I think it's really weird people used to carry around rabbits feet for good luck. Maybe they still do. I even owned one when I was a kid. It was purple, and I think I won it as a skee ball prize. I remember I could feel where the claws once were, and it pretty much freaked me out. Ick. Will people do anything for a chance at good luck?
While doing a little Christmas shopping I came across these adorable vinyl decals. As someone who narrates life as I go, these really speak to me. Quite literally.
AND speaking of East by West's recommendation #5 to juxtapose, here's a lovely renegade umbrella. In a swamp.
I've always loved the look of crates-as-storage, but I lovelovelove this particular use of them.
And speaking of 20x200 scores, I also got one of Beth Dow's photos from her "In the Garden" series many months ago. Since then I've seen the whole collection online, and I'm really taken by how gorgeous the photos are. I'm guilty of growing to love mine all the more now. There's a certain mystery to them. It's trays hard to pick a favorite, but I do love Lime Walk, above.
And speaking of East by West's recommendation #7, I love this band poster for Panic at the Disco.
Speaking of East by West's recommendation #4, awhile back I was lucky to get one of these art-out-of-spam-email pieces by Linzie Hunter on 20x200. Now East by West has directed me to Kipling West (check out the "pretty-pretty fly"), who offers up more of its kind. I absolutely love this idea of transforming spam. For one, because it otherwise seems like such a waste. For two because some of the dirty emails I get at work still make me chuckle, and there was a time I actually compiled the best subject lines for a laugh. Now I feel a little vindicated and a little less like a 31-year-old girl with a 12-year-old boy's sense of humor.
I'm no illustrator, but I still love these instructions on jump-starting an illustration by East by West.
Um, yum. I've been craving marshmallow-smothered hot cocoa for a couple weeks now. I don't think I can stop myself from buying one of these marshmallow sample packs from whimsy and spice. I only wish they could deliver them to my door right.this.instant.This song caught my ear while cleaning today. It plays in a current Adidas commercial, but it came out about a year ago... It's by French DJ, Palooski, a remix of Beggin' by Frankie Valli & The Four Seasons.
Tasty? Surprisingly cute? Both? This photo might've tipped the scales on whether or not I consume one of these birds tomorrow, but then that was already kinda decided by the fact that there's no bird currently chillin' in my fridge or freezer or wherever you put them. Look at that face on the right, like "Why on earth would you want to eat me? Um, I don't think so." Friday I drove the merde-mobile 3 hours to Peoria for a deposition. Merde because before last night's rainfall, it looked like a flock of birds hovered over my car for a collective cathartic poo. I didn't even realize the extent of the situation until I was filling 'er up with PRACTICALLY FREE GAS (woohoo!) and got a glimpse of her brown and white speckled rear. It was brinking on cryptococcosis scary. Realizing there was no time to hit the car wash, I made a mental note to park as far away from the deposition as possible, lest anyone whose respect I'd like to keep see me entering or exiting the vehicle.
My travels out were uneventful. I passed THREE of those blue signs that say "Attractions Exit X," and they.were.all.blank. No kidding. Oh, and I also passed an enormous accumulation of dirt on an otherwise maddeningly flat terrain, which had grown some funny grass on top and looked exactly like a giant hairy mole growing on the side of the highway. I wish I'd had my camera for both oddities, but murphy's law applies to my camera carrying habits. In the off chance I forget to put it in my bag, the likelihood I'll see something picture-worthy increases exponentially. Murphy is cruel.
With all this stimulation on the side of the road, I was also annoyed at myself for forgetting to bring along CDs I hadn't listened to in awhile. After patiently enduring Fleet Foxes for the fourth time in a row, and vetoing my own bright idea to drive with iPod headphones on, I made the life-threatening decision to stick my hand in car crevices to search for longlost CDs. First I fished out Pedro the Lion, which reminds me of Teenage Fanclub vocals mixed with Interpol instrumentation.
It was a-otay for awhile, but I went in for another reach, this time coming up with a few furballs and some mixes made by a bartender/musicologist from the local dive. One mix ended up being a hilarious accompaniment to my drive in the way the music so starkly contrasted the view. Jockey Full of Bourbon (vid above) was probably the most fitting, while Casino Royale was so unfitting it made me laugh out loud as I was driving. Really, imagine yourself driving down the highway to the accompaniment of this ditty. It's funny.
On the way home I did my usual - replayed the dep and kicked myself for questions I should have asked. And then... this little bird, trying to fly her way home, got herself her first ever speeding ticket. Blasted.
I've got one. Maybe because I was one in a former life... Whatever the case, I think them vastly underrated. But not for long, I predict, since everyone loves an underdog.
I can't read a thing off the Russian site of origin (D?), but these are fantastic.Although most things French tend to pluck at my nerves these days (through little fault of their own), and I'm not one to gush on about childrens, I still find the combination of little kids speaking French to be très très mignon. Particularly one with such an imagination. Just listen to that throatiness! Too cute. It's funny, because the French ex totally concurred, but in reverse - he thought it adorable to listen to little kids speaking English. Wonder what that's all about....
Once upon a time... from Capucha on Vimeo c/o swissmiss. phew!
In 1969, a 14-year-old Beatle fanatic named Jerry Levitan snuck into John Lennon's hotel room in Toronto and convinced John to do an interview on tape. 38 years later, Jerry produced a film about it, using the interview as soundtrack and rhythmically weaving animation into a portrait of Lennon's words. John always was my favorite...
Thanks to VSL for another cool find.
On the subject of personal betterment, I read an article awhile back in Vanity Fair called “On the Limits of Self-Improvement,” by Chris Hitchens, an author and journalist " known for his love of cigarettes and alcohol - and his prodigious literary output." Contrary to the usual political focus of his writing, this time he chronicled his attempts at embracing life through relinquishing vice.On quitting smoking:
[They say] "smoking doesn't really ward off boredom and stress; it only appears to do so, and it actually increases stress." Well, appearing to do so isn't bad, as illusions go, and if I find that a smoke and a drink help to make other people even seem less boring, then to that extent I have found an ally for life. Plus which, stress works for me and I wouldn't be without it.
That evening I had dinner at an organic restaurant where everything was made out of vegetation, just to see how that would feel without a cigarette, and drank about three pints of cold sake to make up for it. Didn't light up until well past midnight.
On his new pearly white gnashers and nail-biting:
But, once Dr. Lituchy had whitened and straightened and bonded my teeth, I no longer had the crooked and jagged snaggle-fangs that enabled me to get a purchase on my fingertips and to work the jaws in that nice crisp and crunchy action that makes all the difference. All of a sudden I was buying nail files at the pharmacy and buffing away at oval extremities that for the first time in half a century looked as if they belonged to a human. (Tiring of this rather feminine activity, I now go to a gay Vietnamese manicurist in my hood and fight to keep the expression "handjob" out of my mind as he fusses away over my paw-like mitts.)
On expensive workout equipment:
Then I started to hear about the rom. This device—the initials stand for "Range of Motion"—was the perfect "no excuses" invention for slothful mammals. It promised to give you a workout in just four minutes. No: it was better than that. It insisted that you never give it more than four minutes. The catch was that it cost well over $14,000, but, hey, remember that great slogan for Stella Artois beer—"Reassuringly expensive."
Hitchens mentions how he'd have to measure his life in something much more licentious than the coffee spoons used by T.S. Eliot's Prufrock. Like Hitchens, coffee is hardly my most menacing vice. Though the worst of them have long since passed through my system, I imagine they've left a bit of an imprint on my timeline. If I were to measure by an increment of something, I supppose it would be by glass of wine or shot of vodka or slice of cheese or puff of smoke... or dollop of ranch. I could go on, but I best not be too candid. And you?
Today marks day three of operation pick-me-up, which is another way of saying "going to the gym." That's right, folks, the gym opened, and I have actually been going. The amazement! The horror! Stay with me… I know listening to one hark on about her gym regimen is as dull as it gets (next to hearing one brag about how little they've been eating), but this will be short and (not so) sweet (though I'm trying). I'm going to the gym for three reasons: (1) To introduce a modicum of cardio back into a life once rife with it; (2) To make my entire wardrobe accessible again; and (3) To let off some steam.
Now that my dad has joined the footloose and fancy free ranks of retirement (is it wrong that the idea already appeals to me at 31?), he and my mom are taking impromptu road trips. Last weekend they packed a couple bags and one dingo into their car and trekked 12 hours up to Chicago to visit me and The Foo. They brought their sweet pup with them, and this here pic's proof that Foo still has some dingo love left in him yet. Enough for a rump-to-rump snooze draped all over his grandmasters, anyway. Foo sure does love Mike, as evidenced by the fact that he could not take his sad brown eyes off the man. It was almost creepy. Foo has always had a thing for the mens, and boy has he seen his share come and go.... but where was I going with this...
As we approach winter wonderfuckinland territory, I am definitely going to put one of these drying racks next to my front door to help deal with the mess of wet boot tramping. Now that I'm sans foyer, I could really use this tray o' rocks.Sometimes I think a man might even find himself serving the time of another man. Here's L. Cohen with "Iodine."
It's better this way. Friday's bearable all on its ownsome. It's Monday that needs the help. So here's some instruction on the "hands free" cell phone driving laws already passed down in many states. It's in effect here in the 'noise (Chicago, at least), so I'm busily taking notes (and driving too). Never fear, I drive way better if I'm using the computer at the same time. I excel under pressure.
thx to Dooce for the link.
I'd love to tappity tap tap a little letter out on this guy. While studying abroad in Scotland, my great aunt would send me letters up to three pages long, painstakingly typed single space on paper so thin it felt like parchment. I loved receiving them, listening to the crackle of the paper as I read, and noticing where she had gone back to make corrections. They were little pieces of art in and of themselves. As for me, it just might be one of those ideas that live better within the confines of my mind versus setting it free in the convenience-centric wild. At the rate I type (or mistype), I'd have to buy deletion tape in bulk. Wonder if Costco sells it these days. Maybe I'll wait until I'm an aunt to carry on the tradition. 
Now this is what I'm talkin' about. Utilitarian runway fashion. Sure, you'd struggle to breathe, you couldn't see a damn thing (all the better to ignore the pointing and laughing), and your commute would be pure hell what with all the cramming into crowded spaces. But you would be toasty warm. Pass-out warm (with no fear of head injury!). Where can I get me one of these? Very subtle. And slimming too. Imagine how small this would make you look. Like Lily Tomlin in that big chair.
"... this unholy notion of the mythic power of love."
In an attempt to avoid pulling another all nighter feeding my newfound Dexter addiction (god bless Netflix instant play), I distracted myself Tuesday night by looking up Rufus Wainwright videos instead. I have a longstanding crush on Rufus, I admit it. I love his voice, many of his lyrics, and the soaring instrumentation. Turns out I might as well have fed the Dexter monkey, since it became yet another "just one more" kinda night, but here are the fruits of my labor:
The vid up top is "Go or Go Ahead," my favorite song off Want One. "Beautiful Child" is a very close second, and here Rufus is doing it again (because it's good enough for two stops). For his cover of "Across the Universe," click here, though I'm partial to Fiona Apple's go at it. Rufus sings of how "he was just a girl then" in "The Art Teacher," and tells of just a couple of his cravings in "Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk," the song that inducted me into the Wainwright hall of fans.
Although I could do without his version of L. Cohen's "Everybody Knows," the video starts with a glimpse into his meeting with the man behind the legend. I'm not sure he was totally warmed up during this performance of "Gray Gardens," but it's fun to watch Isaac Mizrahi fawn all over him. He's clearly smitten, and I don't blame Rufus for shutting his eyes throughout the performance.
For more of his showtuney sound, here's a fun performance of a Witchy Wainwright doing "Oh What a World." There's also his performance of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow," which he performs with the accompaniment of his mum on piano, but I say just stick with Dorothy.
I try not to think about the fact that Foo eats deer. It's not his fault he's allergic to a mystery protein other than deer, and so we stick with deer. Oddly enough, sometimes he reminds me of a deer, particularly when he's prancing. This brings a whole new meaning to that "you are what you eat" philosophy. As for me and the pig, no comment. 
Design Crush introduced me to these fanstastic pocket-sized passive-aggressions by shineboxprint. The perfect stocking stuffer for many a friend... The ones who, like me, are apt to stew over a stranger's rudeness way past a normal stewing shelf-life, or choose being "nice" over informing someone of their irritating qualities. Is it nice to let someone go on being so annoying or bad-mannered? I think not. Regardless, these could be just the ticket we need for the closure of life's awkward interactions...Here's today's gem, shuffled from the past.
It's not for all, but Neutral Milk Hotel has it all... or should I say "had." In their accessibly experimental way, they've given the world musical stories that are layered, textured, brilliantly lyric'd, nostalgic, timeless and tireless. It never fails to stop me in my tracks.
Top o' the birthday morning! (bright and early!) This reminds me of the artwork we had hanging up in our apartment senior year... What's his face? Did you know they're finally tearing down those hideous Central Campus structures? It's true. Sad but due.
I've got one. I know they're pretty, but what I never knew was that an ampersand is a "ligature" of the letters e and t in "et," which is Latin for "and." The word itself (ampersand) is a combination of the phrase "and per se and," meaning "and [the symbol which] by itself [is] and." Whoa. Good thing they came up with the pretty squiggle. Otherwise, what's the bloody point?
I LOVED legos as a kid and really want to make one of these for my kitchen utensils. Cute!A random earworm c/o MTV's website, which has now archived most of the videos they've ever played. Fun time waster (as if I needed another). Thanks to VSL for yet another hook-up.
I lied about getting back online last night to report my experiences from the Obama rally. It's still to come for my own memory immortalizing purposes, but I was tore up from the floor up by the time last night rolled around. My 22 hour election day was followed last night by drinks with my few beloved coworkers who were walking on air after Obama's win. Lawyers will use any excuse they can get their hands on (good or bad) to self medicate. A former coworker and still-friend came along too, eventually (reluctantly) admitting that she voted for McCain.
After we gave her a look of shock and dismay (followed by a quick tarring and feathering), we got over the error of her ways and turned to the commonly safe denominators: The misery of the job. Her pending wedding. Sex. It helped when she clarified (through puffs of feathers) that she's "fine" with the results. She's not one of those who will wander the office declaring her "fear of the next four years!" Because the fearful ones felt so secure in the hands of the chimp??
And breathe.
So four Stellas, a five-full cab ride, one long dog walk, and a leftover election pizza later, and I could hardly keep these eyes open. I am, therefore, taking "Thirsty Thursday" off to drink lots of water, lose the shwoll, and do some catch-up. That's the plan anyway. Though I never was much for plans.
This is "Bring it Back," by McAlmont & Butler. I can't help but dance a jig when I can't help but play it five times in a row, even if it's just from the comfort of my chair (whatever, McAlmont does it in his own vid). It's as cool as chair-dancing is uncool (except when McAlmont does it), and a good pre-rally tune I daresay.
The firm hath set us free early today on account of the downtown Obama rally bustle, which I've decided to brave in the name of history... and because I have an uncharacteristic attraction to huge crowds. So long as no one human in said crowd pushes against me for too long. Even if I don't manage to see a relevant thing, it'll feel good to be amongst the excitement. Until tomorrow morning, that is.
Heading to bed a little early tonight in anticipation of an early rise to (ba)rock the vote. I don't queue well, so I'm hoping to avoid some of the predicted waits by arriving at the ass-crack of dawn. We'll see how that goes. I imagine this is universal, but there sure is a buzz in the Chicago air (not at all hindered by the wonderfully warm weather we're having). I'm feeling the excitement and predict it will turn to that "I need to go to the bathroom" nervousness about 24 hours from now.
I've been on the prowl for new kitchen chairs for awhile now. My furniture friend, Craig Slist, has almost single-handedly hooked me up over my years here in Chicago, but nothing I'd seen there recently was quite right, and all the new options I've been eyeing are too expensive to justify. Just when I'd decided to hold steady with my red IKEA hand-me-downs, lo and behold, I lucked out and scored these tulip-like chairs for practically free. They're not Saarinen and obviously have a propellor bottom instead of the tulip's classic circular bottom, but I really like them all the same. They were made by a Texas company called Burke around the same time as tulips, so they're not exactly a knock-off either.
On the Verge of Tears.
