The guy I share a maleroom with does this 1000000000000 times a day:
Loud "YAAAAAAAAWWWWWWWN…OOOooooh BOY!"
Last night I rehearsed with Severin and played the Improv Match Game at IO, which turned out not to be a dating show.
Caprice. So I was one of that lucky pudz that got to sweat it out at the Intonation Festival this weekend.
Union
Park
is located on
Chicago
’s west side, once home to the famous stockyards. At one time the air I breathed as I alighted the Green Line would have been full of the heady aroma of dung, and the sounds of the slaughter. On Sunday however, a youthful carnival atmosphere reigned, and the odor of funnel cake and the dulcet tones of
Andrew
Bird
’s had replaced the bovine death rattle.
I arrived alone and un-sunscreened. I had set out with little intention of going to the Festival, but after a brief rehearsal with my make-em-ups bros the Space Robbers, I suddenly found myself without responsibility for the rest of the afternoon. I drifted from station to station, and headed west.
Andrew
Bird
, surely the most skilled musician onstage that day, was wonderful, wielding his many talents with perfect economy.
Les Savvy Fav busted a big Rocc Nut all over us. Pantz got Danzed in.
Diplo was holyfucktastic. In two days there’ll probably be a blurry picture of an autistic-looking dude air humping to the strains of the Ying Yang Twins’ "Wait (The Whisper Song)." I will cherish this picture as a relic of a happier time in my life.
Wrens and Decemberists were Yawnstown. I could have stayed home listening to NPR and sipping laudanum.
The people at the festival were generally friendly. I ran into my buddies Abby (of Severin), who were busily loafing.
Stacy
and
Bob
who were steady rocking.
Meredith
, who no matter what music is playing always dances like it’s ska and I like her.
Mary
who was in charge of the record fair from her lawn chair throne in the vendor tent.
Meredith
also introduced me to this really swell guy whose name eludes me, which is shameful because I had dinner with him, and he gave me a ride to the train. I’ll call him Playboy. Playboy drives fast. Scary fast. He’s alright.
On the platform at the
Chicago
stop I looked out over the street and saw a huge billboard advertising Dove soap. I’ve been seeing the campaign for weeks. It feature a lineup of curvy, attractive models in plain white skivvies. “We’re comfortable in our bodies world!” they seem to say. I went to high school with one of the models in this ad. She’s third from the right. Her name is
Gina
. She was scouted for the ad while she was taking out some trash at a teahouse. I used to sit across from her at the lunch table as she ate her little vegan salads. She had a habit of wearing a kilo of makeup no matter the hour or occasion. She told us her father was a big band clarinetist, and brought in the albums to prove it. She always seemed to operate under a set of unshakable habits and convictions which was simultaneously awe-inspiring and unnerving. I respected her discipline, but always was dubious about the psychology that motivated it. Back then though, I was in no position to critique anyone about the state of their psyche. When I’ve spoken to her recently she looked back on our high school days with withering ridicule, since had long since abandoned aspirations of stage and screen for the more pragmatic realm of advertising. Strange then that of our graduating class she is now certainly the most famous.
Then the train came.
All blogs are boring. All blogs are narcissistic. Believing that your thoughts could be the momentary idyll for a thousand or so other alienated human crumbs is nothing short hubris.
Time out. I’ll get down to writing about events as soon as I can get through the mire of half-thought-out self defeating nihilism that rattles through me whenever I sit down at the keys. Think of it as Morning Pages of Fury.
Time in.
Morning pages and writerly head clearing exercises are for cat ladies and pear-shaped elementary
ed
majors who want a wittle discipwine to fool them into thinking they have tawent. Ergo: I am a cat lady. (For mead-pad clutching faggo art-clods, and 13 year old goth girls exchange "Morning pages" for "Exquisite corpses.")
Time out. I wore neon green shirt to work this morning. I purchased it a while back (on the recommendation of my friend Patrick M____ a consummate fashion victim, who appears to give up the amount of ulcer real-estate in his stomach to fashion that I do to music and movies) at Dudespress. (I am the nail in metrosexuality’s teak coffin.) It’s a nice shirt though, and I flatter myself to believe that my Quixotesque frame cuts a fine figure in it.
Time out. I didn’t mean to become parenthetical guy. (I suck so hard at life.)
Time in. Coupling the shirt with a dashing striped tie combo, I chugged to the office at the speed of coal. Taking my place in the maleroom (MALEroom) to begin the day’s affairs, a secretary waddled into the room. "Move it, Limeade," she chuckled.
Time out. Everything I wear ends up being a clown suit.
Time in. But that’s OK.
(Time out.) (Cats to feed.)
