25 January, 2006
Your mom
I'm so proud of myself.
On a recent show, Chicago's most famous bloated podcasting Jewish lesbian, Madge Weinstein, played two things I sent/phoned her, probably the first time I've "performed" for several thousand people (her show is also broadcast on Sirius satellite radio). One bit is certainly better than the other, and the other reflects both the detrimental effects of drink and knowing how to use your cheap external microphone correctly.
Please listen and see if you can tell which lil' bits are mine! And tell me what I can do to improve either in the future.
On a recent show, Chicago's most famous bloated podcasting Jewish lesbian, Madge Weinstein, played two things I sent/phoned her, probably the first time I've "performed" for several thousand people (her show is also broadcast on Sirius satellite radio). One bit is certainly better than the other, and the other reflects both the detrimental effects of drink and knowing how to use your cheap external microphone correctly.
Please listen and see if you can tell which lil' bits are mine! And tell me what I can do to improve either in the future.
20 January, 2006
A Friday, the bar: the beer and the study
I have so much to so say, so few words to describe, so little time in which to say, and even less energy. Do me one small favor, few dear readers: Hope and pray on any altars you hold dear, cross those digits of superstition, and roll the dice for fate. Everything will work out.
Hopefully, it works out for me sooner than for you, because you'll at least get a round of beer out of my fortune.
Hopefully, it works out for me sooner than for you, because you'll at least get a round of beer out of my fortune.
18 January, 2006
A mid-winter's day dream
Already mid-January. What a month. I really miss having the free time to read and write. Getting so close, so fast to the February bar exam. I feel very good about my study so far, and my scores on MBE questions; then again, I felt that way in June and July. The difference this time around is that I'm able to do more work, and work more deeply, thanks in large part to my beautiful new drug. I guess only time will tell if the second time is a charm; in an ideal world the job I'm hoping for will come through, and I'll have slightly less to worry about.
I lost another friend in the office. Gazoo has moved on to bigger and better things, and I am truly despondent over his absence. I wish him luck, of course, and I'm happy for him, of course, but I'm jealous, too, of course, and selfishly so: well, dammit, he should be here for me. I won't go into our pre-officemate history, largely because it's irrelevant, and mostly because I now feel foolish about a decision I made around that time.* Even though he would rarely look up from the tap-tap-tapping on his keyboard, we had our moments, and I was very happy to finally get him outside the office - on two occasions during the year that he worked here. The office holiday party, in which we all howled at the moon after slogging through snow, was fun. This past weekend was the major coup, however. We all flounced down to southern Indiana, all six of us**, to the little vinyl-clad chalet by the lake, for a short escape from the city over the holiday weekend (thank you MLK).I was very happy to be able to spend time with all these friends I so rarely see outside of work, but happiest to be able to spend time getting to know Gazoo better. I miss him greatly around the office, and sincerely hope that I have the opportunities to continue and deepen our friendship. Of course, I may be wrong about that: It takes two to do the friendship tango. There is a distinct possibility that Gazoo agreed to come along simply to pacify me, once and for all, and to slip silently into his future without a glance backward in my direction.
I couldn't have asked for or chosen better companions for such a weekend, but I definitely could (and should) have chosen a better time. I certainly enjoyed myself on the whole, and no one seemed to be in any visible pain. We were all exhausted by the weather and the workweek, and so the frolicking rollicking hilarity was subdued and sporadic. I perhaps simultaneously over- and under- played the good host role, trying to facilitate "good wholesome fun" but also leaving my charges to their own devices. At least, thank god, I long ago learned not to play vacation czar, forcing everyone to get along and go along, devising and ramming an itinerary down throats and up asses. I want to repeat this trip in warmer months.
After the more serious guests left early Sunday to return to city lives, I was alone (and still alseep) with my love. Somehow this solitude was new. The seclusion and newness of the surroundings infused me with a feeling of somethingness. I couldn't wait for him to wake up so we could do - what? Another elaborate meal was out of the question, sunbathing, boating, and lolling in and near the water was impossible, and even the idea of drinking was unappetizing (it was 11am, after all!). I built a fire in the fireplace, made a rather large breakfast mostly out of a selfish desire to extinguish the hungry fire in my belly brought about by the previous night's festivities, and settled down to watch the NFL playoffs. How nice to have two teams to root for - imagine the glory of a Chicago-Indianapolis superbowl (ANY excuse for a party) ! How depressing to see both teams choke. My love, after gliding down the stairs, freshly showered and beautifully radiant (as always), and breakfasting mightily, poked about in the fire a bit and suggested, between episodes of his favorite podcast, that we take a walk. I loved the idea, but couldn't imagine how much fun walking around the lake roads could be, so I suggested we drive down to the dam and see if there was anything interesting there. And indeed, we did: it seems the conservancy district maintains nature trails through undeveloped woods, mostly around a mile or so in length. After almost 20 years enjoying this lake and its surroundings, I had no idea the trails were there. Lulo and I chose the longest, mostly because the map represented a creek at the end, and we set out. I won't bore with details, because they are surely only of interest to me and my love. I look forward to many more long walks with him, and many years of exploration and discovery, as cheesy as it may sound.
* Ugh. That involves an ex.
** my love, two old friends/classmates/coworkers, and Gazoo and his up-till-now enigmatic husband - just picture the 6 of us, four fags, a straight couple, many "ethnic" flavors (three interracial couples in the clay hills of the deep northern south, imagine that! Two out of the three couples homo, imagine that!) How disgusting. How beautiful.
I lost another friend in the office. Gazoo has moved on to bigger and better things, and I am truly despondent over his absence. I wish him luck, of course, and I'm happy for him, of course, but I'm jealous, too, of course, and selfishly so: well, dammit, he should be here for me. I won't go into our pre-officemate history, largely because it's irrelevant, and mostly because I now feel foolish about a decision I made around that time.* Even though he would rarely look up from the tap-tap-tapping on his keyboard, we had our moments, and I was very happy to finally get him outside the office - on two occasions during the year that he worked here. The office holiday party, in which we all howled at the moon after slogging through snow, was fun. This past weekend was the major coup, however. We all flounced down to southern Indiana, all six of us**, to the little vinyl-clad chalet by the lake, for a short escape from the city over the holiday weekend (thank you MLK).I was very happy to be able to spend time with all these friends I so rarely see outside of work, but happiest to be able to spend time getting to know Gazoo better. I miss him greatly around the office, and sincerely hope that I have the opportunities to continue and deepen our friendship. Of course, I may be wrong about that: It takes two to do the friendship tango. There is a distinct possibility that Gazoo agreed to come along simply to pacify me, once and for all, and to slip silently into his future without a glance backward in my direction.
I couldn't have asked for or chosen better companions for such a weekend, but I definitely could (and should) have chosen a better time. I certainly enjoyed myself on the whole, and no one seemed to be in any visible pain. We were all exhausted by the weather and the workweek, and so the frolicking rollicking hilarity was subdued and sporadic. I perhaps simultaneously over- and under- played the good host role, trying to facilitate "good wholesome fun" but also leaving my charges to their own devices. At least, thank god, I long ago learned not to play vacation czar, forcing everyone to get along and go along, devising and ramming an itinerary down throats and up asses. I want to repeat this trip in warmer months.
After the more serious guests left early Sunday to return to city lives, I was alone (and still alseep) with my love. Somehow this solitude was new. The seclusion and newness of the surroundings infused me with a feeling of somethingness. I couldn't wait for him to wake up so we could do - what? Another elaborate meal was out of the question, sunbathing, boating, and lolling in and near the water was impossible, and even the idea of drinking was unappetizing (it was 11am, after all!). I built a fire in the fireplace, made a rather large breakfast mostly out of a selfish desire to extinguish the hungry fire in my belly brought about by the previous night's festivities, and settled down to watch the NFL playoffs. How nice to have two teams to root for - imagine the glory of a Chicago-Indianapolis superbowl (ANY excuse for a party) ! How depressing to see both teams choke. My love, after gliding down the stairs, freshly showered and beautifully radiant (as always), and breakfasting mightily, poked about in the fire a bit and suggested, between episodes of his favorite podcast, that we take a walk. I loved the idea, but couldn't imagine how much fun walking around the lake roads could be, so I suggested we drive down to the dam and see if there was anything interesting there. And indeed, we did: it seems the conservancy district maintains nature trails through undeveloped woods, mostly around a mile or so in length. After almost 20 years enjoying this lake and its surroundings, I had no idea the trails were there. Lulo and I chose the longest, mostly because the map represented a creek at the end, and we set out. I won't bore with details, because they are surely only of interest to me and my love. I look forward to many more long walks with him, and many years of exploration and discovery, as cheesy as it may sound.
* Ugh. That involves an ex.
** my love, two old friends/classmates/coworkers, and Gazoo and his up-till-now enigmatic husband - just picture the 6 of us, four fags, a straight couple, many "ethnic" flavors (three interracial couples in the clay hills of the deep northern south, imagine that! Two out of the three couples homo, imagine that!) How disgusting. How beautiful.
12 January, 2006
The Silence
What a new year, so far. Studying for the bar exam has taken a toll on... well, everything really. I don't have the time to write, I don't have the time to drink (at least like I want to), and worst of all, I really can't read what I want to anymore. I'm glad that this time around I am able to focus to such a degree, but I miss reading for pleasure. So, in lamentation, here is a list of all the books I can remember having read in 2005. I'll update as possible/necessary.
The Liar, Stephen Fry
Paperweight, Fry
The Hippopotamus, Fry
Making History, Fry
Tristram Shandy, Laurence Sterne
Confederacy of Dunces, John Kennedy Toole (for the umpteenth time)
Decline and Fall, Evelyn Waugh
French Lessons, Peter Mayle
Naive. Super. (?), Erlend Loe
Everything published thus far by David Sedaris
Galapagos, Kurt Vonnegut
Player Piano, Vonnegut
Jailbird, Vonnegut
John Adams, David McCullough(?)
Dance Dance Dance, Haruki Murakami
Chicago, City on the Make, Nelson Algren
A Walk on The Wild Side, Algren
Assasination Vacation, Sarah Vowell
Molloy, Samuel Beckett
If you lived here, you'd be home now, Sandra Tsing Loh
City of Quartz, Mike Davis
La Television, Jean-Philipe Toussaint (again)
L'appareil photo, Toussaint (finally)
Wobegon Boy, Garrison Keillor (again)
The Book of Guys, Keillor (again)
A book (forget the title) of essays/stories by Keillor
Various Sherlock Holmes, Arthur Conan Doyle
Hmm.. my mind is blank of a sudden... what else?
Oh I forgot:
Myra Breckinridge, Gore Vidal
Can't really remember the titles and authors of the pulp I read:
One of the newer Godfather titles, NOT by Puzo, but Something Winegardner
A rather pleasant mystery set in California wine country
The Liar, Stephen Fry
Paperweight, Fry
The Hippopotamus, Fry
Making History, Fry
Tristram Shandy, Laurence Sterne
Confederacy of Dunces, John Kennedy Toole (for the umpteenth time)
Decline and Fall, Evelyn Waugh
French Lessons, Peter Mayle
Naive. Super. (?), Erlend Loe
Everything published thus far by David Sedaris
Galapagos, Kurt Vonnegut
Player Piano, Vonnegut
Jailbird, Vonnegut
John Adams, David McCullough(?)
Dance Dance Dance, Haruki Murakami
Chicago, City on the Make, Nelson Algren
A Walk on The Wild Side, Algren
Assasination Vacation, Sarah Vowell
Molloy, Samuel Beckett
If you lived here, you'd be home now, Sandra Tsing Loh
City of Quartz, Mike Davis
La Television, Jean-Philipe Toussaint (again)
L'appareil photo, Toussaint (finally)
Wobegon Boy, Garrison Keillor (again)
The Book of Guys, Keillor (again)
A book (forget the title) of essays/stories by Keillor
Various Sherlock Holmes, Arthur Conan Doyle
Hmm.. my mind is blank of a sudden... what else?
Oh I forgot:
Myra Breckinridge, Gore Vidal
Can't really remember the titles and authors of the pulp I read:
One of the newer Godfather titles, NOT by Puzo, but Something Winegardner
A rather pleasant mystery set in California wine country
08 January, 2006
Old Pork Chops and Razorblades
Just got off the phone with a friend I've been trying to reach for weeks... and find out he's just freed from the funny farm. He tried to kill himself. I'm glad he failed; hopefully I can convince him to come down to Hyde Park today. He says he has many great stories from the 'farm, and from what I've heard so far, I can't wait to indulge in the rest.
Ah, Sunday
What a beautiful day! It's imperative that I take a walk with the lovely innommable; the only question is where? Do I feel like Lincoln Park, or maybe Grant Park, or maybe driving to Hyde Park and browsing book shops and beaches? Hmm... I need inspiration...
07 January, 2006
Benifisense (or: Benefit of... my ass!)
I am sick and goddamn tired of giving people the "benefit of the doubt." What the fuck does that mean, anyway? How is a doubt a benefit? What benevolence does doubt bestow?*
I am often told that I am "too forgiving" of the "faults of others." When such faults are pointed out, I tend to murmur mitigating factors. At first, I fail to see fault clearly, then I explain it away.
This goes for myself as well as others. I see and then sublimate, overamplify, fail to correct, ignore, rationalize, eqivocate my own faults, real or imagined.
Who am I to be so benevolent to those who are so full of themselves?
Knowing is half the battle?
* I understand the colloquialism, bitch. Just bear with me. Give me the benefit of a doubt.
I am often told that I am "too forgiving" of the "faults of others." When such faults are pointed out, I tend to murmur mitigating factors. At first, I fail to see fault clearly, then I explain it away.
This goes for myself as well as others. I see and then sublimate, overamplify, fail to correct, ignore, rationalize, eqivocate my own faults, real or imagined.
Who am I to be so benevolent to those who are so full of themselves?
Knowing is half the battle?
* I understand the colloquialism, bitch. Just bear with me. Give me the benefit of a doubt.
05 January, 2006
Banalitary Mundanity II
I don't feel like continuing with this; I've lost interest. It's a stupid post title anyway - not that one would expect less of me. Nothing new there... I guess the Strattera isn't working quite as well as I'd hoped (dumbass smiley here). In the spirit of perseverance, I'll finish.
Where was I?
Oh... so I take the SE entrance in the mornings, walking the scenic Wrightwood Corridor to get to the "main" entrance on Kedzie. It's like a stream flowing into a river dumping into a stagnant stinking delta of temps, heading off to the jobs that support their "alternative band" careers. We (my beloved, innommable, is usually with me these days) try to choose a spot on the platform towards an end, convenient to one of our exits.
In the evening, I exit NW to Spaulding, and trudge morosely towards my mailbox, littered with bills.
So don't say I never finished anything I ever started.
Where was I?
Oh... so I take the SE entrance in the mornings, walking the scenic Wrightwood Corridor to get to the "main" entrance on Kedzie. It's like a stream flowing into a river dumping into a stagnant stinking delta of temps, heading off to the jobs that support their "alternative band" careers. We (my beloved, innommable, is usually with me these days) try to choose a spot on the platform towards an end, convenient to one of our exits.
In the evening, I exit NW to Spaulding, and trudge morosely towards my mailbox, littered with bills.
So don't say I never finished anything I ever started.
04 January, 2006
Lunchtime Follies
As the vinegared scent of Mr. Submarine wafts past my open office door and cloaks all around me in the savory douchesque light of lunches past, I have the urge to report on a conversation heard around the banquet table today noontime.
It seems one can customize the shape of the head of one's baby.
Everyone knows that a baby's head is soft. It is this, among other considerations of fragility, that make me queasy at the prospect of holding my 2 month old nephew. I can't keep a cell phone running properly for more than 7 months; can you imagine the consequences of my prolonged contact with a malleable spongy newborn child?
Nevertheless, I think I have hit upon my route to fortune. I shall invent a cap that allows the yuppie parent to mold her child's head into the preferred shape. Never again will the fruit of the well-heeled's womb suffer the slings and arrows of ridicule for possesion of an odd- or unfashionably- shaped head.
To hell with genetic engineering, now there's a handy dandy do-it-yourself tool!
Think of it as an investment in your child's future!
It seems one can customize the shape of the head of one's baby.
Everyone knows that a baby's head is soft. It is this, among other considerations of fragility, that make me queasy at the prospect of holding my 2 month old nephew. I can't keep a cell phone running properly for more than 7 months; can you imagine the consequences of my prolonged contact with a malleable spongy newborn child?
Nevertheless, I think I have hit upon my route to fortune. I shall invent a cap that allows the yuppie parent to mold her child's head into the preferred shape. Never again will the fruit of the well-heeled's womb suffer the slings and arrows of ridicule for possesion of an odd- or unfashionably- shaped head.
To hell with genetic engineering, now there's a handy dandy do-it-yourself tool!
Think of it as an investment in your child's future!
Banalitary Mundanity I
I was going to write about the little New Year's fete I threw, but innommable handled that quite well here.
I want to kvetch about the morning commute.
An hour an 14 minutes later, I'm still dripping from the stuffy standing-room-only train ride. I know - despite the claims of some provincial New Yorkers - that no one has a monopoly on shitty commutes, but I still feel the need - and the right - to bitch about mine.
When I lived downtown, rush-hour was a pain, but not torture. I lived three stops from work, and though the trains were always crowded, there would be significant exodus at my stop, enabling me to join the backflow of the courteous and find a place to stand.
The CTA insists on asinine arrangements of seats rather than the more logical bench-along-each-side of the car regime employed occasionally on some more intelligent systems. This, combined with the narrow cars needed to negotiate creaky twists and turns of an aged and ill maintained system combine to make the garlic-breathed (seriously, where are these people getting this much garlic at 7am?) and orange-juice-puking public uncomfortably cozy.
Now that I've moved to Logan Square, my commute has changed. Platform to platform, it takes me 15-20 minutes to get to work. But that is not in the least gripeworthy; my dilemma starts at the entrances. The Logan Square station on the CTA's Stinky (aka Blue) Line consists of a long --- long ----- long subway platform, with an entrance at either end. The platform follows the diagonal street above it, from northwest to southeast (or vice-versa, asshole). The trains on the Stinky Line are only usually about 8 cars long, however. 8 cars does not equal a mile, which is seemingly how long the platform is. The trains, going in either direction, stop at only one end of the platform - the southeast end. I live closer (marginally) to the northwest end. This can make for unpleasant mornings if I choose the NW entrance. Invariably, I'll have to put my dress shoes to athletic use in the 500 yard dash as the Stank Train barrels past with the last click of the turnstile. If I make it to the last train car before the conductor manages to pull away, no matter the time of day I find a solid, sweating mass of the fat, the ugly, and the stupid. You see, the CTA Stinky Line originates at O'Hare, and the trains back their svelte metal asses right up to the escalators in Helmut Jahn's temple of light and public transit. And why haul your every earthly possession any further than the first car you come to? Why the fuck do people travel with 8 bodybag's worth of useless crap whenever they take a short trip? More questions I can't answer. Questions which depress me so, I think I'll stop here for now. We'll kvetch about the SE entrance tomorrow. If ever.
I want to kvetch about the morning commute.
An hour an 14 minutes later, I'm still dripping from the stuffy standing-room-only train ride. I know - despite the claims of some provincial New Yorkers - that no one has a monopoly on shitty commutes, but I still feel the need - and the right - to bitch about mine.
When I lived downtown, rush-hour was a pain, but not torture. I lived three stops from work, and though the trains were always crowded, there would be significant exodus at my stop, enabling me to join the backflow of the courteous and find a place to stand.
The CTA insists on asinine arrangements of seats rather than the more logical bench-along-each-side of the car regime employed occasionally on some more intelligent systems. This, combined with the narrow cars needed to negotiate creaky twists and turns of an aged and ill maintained system combine to make the garlic-breathed (seriously, where are these people getting this much garlic at 7am?) and orange-juice-puking public uncomfortably cozy.
Now that I've moved to Logan Square, my commute has changed. Platform to platform, it takes me 15-20 minutes to get to work. But that is not in the least gripeworthy; my dilemma starts at the entrances. The Logan Square station on the CTA's Stinky (aka Blue) Line consists of a long --- long ----- long subway platform, with an entrance at either end. The platform follows the diagonal street above it, from northwest to southeast (or vice-versa, asshole). The trains on the Stinky Line are only usually about 8 cars long, however. 8 cars does not equal a mile, which is seemingly how long the platform is. The trains, going in either direction, stop at only one end of the platform - the southeast end. I live closer (marginally) to the northwest end. This can make for unpleasant mornings if I choose the NW entrance. Invariably, I'll have to put my dress shoes to athletic use in the 500 yard dash as the Stank Train barrels past with the last click of the turnstile. If I make it to the last train car before the conductor manages to pull away, no matter the time of day I find a solid, sweating mass of the fat, the ugly, and the stupid. You see, the CTA Stinky Line originates at O'Hare, and the trains back their svelte metal asses right up to the escalators in Helmut Jahn's temple of light and public transit. And why haul your every earthly possession any further than the first car you come to? Why the fuck do people travel with 8 bodybag's worth of useless crap whenever they take a short trip? More questions I can't answer. Questions which depress me so, I think I'll stop here for now. We'll kvetch about the SE entrance tomorrow. If ever.
03 January, 2006
Wow!
I've actually had urgings from people to write more. I've actually had comments from people say they enjoy reading this blog. I'm flattered, I'm flabbergasted. I have plenty to write about, but I have to study for the bar, which undertaking I began in (more or less) earnest tonight. I'll try to post more tomorrow, if I get a chance to write...
Your Daily De-Motivation
As if you needed any reason to cry and crawl back under the covers:
I have the desire to write today, but not the urge. Or is it the other way around?
I have the desire to write today, but not the urge. Or is it the other way around?
