doll parts, grapefruit, rapeman. (or just another monday night in chicago).

it's a monday night. super wicked cold, january. we're in chicago, one of the largest cities in the u.s. i'm beat, as i'm pretty sure are you. we're old pals, been together not quite long enough to count on two hands, but longer than most post-collegiate friendships. it's been a while, since i've had the energy or motivation to leave the comforts of my adult married apartment. drinks bore me, at least if vincent's not there with me. but i know it's been too long, we both do, so when we make plans to hang out, i know in the back of my mind i'm not going to flake or bail this time, and you do too. or at least i think you thought that, because you came through on it. instead of overpriced east lakeview manicures at 'this really great asian joint, down on broadway, the price is worth it, go no-chip manicures!', we opt to hop in your little eco-car and we cruise it on down to our old stomping grounds. a mini bar crawl at the dangerous hour of 7:00pm. we opt for the more pricey beers, because well, we can afford them. and they taste better. we talk about our jobs. about love. about past experiences. our parents, and how everyone has some sort of dis-attachment they can't shake from their mom or dad. you, your dad. me, my mom. we talk about others we know, and how we're glad we're not them. two beers in and we're both feeling good, the conversation is on full spigot blast now. we become friends with joey, the little man boy bartender who plays hipster garage rock from three years past on his iPod, who feeds us malort shots and explains, 'they're really not that bad if you expect grapefruit, it's only if you think it's going to be bad it is,' you take the shot, 'this tastes like wood.' i take the shot, 'or a really bad kisser.' but we agree it's not as bad as aqua-net hairspray, which is what i was initially anticipating prior to the grapefruit analogy. we hop next door to an establishment we've frequented many a times in our past lives. it's different, but the same. enigma is still on the jukebox, as is eve 6. we play both, followed up with some deftones and kid rock. but it's only when we play hole's 'doll parts' and both burst out in teenage white girl angst, thrashing our arms at the wooden townie bar, that we realize how badly we want a karaoke night. instead i make small talk on the bulls game, they beat the nets, 84 to 111 (or something, at this point i'm 3 beers in and pretty beat). i'm going to see this game on february 18th with my husband. i bought tickets for valentines' day. being a wife is fun. but instead of our karaoke fix, we opt for cheap mexican food next door instead. you, two veggie tacos, with pretty incredible looking avocado slices. me, a steak quesadilla, side of sour cream of course. we share an over salted basket of tortilla chips that taste suspiciously like frito's corn chips. i pay the bill and it's under fifteen dollars. we drive back to lakeview, with promises to make this a monday night weekly tradition - except that you have a class every monday night starting the following week, and i have spinning classes on tuesdays. we'll make it work somehow, we agree, and you drive past my turn. we hop on lakeshore drive, listening to a cd in your car stereo by an artist called rapeman. surprisingly, it's pretty badass. i want to be in a band called rapeman. you drop me off at home, and i crawl into bed, inspired to write, observing and documenting the little things in my head. i write a sleepy mini outline in my gmail account, since my new laptop doesn't have microsoft word, and wonder how i can put this into prose. i guess this could constitute as a running start, a halfway meager attempt at an outline of sorts, a writing exercise. maybe, maybe not. at least if nothing else, it's an excuse to post a music video by hole on my blog. i'll take that, my friends, for what it's worth.

my morning commute.

this morning my iPod was on shuffle. and i got a big old good morning from sister yesterday. there are two songs in the world that turn me back in time. back to the days where i'd sit beside my single speaker cassette tape boombox (actually, it belonged to my older brother jamie, but i totally claimed minezies on it when he went away to college) and wait, finger upheld, perfectly above the circular REC button, hoping to capture my favorite songs from the static infested FM airwaves of Madison's own Z104. one of the songs was r.e.m.'s 'losing my religion,' but i liked that one b/c it reminded me of my grandpa's barn in richlan center. the other, i'm not really sure why i was drawn to other than the fact that i was an 8 year old girl, was the track above by miss sophie b. hawkins, a one hit wonder if i ever heard one. but DAMN, that song was catchy. and even though i was a mere 3rd grader, 8 year old jodi felt this jam tug at her pre-pubescent heart strings. how i wanted a boy in my class to hold my hand! look at me like i was pretty! circle YES on a 'do you like me circle yes/no/maybe' notebook note. these things never happened, but listening to sophie b. gave me hope anyway. that even this fully grown babe who could hold the key on eva and eva and eva and evAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA for like 90 seconds, yearns for a dude who wasn't hers, made me feel accepted. and normal. and way too mature for my age.

listening to this song some 20 years later, i still feel my heartstrings grip a tiny bit tighter, but now i can smile back on the days of my youth and assuredly smile that it all worked out in the end. all the while, looking super fly with my eyes half closed, jamming away to my 90's power fem jam on the business insect infested cta bus down lake shore drive.

you a stupid hoe.

upon first watch, this was a car wreck. i resisted the urge to watch it for nearly 3 days based on the title alone. but as it was destined, i eventually clicked 'play' while louging lazily on my couch. after the first 15 seconds of air horns, unneccessary clapping, adderol infused groaning clashed with accusations of promiscuity, i thought i (maybe) had had enough. my husband turned to me, no longer glued to his nba highlights, 'jodes, i'm not sure i want you listening to this music.' the tone of concern there showed it wasn't just for his own well being, either. but after i finished gaping at this fuck you lil kim anthem, i found my inner concious iPod re-whooping, clapping and stupid hoe'ing all over the goddamn place. so then i watched it again. and again. and again. and now, somehow, miss minaj has won me over all over again. i don't know what it is about her, but she has finally proven she can do whatever the fuck she wants. hell, she could probably even get me to listen to the scatman. and like it. and i HATE the scatman. so maybe it's better i don't think about that right now. point is: nickin minaj rules. so does this obscenity. later on tonight, when you're riding alone on the cta, spacing out after your long shift at work, and the haunting beeping sirens and stupid hoe is firing insisently in yr brains, you can thank me later for that.

bitches, this is my new jam.

who knew an 8 bones splurge in line at world market would change my very existence. holy shit i be smelling and feeling supa fly. sugar scrub, did done get it. ya'll be feeling exxxtra supple, soft, and hella delicious. yeah, i guess this totally confirms my nearly 30 yr old white yuppiedom, whatevs.

fact vs. fiction

after a regular day in the office, i came home to an empty apartment. well, not exactly empty. even though my husband is currently pulling a 2nd shift at the hostel and i'm the sole person in my apartment, i am and have been accompanied by the presence of two naughty, yet subdued feline friends, a 47 lb. amazon.com shipment of clay cat litter pellets (tidy cat breeze, you know - so much better than the regular litter (just keep telling yrself that, miss jodi)), a dinner consisting of yellow rice & red beans, approximately 4 cups of a 'treat yrself' $20 bottle of red wine from world market, and the final approximate 120 or so pages of the latest (but not greatest) novel from my favorite author, japanese surrealist fictional writer, haruki murakami.

ever since mr.sassana rolled outta bed that late october eve of the novel's release, and managed to cop me an autographed copy from the midnight release of 1Q84, i've been 'pokeassin' my way through the 924 page experience.

there were times when i flipped through the pages addicted, needing to finish the next paragraph, unable to set the clonker down and complete monotonous yet necessary tasks such as going to the bathroom. i needed to dig deeper, and find where these different paths connected, and to what mystical road this tale would turn down.

i read this on our honeymoon, in sunny jamaica. i read this on lonesome nights while vincent worked overnights. i read this on lazy sunday afternoons, and snuck glimpses into fictional parallel universe just because. and finally, yet still unknowingly inspired by the concept of literature and writing itself, i became motivated to finish it off.

so why am i wishing i had dwelled on facebook and failed at spider solitaire the past two hours instead? what is it, about murakami's latest that has failed to grasp my heartstrings and propel me into his unique lands? why do i feel, dare i say, disappointed? before i come to any conclusions that this book wasn't what i hoped for, i have the need to sit with peers, other fans of murakami, and discuss at length the pros, cons, dissect the characters, plot, symbolism. was it really a failure? or was it show your bones? the yeah yeah yeahs album that almost was, but never quite hit the mark they had set the bar for. but no way could 1Q84 be a case of the sophomore slump, murakami has been at his craft for decades, cranking out masterpiece after masterpiece, capturing the hearts of readers - dreamers and realists alike, for more time than i could appreciate literature.

so why do i feel saddened or let down? like i'm only pretending, to like that christmas gift my mother gave me 3 years past, of elastic waist banded stretch jeans from land's end? i need a book club, or a circle to discuss with. was it the fact that this was murakami's first attempt with a female protagonist in all his years of writing? was it the unnecessary drawn out length, the lost in translation effect of the never-ending stake out, that instead of suspense, only drew boredom?

still, the man is a beautiful writer. there's no fiction in that. his similes and metaphors are almost so obvious that they're genius. his lyrical prose is almost to a disadvantage, it's so clear. and you do hope for the good guys. you want them to win. yet still, i'm so accustomed to his past story telling records that i hoped it wouldn't work out for them. that some sickness would entrap the two main characters. their love would somehow, remain forbidden. and that shit would hit the fan. creating a sense of unavoidable gloom, reminding readers that the world, isn't always the beautiful fantasy we dream it to be.

but maybe that's just me. who am i to judge, anyway? i smell like stale rice and beans, with dried up siracha residue in my short, pink manicured fingernails. sweaty feet, tucked away in my crooked bedsheet and comforter. wearing my cousin lacy's old, blue and gold thin, cotton not quite plaid - definitely not flannel, dress shirt that she gave me when i was 9 years old, and for whatever reason, i still kept and wear some 20 years later, even though i haven't spoken with this cousin in over a decade. feeling the prickled hairs on my legs, tying knots in my messy mane, with oversized tiffany's black square frames sliding halfway down my nose. trying to reconnect with my past by listening to really not that great, even though i want them to be music albums on my ipod. department of eagles. cat power. sounds majestic on the 146 express bus, sure, but not quite so much after a long day of minimal speaking or enjoyment.

ok, enough about me. the facts are that i am still exercising my thoughts. trying to get on the path to writing once again. little by little, i'll release some sort of mental internal wd-brain40, and get my fingers typing the prose they once knew how to conduct. get over this brain blockage, find their way.

fiction will always remain. my polka-dotted tumbler glass of red wine on my nightstand will not. (at least not if miss elliott, who's paw currently dangles centimeters away from it, has anything to do with it).

so with this, i will run a bubble bath and call it a night. dream dreams of a parallel universe made up by one surrealist dreamer from another land. a land where 2 moons exist, and dangers lurk in the hidden crevices. where love beats all, and the unexplainable trumps reality. a fictional world simultaneously both worth dreaming of, but remaining apart of. my real world is much better than one of fiction, my facts are my everything. everyday will become a new mini chapter, in my own personal tale.

cognitive fiction.

sometimes, but not always, i miss the days of my restless childhood. the days when all i yearned for was to break away, and be free. run away to a city. so big no one could ever find me and i wouldn't have to answer to anyone. thrillseeking. breaking out. making that name for myself, defining who is and what would become, miss jodi robin root, born may 26th, 1983 and raised in south western rural wisconsin.

the days of swinging on gnarled ropes in flea infested hay mows. cuddling half feral, fur matted, eye gunked kittens against their will. tip toeing the makeshift balance beam aisle between the rotating shit belt and mawing cows, subconsciously etching the sounds of swishing cowtails and R.E.M's 1991 hit "Losing My Religion" in my self, so that anytime I would remember my days of girlhood at the Richland Center family farm, the nasally vocals of Michael Stipe would linger on.

wearing breadbags over my shoes instead of boots in the wet winters. oversized glasses. many a puff paint t-shirt, sporting my squiggly 4-letter name. way too many troll dolls, eventually transitioning into way too many lip gloss kits. poorly plucked eyebrows. angst teen journals, shoved into broken shoe boxes, tearing at the creases, secretly jammed under my full bed. only available social activities consisting of strolls to the duckpond on the outskirt of village limits, soaring as high as my pumping chicken legs would allow on the rusty swingset at the town park, daydreaming of first kisses under the baseball diamond bleachers, walks to the bj petro for a mountain dew and icecream cookie sandwich, flavorful chocolate malts and deepfried cheese curds at irma's kitchen. getting the mail at the post office. throwing rocks off the dam in the pecatonica river. fantasizing about first kisses on the merry go round. wishing my glasses weren't so big. and finally, when they weren't, wishing i would grow into my body. hoping my mind would someday soon be appeased. find some sort of something for me in the rural quiet madness.

always writing, always waiting.

i'm no longer in small town wisconsin. nor do i think i ever will be again, at least for the longhaul. my mother has since moved residences, two times in the past ten years. my childhood companion callie has long since passed. my backyard tree fort was sawed to the ground before i reached 20. classmates remain, although ironically enough, their cold shouldered tendencies still manage to haunt my dreams, with dream jodi still vying for nothing more than simple inclusion and friendship. yet regardless of no dreams or aspirations lingering in my past hometown, the skeletons within my subconscious still yearn for my return.

it's been nearly 2 years since i have had a real visit home. there was a 36 hour stint over christmas 2010, in which i sluggishly and slack jawed caved in to a freaks and geeks and law and order svu television marathons on TNT with my stoned 60 year old mother, eating cheeses and slurping box wine all the while. but there was no exploring. no writing. nor has there been in my  now, really.

my life has taken off, found its launch pad. its center orbit. meaning, match, purpose.

the skeletons can finally sleep. yet it's still not enough. i no longer need to wait, but the hidden desire and drive to write, to pen it all down for the record, remains.

i wrote a blog the other night while a bit too tipsy for my own good, but never hit publish post. it was a tangent rant of sorts about the plus/minuses of new year's resolutions. i pretty much bashed it since i was too lazy to come up with one for myself in 2012. i figure, what's the point in annual goals? I already have to do that shit at my job, why force myself to commit to ideals for a mere 365 days for self betterment? can't i just do me and live my life how i want, guilt-free if i eat too many calories? i don't commit to tedious objectives, but rather make life long commitments instead. to friends, family, and my husband. i don't need Cosmopolitan telling me to do more ab crunches and what breakfast snacks are sexy. thanks, but no thanks.

i do think, however, that i should make it a point, (note how i'm not saying resolve or make a resolution, here, due to stubbornness alone), to try and write more this year. the desire to describe, and sew a tale of details with words is strong, yet i always seem to stop myself because i never have a solid story to tell. more of glimmers and glimpses into my perspective or ideas that haunt my thoughts. i read a story my husband wrote about a past love the other day. it was really, really good. i got jealous, even, of his ability to craft prose. i caught myself gazing at him while he fake slept in the late morning hours, daydreaming of how happy of a life it would be, if neither one of us had to worry about financial responsibilities, and could rent ourselves a small and simple apartment, big enough for the 2 of us (and our cats), but with separate spaces reserved for writing. 2 desks, and maybe even a typewriter for sport. if we didn't have to work, but instead, were disciplined enough to set time apart each day for our writings. meeting every couple of hours for a lemonade/iced tea break, to chat over ideas and discuss inspiration. collaborating, even, and blending our mutual passion for fiction and non-fiction alike.

that would be nice, is all. but the fact that i even have a husband, career, apartment, and 2 cats is enough for me. but i do think 2012 is my time to discard all baggage. emotional, physical, and ideals. let it all go, and move forward focusing on only my loves and passions. literature, included. penned by others, and possibly even me.

something tells me a trip to wisconsin is in the works. perhaps a trip down nostalgia lane will uproot my humble beginnings and will light that wick, that's been patiently waiting and waivering, inside my creative being for far too long.

moving forward.

totally fell in love with adele about 1 year too late. this song is intense, reminds me of my days former, when brooding over a man wasn't only make believe. her lyrics are poignant, and an accurate portrayal of a female done wrong in love. brings back the sour taste of past turbulent times. days of weakness and naivety. in that regard, she is a success, and creates the ultimate pop song. girls, just try to not hit repeat on this jam, it's the most addictive chickshit since aimee mann's 'save me.'

music for married people.

digging through the closet in a half drunken attempt to clean, i came across the shoebox of wedding cards and left-over wedding favors - vin and my mix cd  'vincent and jodi: songs to give you cavities"

here's the tracklisting, we have plenty left-over, so if you want one for xmas, maybe santa can slip one under the sheets? its' a good journey thru vin/my sappy jamz.

(or not). regardless, it's a fun lesson - i think even singlez could enjoy.

1) the flamingos- i only have eyes for you
2) jose gonzalez - heartbeats
3) pixies -gigantic
4) wolf parade - this heart's on fire
5) wild flag - romance
6) beck - think i'm in love
7) robyn - indestructible
8) cut copy - hearts on fire
9) handsome furs - i'm confused
10) hall & oates - you make my dreams
11) mates of state - like u crazy
12) the cure -friday i'm in love
13) bloc party - this modern love
14) yeah yeah yeahs - maps
15) thee oh sees - if i stay too long
16) nouvelle vague - i melt with you

2011's hits & misses

so it's that time again. the time where jodi is finally de-stressed enough, with a night to herself with no immediate chores/objectives, and just the comfort of her sweat pants, a bottle of yellow tail merlot, the opportunity to run around the empty apartment flashing her tits at the dumbstruck felines, and do whatever the hell she wants. and comes back ashamed to her long term neglected poor excuse for a blog. (hell, it beats folding laundry). just realized it happens to be november, as in the END of november. it's hard to realize this, given i just biked to the radio station after slumming the day off away, wearing only a track jacket hoodie to boot, but eff it, who needs to complain about the mysterious pleasantries? digging the new m83 album, contemplating if there are any additional purchase worth scavenging for at reckless before family burb holiday time tomorrow while the spouse slumbers, but instead i'm focusing on what worked vs. what didn't, this past year in music.

was a pretty nuts year for me. didn't focus so much on the regular rigamarol of musics in 2011. but that doesn't mean there weren't some solid beats slapped on the ole iPod. here's my list so far. perhaps if i get motivated enough before year's end i'll provide summaries of explanation, but without further ado - here's miss jodi robin (root) sassana's top o' the pops.

what i've been listening to (this past week):
1) M83 - hurry up, we're dreaming
2) doomtree - no kings
3) mike & the censations (michael james kirkland) - don't sell your soul
4) dead presidents soundtrack - (yeah, i know it's been around forever, but i'm finally getting my flirt on with my crucial soul roots)

what's made an impact (this past year)
1) jay-z & kanye west - watch the throne

2) pj harvey - let england shake
3) sims - bad time zoo
4) mike & the censations - don't sell your soul5) thao & mirah - self-titled
6) lady gaga - born this way
7) yacht - shangri-la
8) doomtree- no kings
9) lykke li - youth novels
10) wild flag - self-titled

11) tennis - cape dory
12) panda bear - tomboy

honorable mentions (as in, wasn't really expecting much but wound up listening more than i realized)
 1) cut copy - zonoscope

2) shabazz palaces - black up


the second date slump
(anticipated top tens of the year, but alas, sadly admitted long-term let-downs, but still solid b/c i heart these guys so much, but let's be honest here, after forcing myself on repeat for 2-3 weeks post-release, i kinda forgot they dropped; just lost that first impression spark :( - (aka 2010's - spoon transference )
1) lil wayne - tha carter iv
2) bon iver - bon iver

3) atmosphere - the family sign
4) tv on the radio - nine types of light
5) bright eyes - the people's key
6) the go team! - rolling blackouts
7) radiohead - the king of limbs
8) the decemberists - the king is dead


downright terrible (and mad at myself for buying into the hype)
1) tyler the creater - goblin

the dream: carrion crawler (empty bottle, thee oh sees remix)

got plans pre-blackfriday/thursday/wednesday? you know, the nite the real kewl kids come out to play? now you do. empty bottle still has tix on sale. come hither, bitches, and see what miss jodi missed out on in a drunken stupid three quarters into what should have/would have been a super stellar solid set some 5 months prior. thee oh sees are scheduled to rock the empty bottle for two sets, one at 7 for ya'll nerds, and another at 10 for the super kewl dudez (such as yrs truly).

like cool-io, i'll c u when u get thurrr. shit will be bananas.