I Want to Be a Singer

Not really. I still don't know what I want to be despite residing in a place called OverThirty and presumably already busy being what it was I wanted to be. All the same, I'm happy for this child artist (and not at all envious) for being a little more decisive than some of us.

VSL introduced me to this super cool collection created by Yeondoo Jung

Don't Walk Away When I'm Talking to You!

I can't imagine anyone would. Unless of course they were trying to lead him to the boudoir. Nobody, I repeat NOBODY, rocks the period vest better. Period.

I figured it had been awhile since this face graced these pages....

Chlorine Dreams

As kids, my brother, sister and I were pool rats. We lived for school's end when we spent hour upon hour each day at the local pool. Even on the hottest and stickiest North Carolina days, we wouldn't let mom roll down the windows during our steamy drive to the pool. We wanted to get as heated up as humanly possible to make the most of our plunge into the cool water. As we wound through the tree-shadowed entrance, I remember feeling the anticipation rise and the sweat beads drop, one by one onto the Pinto's scorching vinyl seats. We'd all eventually go on to become competitive swimmers, which pretty much made the pool our second home. To this day, walking onto pool grounds gives me a jolt. From the chlorine smell to the sound of splashing and muted voices, it's a rush of memories that I really treasure.

I don't think you have to hold pools close to your heart to find an empty one quite startling. It's almost like a contrast between life and death. Abandoned buildings in general give me the same sensation along with ghostly visions of the life that once filled each nook and cranny. The tiled lines on the bottom of the pool that long ago served as an imaginative little girl's deep sea floor are now crumbled and dry, no longer protected by a watery veil. Is it weird that it almost brings a lump to my throat? My dad always said I was too sensitive....

It's obviously not just me. ASWOBA introduced me to these photographs of abandoned London pools posted at Polar Intertia. Though I find them all beautifully sad in their own way, these were two of my favorites....

Things to Be Desired

In an effort to clear some of the black smoke I seem to be accumulating in these parts, I'm posting the Desiderata. It's a little cheesy, but it has a way of directing me toward a decent track when my mind gets a muddle with negativity. Whatever works, right? As it happens, it was written by none other than a lawyer, Max Ehrmann, back in the 20's.

I first saw it in the bathroom of one of my beloved Chicago haunts, Hillary's Urban Eatery (HUE, rest in peace). It was this wonderfully eclectic place where you could get a delish mexican fusion brunch or a nice dinner on the cheap. Many a first date were had there.... Now it's a gourmet grocery store. Tear. In loving memory of HUE, I framed my own copy of the Desiderata and hung it up in my own bathroom for all to enjoy. While they're, you know, doing their business. What? Whatever, it's only a restaurant.

Desiderata

Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself. Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time. Exercise caution in your business affairs; for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals; and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be, and whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

Defiance

Photoshopped? Discuss. (but please say it isn't so!)

Sophie's Choices

Sophie’s choice of the day or week or month (who knows) is the movie "2 Days in Paris." Anyone who knows me knows I love to hate and/or hate to love France and make no apologies for irrationally holding an entire country responsible for one man’s reckless idiocy. But that won’t poison my declaration d'amour for France via film. This one’s not whole-hog French, but it’s written, directed and scored by Julie Delpy (French born and dual citizen of France and U.S.), whom people also tend to love or hate or love to hate and/or hate to love. I'm in the love to love her camp for the way she perfectly portrays imperfection.

The movie is a dialogue-heavy tale of two days in the city amongst familial and lovers’ dysfunction. a.k.a. normalcy. It's a little a la Before Sunset (and Sunrise), as you might expect from Delpy, who co-wrote the latter, but now the perspective is through the more experienced (in more ways than one) eyes of a mid-thirties unmarried couple. It made me laugh outright a handful of times, and the writing’s so well done it’s... rare. Delpy seems to have escaped the French “chauvin” mentality in her ability to acknowledge some of France’s weaknesses, often shown through (retrospectively) humorous rants (that I can relate to only too well), without letting you forget France's undeniable charm. Ok that's irrelevant yet something I respect about her. What is relevant is that you can probably be in a relationship or not, or be in love or not, or believe in love or not, and still get this movie.

I was put off by the occasional voice-overs, and the ending left my brow a bit furrowed, but a movie on the subject of coupling can only go one of two ways. And if screenwriting is anything like life, I imagine the decision of which way to go furrows the brow and feels like a Sophie’s choice all its own.

fave ffffind

This isn't life-altering, but I love this photo. I've always had an odd obsession with all things water (UITBE can attest to it), and so many times I've stared at the drops of water sliding down my windshield or window, desperately wanting to capture it in a photo.

Now might be a good time to mention I'm not into pot (though I'm not opposed either). I'm just easily entertained.

As much as I'd like to get my own photos, my camera isn't equipped, particularly after I (three sheets to the wind) dropped it on a cement bar floor. Moment of silence. Head hangs in shame.

"Let That Which Is Unsaid Be Said"

I have to admit I was a little nervous this morning to find an "Official Notice" from The Bureau of Communication in my inbox. Imagine my relief when I discovered it was just the above hilarity from The Lazy Langoustine. I love it!

If you'd like to file your own grievance, I suggest you take it up with The Bureau.

Earworm du Jour

It's not so much that this is stuck in my head as I just can't stop playing it on my collosal iPod.

Be sure, it's not THIS version of Green Grass I'm talking about. The one that's floated me to and from the El the last couple days is the real one sung by Tom Waits himself (off the Real Gone album).

Of course I can't find a single video with him singing it. That guy has a tighter grip on his musical rights than most. Just try getting into one of his shows with a ticket purchased off Craigslist, and you'll see what I mean.

Listening to this while walking down the street lends this addictive slow motion surreal quality to everything going on around me. Now let's see if it has the same magical effect on my work environment....

Lay your head where my heart used to be
Hold the earth above me
Lay down in the green grass
Remember when you loved me

Come closer don't be shy
Stand beneath a rainy sky
The moon is over the rise
Think of me as a train goes by

Clear the thistles and brambles
Whistle 'Didn't He Ramble'
Now there's a bubble of me
And it's floating in thee

Stand in the shade of me
Things are now made of me
The weather vane will say...
It smells like rain today

God took the stars and he tossed 'em
Can't tell the birds from the blossoms
You'll never be free of me
He'll make a tree from me

Don't say good bye to me
Describe the sky to me
And if the sky falls, mark my words
We'll catch mocking birds

Lay your head where my heart used to be
Hold the earth above me
Lay down in the green grass
Remember when you loved me

Cinnamon Girl

You wanna live with a cinnamon girl? What about one suffering cinnamon rage, Neil?

Is it wrong that I was tempted to ring the neck of the lady who made my latte this morning? Is asking for cinnamon really asking for so much? I guess I might as well have asked her to build me a motherfucking house while she was at it. Our exchange went a little something like this:

Me: Oh, scuse me, excuse me. Can I use the cinnamon please? It’s, uh, sorry, not out here. (sweetly)

My friend insists cinnamon is a natural metabolism raiser. I don’t believe it for a second, but I’ve been putting it on my lattes ever since.

Baristadevil: Cinnamon… cinnamon like the powder or cinnamon the liquid? (exasperated)

Excuse me? Cinnamon the liquid? What the? The powder. The one that’s usually out on the fixins tray! Duh.

Me: The powder please. (apologetically)

Baristadevil: Hmm, yeah, I don’t see it. Sorry. (case clearly closed)

Me: O….kay. (incredulously, wearing look of great disbelief)

Defeated, I left sans cinnamon and muttering something to myself about why the hell I can’t get a little effort in the way of reaching for the cinnamon for a four frikin dollar cup of coffee. Particularly when requested so courteously. Too nicely, it seems, since I’m left to write shit like this because I’m still stewing about it hours later. Ok, days later. It happened yesterday.

These damn uppity hipster coffee shops…. Yes, they’re cooler than Starbucks, and their coffee tastes better, and I’ll continue going, damnit. But from now on I’ll order a “medium soy caramel latte with powdered cinnamon, hold the sass." (bitchily)

Travel Triptych III

I couldn't possibly choose just one photo of Greece. Though I admit the imbalance will drive me a bit mad, it's getting its very own triptych. My condolences to Mexico and California, but I was in Greece for 11 days. So there.

Besides, my dream of going to Greece has been risin' in the easy bake oven since first grade when my teacher, Miss Dolce, high-tailed it out of the south to conquer Crete. From there she was sweet enough to pen-pal me letters (I was that annoying teacher's pet 'til adolescent angst kicked in) and photos and all sorts of nifty Greek souveniers. I kept them until last year when cheapskate landlord failed to replace 100 year old roof, basement flooded, and said souveniers grew fungae. And don't get me started on what the shitty insulation did to my gas bill (rape).

I'm only slightly embarrassed to say when it was that my dreams of Greece were rekindled... See final scene of Bourne Identity. Greece's dreamy shoreline. Franka Potente renting Vespas. Me, pretending to be her. Wouldn't you know it, we coincidentally ended up on THAT.VERY.DREAMY.SHORELINE!

A bazillion-to-a-bazillion-squared-thanks to the undying generosity of one Gracie the Amazing. She made it possible for the three of us broke-ass lasses to hop, skip and jump our way to Greece glorious Greece. First came Athens (love). Then came Mykonos (marriage). Then came Santorini (in a baby carriage). That was dumb, but it was twue wuv. The dweam within a dweam.

It's not that our trip was the epitome of smooth sailing. There was inevitable turbulence... people not always the friendliest (though there were some real gems), pricey as hayle (damn the euro!), and we couldn't find the bloody entrance to the Acropolis (despite its looming presence). As for this post's Offensive Generalization, I'll note that Greeks have an interesting fashion sense. The kind that doesn't exist. The tackier and tighter, the better. But all the turbulence, just like tacky wears, made the experience all the more interesting.

The visual stimulation of Greece made my heart go all a flutter. Ouzo never tasted so good until I was under Greece's skies, the same color as its cobalt waters. And who can complain when there's tzadziki at every turn, so much I did the impossible and overdosed. The sun was bright each and every day, and the Aegean was crisp and clear for the immersing. Santorini (Oia, to be exact) was last but the opposite of least. It is, I believe, the epitome of terrestrial beauty.


I could go on and on. So… I won't. Now that the triptych is complete, it's time to start working toward the next one. I already tempted the fates by entering a piss-poor state of productivity during my 2-week post-vacation hangover (a.k.a. immersion in dreams of throwing it all away to be Franka), and I'm pretty sure getting canned would put a big wrench between me and the next exotic getaway.

Travel Triptych II

Although I've traveled across the pond a handful of times, I'd never been across my own country to visit California until May of this year. Better late than never, indeed. It was a whirlwind trip, and I wasn't in the best spirits at the time, but if anything could cure the blues I daresay it's a long weekend in Cali-4-Nye-Aye. So... apparently mine were incurable at the time. Anyway.

I first flew from Chicago to L.A. to meet my (insert label here), who was there mastering his band's CD. I didn't see much of L.A., save for traffic, chinese theater, traffic, The Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf (yum), traffic, Beverly Hills, traffic, Bel Air, traffic, Venice Beach, traffic, and the In-N-Out burger. There I tried my first burger in decades (on the texted insistence of a dear friend whose taste buds were separated from mine at birth). Thin patties are key for a burger-phobe, and in that regard In-N-Out really delivers. It wasn't bad for a burger, but it wasn't necessarily worth the spat that resulted from our ill-fated attempts to find one of the THOUSAND locations in L.A. (not exactly a needle-in-a-haystack situation).

After long-winding our way out of L.A., we drove the hybrid (it's obligatory there, right?) up Highway 1 to Carmel where we stayed for the night. The ride up Highway 1 was first rate landscape. Mountains and ocean and trees, oh my. The B&B where we stayed was quaintly adorable yet affordable, and the Carmel beach was gorgeousness. I wanted to scoop it up and eat it (there I go again). Or curl up and stay there for forever (that's better). Apparently there is no nightlife in Carmel (just ritzy shopping), so we hit Monterey instead where it was very Real World-meets-Twilight Zone. The gory people watching made up for the plastic and fratty vibe of desperation. Shots and beers didn't hurt either.

The next day we kept on trucking up Highway 1 'til we made it to San Fran. 24 hours in SF revealed surprisingly steep inclines (I've seen the pics, but photos have nothing on walking up them hills), stinky sea lions, garlic goodness, coffee-done-right, crookedest streets, stairs by the thousands, a ferry building, a bay bridge, a big red bridge, and walking, walking and still more walking.

Myth debunked: People don't smoke in California. (so not true)

Offensive observation: Californians have poor taste in music.

Pulease, I don't REALLY think Californians have shitty taste in music, but the eating and drinking establishments we patroned played surprisingly crap tunes. I felt like I was back in France listening to the radio. And that, my friends, is not a compliment. One week in France will give you your fill of Phil Collins to last a lifetime.

I'll be going back, yes ma'am, to investigate all the hidden gems I missed this go-round. Although 24 hours wasn't enough to see all I wanted to see, it was enough to plant the west coast bug snug as a bug in a rug lining one of my ventricles.