: Well, a bet’s a bet. I guess I lost.

SCOTT reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a revolver. He slowly raises it to his temple, sobbing a little, when suddenly…

BEN: Wait! These pages were stuck together! You had to play Russian roulette if the score was 258, not 259!

DAVID: Well? Spit it out! Who won the bet?

BEN: (reading) None of us did. Since the score was 259-0, we all have to dance to an awful song about the Super Bowl while this sketch ends.

“The Super Bowl Shuffle” comes on, and William “The Refrigerator” Perry springs out of a trapdoor in the stage and begins to do the Super Bowl Shuffle. He does not sing, which is curious, because you’d totally expect him to sing. But he doesn’t.

It’s going to be difficult to get the real William “The Refrigerator” Perry to appear in the show. It’s going to cost a lot of money, but it’s essential to the integrity of the sketch. Thank you, and God bless America.

IT IS A SHAME...

2010-01-09T01:30:00.000-08:00

...because, in approximately four hours or so, I need to get up to go to work. On a fucking Saturday morning. I'm actively dreading sleep because I'm so exhausted, the aforementioned sleep will be heavy and dreamless and only shallowly fulfilling, and then I'll have to wake up at depressing o'clock and make myself get up in order to earn (what will inevitably be) a small amount of money.

Tonight was supposed to be my night to get things done. I meant to write two sketches (the first, about a sommelier; the second, about a secret agent). Once this was completed, I was going to write (for fun) about time machines and angry fat people and (coincidentally enough) depressing jobs.

Instead of actually working on these things, I wasted a large portion of my evening watching a reality show about horrible cooks who are competing to become the worst chef in America on a show that's appropriately titled, "The Worst Chef in America." Like, all of them were sweating bullets, afraid that they'd be deemed "too good a chef" to be allowed to stay on the show to keep committing culinary abortions. A dude boiled a whole chicken, and then put swiss cheese all over it. It was profoundly depressing.

I need to work on time management.

FOR EXAMPLE: A week ago, a somewhat rhetorical question arose: if my friends in Chicago were actually the Wu-Tang Clan, who would be who amongst the nine generals? After a while, the question stopped being rhetorical, and people started asking me for answers (because in Chicago, I'm the closest thing to a Wu-Tang scholar on hand, I suppose).

Obviously, pondering this question has consumed 85% of my free time.

Like, what characteristics should be taken into consideration? Personality? Verbal dexterity? Delivery? Overall appearance? If we're basing it on voice alone, Lauren would be ODB, because Lauren and ODB have the most distinctive voices in their respective groups. But Lauren cannot be ODB. Stacey kind of arbitrarily assigned the role of Dirt McGirt to Kyle for some reason; this depressed him, because he thought we were implying that out of all of us, he's going to die first.

I kind of want to make myself Ghostface, but do not feel qualified enough to act as his proxy. Stacey wants to be the Rza because she just read his book and now considers herself an expert in such things. Kevin wants to be Gza because he read a Wikipedia article, and feels like this was enough research to justify his conclusion. And Lauren? Lauren keeps calling Raekwon "RaeShawn" and it bothers me much, much more than it probably should. It makes me want to assign her U-God as punishment.

This is such a gargantuan hypothetical scenario; it will take me months to fully reflect upon and work to a satisfying conclusion. The gang will not be happy with this, but they don't understand the importance of the task at hand. This rhetorical question ain't nothin' ta fuck wit.

For giggles, here are the last 10 things I google-searched (according to my browser):
1. Independence Day Speech
2. Chicago Sports (how did that one get there?)
3. MF DOOM
4. Paula Poundstone molester (awesome)
5. ASU schedule 2010
6. The Ninth Gate
7. Fat Ryan Gosling
8. Mark McKinney
9. Wu-Tang (mentioned previously)
10. Upside Down Dogs

MY NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTIONS

2010-01-04T02:15:00.000-08:00

-Stop giving fake MedicAlert bracelets to senior citizens that read: "Allergic to All Forms of Medicine."

-Take down the dozens of poster-sized pictures of a shirtless Wolf Blitzer that wallpaper my condo.

-Stop sabotaging other people's New Year's resolutions. (Sorry I helped you fall off the wagon, Uncle Tommy! Hope you're trying again this year...no more gin in 2010!)

-Spend more time with my family. Especially my other family in Ohio. My secret, illegitimate family.

-Stop doing the "(Crank Dat) Soulja Boy" dance to show off at funerals. (even if the recently deceased really liked Soulja Boy, because Grandma sure did!)

-Stop writing fake Craigslist personal ads. Seriously. The eleven replies I got were all really, really depressing.

-Sell my treadmill; hire terrifying homeless vagrants to chase me for miles instead. (Good cardio!)

-Start seeing a hypnotherapist, so hopefully I'll stop screaming "DAT MY BABY DADDY!!" in my sleep.

-Stop being so awesome. Donate some of my surplus awesome to charities, like March of Dimes (only sort of awesome) and Bibles for Babies (not awesome at all). See if awesome is tax-deductible.

NERDY IN '09

2010-01-03T22:22:00.000-08:00

In the spirit of 2009-related nostalgia and year-end wrap-ups, here's a list of the books I've read over the course of the last year. After reading, feel free to beat me up for my lunch money and/or break my glasses and steal my inhaler.

The Corrections, by Jonathan Franzen
Wicked, by Gregory Maguire
Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim, by David Sedaris
Me Talk Pretty One Day, by David Sedaris
When You Are Engulfed in Flames, by David Sedaris
American Psycho, by Bret Easton Ellis
Anansi Boys, by Neil Gaiman
Kissing in Manhattan, by David Schickler
Lunar Park, by Bret Easton Ellis
Naked Pictures of Famous People, by Jon Stewart
My Custom Van, by Michael Ian Black
The Devil in the White City, by Erik Larson
The Fountainhead, by Ayn "These are believable characters, right?" Rand
Terrorist, by John Updike
Sharp Objects: A Novel, by Gillian Flynn
Sin City: The Hard Goodbye, by Frank Miller
Ex Machina (Volumes 1-6), by Brian K. Vaughn, Tony Harris
Scott Pilgrim, by Brian Lee O'Malley
A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, by Dave Eggers
Demonology: Stories, by Rick Moody
The Ice Storm, by Rick Moody
The Wall of the Sky, The Wall of the Eye, by Jonathan Letham
Requiem for a Dream, by Hubert Selby Jr.
The Lovely Bones, by Alice Sebold
Into the Wild, by Jon Krakauer
Under the Banner of Heaven: A Story of Violent Faith, by Jon Krakauer
Nine Stories, by J.D. Salinger
Geek Love, by Katherine Dunn
The Mysteries of Pittsburgh, by Michael Chabon
How to Be Alone: Essays, by Jonathan Franzen
The Shining, by Stephen King
Watchmen, by Alan Moore, Dave Gibbons
Gifted (Astonishing X-Men), by Joss Whedon, John Cassaday
Transmetropolitan (Volumes 1&2), by Warren Ellis, Darick Robertson
High Fidelity, by Nick Hornby
How to Be Good, by Nick Hornby
Lullaby, by Chuck Palahniuk
Snuff, by Chuck Palahniuk
The Harry Potter Series, by J.K. Rowling
Killing Yourself to Live, by Chuck Klosterman
Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs: A Low Culture Manifesto, by Chuck Klosterman
The Road, by Cormac McCarthy

Addendum the First: This list is maddeningly incomplete. I read so many books at my old job in Arizona, remembering them all was virtually impossible. I just spent twenty-five minutes trying to remember the name of a book that centered around a cabinet, a watchmaker, and a mechanical man; it may sound intriguing, but it probably wasn't, since I can't even remember the title.

Addendum the Second: While researching this list, I discovered that I currently owe twenty dollars in late fees to the Chicago Public Library. Goddamn it.

Addendum the Last: Highly recommended books from the list are as follows: The Corrections, Under the Banner of Heaven: A Story of Violent Faith, Ex Machina, Scott Pilgrim, and The Road. Nine Stories, Geek Love, High Fidelity, and American Psycho are also highly recommended, but they're all books that I read at least once a year as sort of an annual tradition, and therefore were not new in 2009. But still...read 'em. Read 'em hard.

To ring in the new year, I'm rereading Carter Beats The Devil. It's been so long since I first read it; I'd completely forgotten how effortlessly charming and wonderfully cinematic it is. But other than that, I've got nothing on deck to read...any suggestions for 2010?

THE HORRORS

2010-01-01T23:17:00.000-08:00

A pleasant side-effect of my trip to Phoenix: I was finally able to bring (a portion of) my DVDs back to Chicago.

I've been hyping this for quite a while. "Just wait'll I get all of my movies out here...then we'll have something to watch!" I'd say, usually to no one in particular. "Well, it's a boring night and nothing is on television, but boy, once I bring my movies out, that'll change everything!" I anticipated weekly movie nights, jocular discussions amongst bowls of popcorn and ice-cold colas. However, after browsing through my collection, I've realized that most of the movies I love are generally unwatchable to my peers.

I own an almost-embarrassing amount of horror movies. Trashy so-bad-they're-great horror movies, like Phantasm and From Dusk Till Dawn. Foreign horror movies, like The Orphanage and Battle Royale. Horror/Comedy hybrids, like Evil Dead 2 and, um, every other Sam Raimi movie. If it has awkward, stilted dialogue and a gruesome dismemberment, chances are, I love the shit out of it.

But it's hard to organize movie nights around a film that features a dude literally mowing down zombies with an upturned lawnmower. Normal people don't habitually watch John Carpenter movies that feature Keith David because, lets face it, most normal people aren't aware of who John Carpenter and Keith David are. Attempting to describe the genius of Jeff Goldblum's performance in The Fly to my roommate resulted in silence and vacant stares. And no one (no one) has been willing to sit through the movie Audition, because Audition is one of those movies that you have to provide a disclaimer for; a movie that you have to dare the other person to watch. When you invest in films called Slither and Dead Alive, you're basically announcing, "I have peculiar taste, and do not mind watching films alone!"

When people confess to me that they can't stand horror movies, I hang my head in honor of all the things they're missing out on: the "uno, dos, tres" sequence from The Orphanage, the slow-burn tension of The Descent, the underwater scene from Let the Right One In, and every single goddamn minute of Army of Darkness....all should be enjoyed in the dark, again and again, by everyone.

Here are some trailers for movies I'm rather excited to re-watch soon; they're all appropriately ridiculous.

FROM HOTH TO TATOOINE, AND BACK AGAIN

2009-12-28T22:28:00.000-08:00

I had the distinct pleasure of spending the last seven days at home in Phoenix.

The phrase "distinct pleasure" should be italicized (or at least given a crazy font, for emphasis) because I never imagined I'd use the phrase to describe time spent in Arizona. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, I suppose. And, cold medicine. Cold medicine makes the heart grow fonder. I drank a lot of cold medicine while I was in town. Like, a lot.

Before I left, I worried about how it would feel to be back. Would it be awkward? Would I feel disconnected? Would I feel like a stale, bygone relic and immediately miss Chicago? Or would I enjoy myself too much, and not want to board the plane home?

These worries melted fairly quickly. Yes, it was a bit awkward to be back, but no more so than the rest of my life (i.e. considerably awkward). Sure, I did feel a bit disconnected, but that's to be expected when you've been gone for six months. Most of the friends and family I saw seemed to be healthy and happy, and many of them seemed to have improved their lives in the interim since I left. This is huge.

Stacey seemed especially worried that I wouldn't want to come back to Chicago. I didn't necessarily know what to expect in that regard, but after spending three or four days in Phoenix, I was ready for the Midwest again. Arizona is nice, and time away gave me better perspective regarding its merits, but let's face it...it's still Arizona. Beneath the pleasant temperatures and the sprawling vistas and the opportunities to reunite with old chums, it's still just Arizona. A nice place to visit.

Time away also afforded me a better perspective regarding my relationship with my parents. The second day I was home, I asked my mom what she wanted to do while I was in town. She responded by saying she wanted to watch episodes of Fringe, which is a ridiculous television show about shapeshifters and parallel universes and the other ludicrous sci-fi tropes that I will always and always love the shit out of. We half-watched an episode about a teenager who could control others with the power of his mind, but spent most of it talking about various bullshit going on in our respective lives. The fact that my mom wanted to spend time together watching a high-concept television show about aliens and werewolves instead of wasting time going to Zoolights proves that I am indeed her son.

The trip ended wonderfully with the show we did with Marvin's Room (which, incidentally, I did not want to participate in (and almost backed out of) due to time constraints and a wicked sinus infection). But, it went swimmingly. The crowd was dauntingly large: enough people were in attendance to form several angry mobs, a militia, and/or a modest riot, but thankfully, they never became surly enough to form any of those things. In fact, they were wonderfully appreciative of our set and the Marvin's set that followed. And we got to perform in a movie theatre! (By some bizarre twist of fate, we made a really dated Snakes on a Plane joke in the very theatre that I saw/was duped into seeing Snakes on a Plane. There is a God, and he loves reminding me of my terrible taste in movies). Anyway, performing with Marvin's room (and just performing in Tempe in general) made me feel all nostalgic, as well as being stupidly proud of the fine people I had a chance to share the stage with.

During the course of the week, I drank vodka from tiny bottles. I walked with Alex through the Hayden Square parking lot where both of us were mercilessly beaten, and concluded that the beating was not the end of an era, but rather the rocky beginning of a better one. I got to meet my brother's girlfriend, which made me feel old, but also made me feel proud and happy (even when my mom ominously and depressingly referred to his girlfriend's parents as "future in-laws" for no reason at all). I only had one minor meltdown in the bathroom of an italian restaurant, but it passed quickly, and was followed by an excellent meal. All in all, things went wonderfully.

Now, I realize that I probably did not get to spend enough time with you while I was in town. I'm deeply sorry. You must understand that it was difficult to see anyone at great length. It's like I don't like you or anything (except if you're Barry...if you are, then I'll see you in hell, motherfucker). All I can say is that I desperately wished I could have extended my trip for a few more days, but since that wasn't an option, I'll be returning to the desert in mid-spring/early summer. Let's hang.

HEADED TO LAKESHORE

2009-12-13T00:09:00.000-08:00

It's Friday night and I'm walking to Kevin's place for rehearsal. Winter totally isn't having it.

"Oh, you're getting a little cocky now, are you?" Winter says. "You've walked through snow a couple of times and you think you're hot shit? You think you can roll with me?" And then, as if to prove a point, Winter suddenly belches all kinds of sleet and snow and rain, and it's like I'm in a snow-globe held in Michael J. Fox's palsied hands. I trudge on, inching my way down Belmont with a newfound respect for Eskimos (who do this solely with whale blubber, instead of my finely manufactured clothing). I would have spit in Winter's metaphorical face, but my lips were way too cold to actually do that.

As one of my friends predicted, I've started treating winter like a video game. Each time I gracefully avoid a slippery patch of black ice I get +500 experience points. Buying a new sweater or obtaining an additional scarf is tantamount to upgrading my armor, and when I eventually slip and fall onto my ass, I'll lose a life and it will sound like this.

The previous day was brutal. I'm told that it reached -20 degrees with the wind chill factored in; I cannot even begin do fathom this. I'm told that when it reaches similar temperatures, it's actually too cold for snow to happen. Wha? Surely you jest. At this point, you could arbitrarily make up things about winter, and I'd accept them as truth.

YOU: "Hey Brian! Did you know that when the temperature dips to twenty below, your bones freeze and turn into sugar crystals inside your body?"

ME: "Oh shit! I better buy some bone-heaters!"

But, yeah. I'm halfway down my lengthy jaunt down Belmont towards Kevin's apartment, and signs of the rough weather are everywhere. The river is warmer than the air, and as a result, rolling waves of steam swirl ominously above the water. Icicles grow like malignant fangs.

And there are dead Tauntauns everywhere. They're just piled up in the street, bellies slit from top to bottom, complete with homeless people snoozing comfortably inside their rib cages amongst the steaming organs. I'm stepping over dead Tauntauns left and right, one after another, and occasionally a homeless hand emerges to beg for change. The Mayor has been trying to do something about it, introduce some kind of Tauntaun Reform, but they're much cheaper than cabs so it'll never go over with the voters.

About three quarters of the way down Belmont, there is an ethnic hair salon with a gigantic purple neon sign that says "GREAT HEAD." I giggle every single time I walk past, and tonight is no exception.

Just as I get to Kevin's building, he texts me, saying that he's still on the bus and will be a little late. I take the opportunity to linger outside and stare menacingly at the doorman, but I'm wearing a jaunty blue scarf, so I can't really manage the menace. The doorman nods off.

Then Kevin arrives and we head upstairs.

HEY! HERE'S A REALLY OLD SKETCH THAT I WROTE

2009-12-12T02:11:00.000-08:00

Stumbling across this after hours of pointless internet browsing kind of redeemed the evening.

I'm just pretty stoked that a copy of the video still exists...the corporate evil that is Viacom International had it removed from youtube, even though it's a parody, and shouldn't fall under the umbrella of copyright violation. (Actually, we did use real audio and music from the show. Whoops! Sure hope Viacom doesn't read this!)

Anyway, it's a parody of that old show "Legends of the Hidden Temple" that we did like, three years ago or something. Big ups to everyone involved, including Kevin, Craig, Brian, Tyler, Lauren, Keith, and childhood nostalgia. I apologize for the poor image and sound quality; the sketch was recorded on an old-timey camera that had to be cranked by hand (not really).

Re-watching old sketches is bizarre. I tend to overanalyze, cringe at all the mistakes, and wish that I'd done one more goddamn revision. But boy, this was fun to do.

HOLLA.

WINTER IS HERE (GO AHEAD AND GET FAT NOW)

2009-12-04T15:51:00.000-08:00

Back in August (when extended travel outdoors was still comfortable and carefree) Joe and I went to IO to watch free improv. He introduced me to someone he'd met the previous summer, and once I informed her that I'd recently moved to Chicago and had yet to experience one of the city's Hoth-like winters, her face became grim.

"Oh, you're going to die," she said.

"You're going to be wearing every article of clothing you own, and it still won't be enough. You won't be able to breathe. You won't be able to take a shower before you leave in the mornings, because your wet hair will instantly freeze in the cold. You're definitely going to die."

She nodded, and turned back to her beer. Nice to meet you too, I thought.

Her dire prophecy chimes in my head like a coda each time I notice a sign of winter's arrival. What's this? Sunsets happen as early as 4:45 instead of 8:30 or 9? I'm going to die. The trees are suddenly skeletal, and their leaves are now crunching underfoot like fortune cookies? I'm going to die. Jets of steam accompany my every exhalation? I'm going to die.

And yet despite all that, I'm still looking forward to winter.

On Thursday, when I mistook the first snowfall for drifting ashes from a nearby housefire, I realized that I've never seen snow in the air before. I've only seen dirty banks of it besides highways and trails; the kind with the crunchy, razor-like crust on top that's been melted and refrozen so many times it hardly counts as the real thing. It's sad I've only read about this kind of shit in books and am just now getting around to experience it.

I'm excited for silly winter hats, and for being able to use the phrase "hot toddy" not just to sound elegant and old-timey, but because I'm actually drinking one. I'm not feeling too much trepidation regarding the large amount of time I'll be spending indoors, because I'm pretty much a reclusive shut-in already, and hours of free time necessitate worthy activities to pass them with. Big, chunky books are a must...I'm thinking David Foster Wallace's Infinite Jest, Thomas Pynchon's Gravity's Rainbow, and probably House of Leaves again, just for good measure. Also, probably going to go all in and purchase an Xbox 360, and go back-to-back-to-back with Dead Space, Resident Evil 5, and Bioshock (you know, because survival-horror games are just the thing to brighten up a drab winter).

I'm also considering picking up a hobby: card throwing. You know, like Ricky Jay? The magician that can slice watermelons in half with playing cards? Once March rolls around, I'm gonna be one card-throwing motherfucker. Seriously. Watch out. Gonna throw cards atcha.

Or, I'll go Nicholson-crazy before March arrives, and will be be found dead in the middle of an ornate hedge-maze clutching an axe in my curled, frozen hands.

One can never tell.

LIGHT-UP RINGS AND A TINFOIL HAT

2009-12-03T03:13:00.000-08:00

I arrived at Martin's about an hour before last night's show to hide my spacesuit and make a tinfoil hat; by that time, the drunk girl had probably been there drinking rum and diet coke for hours.

She was dancing to a Shakira song while the rest of the bar silently watched. "Hey, are you the comedy show?" she slurred to me. She had the same hoarse, throaty voice that seems to be prevalent among a good number of women who are really, really wasted. I shrugged, walked backstage, and attempted to memorize lines while making the previously aforementioned tinfoil hat (although the memorization was severely hindered by her intermittent yelling in the adjacent room).

Meanwhile, sponsorship happened. Our old stage (with its unstable, shifting panels and awkward hole I've repeatedly fallen into/tripped on) had transformed into "The Budweiser Comedy Stage." It was just the old stage, rearranged in a less awkward spot, without the pratfall-inducing hole. The new position allowed me to jump from the stage onto a perpendicular half-staircase, so I was sufficiently amused.

From here on out, Budweiser will graciously be paying for our flyers and marketing material. This is totally aces. They also courteously provided some bizarre promo items for us to give away: two lime-green footballs, and a bucket of rubbery, light-up rings (if you guessed that I thought up dozens of Green Lantern jokes but didn't actually say any of them, go to the head of the class!). You wouldn't believe the impromptu melee that occurred when Kevin tried to pass the rings out. They were in full effect throughout the show; it was surreal to see the dozens of them blinking in the audience during the dark interims between sketches.

Budweiser also gave us lots of free beer to drink (and to give to the audience), so, hats off. Give me that t-shirt cannon and silly megaphone and I'll be set.

By the time the show started, the drunk girl (who's name was Lily or Lillian or Lila, definitely an "L" name) was sitting front row center. When I walked onstage in my sketch, she shouted something like, "Oh, this guy's my favorite!!" At this point, I had not said anything aloud, nor had I interacted with her besides the shrug.

But, I was wearing a spacesuit. And an ornate tinfoil hat. Complete with tinfoil horns. And tinfoil antlers. Needless to say, the hat was a lot better than the sketch it was created for.

Stacey sang a song in one of the sketches, and when Drunk Girl attempted to make it a duet, Stacey stopped the sketch and told her that she could handle the singing by herself. I laughed aloud. Drunk Girl also loudly spilled an entire beer a foot away from the stage during the opening line of Kyle's sketch, and Rob (the owner of the bar) mopped it up while the scene was going on. I laughed aloud again.

After the show I briefly talked to Lily or Lillian or Leelu outside while her boyfriend pulled the car around. She yelled the following tidbits at me without context: 1) "My boyfriend likes to play football!!" 2) "I love my boyfriend, but don't know how to tell him!!" 3) and "Your hair!! And your beard!!"

Her boyfriend drove around, and through the passenger window, I saw that he was holding one of the lime-green promotional footballs. "Hey, tell him that thing I told you!!" she yelled to me as she stepped inside the car. I considered informing him that he likes to play football, but I leaned over and said, "Hey...your girlfriend loves you, but she couldn't find the right way to say it. One thing is certain: me telling you is probably the least impressive and least romantic way it could have gone down."

Then, I doffed my tinfoil hat, and disappeared.

BURTHDAY JAMZ

2009-11-28T19:44:00.000-08:00

Lupe Fiasco's "Enemy of the State: A Love Story"

(a free mixtape released on Thanksgiving that's totally bananas)

COP THESE JAMZ HERE.

"AND THIS IS HOW I'D BLAST 'EM"

2009-11-27T22:09:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago I was stumbling home drunk from somewhere, which in and of itself is not altogether extraordinary. Stacey was along for the ride and we were lurching towards the apartment from Western during the ungodly hour of the night when everything's alarmingly quiet except for a baby crying or an old record playing from inside a garden apartment, something totally out of place.

As I stumbled off the curb and into the street, I looked down. I reached into the gutter exuberantly, grabbing something, and with a cry of triumph I held it aloft.

A few days later, I got to show off what I'd found. We were having a rehearsal at my apartment, and during a lull between sketches, I grabbed it from its place beside the refrigerator and turned to everyone in the living room. "Hey guys!" I exclaimed. "Check this bad boy out!" (I'm not positive that I referred to what I'd fished out of a gutter as a "bad boy", but it doesn't seem to be too much of a stretch.)

It was a piece of pipe. Around four feet long, with maybe a four- or five-inch diameter. I'd become ecstatic over this sturdy piece of PVC pipe, and to me, this makes perfect sense. The rational side of my brain said it was perfectly normal to be proud of a piece of pipe found on the ground because the rational side of my brain is utterly convinced that it will make a useful melee weapon to be used against the zombies during the inevitable zombie apocalypse that looms menacingly over our not-so-distant future.

Obviously, I take preparations of this nature quite seriously; this led to a quick demonstration my plans for the pipe to my circle of friends. After describing a scenario involving a lone zombie attempting to enter forcefully through the front door, I took a batter's stance beside the entranceway. "And this is how I'd blast 'em!" I yelled, swinging the enormous pipe through the air in a whooshing parabola, connecting with the soft-palate of an imaginary ghoul. I may or may not have been drunk.

While I swung, I probably looked like Mark McGwire's retarded son. My friends glared at me with something approximating sympathy and misunderstanding, and I was seized by an immediate realization: they're all already dead. No discipline, no sense of preparation, no willingness to imagine a worst-case scenario in which the dead walk the earth. Every single one of them: zombie fodder.

Many hypothetical questions involving this zombie-future have been extensively debated and answered, to varying degrees of success. David and I concluded that a Costco would be the ultimate fortress from the undead (excellent amount of supplies and provisions; large open space; relatively few entrances/exits to be guarded and/or barricaded). Steve and I argued extensively over choice of weapons (my own choice being, of course, a reliable shotgun; Steve infamously chose a goddamn spear because "it never runs out of bullets" (true) and "once it's mounted on a hinge or tripod, it's the perfect weapon to stab through the door with" (totally insane and blatantly untrue).

This recent epiphany regarding the lack of zombie-preparedness on behalf of my peers led to another hypothetical question: which one of my friends will make the most threatening zombie?

After much thought, and careful consideration of a variety of factors (including (but not limited to): relative physical fitness, endurance, tenacity, overall bloodlust, susceptibility to infection and disease, speed and mobility, strength-of-bite, and general scariness), here are the results:

Kyle is an obvious threat; he told me point-blank that he wouldn't mind being a zombie. "If I get bitten, just let me go. Just let me turn into one of them," he said. He's the guy in every zombie movie who gets bitten in the first twenty minutes but hides it from the rest of the survivors, dismissing it as "just a scratch" until finally succumbing and attempting to bite someone's face off. This is unacceptable. If Kyle ever displays any sort of "scratch" during the initial zombie panic, I'll blast him with the pipe. No questions asked.

Due to his gymnastic skill and relatively lithe frame, a zombie version of Kevin could be terrifying. In the past month alone I've seen Kevin stand on his head, compact his body to the size of a suitcase, and gracefully squeeze through the legs of a chair like a seasoned magician's assistant. I picture Zombie Kevin being a master of infiltration: shimmying down chimneys, squeezing through air ducts, popping out of things with gusto like a motherfucking jack-in-the-box. I'd have a pipe, though. I'd blast him with it.

Lauren is skinny, and does yoga. She'd make a comically ineffective zombie. Case closed.

Keith, however, is a different story. For the past six weeks or so, he's been doing that P90X workout regiment. He's even following the diet plan. The infomercials don't lie: dude looks like he's been carved out of a block of granite. Also, Keith is always super nice, all the time. I theorize that when he's infected by the Rage Virus, all the repressed anger and frustration will be released, and because of P90X, it will be able to punch through brick walls and and rip arms asunder from their corresponding torsos. If I tried to blast Zombie Keith with my pipe, I imagine it would harmlessly bounce off his skull, allowing him a precious chance to punch through my sternum with strength enhanced by muscle confusion and elastic bands.

Needless to say, further preparation is necessary. I'm either going to start P90X tomorrow evening, or buy a gun.

In the battle to come, no quarter shall be drawn.

ON THE TRAIN

2009-11-11T22:31:00.000-08:00

Each train in Chicago is a fairly representative sample of the population of the neighborhood it services.

Example: Red Line trains, more often than not, are filled with sports fanatics on their way too/from Wrigleyville. These trains usually smell like stale alcohol and rage. The Orange and Blue lines eventually end at their respective airports; they contain a lot of pushy travelers towing suitcases and relatives behind them in their perpetually-frustrated wake. And of course, the fabled "Dark Line" trains are filled with vampires and frankensteins, and are powered by the clean energy of restless spirits and poltergeists.

It should be alarming to note, however, that the Pink Line trains (which travel through my dear Pilsen), are constantly filled with the strangest folks you can possibly imagine. Because I work on the North Side a good distance away from my apartment, I get to spend about an hour and a half on the trains a day. It proves to be endlessly entertaining and depressing. Usually, simultaneously.

There's this guy named Anton Williams that perpetually prowls through the Pink Line trains, begging for money. I remember his first and last name for two reasons: 1) each time I've seen him, he's come up with a new outrageously-detailed backstory regarding the horrible hardships he's endured in order to facilitate the charity of my fellow riders, and 2) he always drags his five-year old daughter along to make people feel even sorrier for him. It's always awful to watch because his daughter is always crying during the proceedings, and after delivering his speech and collecting spare change, Anton Williams drags her onto the next car for an encore performance. The last time I saw them, Mr. Williams claimed that his sister had kicked the two of them out of her apartment because his daughter stole a piece of chicken from the refrigerator in the middle of the night. He further elaborated that he'd had to leave her apartment in such a hurry, he hadn't been able to grab any socks for his daughter.

Tonight, a man sitting in a seat two rows in front of me was muttering to himself while fastidiously removing the frilly edged from dozens of sheets of paper he'd torn out of a spiral notebook. I was sitting too far away to get a good look at what was written on them, but it definitely appeared to be three columns of single words, filling every line on the page from top to bottom. Meanwhile, he kept muttering, and it almost look like he was chanting something, over and over, over and over, but the sound of the train grinding against the metal tracks rendered whatever he was saying inaudible.

Meanwhile, a few feet behind him, a fourteen-year-old white kid reached into his blue hoodie and suspiciously removed a fat, silver magic marker. He uncapped it, pressed himself against he door like he was trying to meld with it, and began frantically tagging the glass while furtively glancing over his shoulders.

If you're going to tag or engage in any other graffiti-like activity in Pilsen, you'd better be Diego Fucking Rivera. You shit better be epic, lest it pale in comparison to any one of the dozens of vivid murals or cryptically unsettling tags that pepper unprotected surfaces within the area. That being said, the shitty fourteen-year-old did not meet the standard: his arm stabbed swiped with the marker in broad, flourished arcs, and the whole thing just struck me as laughable and semi-tragic. He kept eyeballing me like he suspected me to be an undercover cop, or a rival gang member. I should be flattered?

When I was walking out of the train station I saw an amorphous shape propped up against a wall and I couldn't tell if it was a pile of garbage or a sleeping man.

This place looks a lot better in the daytime.

FOR YOUR CONSIDERATION...

2009-11-08T02:48:00.000-08:00

Updates are in order:

I cut all of my hair off, and I've been growing the beard longer. People are disconcerted. My landlord claims it "makes (me) look like a sailor," whatever that means. I've been vehemently denying that I got a haircut, however; I've been telling people that I used to wear a wig, but I've given up the wig "for solidarity." Whatever that means.

I have a job now. Did I mention that before? I don't believe I did. In a nutshell, I'd say the position is 60% bearable, 10% mind-blowingly simple, 20% enjoyable, 5% awful, and 5% batshit insane. I'll tell you more about it later, in great detail: can't wait to regale you with the gripping yarn about how one of my co-workers was fired for smoking a blunt in his cubicle. The dazzlingly bizarre office building is situated on the bank of the north fork of the Chicago River, and much of my work-time is spent watching the water for wildlife and odd sights. Spotted thus far: disgruntled middle-aged kayakers, dozens of ducks, a rowing team coached by an overweight man yelling obscenities at his rowers via megaphone, and and honest-to-god raccoon. Nature's endless bounty. I work as an "Enrollment Liaison" for the Art Institute, and like most things, it sounds a lot more highfalutin' than it actually is.

I've been averaging about four books a week. I'm re-reading Half-Blood Prince at the moment, and as a result, whenever I do something radical I loudly proclaim "TEN POINTS TO GRYFFINDOR!" to no one but myself. This happens much more often than you'd expect.

Recently my small circle of acquaintances has drawn a line in the sand and separated into two camps: those who like Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, and those who do not. We can all vouch for the mine-cart chase but beyond that, no one can agree on anything besides the universal shittiness of the female lead. Screaming, drunken arguments have ensued. Be warned...if you openly insult Short Round to my face, I'm liable to get buck-wild and stab you with a broken bottle. Not really. But maybe.

Lately, I've been content.

Our sketch-troupe is now sponsored by Budweiser. I have no idea what this means. Stacey believes that Budweiser will send Budweiser Girls to our shows to hand out tacky merchandise and samples of their swill. I believe that Budweiser will grant us use of three magical Clydesdales, and they shall trample our god-fearing enemies with a clomp-clomp-clomp of their mighty hooves. Not only do I not understand what the sponsorship entails, but I'm also at a total loss as to how it happened: none of us actually campaigned for a Budweiser sponsorship. If anyone did, I'd stop being their friend.

I'll be coming back to Phoenix in December to visit.

Honestly, I'm not entirely sure how to feel about this.

HONORARY DEGREE

2009-09-26T19:18:00.000-07:00

We've started doing weekly sketch-comedy shows on Tuesday nights.

Our troupe is called "Honorary Degree", which is strangely fitting, because half of the cast lives in a renovated schoolhouse originally built in 1885 and I'm hella jealous. It's probably even haunted by the ghost of an old schoolmarm or something; the bozos that live there are so lucky.

ANECDOTE FROM THE FIRST SHOW: I was setting up the stage for my first sketch, which involved a dinner scene that required a table and chairs. Mere seconds before the lights were to go up, I sat in one of the chairs, leaned back ever so slightly, and fell backwards off the stage into a small hole. "Whoa!" I yelled, like a retarded kid who can't be trusted to use furniture properly. The audience laughed and clapped, rewarding me for being an idiot.

For a first show, things went surprisingly well. Nobody butchered any lines or dropped any cues and none of the sketches fell flat. Predictably, the "intelligent sketch" about the housing market didn't exactly kill, but we added a lot of small moments that carried the sketch alright. Additionally, we got to drink beer onstage. It's pretty much the only prop I'll need from now on.

ADDITIONAL ANECDOTE FROM FIRST SHOW: By my count, three of the seven sketches ended with me sobbing/crying/suffering from severe disappointment. I think I've found my niche in comedy!

I got to play a miserly imaginary friend, a lovestruck guy who's afraid to talk to girls (typecasting), an unhinged high-school principal, a 911 operator, and a monopoly enthusiast. Best role was the principal, hands-down: not only did I get to scream at the audience and aggressively force them to clap for me, but I got to hand out some really nonsensical student awards (i.e. "Best Diabetic", "Outstanding Achievement in Home Ec", "Nicest Albino Boy", etc).

It's great to be doing this again. That is all.

OOPS

2009-09-17T16:46:00.000-07:00

Totally forgot about writing in this...

Whoops.

I apologize. Continual coverage shall resume shortly.

FORWARD WE STRIVE.

INSPIRATIONAL QUIP.

SHOULDERS OF GIANTS.

I'M ASSUMING YOU HAVE SWORDS

2009-08-27T19:45:00.000-07:00

Dear Teenagers Who Constantly Sit On Our Stoop And Talk In Loud Voices,

Right off the bat I'd like to thank you for your frequent patronage of our front steps. I totally understand that we have an attractive building, very charming, and I respect your decision to sit in front of it for 15 to 20 hours a day. We've had some good times together. Remember that one time when I wanted to enter my apartment, but could hardly get through the mosh-pit you'd thoughtfully assembled on my front steps? You should remember this, because it happens four to five times a day.

I must admit, this daily game of Red Rover is becoming tiring. As I write this I'm listening to one of you loudly telling a story that involves lots of growling and yelling, and while you're obviously quite the raconteur, your level of volume might be a tad bit too high, seeing as how I can hear you through two separate doors and everything.

Oh, and the internet thing.

I know you've been stealing our wireless internet. And I know the group of you have become wild and unruly now that I've put a password on it. And yes, it's true that the password ("FUCKTHOSEKIDS") refers to you. And yes, it's true that I've occasionally fantasized about coating our front steps in some kind of acid. Yes, I have seriously considered calling the non-emergency police line in order to inform them that you're selling dirty vials of crack cocaine to fifth graders. And yes, I have inquired about the possibility of installing some sort of electric fence. The rumors are true.

Perhaps we can reach some kind of agreement. If you're going to live on our stoop, perhaps you can find some way to collectively repay my roommate and I for the frequent inconvenience. I've assembled the following list of ideas:

Form a choir (maybe even a barbershop quartet), and sing elaborate covers of my favorite Hall and Oates songs. The haunting melodies of "I Can't Go for That" would make pleasant chamber music.
Write encouraging notes for me on the sidewalk with chalk.
Perform the Truffle Shuffle at least once a day (in unison).
A daily quota of two-hundred and fifty high-fives, along with an optional ten dozen fist-bumps.
Divide your group in half, and form two parallel lines facing one another. Draw your swords (I'm assuming you have swords), and form an arch with the sword along with the person directly in front of you. This will form the "sword corridor" made popular by films about King Arthur; assemble a "sword corridor" every time I walk in/out of the apartment.

I appreciate your prompt attention regarding this matter...I know all of you regularly read this blog, so I expect your response within the hour.

Sincerely,

P.S. I would appreciate it if you do not stab me.

IT IS DIFFICULT TO NAME A COMEDY TROUPE...

2009-08-21T01:08:00.000-07:00

...but here are some of the names we came up with:

"APACHE BLVD"
"TEMPE KIDS"
"MAGICIAN'S GLOVE"
"DIABETIC WEREWOLF"
"8TH ST"
"FORTUNE AND GLORY"
"NEW CASTLES AND DRINK COASTERS"
"THE PERFECT STORM"
"PROFESSOR DING DONG"
"GLAMOUR IN MOTION"
"KILTLIFTER"
"POPULATION WEIRDO"
"HOP KNOT"
"TIMELESS CLASS, AND ELEGANCE"
"DUI TASK FORCE"
"HONORARY DEGREE"

Official name coming soon. Official lineup, coming soon. Shows begin in a month.

I. Am. Excited.

And Dramatically. Use. Punctuation.

AWESOME ABS (THE FUTURE IS NOW)

2009-08-10T01:00:00.000-07:00

Recently, I've started keeping the television on all the time.

The volume is generally muted, though. I can't quite explain it...that odd cellophane glow it produces is oddly comforting, and I enjoy catching the movement of the images in the corners of my peripheral vision. It's probably inflating our electricity bill like mad, but it's worth it, because there are times in the middle of the night where I'll catch something that completely restores/destroys my faith in humanity.

This is one of those things:

I HAVE MANY THINGS TO SAY ABOUT THIS:

-First, realize this: I automatically do not trust anyone with awesome abs. By "awesome abs" I'm referring, of course, to the specific type that are intended to resemble something carved from a hulking slab of glistening marble by nimble Italian artisans. To me, however, awesome abs resemble the shitty forehead makeup on the Klingons from "Star Trek". We all remember what happened to Prometheus when he attempted to steal fire from Mt. Olympus. This begs the question: why must we enlist the aid of a Magic Belt to steal the Gods' secret to awesome abs? Such abs belong on metopes on the Parthenon, not on douchebag single-dads with bleached tips.

-Second (and this might have been the lack of sleep, or the painkillers percolating in my bloodstream) but after watching the video's veritable montage of abs...don't they all start to look like contorted human faces? With the nipples serving as makeshift eyes, and the belly-button, a sort of permanently-surprised mouth? No? Is that just me? And the footage of the Magic Belt working, when the abs are spasming and contracting...doesn't that make it look like the ab-face is chewing? No? Yes?

-Third, now that we've got a bizarre electronic belt designed to sculpt and mold our bodies, we are officially living in the future. I want to go back in time and grab a young Harlan Ellison or Ray Bradbury or William Gibson and scream, "hey, when you grow up, we'll have magic belts that exercise our bodies while we stand around doing jack shit!" And it would blow their young minds. After completing this task I'd laugh and do a wheelie because, in my head, all my imaginary time-machines also happen to be motorcycles.

-Forth, whenever the video cut to infra-red images of awesome abs, I though, "hey, this is what it would look like if the Predator gazed longingly into a great set of abs."

-And finally, I don't think "Contour Abs" is an adequate name for the product, and firmly believe that they should have stuck with the original name: "The Abortion Belt".

COOP

2009-08-09T14:41:00.000-07:00

The chicken coop is finished. I still have no idea why my neighbors felt compelled to build it.

Natalie excitedly chirped, "we'll have eggs by October 2nd!" I found this statement incredibly disturbing. First of all, she knows the exact date, like she's giving these chickens nightly ultrasounds, charting chicken-trimesters on some sort of line-graph. Also, I might be wrong, but I think grocery stores have started selling eggs; no need to rush those birds. Let them rest. Get comfy.

As much as I love to cynically shoot holes in it, the chicken coop is still pretty cool. I've enjoyed watching chickens frolic from the comfort of the back porch. Also, Carl did a bang-up job on the coop, going so far as to make it rat-proof.

"Do we even have rats back here?" I inquired.

"I'm not waiting to find out," he replied. This go-getter attitude (along with his extreme carpentry skills) makes Carl the Most Likely To Survive The Looming Zombie Apocalypse.

Carl told me the names him and Natalie had bestowed upon the chickens, but they were sort of stupid, so I proceeded to immediately forget them. I've taken to calling the two black ones "Bill and Ted" and the orange one "Rufus", because if you squint hard enough, the coop sort of looks like a phone booth.

The infamous Coop.

(check out the radical chicken staircase!)

View from the back porch.

(notice the close proximity of train-tracks)

View of the Coop, the Garden, and the Patio.

Bill, Ted, and Rufus. Just hangin' out.

SHARK WEEK PARTY

2009-08-07T20:47:00.000-07:00

There was a lot of garbage on our floor after the party was over.

Several receipts, about forty-five cents in loose change, a black and white composition notebook, a brochure for the Baha'i faith written in an indecipherable language, and a broken pair of eyeglasses that probably belonged to the shitty girl that came over with half a bottle of tequila already inside her. I thought about picking everything up, but left it there for about a day and a half with hope that all the trash would get walked on enough to compress it into the granite tile floor; another layer stamped into the geographic strata of this apartment, a thin trash-colored vein which future generations of party-anthropologists would deem unfit for study.

The party itself could be compared to a revolving door: a lot of people came, but never at the same time. Lauren came first. Lauren begat DougSteve, DougSteve begat Meredith and her sister (who's name I can no longer remember), Meredith begat Teo and his entourage of shitty drunk girls, and so on and so forth. I don't mean "begat" in the biblical fashion. That would have made it a different sort of party altogether.

Is it really a "party" if it consisted of the lot of us sitting around watching footage of Great Whites jumping fourteen feet above the surface of the water? I even went out of my way to buy flour, because the general impression was that we were somehow going to collectively motivate ourselves to engage in paper mache. This was a lofty goal, and obviously, was not attained. I don't mind, thought...I honestly just wanted an excuse to hear Teo pronounce "paper mache", because he pronounces it correctly, in the manner of the French: "Pap-ee-ay Ma-shey".

Somehow it comes across as unpretentious and totally befitting.

If you're going to schedule an entire week of programming devoted to a single animal, some of it's going to be filler. One of the programs we collectively watched pretty much revolved around a dude dragging different types of meat behind his boat in order to determine what sharks liked the best. Guess what? They're not picky eaters. They're motherfucking sharks. Be it squid or a hunk of beef or a dismembered tuna carcass or a pizza, sharks will eat it. It's what they do.

Later on, we watched a father try to unite his family through his mission to preserve sharks. His father used to be a shark hunter, so it was up to him (and his children) to save sharks in order to atone for his father's epic sin. Dude was hellbent on instilling a love of all-things-shark into his kids, and went so far as to personally design "the world's first child-sized dive cage" to be used for shark-diving. By his children. His small, preteen children. When they entered the cage, their eyes were the side of saucers, and I suddenly found myself respecting my own father a lot more. Dude kept claiming that, "sharks are in [his] family's blood." Pretty soon, your family's blood is going to be inside sharks.

Don't get me wrong. I love sharks, I really do, but let's be honest: they're godless, man-hating killing machines. My problem with shark week is that yeah, it shows a lot of fantastic footage of sharks jumping out of the water in order to eat something, and yeah, it's got a lot of great information regarding different species of sharks and what makes them special (i.e. terrifying), but shark week doesn't even come close to telling me what I need to know: where they are, what weaknesses they possess, and how to kill them with underwater guns/ lasers. That would have been helpful, Discovery Channel.

Or, maybe they did mention that. I might have forgotten. I was pretty drunk at the time.

THE "BIG BOSS" THEORY

2009-08-01T22:17:00.000-07:00

I was walking through the city the other day, and I found a map laying on the sidewalk.

Hey, somebody left a map here for me, I thought. As if there's an old man shuffling around Chicago, dropping maps all willy-nilly, hoping lost travelers will stumble upon them.

There's a very specific feeling that I felt at that moment, a feeling that I believe is common to the "young people" demographic, but as of this moment has not been named nor classified: the strange suspicion that your life follows the rules and norms of late-'80s to mid-'90s video games.

Let us consider the map again, but from this new perspective. Sure, I'd found a map on the ground, and yes, it was simply a map of the downtown Chicago area. BUT, in the beginning levels of every narrative video game ever created, don't you always find a map? And doesn't that map lead you to items, weapons, secret passages, etc? Answer: YES, YES, and YES.

I thought I'd test the theory. I walked around for a bit longer, looking for an sword. Maybe a pistol, perhaps, or a gem, depending on what genre of game I was currently inhabiting. At the very least, I was sure to find some gold coins, or rings. Definitely rings. But guess what? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. This didn't totally disprove the theory, however; I'm guessing gems and gold coins don't go unclaimed for long with all these hobos roaming around.

If you were privileged enough to know me between the years of '05 and '07, you know that the following was true: yes, I was constantly drunk, and yes, I was constantly bitter. And if we spoke at length during this period, I probably tried to convey the second postulate of my theory (even though I was probably too drunk to coherently say the words "postulate", or "theory"). It is as follows: romantic entanglements with the opposite sex follow the same rules and norms as the "boss battles" of late-'80s to mid-'90s video games.

Allow me to clarify.

First, I am not suggesting relationships should end with you brutally slaying your significant other by dropping him/her into an open pit of molten lava. This part of the theory is purely hypothetical; out of all the girlfriends I've had, I've only dropped one or two of them into molten lava, and those broads totally deserved it for reasons I shall not go into.

FACT: Most video game bosses are "super-powered" in comparison to other more commonplace enemies.

This makes perfect sense. Out of all the people you've encountered in your life, who's been the most "super-powered"? Obviously, the girl you had a crush on, the first boy you kissed on the swings, or maybe the woman that you're currently sharing a condo with. If there's anything that makes someone "super-powered", it's the level of control they possess over your mushy, heart-shaped emotions. (That is, unless you know someone who actually has "super-powers" such as super-speed or mega-karate. Never go on a date with someone who claims to have mega-karate).

FACT: Most battles with video game bosses occur at the end of levels.

This also makes sense. Looking back, doesn't it seem like you've embarked on different relationships at key moments of your life? Don't these relationships define these periods of your life, and vice versa? Of course they do. High School, Summer Camp, Your First Shitty Job, Freshman Year, Sophomore Year, et cetera: these are all levels of your life, and if you're still alive/not in a mental institution, then you've beaten them, albeit with varying degrees of success. (The only exception? Water levels. Most video games have "water levels", and most human lives do not, unless you spent a summer working on an oil derrick or clam-diving or just really, really fucking loved to swim. That's okay, though...water levels are consistently awful, and I do not recommend you basing a phase of your life around them)

FACT: Video game bosses usually require a special skill or item to be utilized by you, the player, in order to be successfully defeated. EXAMPLE: In order for you to beat the boss who runs on ceilings and walls, you must run directly under him at great risk to your own health, luring him to the ground where you can jump on his head three times in order to defeat him.

This is where the analogy becomes much more metaphorical. Usually, these "skills" or "items" are in fact aspects of your personality that you must utilize to move past your girlfriend/boyfriend, out of the relationship, and on to the next phase (or level) of your life. Instead of a fire-flower, maybe you obtain a heightened sense of self-awareness. Instead of a mushroom, perhaps you find an increase in confidence. Instead of a magic cape, maybe you come to realize that sex should consist of more than just "laying there". (These skills or items are much more difficult to obtain in real life, and even harder to utilize effectively. It would be a lot easier to simply lure him/her to the ground and jump on his/her head three times in rapid succession, but once again, this is not feasible in real life. Trust me! I have tried this and it totally backfired! Sorry, Elizabeth, that was totally my bad!)

FACT: Video games end with a "final boss battle" in which you must use your all of previously-acquired skills and items combined in order to come out the victor.

This part of the theory is purely, absolutely hypothetical, and strays a bit from the facts. As mushy and heart-shaped as it sounds, I think the "final boss battle" occurs when you meet the person that you're perfectly happy playing against, over and over for the foreseeable future. After a while, you forget about the high scores because at this point you're done competing, even with yourself, content to dodge the fireballs, outrun the hammers and robotic arms, knowing all too well their weaknesses and their strengths.

So here's to you, dear reader: I hope you find your Ganon, your Bowser, or your Dr. Robotnic, and I hope you never have to resort to using cheat codes in the process.

At this point, even I no longer understand what the hell I'm talking about.

"WE CUSTOMIZE GOLD FOR SUPER MOVIE STARS"

2009-07-31T21:16:00.000-07:00

Applying for jobs online usually ends with hilarious results.

CASE IN POINT: Tonight I sent an application for a job with a really generic, nebulous description. Also, the exact name of the company wasn't even mentioned in the listing, which is totally a good sign. About three minutes later, I received a reply (curiously prompt, wouldn't you say?), and it turns out the job looks really promising, totally real, and not a scam at all!!!!

Here are some highlights:

"The name of our company is VISUAL ACE GOLD we are United Arab Emirate based company and what we do basically is that, we customize gold for Super Movie stars and Music stars all over Europe."

"Since we re a United Arab Emirate company and our currency is diffrent from your currency in united state, this will be a problem for us asking our customer to send money directly from United State to Dubai,United Arab Emirate and that is why we need someone who is hardworking."

"You'll have a lot of free time doing another job, because this job schedule is flexible, you'll get good income. But this job is very challenging and you should understand it."

I hope my interview goes well! But the company is based in Dubai, so it's going to be a bit of a trip! I can't wait to help customize gold for Super Movie stars and Music stars all over Europe. And, if they send me a MoneyGram, I'll be sure to cash it because it's definitely probably legitimate! Time to go pay these application fees, but they're necessary, because the job will be challenging.

And, I should understand it.

ELEVATOR, GOING BACK DOWN

2009-07-30T18:04:00.000-07:00

Today I was informed that the previously-mentioned law firm doesn't actually have the budget for the new program they hired me for/doesn't think there will be enough actual work for me.

So, they "let me go."

I can't even really think of anything funny to say about this. It's very disappointing, obviously, mainly because applying for more jobs tomorrow will be incredibly bitter, and I foolishly really got my hopes up for the job and started making plans based upon it. I've been listening to a lot of Phil Collins today, and acting a lot like John Cusack in any movie in which he's mopey and withdrawn.

Not the best day ever.

ELEVATOR.

2009-07-29T16:59:00.000-07:00

I am no longer legally allowed to write about my new job.

They had me sign a confidentiality agreement today in which I agreed to "not divulge information regarding the practices of (Company Name), the implementation of said practices, and any and all information regarding past and present clients, both during your time of employment, and after your employment has ended." If I break this agreement, I will immediately be fired, and possibly prosecuted.

SHIT JUST GOT REAL, SON.

And it's not like I can try to get away with it. I'm working for a legal office, for a team of young, professional lawyers. Breaking a legally-binding agreement with lawyers like these would be like sucker-punching a hive of angry bees.

Anyway, yeah. I got a job in a legal firm that specializes in bankruptcy, which is making the new ban on writing especially tough because I'm going to accumulate so many depressing stories about miserable people that I'm officially not allowed to share with you. On the plus side, however, this job is a financial windfall that will allow me to do increasingly reckless and foolish things in this wonderful city. Also, health care will be provided. Why is it that a bankruptcy firm is suddenly so successful and profitable and willing to hire a roustabout such as myself??! I just can't figure it out!!!

AND I'M WORKING IN THE MOTHERFUCKING SEARS TOWER. I cannot express to you how exciting this is. It was totally my main impetus to take the job, partially out of my love of large-scale architecture, but also because the building is so imposingly massive that it practically houses a self-contained city. It's like an office building, but one that's stacked on top of a food court that's been placed atop a small museum with odd flanges of whirling modern art growing inside like benevolent, colorful tumors. Also, there's a gym and a candy shoppe in the basement. (this is a secret that the bigwigs don't want you to know!!)

I may not be able to write about work, but I certainly look forward to relating colorful stories that I witness firsthand in and around the Sears Tower; the lunchtime rush is especially fruitful. There are perhaps hundreds of young urban professionals stalking the crosswalks like extras in a Romero movie. Even their bluetooths wear little bluetooths of their own.

But, the elevators.

There's dozens of them inside, stretching upwards like capillaries. You can't take a single elevator, you're forced to constantly get off after traveling only ten or twenty floors in order to portage to a different bank of elevators just in order to do it all over again. I wondered about this for a while, but then thought of scuba divers surfacing too fast: bubbles of oxygen in the brain, decompression sickness, the Bends.

Every time I travel up too fast, my head starts to hurt and my ears start to pop, and I can't stop wondering why.

"SITTIN' AT THE BUS STOP, WAITIN' LIKE FOREVER"

2009-07-26T16:26:00.000-07:00

I AM TEAMWORK. #1 DINOSAUR LOVE. DETERMINED.

2009-07-23T21:05:00.000-07:00

Here are some things I drew at work in order to waste time:

(And for those who requested custom-made pieces of art a week or so ago: be patient. Preliminary sketches shall be finished soon, and then...well, let's just say the awesomeness is apt to melt your face off. The pictures above are obvious proof. If you want to see the drawings above live, in person, go buy a ticket to the Art Institute of Chicago, because I'm going to sneak them in and leave them there.)

"SAVEENDOR" AND "ELUSIVE CAT-MAN"

2009-07-22T00:57:00.000-07:00

Tonight for your reading pleasure I shall apologize to someone who I grievously wronged and ruminate on something that could have been. Read on, and continue to be unimpressed with me!

So, a big part of my job is calling people in the greater Chicago area to give them free tickets to comedy shows. I enjoy this because 1) I really like comedy, 2) I enjoy giving shit to people (especially when it's not my stuff), and 3) it usually makes people really happy, which I enjoy facilitating. Except sometimes it backfires and I ruin someone's pleasant afternoon. Case in point:

ME: (in the process of giving tickets to a guy who's really, really excited to receive them) Okay man, I'll send you an email with all the details, and you can call to reserve tickets from there!

HIM: Okay, that sounds great, thanks man! Awesome.

ME: I'll just confirm your email real quick... is your address "SaveEndor@email.com? (I laugh) Man, that's the best email address I've heard all day!! (real email provider withheld for confidentiality)

HIM: (stuttering) F-f-f-fuck you!

Then, he hung up. He thought I was making fun of his email address... his awesome, awesome email address. So, this next portion is directed to "SaveEndor":

Dear Guy I Spoke To On The Phone,

What I said was misinterpreted. I was being honest....I think you've got an awesome email address. See, the way I saw it, you were playing on the endless "Save Darfur" campaigns that so much of our demographic is facetiously engaged in; what you did was juxtapose Darfur for the fictional Star Wars planet Endor, which was quite clever! This is compounded by the fact that Endor is a planet populated by Ewoks and therefore does not deserve to be saved! I wasn't being sardonic, I assure you! Additionally, I'm not mocking your Star Wars fandom; that would be like the pot calling the kettle black (or, to put it in a more approachable way, that would be like Dengar calling IG-88 an ineffective mercenary). So, if you're reading this (which is likely, because you probably got a google alert set up for the phrases "Dengar" and "IG-88"), I am sorry. Please accept the tickets to the mediocre comedy show I was trying to give you. Someday I hope we'll laugh about this over a beer before turning the conversation to other things, like how underrated Admiral Piett is.

Phew. Glad that's off my chest.

As for the rumination on what could have been: I was in the process of making a call to a man named Geri, and saw that his email address was "GerisCats@email.com". This made me laugh absurdly; it was as if Geri's cats were the actual owners of the account, and the image of a long-haired calico checking his email WAS SIMPLY TOO MUCH TO TAKE. Think about it. Go ahead, think about it. (Digression: I think the calico would enjoy using the computer's...mouse! HAW HAW! Do you think the trash folder in the calico's email is called...his litterbox? HAW HAW! Seriously, I could keep going all night).

The icing on the cake? Under the "notes" section, someone had written the following: "THIS GUY'S CAT-RELATED VOICEMAIL MESSAGE WAS UNBELIEVABLE. CATS IN HEAT?!?!?"

Needless, to say, I was so excited to call and hear it, my fingers trembled as I dialed...

...only to find that Verizon had disconnected the phone number. Immediately I became depressed. The following portion is directed at "Geri" should he somehow read this:

Dear Crazy Cat Man,

I cannot express how much I wanted to hear this mysterious message, nor can I express the questions that continue to plague me: What kind of voicemail message could prompt such a comment to be written? And what of the mysterious reference to "cats in heat"? Did you record one of your sex-crazed felines? Are you, in fact, a sentient cat posing as a human, trying to make it in our modern world? I fear I will not be able to rest until these questions are answered, so I beg you....please, please pay your outstanding balance with Verizon and re-instate your cell phone connection so that I can hear this message and gain catharsis. If you're severely in debt, I'm willing to front you the money to do this. Hit me up.

I can only pray that these messages are received. Like a message-filled bottle thrown upon stormy tempests, I pray these correspondences are received by their targets: the stuttering Star Wars fanatic, and the elusive Cat-Man.

JUST ME, PEEPIN' ATCHA

2009-07-20T23:14:00.000-07:00

I spend a lot of time on my back porch.

It felt like wasted time for a while, but then I decided to get my Harriet the Spy on and start snooping on my neighbors. One of them could be a mass-murderer, burying dismembered people-parts beneath our garden. In a nutshell, I just want to be Jimmy Steward from Rear Window (mainly because it might lead to Grace Kelly coming over to deliver me food and kisses). (EDITOR'S NOTE: This paragraph quickly turned into a jumbled stew of pop culture references. If you're still reading, you deserve a small trophy).

To sum up: I've started spying on my neighbors like an old fuddy-duddy. Here are my findings so far, broken down floor-by-floor:

Second floor, Main Building: Located directly above our place; inhabited by a middle-aged Hispanic couple and their eighty-four children. They're the previously mentioned couple who graciously offered us corn and beer. Frequently I come home to find a few of their friends sprawled on my front steps smelling of malt liquor, and it makes a hell of a welcome mat. Their kids love to sprint down the stairs and jump onto the landing; this bothers Stacey a lot more than it does me. Also, every night at eight I hear a prolonged thumping noise directly above our living room. Stacey's theory? Treadmill. My theory? Fucking.

Third floor, Main Building: Inhabited by a twenty-something couple. The girl's name is Natalie, and the dude's name I don't remember, mainly because I'm a lot more motivated to learn the names of girls than guys. Both of them serve as the de-facto fixer-uppers of our small apartment: they're the driving forces behind the garden renovation project and the chicken coop construction (which I fully support emotionally, but have yet to help with.) Most interesting fact gleaned thus far: Natalie admitted to "shooting neighborhood cats with a b.b. gun". More observation is necessary. Her boyfriend is stoic, rolls the cuffs of his jeans in the European style, and is not very interesting. My Ouija Board claims Natalie and I are destined to be together, which I'm not inclined to believe, because, let's face it: my fingers were totally moving the pointer-thingie.

Attic, Main Building: Inhabited by another twenty-something couple who's names I don't remember but totally should because I talk to them twice a week. Harriet the Spy would be ashamed. Most notable interaction: I was lingering on the porch when they arrived from her 21st birthday celebration; she almost fell down the stairs, and he shot me a look that said, wow, can you believe the absurdity of this shit? Then, he bummed a smoke. He's consistently the nicest person in our building.

Garden Apartment, Adjacent Building: Inhabited by a single twentysomething girl. Very indie. Looks like a grown-up version of Knives Chau from Scott Pilgrim. Recently purchased a small motorcycle, which looks like a toy and cannot conceivably function. She brings guys back to her place CONSTANTLY, and whispers sexual promises to them in the creepy alley. Always avoids eye contact with me as she walks to her place. Voted "Apartment-Dweller Most-Likely to Be Addicted to Coke" by me.

First Floor, Adjacent Building: Reclusive. Rarely seen, like an elusive bird. Bares further investigation. The one thing I know for sure is this: whoever lives there owns a really great papasan chair that sits on the balcony, accumulating rain damage. This papasan may abruptly disappear soon, and re-appear inside my apartment, as if by magic.

UPDATE: It appears that my extracurricular peeping is justified: while I wrote this post, someone peed on my front steps. Time to step up the surveillance. Looks like someone thinks I'm getting too close. Looks like someone...is trying to send a warning.

"MONSIEUR FARGO ARRIVES VIA THE DEPOT"

2009-07-12T22:51:00.000-07:00

I don't understand banks, dude.

So I get to Chicago, and discover that there's literally one Wells Fargo ATM here. Just one. And, it's eight miles away from where I live. In a really inconvenient neighborhood. And, the ATM is randomly inside a Home Depot.

My hat's off to you, Monsieur Wells and Monsieur Fargo! Logic dictates that you'd either have no ATMs, or, lots, but placing just one of your fine cash-giving machines in one of the largest cities in the world... that's a master-stroke! And the fact that you've arbitrarily place it in a hardware/home-improvement superstore, well that's certainly a hole-in-one!

However, if I did stick with Wells Fargo, it would have led to some odd conversations when I suddenly needed to get cash in a hurry:

"We're going to a restaurant that only accepts cash? Well, I guess I'll be heading to Home Depot! I'll see you guys in an hour and a half!!"

"Wait, we're going to a strip club tonight? Do you mind if we stop at the Home Depot first? I need to pick up some cash, because my bank's only ATM is there, and while I'm at it, I'll probably buy some lumber. You know, as an impulse buy."

The folks at Bank of America were super helpful and super nice: they were able to set me up with a new Checking and Savings account in about fifteen minutes, which is totally insane, and probably means they forgot to do something. I didn't opt to go for the customized checks, even though they had one that prominently featured dolphins, and that would have been amusing. My landlord would have totally gotten the wrong idea.

Have you heard about this "Keep The Change" program Bank of America offers? I'd heard of it dozens of times, and even signed up for it at the bank, but a half hour later I realized I have no idea what it actually is. During my ten minute walk to the train station, I hypothesized the following possible ways I'd be "keeping the change":

Upon offering to pay for something in a small convenience store, the shopkeeper gladly accepts my crisp dollar bill, but pushes my quarter and nickel away. "Keep the change!" he shouts, and we laugh and laugh and laugh.

After paying for something in a small convenience store, the shopkeeper looks around, making sure no one is keeping a close eye, and he dumps the contents of the "Take A Penny, Leave A Penny" jar into my bag. "Keep the change!" he shouts, laughing maniacally while I nervously take my bag and back away.

After leaving a Bank of America location, the staff gleefully chases me down the block, pelting me with rolls of quarters and dimes. The rolls of Sacajawea gold-dollars leave painful welts. "Keep the motherfucking change!!" they scream in unison, and I suddenly find myself missing the childish whimsy of Monsieur Wells and Monsieur Fargo.

Turns out, the "Keep The Change" program just periodically transfers really small amounts of money from one of my accounts to another, just like that computer virus in Superman 3.

I may not understand banks, but I understand the hell out of Superman 3.

ARTISTIC INTENT

2009-07-11T18:03:00.000-07:00

Right now I'm watching Inside Man on BET. Do you know what they call the weekly movie they show on Saturday nights? "Black-buster Movies." Seriously.

This alone convinces me that I need to turn off the television and do something creative for a while. I think I'd like to draw something for you.

So here's what we're going to do: post an idea for a drawing (along with a title for said drawing), and I will draw it for you. I'll post it in the blog when it's finished, along with a dedication to you, the visionary.

Odds are, someone will post a pornographic request, which I have no desire to draw. Pornographic requests will be deleted, because, let's face it...we're not in fifth grade anymore.

Let's make art together.

THE GENTRIFIERS

2009-07-07T21:48:00.000-07:00

It's the Forth of July and we're dejectedly riding the Pink Line home, incorrectly thinking we've already missed the fireworks. One can only wait in Millennium Park so long with the looming threat of rain overhead, so we've boarded the train, not fully realizing what waits five stops ahead.

The train rides roof-level, swimming through tops of the trees. I am more than a little fucked up, but my iPod's shuffle gains an odd level of sentience, of foresight, and just as it queues up Daft Punk's "Aerodynamic/One More Time" a series of fireworks goes off on both sides of us, mirrored in the scratched windows of the train.

From the vantage of the Damen station it gets better. Surrounding the distant Chicago skyline we see more fireworks blooming, miniaturized by the distance like far-off supernovas. "It's like being in an iPod commercial," Sam says.

"God, if the city's like this, I wonder what our neighborhood's going to be like?" I wonder.

And here's where the difference comes in, the key difference between fireworks in Arizona and fireworks in Illinois. In Arizona, all the paranoid chowderheads are terrified of potential wildfires, so firework displays are neutered and held in depressing city parks, but in Chicago, fireworks are totally legal everywhere, and everyone has them.

Pilsen is transformed. Residents have blocked off streets with makeshift roadblocks composed of massive SUVs. The streets, miraculously cleared of traffic; roughly seven city blocks cordoned off, turned into a block-party. The block party.

Actually, Vietnam. Our neighborhood has turned into fucking Vietnam. A cloud of bitter gunpowder smoke roughly half a mile wide drifts over the streets; hollow pop-pop-pops of black cats echo off block walls; bottle rockets shoot horizontally like child-sized scud missiles; screaming magnesium spinners cutting deadly parabolas at eye-level through the smoke; and everywhere, children laughing. It is a friendly Vietnam.

The part that blows my mind? The awesomely reckless combination of fearless children and barrels of fireworks. Kids dash into the street, lighting fuses and staring into the burning magnesium glow. Kids holding fireworks, aiming them at each other, throwing handfuls of them like Fisher-Price hand grenades. Kids cramming lit fireworks into the mouths of dogs and babies, and I think, goddamn, this is great. Our sparklers are impotent in comparison. We run through the streets pretending to be soldiers trapped behind enemy lines. It isn't too much of a stretch.

The wonders of the block party multiply, including: 1) turntables and a DJ, 2) an elaborate lights display complete with dancefloor, 3) a huge entertainment center where four kids are playing Xbox 360, 4) dozens of barbecues, and most impressively 5) everyone is super nice. I am offered corn on the cob and cold beer by our neighbors. This marks the first time they've said more than three words to me. I'd assumed they'd never speak to me, because most/all of my tightly-knit neighborhood is hispanic, and I'm whiter than your ipod headphones.

BRIEF DIGRESSION CONCERNING OUR NEIGHBORHOOD: Before moving, I totally bought into the quasi-racism and paranoia that runs rampant online concerning Pilsen and its 85% Hispanic community. "Discotillyoudie" (ugh) writes the following concerning Pilsen: "im not rascist against mexicans but i would feel more comfortable being somwhere more with a more diverse population..i dont know spanish for the life of me so i think id feel akward often. i am also afraid of being anywhere near a gangfight." I don't wanna say I played into the stereotypes, but let's face it, I'm a Gentrifier here. I understand that. But it doesn't mean that I don't occasionally look over my shoulder when I'm walking at night, even if doing so makes me feel small. END DIGRESSION.

The beer is cold and the corn is delicious and I'm thinking, this can't be real. The music is loud enough to be heard above the fireworks and it's a welcome break from the rampant Michael Jackson memorial playlists heard all over the city: it's all Pitbull and Ice Cube and I'm thinking, that's my shit.

And since we're the youngest adults here, the kids flock to us. "Are you teenagers?" one of them asks Stacey, and she doesn't know what to say. The kids are so nice. We give them candy and toys and Stacey is handing out glow-sticks like a mom on Halloween. Several of the kids have amazing light-up swords, and we begin epic swordfights with them in the middle of the street, swordfights in which we're repeatedly stabbed, resulting in epic, theatrical deaths complete with clutched stomachs and swooning falls. The kids eat this up and the parents smile. We are suddenly the babysitters, the camp counselors, sweating and smoking and drinking and fighting with swords and throughout all of it, we can't stop laughing. I am repeatedly hit in the balls with plastic swords but I play into it, acting the fool, and the kids laugh harder.

I witness miraculous things. There's an honest-to-god moment of really, really coordinated dancing set to reggaeton. A stray bottle rocket roars through a crowd of elderly hispanic women before rocketing underground via a crack in the sidewalk; a second later it explodes, and ominous green light oozes through cracks in the street.

I'm sweating, running up and down the street, and that's when I finally run across the white kids. They're congregating in a nicer-than-average house halfway down the street, but none of them venture outside. They sit in their living room, sipping red cups, surrounded by overstuffed couches and probably listening to Modest Mouse. I wave to them through their gigantic living room window, my eyes saying come on out, you guys, the water's fine! They respond by closing the curtains.

The block party continues. Sam is invited across the street to join in on the coordinated dancing. Stacey and I cynically assume they're luring him over to throw fireworks at him or something, but once we join him, a older hispanic dude (who is totally hammered) repeatedly says, "You guys are alright. You guys are okay." He smiles. We smile back.

Meanwhile, more white kids nervously dart through the block party. Most are wearing headphones, eyes focused carefully on the ground, and none of them linger. All head towards the previously mentioned house, and all head immediately inside. "What are you doing?" I want to shout. "The party out here is way better than anything in there!!!" Throughout the party, Sam, Stacey, and myself are the only white people participating.

The party winds on. For hours. We lose steam, say goodbye to the kids and their parents, and head inside to cook dinner around midnight.

A few hours later we walk outside to smoke cigarettes, and a miracle has happened. Not only has the party stopped, but the block has transformed from full-on, raging block party to a normal suburban street. All of the trash: immaculately cleaned up. All the roadblocks: removed. All the cars: returned to their original parallel-parked positions. The scale and speed of such a massive restoration is staggering; I can barely clean up after a game of beer pong, let alone organize a massive block party and clean it up within a span of hours.

But a smaller party has taken its place. Now that the block party has ended, the white kids have become emboldened and moved their party outside, no longer afraid. This party is massively depressing to watch: all of the kids are clumped on the sidewalk, looking dumpy and drinking out of red cups while shuffling their feet and awkwardly swaying their hips in a horrible parody of dancing. Obviously, they're listening to "Thriller", and a few of them even attempt to do the Thriller dance in the street, stopping a few cars in the process. A paired girl and boy engage in what can only be called "a gymnastic line-dance", and somehow, it's a lot whiter than I am. Sam, Stacey and I smoke and stare at them derisively.

"That's the worst thing I've ever seen," Sam says, regarding a fat girl who's whining about something that's "not fair".

"If they leave trash outside, I'm going to be pissed," Stacey says. I feel the same way; after watching the miraculous clean-up of the block party, littering our street would seem like a betrayal.

"I'm so glad I'm not them," I say. We easily could have been.

I know how this sounds. I know it seems like just because I shared an ear of corn, accepted a beer, and entertained neighborhood kids, I suddenly feel accepted. That's not the case and it probably won't ever be, not all the way, but I don't want to look down on anything while here, and certainly don't want to look down on anything through drawn curtains. I don't want to become an embarrassment. I don't want to separate myself, to ever wall myself off from whatever happens here; to wait to have my own separate party in the street.

This weekend was the first time living here stopped feeling like a vacation, like a week at summer camp, and started feeling like something else. That guy said, "You guys are alright. You guys are okay."

At this point, I'm pretty inclined to believe him.

THE HOMESTEAD ACT

2009-07-05T18:53:00.000-07:00

Here's a pretty basic tour of the apartment. If you'd rather, check out the flickr set here (complete with captions!). Coming soon: photos of our neighborhood, and whatever photos Stacey's taken that I steal from her camera. ISN'T THIS EXCITING?

THE FAVORITE CREW IN THE HOOD

2009-07-03T23:11:00.000-07:00

As we walked to Damen today we were voted "Favorite Crew In The Hood" by the portly dude who constantly sits on his stoop and always, always wants to party. I'm not sure if we receive a trophy, a plaque, or a trophy and a plaque, but I will be waiting by the mailbox.

The Taste is a massive annual festival held in Grant Park that celebrates the diverse ethnic cuisine (and the proud obesity) of Chicago. It's been ongoing for the past week or so, and while we were massively stupid to have waited til the first day of the Forth of July weekend to make an appearance (due to wall-to-wall crowds), there is no better way to celebrate our nation's birthday than to eat, eat, eat.

Recorded for posterity, here's the ridiculous tally of foods we consumed: mango-cumin french fries, Latin/Indian fusion chicken wings, roasted corn on the cob, gazpacho, mint chutney chicken, a skewer of beef, and a slice of cheesecake. This just in: I'm fat.

But there's more to do at the Taste than just shoving things into your mouth while sobbing! You can listen to the horrible things that are coming out of other people's mouths, too! Here's a few gems I overheard while waiting in lines:

"Wow, there sure are a lot of purebred black people here."

"Y'all better learn to walk with haste!"

"Don't step on my kid."

Repeatedly throughout the day, Sam and I pretended to be a father and son who'd become separated in the crowds. I'd frantically run through the streets, craning my neck in search while screaming, "JASON? JASON, WHERE ARE YOU? JASON CAN YOU HEAR ME?!" Two hundred feet away, Sam would execute a similar performance: he'd wander, looking panicked and alone, crying out, "DAD? DAD?! HAS ANYBODY SEEN MY DAD?" We ended it the same way every time, by finally spotting each other, hugging tightly while I commanded him to "never do something like that again." The numerous police officers seemed amused.

It was awe-inspiring to see how much of the city had been shut down because of the festival. Entire blocks of Michigan avenue were closed to traffic in order to allow massive crowds surge through them like arteries. Watching thousands of dazed people wander through an oddly traffic-desolate section of downtown, I thought, "holy shit, this is what it'll look like when the world's ending, except with more screaming and less funnel cake."

Tomorrow, I'll be riding the fireworks to the moon and back, and I need to remember to make an ironically patriotic playlist before I get too intoxicated. Have a safe and happy Forth of July.

BLOOD IN THESE STREETS AND I MISSED SEEING IT

2009-07-02T19:10:00.000-07:00

Sam, Stacey and I saw Public Enemies today at AMC River East 21; it's the theater where they held the premiere for the film last week, and it's also four miles away from the Biograph Theatre where Dillenger was shot to death.

The whole experience was surreal.

I've been trying to learn more about Chicago's history since I got here, and it was pretty dazzling to see it re-created in such detail on a movie screen. Part of me wishes I was living in the Chicago of 1931 instead of its present incarnation...I mean, AMC River East 21 is a multi-level chrome-and-neon behemoth that looks like every other franchised theatre in the country, and in the sage words of Mr. Lowy, it "smells like an armpit". I kind of wish modern theaters were a bit more like the Biograph, even if it meant outlaws would occasionally get their brains splattered on the front steps.

The final scenes of the film show Dillinger unknowingly watching Manhattan Melodrama in the Biograph while federal agents surround the theater. I knew Dillenger was going to die, everyone did, but unexpectedly, I became very worried because in the moment I was an audience member in a theater watching a movie about an audience member in a theater who was mere minutes away from getting shot in the back of the head.

The film came to a close, the credits started rolling, and in my head, the Chicago of then and now blended into a muddled combination, a negative that's been exposed too many times. I walked out of the theater with my head on a swivel, half expecting someone to press a zip gun to the back of my skull and pull the trigger. It's a horrible thing, imagining a violent death as you exit a movie: you'd totally die with popcorn kernels stuck between your teeth.

The fantasy didn't end there, however. In my head, after I'd been assassinated on the steps of a theater after watching a film in which someone was assassinated on the steps of another, much older theater, a movie (totally separate from Public Enemies) was made to chronicle the final moments of my life just as Public Enemies did for Dillenger. At this point, the fantasy became a real "russian doll" situation. Two mirrors facing each other, stretching into infinity. The fantasy continued for a good while longer, but both you and I would need flowcharts in order to keep up.

Anyway, the movie was just okay.

CHOCOLATE.

2009-06-29T21:10:00.000-07:00

There is a large chocolate factory hidden somewhere in Chicago, and on nights like this when the wind is just right, the entire city smells like sweet, sweet milk chocolate. It makes walking through the streets seem like you're traveling across the surface of an enormous, city-sized brownie.

Last Thursday, I got a second job. This morning, I quit.

I should have known, man. I interviewed with four indie kids that strongly resembled the band Vampire Weekend: lots of skinny jeans and glasses that were probably from Urban Outfitters, worn beneath delicate, mop-like shelves of immaculately styled hair. There was a "Re-Elect Blagojevich!" sticker on the wall that I don't think was intended to be ironic.

No thank you, I do not care to walk door-to-door and beg people for money on behalf of the environment, and here's why: 1) The job listing specifically said there would be be no door-to-door begging, 2) nothing makes me feel worse than hustling a middle-aged woman for money shortly before she informs me that she lost her job and is currently in the process of being evicted, and 3) fuck that noise. It made me feel like a bum begging for chump change, except unlike a bum, I did not get to keep the change I begged for.

They called the pre-prepared script a "rap".

"Let's all practice the rap together!" they'd say, and I'd look around for an exposed rafter and a long extension cord to hang myself with.

My trainer, Spencer, confessed to me that he was trying to get fired because, that way, he'd receive unemployment. He told me this ten minutes after we met.

"Watch out for the bird," Spencer later said as I approached my first begging destination. I thought "watch out for the bird" was some kind of slang, perhaps environmental jargon I'd neglected to memorize. But it turns out "bird" really meant "bird", as in, "watch out for that large bird's nest perched precariously on the edge of the doorframe that you're half a second away from knocking on."

Turns out, momma birds are mad territorial. Almost immediately after I commenced knocking, there was a series of shrieks and terrifying chirps, and then the bird kamikazied right into the side of my enormous head. Wings, all over my face, all up in my personal space. The bird retired to a nearby fence but continued to give me the mad-dog stare.

But what's the icing on the cake, you ask? The elderly lady that lived in the house emerged and yelled at me. "If you really cared about the environment you wouldn't be disturbing baby birds with your knocking!!" she howled. I sulked away, rubbing the beak-shaped depression in my skull.

Stacey wisely observed that when you're working such an awful, tree-hugging job, it makes you actively hate the environment. Nothing is more true. When I was walking to work on Friday, I wanted to shoot flare guns at bald eagles, to pour gallons of toxic waste into the blow-holes of endangered whales, to single-handedly destroy rainforests with explosive charges while chomping on a cigar, middle-fingers in the air and fuck you all.

But it was so cathartic to remember that I didn't come to Chicago to be miserable.

I walked out of the job savoring the knowledge that I wouldn't be returning. I stood on Wabash, lit a celebratory cigarette, and queued up Will Smith's "Freakin' It" at maximum volume on the ipod. The blue-gray smoke unfolded into a spiral in the wind, and I leaned back against a wall with my eyes closed, smelling the chocolate.

TACO TUESDAY LIVE FROM THE FIZZ.

2009-06-24T23:20:00.000-07:00

So last night was Taco Tuesday at The Fizz, and by the time we left, I'd managed to finish off a bucket of PBRs, a lemon drop, and a Tecate (served in a can). But I didn't have a single taco.

It's past 1:30 and the Pink Line has retired for the night, so we get on the bus to head home, and it just reeks of weed. Like, this bus smells stronger than Method Man's glove compartment. Other than the dude in the wheelchair who looks like a homeless war veteran, we're the only white people on the bus.

"Hey man, your girlfriend is lookin' good tonight," Dude In Wheelchair says.

I think for a minute about clarifying that Stacey isn't my girlfriend, but that would serve no purpose other than possibly getting Stacey raped. I nod and politely sit down.

"You're looking good tonight," Dude In Wheelchair says to Stacey. He is nothing if not tenacious. Judging from the increased smell, it is Dude In Wheelchair who's making it smell like the Canni-bus from that Mr. Show sketch. Stacey somehow manages to be polite.

"You put a rock on her finger yet? Or a rock in her pipe?" Dude In Wheelchair continues. Very cheeky, this one is.

"No, but we're going to be engaged soon," I reply. "You know, when we get enough money and stuff." Convenient lies seem to come so much easier after I've consumed roughly my body weight in cheap beer. Stacey acts surprised about our fake impending nuptials, and we briefly debate whether or not we're "ready". I consider fake-proposing to her on this bus in the middle of the night but quickly remember that I have nothing to improvise a ring with.

"But I haven't even met her family yet!" I exclaim to Dude In Wheelchair. He seems disappointed.

"What ah, what nationality are you?" he asks Stacey. I think about correcting him ("ethnicity", not "nationality"), but then realize that there are dozens of places to hide a handgun inside of a wheelchair. Apparently I am afraid of men in wheelchairs.

"Oh, I'm a little bit of everything," Stacey says with a laugh. "I'm a mutt."

"And you, I bet you're Irish!" Dude In Wheelchair exclaims to me.

"I'm a little bit of everything. Part Irish, part German...part Dolphin."

Roughly half of the people on the bus laugh at this, including the Asian kid sitting in front of me who's been frantically eavesdropping but trying really hard to hide it. It feels cheap but I still feel happy in a drunk way, making them laugh.

Dude In Wheelchair continues talking to no one in particular and I'm not really listening, just wondering when he's going to get off the bus when suddenly, he does. But at the same time, people are trying to get on the bus, and no one can bypass him due to the width of his wheels. The new passengers aren't willing to briefly exit, and this infuriates Dude In Wheelchair.

"Get the fuck out of my way! I can't fucking get off if you're in the way! Move your ass!" he shouts.

Dude In Wheelchair's angry tirade alerts another interesting passenger: Sassy Black Woman. Sassy Black Women are pretty much the patron saints of Chicago, and every mode and method of public transportation comes equipped with one, like a fire extinguisher. Sassy Black Woman is sporting a hairstyle that should be architecturally impossible, along with the obligatory red stilettos. Immediately, I like Sassy Black Woman, and once she opens her mouth I like her even more.

"Uh-uh-uh, you think that just because you in that chair, you get to act however you want? No! I'll get up and come over there and stick my foot up your ass! Shit."

Dude In Wheelchair snaps back immediately: he calls Sassy Black Woman ugly and fat. He insults her manner of dress. He calls her "sugar". The new passengers have backed away, clearing his exit, but he stays for an encore while the bus hydraulically lowers itself.

"I can get out of this chair and come over there, sugar," Dude In Wheelchair says. Which strikes me as pretty funny, because I'm pretty sure he's not faking it for the parking space. I laugh, audibly.

"Then come and get some," Sassy Black Woman says, and she pulls an ice-pick out of her purse. Let me repeat, for effect: she pulls a fucking ice-pick out of her purse and brandishes it like she's Frodo and the ice-pick is Sting, glowing in the presence of handicapped goblin evil. Shit is getting real. Stacey, Eavesdropping Asian Kid and I all exchange meaningful glances, wondering if this is the day we see someone become just another statistic.

"Don't make me get up, cuz I got people on this bus gonna back me up!" Sassy Black Woman continues. She puffs up and half of the bus manages some kind of meager response. Represent, represent.

Dude In Wheelchair rolls away into the night, defeated. I no longer wish we would've made that last train, because if we did, my night would have ended normally. I regret nothing.

"EAGLEMAN", SAID WITHOUT ENTHUSIASM.

2009-06-21T00:16:00.000-07:00

Local Chicago commercials are so much funnier than the ones in Phoenix.

THE ALL-WHITE ADIDAS SNEAKERS (AND ME)

2009-06-19T20:00:00.000-07:00

So, whenever there's a film set in a big, vertical city that place in the dead heat of summer, there's always that obligatory shot of a bunch of kids playing in a jet of water shooting out of a dismantled fire hydrant in the middle of a busy street.

Today, that happened directly in front of my house. Everyone was out on their respective stoops or leaning out of windows, watching kids redirect water to spray each other with dizzying arcs while smiling, laughing. Someone was grilling hot dogs on a little portable grill. Traffic was backed up in both directions. It was that scene from that movie, except it was real and more personal and somehow didn't feel clichéd at all.

We attempted to go to the aquarium yesterday. I say "attempted" because this week, the aquarium was doing some sort of grand re-opening with free admission, and the entire state of Illinois decided to stop by in order to sneak some free peeks at unsuspecting marine life. The line for entrance was about a half-mile long, so we wisely decided to skip it. We'll meet again, penguin exhibit...that I promise you. Oh, how your tuxedoed appearance shall amuse me!

Stacey and I decided to make the most of the aquatic bum-rush by taking a "water taxi" (their term, not mine) to Navy Pier via Lake Michigan. I cannot express to you how unfathomable the Lake is. It's completely sea-like. Limitless. It dominates the entire eastern horizon. It even has obligatory seagulls and yet it is not a sea. During our water taxi pleasure-cruise, I kept feeling like it was missing something, and then I realized that it was lacking the pleasurable salty smell of oceans. Baffling at times, this place is. I'm betting Lake Michigan still has sea beasts, however.

The water taxi was called "Shake A Leg", and yet, it did not manage to top 12 knots at any point during our 25 minute maritime adventure. The "captain" of the vessel was a middle-aged balding man named Larry who wore all-white Adidas sneakers along with his (presumably) faux Naval uniform. He failed to make any notable lake- or sea-related puns, and a little part of me died as a result. However, there was a notable section of our voyage when he let his 17-year-old protege/second mate take the wheel while he walked the deck, interacting with our fellow passengers. A gaggle of tweens insisted upon asking him question after question regarding "Shake A Leg" while calling him "Larry" in a particular way that made the name sound like a sneer, or a jab. But Larry expounded on the infinite prowess of the "Shake A Leg" like a proud father. They lost interest, and wandered away to drop popcorn over the edge of the boat.

Navy Pier is basically Disney's California Adventure, but with a lot more alcohol, accents, and sport coats. We quickly proceeded to Millennium Park (which should totally have the byline "Park...of the Future!", and should also totally play Will Smith's "Willennium" over and over and over).

Chicago is a landscape architect's wet dream. There are 552 (!) city parks here, and surprisingly, they're used for a lot more than just drug deals. Millennium Park is an excellent amalgamation of lush gardens and a series of really bizarre sculptures including the following:

Crown Fountain Two fifty-foot towers made of glass bricks. Via complicated LED screens, the faces of Chicago residents are projected onto the massive, opposing facades of the twin buildings. These faces wink and smile, and occasionally change. Oh, and motherfucking water sprays from their mouths. And kids frolic in it. This is Millennium Park's version of a fountain, and it's totally insane and fantastic to watch and reminds me of George Orwell's take on a water park.

Cloud Gate, or The Reflecting Bean, which you've probably already heard of and seen a million times. It's the obligatory spot for an interesting self-portrait/possible Facebook profile picture. Seriously, they didn't let me leave the park until I took my picture in the shiny surface of the bean. I think it draws its strength from vanity.

The Jay Pritzker Pavilion Designed by Frank Gehry! (Shout-outs to architecture fans!) But honestly, this pavilion/amphitheater is excellent. From a distance, it looks like a transformer frozen in mid-transformation! (Shout-outs to Transformer fans!)

Well, I just compared the work of a modern architectural genius to CGI characters in a Michael Bay film, and now Gehry is rolling in his immaculately-styled grave. Mission accomplished, and goodnight.

(P.S. I'm still looking for proper camera batteries, so I cannot take credit for these wonderful pictures. They're taken from the wonderful blog Stuck In Customs; you should really check it out)

2009-06-18T01:35:00.000-07:00

I'm going to be bad at this.

I only say so because, during the course of writing that last sentence, that meager seven-word trickle of a beginning, I left my comfortable chair twice to look at the sky. Twenty-minutes ago (at around 3:30 in the morning), the sky was laced together with thick clouds, clouds lit by the millions of lights still burning in the city that colored them with a kind of milky amber glow that defies description but still managed to coordinate quite nicely with the existing cumulonimbus gray. Occasionally the sky would self-illuminate with faint flickers of stage-frightened lightning, hiding inside or behind thick curtains of clouds, making them flash cold phosphorescent blue.

Fast forward ten minutes and it's raining. But it's not Phoenix rain anymore, it's a different sub-species of rain, a rougher, less-forgiving rain, and I once again had to leave my very comfortable chair to look at it. By this point, the lightning had overcome its anxious nerves, making its presence known by rattling the antique windows in my house in unison. The rain is so thick it's falling in a series of sheets, buckets, maybe even waves, but every once and a while, a crisp, clean bolt of lightning throws a single strobe on every drop of rain and they all freeze in place, just for a second, suspended in mid-air and lit from every angle, and its like a billion fireflies have frozen in place to pose for a picture.

That's why I'm going to be bad at this. There's always going to be rainstorms outside rattling my windows, and I'm always going to have to go look at them.

So, I'm going to start writing here about my life in Chicago. All of the things I see and do and think about when I'm not sitting in this comfortable chair shall be recorded. For posterity.

I just heard the first train of the morning go by; that means it's around 4:30 am. I'll probably steal away to look at the sky again.

Goodnight.