I can’t help but feel a little bit scroogey this week. I shouldn’t, really. I mean, the cats have been extra cuddly with me, I had an alright weekend, even as nasty cold as it is out there, the heat’s on full blast for free of charge in my empty apartment. . . Hell, I even got a holiday floral bouquet sent to me for the first time ever at work today. (Go figure, the first time I get flowers in over a year and a half and it’s from an Oncology nurse in Louisiana, but still, it was awfully sweet and it’s always nice to know I’m appreciated for what I do day-to-day in the office. . . )
But still. . . I’m going home this week. Maybe that’s what it is.
My mom’s house is super small. My brother and his family will be m.i.a, off in Connecticut this year. It’ll be my first xmas sans the nieces/nephew brigade in something like 4-5 years. . . No childlike joy, no Santa Claus, no milk and cookies, no anticipation. Instead it will be my chain smoking mother, bartending step-dad (seriously, who has to bartend on XMAS day??), hermit uncle brad (who we thought was dead after disappearing from his trailer weeks ago) and myself, moping in a 5 room, one-story house, hiding in the spare bedroom, wishing I was still on speaking terms with any of my former classmates or high school working buddies. . .
I have three David Lynch films netflixed and saved for xmas day. Stephen King’s latest collection of short stories in hard cover. Special Topics in Calamity Physics. The new Andrew Bird CD (which is INCREDIBLE, btw). No cats :( . A full iPod, but broken earphones. I’m sure Joan will supply the Vodka. Other than that . . . 5 days of nothingness. I’ll be lugging my laptop as well, so maybe I can actually start writing something other than unpolished garbage—but I’m thinking this will prob remain my key to the outside world, sanity, etc. Venting on my keyboard.
Recalling yesterdays. Old xmas memories. . .
How I wish I could relive the simple joys of childlike xmas. The year I got a Barbie horse. My supernintendo with Aladdin (still play it some 14 years later). Callie, the perfectest cat that ever lived. Hiding from my cousins in the closet. Getting mascara in my 7th grade, uneducated eyes and blaming my Quasimodo like eye swelling on my mom’s smoking. Getting cans of slim jims and multi-click it colored pens from my uncle brad.
The year my brother tried to give me a Smash Mouth cd.
The Chicago Christmases with mike in our old apartment with the twinkling mini-tree. Sleeping until early AM at my brother’s suburban Illinois house until Ian awakes us all at 3:30 AM, sure Santa has already arrived. Putting Ian back to bed. Waking up an hour later with him and Emma at the foot of my bed, pleading.
My grandma’s quilt.
A Christmas Story, 24 hours on repeat on TNT. My uncle Brad trying to play Taboo but getting frustrated and cussing out the cards. "Forgetting" Aunt Gail’s presents at Staci’s house. Hiding from Aunt Viv so she doesn’t condemn me to hell for my tattoos and unchristian like ways. Not knowing which of my cousins is which.
Grandma’s cherry cheesecake bars.
Bonding with my brother over his uber-strong margarita martinis. Telling my sister in law I still have no plans for grad school, the third time this evening. Giving my mom an afghan I crocheted that “she loves” and I never see again. Watching my grandma slide down the hill in an inflatable snow tube. Watching the boys play snow football. Shaking the presents under the tree.
Waiting for Santa Claus.
Those are the things I miss. Cherish. Love. The sounds of sleigh bells, hanging up the plastic mistletoe, sharing the holiday with those I love more than anything in the world. Loving, eating, hugging, relaxing. . . But this year, I just don’t know what it is. What’s missing. Truth be told, Christmas was never my favorite, favorite holiday, that was usually thanksgiving or Halloween, but this year I’m just sort of sad and empty. I hope this will all change as soon as I go back to Argyle—maybe it’s because it’s my first Xmas in Argyle in the new house. The new house is great, sure, for Mom and Brent. Its one hell of an upgrade from 503 North State Street, but it’s not my home. It’s not where I grew up, and I don’t belong.
Still, I wish I could stay in Chicago. The cats will be lonely and I need to water my flowers. But Xmas is about giving, not receiving, and I need to give my mom me this year. Let her know I’m there for her and even though I don’t agree with all of her lifestyle choices, I still love her. So for her, my gift is pretending to be that same little girl who tore open all the presents at age 3 and sabotaged family xmas. If any of you are in Argyle, or even the slightest vicinity of Lafayette/Green County, call me. I will be bored.
With this, merry Christmas and may you and your families be jolly. I’m saving my energy for New Years, Jay Reatard and Justice will be waiting upon my return. HOLLER.
done rambling for NOW. I got some office dvds that need to be watched. WORD.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Mrs. Dralle & the infamous poop cookies
man, junior high was easy living.
for 7th and 8th grade, the kidz of argyle junior high were required to take 4 electives, one for each quarter. unlike normal schools with choices in curriculum, we argylians got a chunk of "AG," aka agriculture (b/c let's face it, this is what 95% of my fellow schoolmates really needed to learn after 12th grade), art (which c'mon, why was this restricted to a single quarter??), shop, aka "tech ed," aka technical education (this class REEKED of wood chips) and last but not least, home economics, with the one and only Mrs. Dralle.
Mrs. Dralle has a mole on her face by her smile in the shape of a heart. She has brown sally jesse raphealesque glasses--except Dralle's may be larger than Sally's. . . She liked to pronounce the word measure (which she used much more frequently than you would expect, even for a class teaching sewing, cooking and cleaning) like MAY zhur. "ok class, lettuce MAY zhur abowt a cup and a haff ov SHUG er. MAY zhur it correctly, now. in the MAY zhuring cups, no eyeballing!"
Oh, Mrs. D, you sure kept it real. You taught me how to set my table, how to sew bell bottom polka dot pajama pants, how to wash the dishes and best yet, make poop cookies. Most of you have eaten poop cookies at some time or another, without even realizing it. You may refer to them as "no-bake" or "campfire" or "peanut butter chocolate oatmeal." Well, screw that. I was 12 and my friend Ryan and I buddied up to tackle this recipe and we thought it looked like feces. We were classy like that, still are, actually.
The cookies are delicious. In fact, I just made a batch for my company's xmas potluck party tomorrow afternoon. They're ridiculously easy to make and they're full of chocolately, peanutbuttery goodness. Ask me and I'll send you the recipe, 4 realz.
When I was a junior at uw-oshkosh, studying radio/tv/film and journalism, Mrs. Dralle had sent me a letter in the mail. She got ahold of my dorm address from my mom who still lived across the street from my old high school. Mrs. D heard word that I was doing something other than agriculture (where really the only memories I still have were "making" paper (more like pulp on a window screen), and letting the pet bunny loose in the room and lying about it), and that I wasn't pregnant or married (at age 20, believe me, this was against the norm), she asked me to come speak to the kids of Argyle High for Career Day.
It turns out Career Day was over some sort of break, I think maybe xmas break (UW-O had extremely long winter breaks), so my mom guilted me into doing it. I remember I got stuck my old math classroom, with about 12-15 attention deficit kids staring at me, eyes glossed over after coming down from their daily sugar high. Dudes did not want to be there. Neither did I. But Mrs. Holland, smiled and "how good to see you jodi!", nodding encouragingly, man. I dont' even remember what I talked about. I just passed out clippings of old reviews and played a couple PSAs and a snippet from a specialty show. Showed a clip of my tv news work. "see kids, you can get out of argyle. lookat me, i got tattoos, piercings, and i'm a freak!!!! stay here forever!!!" that was probably what they got out of it anyway. . .
i dont think i ever want to visit Argyle schoolz ever again. . . but at least mrs. d sent me a certificate in the mail the next month. just like in grade school, "you guessed the correct number of tootsie rolls in the jar!" or "spelling bee champion" "100% on your math quiz". the certificate of thanks was on the exact same certificate. good to know us working professionals received the same merit badges as the 5th graders. . .
home ec was almost as rad as shop. shop, i got an A. i'm pretty sure the teacher gave everyone A's, especially the girls. our teacher was some jock dude who didn't want anything to do with instructing 13 year old girls how to wield a jigsaw (he was more into the 16 year olds). all i did was sniff the wood glue and let the boys in my class make my projects for me. i came up with the genius idea of making a penstand in the shape of wisconsin, hence calling it "little wisconsin" and carving the letters in with the burner all asinine with a sick, cheap pen. i gave it to my brother for xmas and he laughed so hard, i thought he was overjoyed. it must have meant something to him despite the mockery though, b/c he still has it on his desk. (as well as the red lips pillow i stuffed in home ec the same year). i also made a nightstand (or maybe it was justin paulson or aaron granberg who cut the wood for me, i may have actually screwed it together and stained it), and that also still exists, sitting in my mom's bedroom next to her bed.
skillz. i got em. i can make a mean batch of poop cookies, i possess the knowledge (somewhere) to make pulp, nightstands, little wisconsins with shitty pens, animal activism (bunnies) and i learned how to draw in art. i cant' really mock art though, that class was rad.
now to go taste test the poop cookies. . . how i pray for the youth of argyle, wisconsin. . .
for 7th and 8th grade, the kidz of argyle junior high were required to take 4 electives, one for each quarter. unlike normal schools with choices in curriculum, we argylians got a chunk of "AG," aka agriculture (b/c let's face it, this is what 95% of my fellow schoolmates really needed to learn after 12th grade), art (which c'mon, why was this restricted to a single quarter??), shop, aka "tech ed," aka technical education (this class REEKED of wood chips) and last but not least, home economics, with the one and only Mrs. Dralle.
Mrs. Dralle has a mole on her face by her smile in the shape of a heart. She has brown sally jesse raphealesque glasses--except Dralle's may be larger than Sally's. . . She liked to pronounce the word measure (which she used much more frequently than you would expect, even for a class teaching sewing, cooking and cleaning) like MAY zhur. "ok class, lettuce MAY zhur abowt a cup and a haff ov SHUG er. MAY zhur it correctly, now. in the MAY zhuring cups, no eyeballing!"
Oh, Mrs. D, you sure kept it real. You taught me how to set my table, how to sew bell bottom polka dot pajama pants, how to wash the dishes and best yet, make poop cookies. Most of you have eaten poop cookies at some time or another, without even realizing it. You may refer to them as "no-bake" or "campfire" or "peanut butter chocolate oatmeal." Well, screw that. I was 12 and my friend Ryan and I buddied up to tackle this recipe and we thought it looked like feces. We were classy like that, still are, actually.
The cookies are delicious. In fact, I just made a batch for my company's xmas potluck party tomorrow afternoon. They're ridiculously easy to make and they're full of chocolately, peanutbuttery goodness. Ask me and I'll send you the recipe, 4 realz.
When I was a junior at uw-oshkosh, studying radio/tv/film and journalism, Mrs. Dralle had sent me a letter in the mail. She got ahold of my dorm address from my mom who still lived across the street from my old high school. Mrs. D heard word that I was doing something other than agriculture (where really the only memories I still have were "making" paper (more like pulp on a window screen), and letting the pet bunny loose in the room and lying about it), and that I wasn't pregnant or married (at age 20, believe me, this was against the norm), she asked me to come speak to the kids of Argyle High for Career Day.
It turns out Career Day was over some sort of break, I think maybe xmas break (UW-O had extremely long winter breaks), so my mom guilted me into doing it. I remember I got stuck my old math classroom, with about 12-15 attention deficit kids staring at me, eyes glossed over after coming down from their daily sugar high. Dudes did not want to be there. Neither did I. But Mrs. Holland, smiled and "how good to see you jodi!", nodding encouragingly, man. I dont' even remember what I talked about. I just passed out clippings of old reviews and played a couple PSAs and a snippet from a specialty show. Showed a clip of my tv news work. "see kids, you can get out of argyle. lookat me, i got tattoos, piercings, and i'm a freak!!!! stay here forever!!!" that was probably what they got out of it anyway. . .
i dont think i ever want to visit Argyle schoolz ever again. . . but at least mrs. d sent me a certificate in the mail the next month. just like in grade school, "you guessed the correct number of tootsie rolls in the jar!" or "spelling bee champion" "100% on your math quiz". the certificate of thanks was on the exact same certificate. good to know us working professionals received the same merit badges as the 5th graders. . .
home ec was almost as rad as shop. shop, i got an A. i'm pretty sure the teacher gave everyone A's, especially the girls. our teacher was some jock dude who didn't want anything to do with instructing 13 year old girls how to wield a jigsaw (he was more into the 16 year olds). all i did was sniff the wood glue and let the boys in my class make my projects for me. i came up with the genius idea of making a penstand in the shape of wisconsin, hence calling it "little wisconsin" and carving the letters in with the burner all asinine with a sick, cheap pen. i gave it to my brother for xmas and he laughed so hard, i thought he was overjoyed. it must have meant something to him despite the mockery though, b/c he still has it on his desk. (as well as the red lips pillow i stuffed in home ec the same year). i also made a nightstand (or maybe it was justin paulson or aaron granberg who cut the wood for me, i may have actually screwed it together and stained it), and that also still exists, sitting in my mom's bedroom next to her bed.
skillz. i got em. i can make a mean batch of poop cookies, i possess the knowledge (somewhere) to make pulp, nightstands, little wisconsins with shitty pens, animal activism (bunnies) and i learned how to draw in art. i cant' really mock art though, that class was rad.
now to go taste test the poop cookies. . . how i pray for the youth of argyle, wisconsin. . .
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
hello RIPOFF
This GORGEOUS piece of jewelry is retailing for $995. My question: who the hell is gonna drop a grand on a sapphire/diamond Hello Kitty necklace?? What grown woman would proudly sport her sick little kitty/key necklace? There are none. That's the thing. This is a sick Miley Cyrus Daddy Fuck Me necklace. Because the only little girls getting this sick creation from Zale's designer diamonds are spoiled little rich princesses with even sicker daddies who think the only affection they can properly give their little girlz can be bought. Well done, Zales. It's not like we have a recession going on or anything. For more sickeningness, don't go HERE.
stroll down memory lane (in a lot of snow)
after a long day of work, i decided to skip out on a company xmas happy hour and just stroll home to hop in my pajamas and enjoy a nice, alcohol-free, warm mug of hot cocoa. haven't gotten quite there yet, although i am at a happy half-way point in my worn out, holey, faded ass old navy yoga pants, and am currently drying my mangy hood head of hair, snuggled in some afghans. . .listening to bright eyes' "lua" on repeat.
walking through the snow, coming down so fast and heavy, this time for some reason not quite caring the unshoveled sidewalks. . . i just felt somewhat at peace. ok with the stress of not knowing what will happen next. ok with missing people. ok with gorging on massive amounts of office holiday snacks (tummy may not be ok, but i'm aight wit it--go cheesecake brownies!). . . anyway. then i notice the trend of songs playing on my iPod.
First it was my boiii, Elliott. Mr. Smith. Ahh. "Needle in the Hay." Disturbingly beautiful. Always reminds me of the Royal Tenenbaums when Owen Wilson tries to off himself, (not the US Weekly version, mind you, but Eli, or whatever the cracked out cowboy's name was). NO. Wait a minute, I mean Luke Wilson, the brother. Scratch that. Whatever, it was one of the Wilson brothers, but it def wasn't Owen. I just remember the madness in his eyes, his poor little tortured soul obsessing over his forbidden love for his (adopted) sister. I can't say I've ever had feelings like that for my broski, (sick sick sick), but I can relate to madness. uncertainty. despair. sadness. not now, luckily. like i said, i'm aight now, but shit. you know. those moments. the unspeakable ones. but only, wes anderson isn't directing my life, so, my dark little secret moments weren't as cinematically staged--but anyway. that song makes me feel good in a twisted way. like, ok, yeah. shit is fucked up. man, this is fucked up. life is fucked up. it's all fucked up. but what are you gonna do about it? the immediacy of torment in that opening strumming of guitar. . . shit just keeps on, keepin on. and at least he got good marks, right? goddman it elliott. why'd you gotta go stab yourself in the heart? you were so, so so beautiful. everything about you. fucking genious. i've got two reminders on my wrist. happiness. now. i just opted not to use a knife to etch it in, but ink instead. . .
holy tangent. but anyway. yeah. "needle in the hay". took me back. got me thinking. to some dark, dark, dark times in my life. but the comfort that i ended up ok. and i, would not, end up with a knife in my heart. and what doesn't kill us, makes us stronger.
speaking of stronger, the next track on shuffle was kanye. but not the new autotune swagger, but "all falls down" off of "college dropout." possibly my favorite kanye track ever, or maybe it's "family business," but whatever. it also brought some vivid memories flooding back. i remember the first time i heard this track. i was in madison, wisconsin. i was going to school at uw-oshkosh, and would make the hour and a half drive down to madison every other weekend to party with my girls. i was maybe 19, 20. fuck, maybe 21? i don't remember to be honest. it's very possible i was underage, but it's also very possible i was the only person old enough to buy beer out of the group of us. i don't recall too much, just that we were REALLY into miller lite cases and bottles of captain morgan. these were the days. when i was TIGHT with kelly, nikki and casey too i suppose. i don' t really talk to any of these girls anymore, i guess due to "drama" which i didn't realize. but this isn't to vent on bygones, this is to reminisce on the good times. before the shit went sour, smart went crazy, all stale, blah blah. man, girls can REALLY fucking suck sometimes. you know? shit. why can't we all be people to one another. . . . but yeah.
cases of miller lite. mannequin heads. aaron carter. liquid measuring cups full of cheap ass rum. and kanye west. "all falls down" was on all the damned time. multiple times a night. i didn't have mtv and sure as hell wasn't checking commercial radio (die hard college radio nerd, DIE HARD), so i had no clue who this KANE WEST fellow was. but then we heard the workout plan. and would drunkenly whip out our own renditions--crunches, situps, jumping jacks, more table dancing. ahh. we had fun, yes we did. destiny's child. rage against the machine. gloria estefan. i couldn't even tell you waht i was into at the time, it didn't matter. my girls wouldn't let me play shit. i think maybe i was in a coheed & cambria phase, but it doesn't matter. all i remember is kanye. and this song just made it all good--summed shit up in a nutshell. no matter how high we were on life, on dancing and being stupid young girls, it all would eventually fall down. like now, how not a single one of these girls will even talk to me for some reason i'm unaware of. oh well, we all grow up sometime or another. i'm not sure i could even balance on another coffee table to save my soul at this point, anyhow. . . still, nostalgia can be nice.
my walk home is really only about ten minutes. "needle in the hay" is 4:17. "all falls down" is 3:43. this left me with approx. 3 minutes left until i stomped the snow off my nikes and pushed the front door open and shook my eskimo parka hood clean of wet, sloshy flakes.
next up, mr. conor oberst, in his bright eyes glory dayz, "lua."
holy memories.
3 years ago, well, a little more than that now, i suppose as 3 years ago tomorrow i've been graduated from college, oberst released his double disc collection, "i'm wide awake, it's morning" and "digital ash in a digital urn". before college, my stint as MD at wrst, i knew shit about music. what i did know, was mostly garbage. i was not familiar with bright eyes, although i had heard mountains and mountains of praises for this doe eyed skinny boy who called himself bright eyes from the various pusher promoters who wanted me to chart this. . . i knew it was a package i needed to review personally and when i popped the first disc into my office's ghetto box blaster, shit got quiet. i closed my door. i stretched out on my linoleum plastic makeshirt couch/chairs with the stuffing seeping out. i put my feet up on the cobwebbed and sticker plastered filing cabinets. i took a swig of my mountain dew code red and chomped on some chili cheese fritos'. i started crying. without even realizing it.
this shit was good. i wasn't sad. i remember that. i was kind of happy. i was just confused. why hadn't i heard this sooner? well obviously, this album wasn't in stores yet or anything, but where was my musical taste? why did i waste so many years of my life obsessing with generic and forgettable pop shitards? i don't know. but the album had a profound effect on me. and digital ash did too. i took the two records home and listened to them non-stop for basically the next year after that. i think the only thing i listened to more was e.smith's "from a basement on the hill". those albums changed me. so did "surfer rosa," although that was way back in freshman year, so that's a different post.
bright eyes cheered me up. it made me sad. it made me sing loudly in the shower. it made me hold my teddybear close at night when i drifted to sleep. it made me want a boyfriend (i eventually got one a couple months later and he too, enjoyed bright eyes). listening to "lua" now reminds me of him. but it also reminds me of the jodi before, the girl i used to be. the woman i am now in comparison, and now that i'm without him again i just think, how does this affect me now?
as i concluded my march home, i saw two taxis drive by in the flurries. both turned their lights off the moment they passed my one-way street. the lyrics hit so close to home. . . when i took my iPod headphones off in my heat blasted apartment, I realized only after my cat gave me a look of wide-eyed confusion that i was singing almost well, (not the typical tone-def, hit a couple notes if you can believe it) at the top of my lungs. shit, hope i wasn't doing that the whole walk home. . . but i guess it wouldn't matter anyway.
anyway. i'm here now, in bed. in the warm comfort of my favorite place on earth. there's a smelly black kitten meowing to my left and i'm laying here thinking old thoughts and trying to figure out exactly how and when i got to where i am today. i'm not sad. i'm not angry. i'm not happy. but i am ok. and that's all i need to be right now. no matter what happens, and who passes in and out of my life--i always have my elliott, conor and of course, kanye. the only 3 men i need.
i think that hot cocoa is calling my name. . .
walking through the snow, coming down so fast and heavy, this time for some reason not quite caring the unshoveled sidewalks. . . i just felt somewhat at peace. ok with the stress of not knowing what will happen next. ok with missing people. ok with gorging on massive amounts of office holiday snacks (tummy may not be ok, but i'm aight wit it--go cheesecake brownies!). . . anyway. then i notice the trend of songs playing on my iPod.
First it was my boiii, Elliott. Mr. Smith. Ahh. "Needle in the Hay." Disturbingly beautiful. Always reminds me of the Royal Tenenbaums when Owen Wilson tries to off himself, (not the US Weekly version, mind you, but Eli, or whatever the cracked out cowboy's name was). NO. Wait a minute, I mean Luke Wilson, the brother. Scratch that. Whatever, it was one of the Wilson brothers, but it def wasn't Owen. I just remember the madness in his eyes, his poor little tortured soul obsessing over his forbidden love for his (adopted) sister. I can't say I've ever had feelings like that for my broski, (sick sick sick), but I can relate to madness. uncertainty. despair. sadness. not now, luckily. like i said, i'm aight now, but shit. you know. those moments. the unspeakable ones. but only, wes anderson isn't directing my life, so, my dark little secret moments weren't as cinematically staged--but anyway. that song makes me feel good in a twisted way. like, ok, yeah. shit is fucked up. man, this is fucked up. life is fucked up. it's all fucked up. but what are you gonna do about it? the immediacy of torment in that opening strumming of guitar. . . shit just keeps on, keepin on. and at least he got good marks, right? goddman it elliott. why'd you gotta go stab yourself in the heart? you were so, so so beautiful. everything about you. fucking genious. i've got two reminders on my wrist. happiness. now. i just opted not to use a knife to etch it in, but ink instead. . .
holy tangent. but anyway. yeah. "needle in the hay". took me back. got me thinking. to some dark, dark, dark times in my life. but the comfort that i ended up ok. and i, would not, end up with a knife in my heart. and what doesn't kill us, makes us stronger.
speaking of stronger, the next track on shuffle was kanye. but not the new autotune swagger, but "all falls down" off of "college dropout." possibly my favorite kanye track ever, or maybe it's "family business," but whatever. it also brought some vivid memories flooding back. i remember the first time i heard this track. i was in madison, wisconsin. i was going to school at uw-oshkosh, and would make the hour and a half drive down to madison every other weekend to party with my girls. i was maybe 19, 20. fuck, maybe 21? i don't remember to be honest. it's very possible i was underage, but it's also very possible i was the only person old enough to buy beer out of the group of us. i don't recall too much, just that we were REALLY into miller lite cases and bottles of captain morgan. these were the days. when i was TIGHT with kelly, nikki and casey too i suppose. i don' t really talk to any of these girls anymore, i guess due to "drama" which i didn't realize. but this isn't to vent on bygones, this is to reminisce on the good times. before the shit went sour, smart went crazy, all stale, blah blah. man, girls can REALLY fucking suck sometimes. you know? shit. why can't we all be people to one another. . . . but yeah.
cases of miller lite. mannequin heads. aaron carter. liquid measuring cups full of cheap ass rum. and kanye west. "all falls down" was on all the damned time. multiple times a night. i didn't have mtv and sure as hell wasn't checking commercial radio (die hard college radio nerd, DIE HARD), so i had no clue who this KANE WEST fellow was. but then we heard the workout plan. and would drunkenly whip out our own renditions--crunches, situps, jumping jacks, more table dancing. ahh. we had fun, yes we did. destiny's child. rage against the machine. gloria estefan. i couldn't even tell you waht i was into at the time, it didn't matter. my girls wouldn't let me play shit. i think maybe i was in a coheed & cambria phase, but it doesn't matter. all i remember is kanye. and this song just made it all good--summed shit up in a nutshell. no matter how high we were on life, on dancing and being stupid young girls, it all would eventually fall down. like now, how not a single one of these girls will even talk to me for some reason i'm unaware of. oh well, we all grow up sometime or another. i'm not sure i could even balance on another coffee table to save my soul at this point, anyhow. . . still, nostalgia can be nice.
my walk home is really only about ten minutes. "needle in the hay" is 4:17. "all falls down" is 3:43. this left me with approx. 3 minutes left until i stomped the snow off my nikes and pushed the front door open and shook my eskimo parka hood clean of wet, sloshy flakes.
next up, mr. conor oberst, in his bright eyes glory dayz, "lua."
holy memories.
3 years ago, well, a little more than that now, i suppose as 3 years ago tomorrow i've been graduated from college, oberst released his double disc collection, "i'm wide awake, it's morning" and "digital ash in a digital urn". before college, my stint as MD at wrst, i knew shit about music. what i did know, was mostly garbage. i was not familiar with bright eyes, although i had heard mountains and mountains of praises for this doe eyed skinny boy who called himself bright eyes from the various pusher promoters who wanted me to chart this. . . i knew it was a package i needed to review personally and when i popped the first disc into my office's ghetto box blaster, shit got quiet. i closed my door. i stretched out on my linoleum plastic makeshirt couch/chairs with the stuffing seeping out. i put my feet up on the cobwebbed and sticker plastered filing cabinets. i took a swig of my mountain dew code red and chomped on some chili cheese fritos'. i started crying. without even realizing it.
this shit was good. i wasn't sad. i remember that. i was kind of happy. i was just confused. why hadn't i heard this sooner? well obviously, this album wasn't in stores yet or anything, but where was my musical taste? why did i waste so many years of my life obsessing with generic and forgettable pop shitards? i don't know. but the album had a profound effect on me. and digital ash did too. i took the two records home and listened to them non-stop for basically the next year after that. i think the only thing i listened to more was e.smith's "from a basement on the hill". those albums changed me. so did "surfer rosa," although that was way back in freshman year, so that's a different post.
bright eyes cheered me up. it made me sad. it made me sing loudly in the shower. it made me hold my teddybear close at night when i drifted to sleep. it made me want a boyfriend (i eventually got one a couple months later and he too, enjoyed bright eyes). listening to "lua" now reminds me of him. but it also reminds me of the jodi before, the girl i used to be. the woman i am now in comparison, and now that i'm without him again i just think, how does this affect me now?
as i concluded my march home, i saw two taxis drive by in the flurries. both turned their lights off the moment they passed my one-way street. the lyrics hit so close to home. . . when i took my iPod headphones off in my heat blasted apartment, I realized only after my cat gave me a look of wide-eyed confusion that i was singing almost well, (not the typical tone-def, hit a couple notes if you can believe it) at the top of my lungs. shit, hope i wasn't doing that the whole walk home. . . but i guess it wouldn't matter anyway.
anyway. i'm here now, in bed. in the warm comfort of my favorite place on earth. there's a smelly black kitten meowing to my left and i'm laying here thinking old thoughts and trying to figure out exactly how and when i got to where i am today. i'm not sad. i'm not angry. i'm not happy. but i am ok. and that's all i need to be right now. no matter what happens, and who passes in and out of my life--i always have my elliott, conor and of course, kanye. the only 3 men i need.
i think that hot cocoa is calling my name. . .
Monday, December 15, 2008
top beatz ov 2000ATE
Without Further Ado, MY OFFICIAL UNPOLISHED Top 15 Albums o’ tha yeyear. . .
15) Of
14) The Kills "Midnight Boom"—This is probably the sexiest album I copped all year. The combination of Allison Mosshart and Jamie Hince's sultry vocals and dark guitars were perfect for any listening occasion. Angry, sad, happy, pumped up—"Midnight Boom" just seemed to kick ass no matter what.
13) Cool Kids "The Bake Sale"—Mikey Rocks, Chuck Inglish and V.I. P-jay brought '88 back in '08 with their collection of vintage 80's like swagger. One of the best acts I caught at SXSW, it's impossible not to get pumped checking such tracks as "Bassment Party" and "Gold and a Pager."
12) El Guincho "Alegranza!"—This was a later discovery for me in '08, but Mr. Pablo Diaz-Reixa showed me a good time with this collection of experimental islandic afro-beat pop jams. "
11) Lil' Wayne "Tha Carter III"—Yes, I am guilty of being one of those hipster elites that sing never ending praises to Weezy. I'll spare you any explanation further than "Let The Beat Build" is more than likely a permanent fixture on my iPod. Guilty as charged.
10) Lykke Li "Youth Novels"—Sugary sweet, simple childlike girly vocals echoing over the tinkering of percussion and layers of keys, Lykke Li reminded me of the precious joys of innocent bubblegum pop, mixed with some sappy love songs. Perfect summer soundtrack.
9) Mates of State "Re-Arrange Us"—Incredible album, Kori & Jason Hammel's best work yet. The addition of strings and replacement of piano from keys took a while to grow on me at first, but numbers like "Now" and "My Only Offer" will take much longer to be forgotten. Catchy, wholesome pop.
8) Vampire Weekend self-titled –Ok, so maybe these prep-rockers were a bit over hyped into temporary overkill, but who cares? The fact remains that this self-titled phenomenon album is a solid piece of work from beginning to end. "The Kids Don't Stand a Chance" and "Oxford Comma" are catchy singles and it'd be a blasphemy for me not to include it on this list.
7) Santogold self-titled—"We think you're a joke, shove your hope, where it don't shine." Only Miss Santi White could pull a line like that and get the masses to their feet. This debut album was solid as hell, from start to finish with such stellar numbers like "Say Aha," "LES Artistes" and "Creator." Perhaps my favorite new artist of '08, this record is a permanent fixture to my dance party greatest hits.
6) Atmosphere "When Life Gives You Lemons, You Paint That Shit Gold" –Sean Daley is the man of my dreams—Slug could rap about doing the dishes and I'd still drop twenty bones to check it. The latest album takes a twist away from his personal narrative style into a deeper realm of story-telling, and gems such as "The Dreamer, "Guarantees" and "You" are freaking ridiculously amazing.
5) The Hood Internet "Mixtape 3"— No other artist was played more on my iTunes in 2008 than this Chi DJ duo. Made up of DJ STV SLV and ABX, these bros brought forth numerous solid booty shaking jams—from Lil Kim/MGMT, She & Him/Ludacris to pretty much any/everyone with Lil Wayne, this duo cut it up and fed it to the masses for free, and their 3rd mixtape installment just summarizes the tip of the iceberg of all things hood.
4) Robyn self-titled—Jodi hearts her some Robyn. This is no secret. Although this technically was released in
3) Bon Iver "For Emma, Forever Ago" – Ok, so technically this was a 2007 release, but I didn't know of Mr. Vernon until this past March at SXSW so this counts as a personal fave for '08. Simply eloquent, this gorgeous album served as the perfect soundtrack to my many ups and downs—the spring set I caught at the Lakeshore Theatre in
2) TV on the Radio "Dear Science," – There's no doubt these guys are talented, and this record just ups the ante from their previous efforts. From the moment I heard opening track, "Halfway Home," I knew I was deeply infatuated—an instant classic.
1) Girl Talk "Feed the Animals"—D-A-N-C-E PARTY!!!! Greg Gillis knows how to throw one effing sweet dance party, so this album was pretty much on repeat from the day it dropped online—Lil' Wayne and Sinead, who knew??
CSS & SSION - METRO, CHICAGO, 10/14/08
Last night I was torn between catching two of my favorite artists from 2008—both CSS and Love is All were playing; CSS at the Metro, Love is All at the Empty Bottle. Obviously, by the title of this post you can figure which gig I ended up at—but I'm definitely interested in hearing if any of you caught the show at the Bottle. Both groups promote upbeat, dancey, delectable pop music—one from Brazil and one of Swedish sorts—but it was the opener at CSS which was my deciding factor--SSION.
Many of you may not be super familiar with this eclectic, androgynous pop nightmare, but these Kansas City Natives sure now how to throw one helluva party. I caught them way back in 2002 when they played a free show with Numbers in Madison. Their obnoxious costume changes, (chicken/cow suits), stage props (bloody baby dolls), and live theatrics scared the shit out of me. So I was pretty excited to see what these cats were up to six years later, and I knew from Lolla this August that CSS definitely brings the dance party hard, so despite the all ages scene, I was stoked.
SSION hit Metro's stage at 7:30 PM on the dot. The line-up seemed to have changed since I last caught them and sad to say, the cow/chicken costumes were not accounted for—but lead man Cody Critcheloe was definitely glammed to the nines with his creepy handlebar 'stache, black eyeliner and leather get up. Critcheloe rocked the crowd with his two-man crew, busting out beats from their last few albums including the stellar cover of "Credit in the Straight World," Fool's Gold's"Street Jizz," and my personal favorite dance jam "Clowns."
I didn't recognize any tracks from Opportunity Bless My Soulbut from what I can tell I think the direction of the group has vastly disbanded their previous sounds—which is too bad, but the crowd didn't seem to notice. Critcheole had the party pumping away hard, with his frequent outburst screaming fits of "CHICAGOOOOOOOO, MAKE SOME NOIIIIIISE!!!!" and eventually closed the 40-minute set with a plea to pick up some of the group's merch so the posse could keep doing drugs. And that about sums of SSION in a nutshell—oh yeah, and I totally got my face groped while attempting to snap some pics in the pit to which I discovered that Cody definitely needs to invest in some waterproof mascara. (Unfortunately, these super would be sexy photos didn't turn out, however, due to the lame fog machines.)
Around 8:40 or so Miss Lovefoxxx and her homegirlz (and homeboy singular) brought the packed crowd of teenage hipsters exactly what they needed—loud keys, raging guitars, childlike cooing, high-pitched screaming and plenty of jumping around. If you could see through the sickeningly over usage of Metro's fog machines, you would have noticed Lovefoxxx's sexy signature bodysuit, this one of a black and white spectacle, complete with a Native American headdress and chunky, blue eye makeup.
CSS rocked the show with no slowing down—opening things up with Donkey's intro track, "Jager Yoga," and "closing" the show with party favorite, "Reggae All Night." The set focused mostly on material from Donkeyincluding "Left Behind," "Rage (Rat is Dead)", and the irresistible body-shaking "Move." Material from their self-titled debut was also accounted for, including "Meeting Paris Hilton," "This Month, Day 10," "Off the Hook," iPod commercial fave "Music is My Hot Hot Sex," and "Alcohol."
I don't think I've had as much fun overall at a show in forever—the crowd was so diverse and full of shameless booty shakers—even the bro rocking the Iron Maiden shirt and long pony tail to my left seemed to be digging what Lovefoxxx was dishing out—twelve year old girls behind me were hopping and skipping about and no one seemed to be having as much fun as the 45-year old large man in flannel, who screamed to my friend and I, "F*** yeah! I'm not ever gonna stop!" (Weird. But also, hilarious.) Balloons floated amongst the crowd as Miss Foxxx rambled something about a fashion internship at Elle Magazine as the crowd fixated on popping as many balloons as possible. The dancing never once ceased even after "Reggae All Night" closed the set.
The first encore number was "Air Painter," but I must admit that in my golden years, I skipped out early to grab my coat from coat check to avoid being trampled by the teeny boppers.
PUSSY
She shoots me an accusatory look, jealously glaring at me like I’m committing some sort of unspeakable evil, some horrible wronging. Really, all I’m doing is laying my head on top of the the other warm body in bed with me, not really putting the full weight of my head on her stomach. I know if I do this, it will hurt her, that’s how gentle and fragile she is. The other girl just keeps staring me down, as if to telekinetically tell me—don’t. You. Dare. Get off her now.
Sorry molly, I mumble, and lift my head off of Hester’s middle parts, sitting up. Both girls glare at me, what were you thinking? Yet no one speaks. It’s better this way, quiet, serene. Tension’s already easing and we’re all sitting now, on different spots in different positions in the same bed. Molly almost crawls over to my lap, staring up in my eyes, nudging the afghan with her feet. Affectionately, now that I’m no longer devoting my attention to Hester—her competition. Hester, meanwhile, shoots me a look half caring, and licks her lips. She squints her eyes together and lets out a soft groan, almost smiles at me and lies on her back, arching her legs up in the air.
I glance over at the lit assortment of candles on my nightstand and take off my pants and crawl under the covers. I grab both Hester and Molly close and shut my eyes, and off to sleep. Dreamland with the two most important beings in my life. I hug my ladies close, and am dozing in no time—with my kitties. What can I say; I get a lot of ass these days.
WEAR SUM UNDERPANTZ, LILY ALLEN!
Lily Allen kind of pissed me off this year. She made no attempts whatsoever to hide her blatant drug abuse or drunken shennaniganry. I can’t say she sucks for partaking in the typical early 20-something socialite behavior, but I was annoyed that this so far passed any mentioning of her musical abilities. Instead of cleaning up around the paparazzi or simply dismissing the gossip, she would take to MySpace of all outlets and vent about how she wanted to kill herself because someone called her “fat,” (when bitch, please, you’re noooootttt fattt, you’re beautiful. . . . was really all she was fishing for). c’mon. She has a cute voice, can pick the upbeat pop rhythms, and made a pretty solid debut record. That’s why I thought when she trashed herself out and I had to read about her skankiness all over perezhilton.com I almost became embarrassed of being a fan, something it takes quite a bit of sucking to get to. Actually, I’m not embarrassed to admit liking sucky bands, fuck, I’ve got lil’ Wayne all over my iPod (actually, omit that, lil Wayne does NOT suck,) and I used to scream my professional love to hall & oates, I even have a sugar ray cd somewhere, (although you know what, I’m not guilty, I really do think they suck and haven’t heard “fly” since like 10th grade).
WHATEVER. Anyway, Lily Allen sucked big time and I was tired of her despite loving “Alright Still” only a year before. BUT. Miss Allen has redeemed herself. “The Fear” is disgustingly catchy. Delectable. Juicy. Ironic. Witty. Cute. The video is like a Bourgeoisie version of Alice in Wonderland meets Cinderella in the 21st century. Meet Lily, prancing around from her trailer park into a virtual mansion plum full of cupcakes, dancing gifts, balloon dancers, hottie butlers galore and mucho pinks and purples decked out with checker board floors. Much like how I imagined my dream sweet 16, I guess you could say. Track is reminiscent of a John Hughes score, 80’s and synthed out. Lily singing about getting naked since that’s how you get famous, it’s just a downright good time. Then I hear Stereogum’s posted cover of Britney’s “Womanizer?” Bitch, please! That cover is way damned better than the original and has received even more plays on my iTunes that the hood internet mash-up with Dept of Eagles (No one Womanizes Like You). Sooo good. All 3. Well, except the Britney version, anyway. (Although, please feel free to call me out when you flip through my iPod and find even that version accounted for—what can I say? I heard it at the MAC store and thought it was catchy. . . . You go girl, make that comeback, you deserve it.)
So I guess I’m excited to hear Lily’s second attempt. It’s due out on Capital in February. Along with Lily, I’m eager to hear what Chicago native Mr. Andrew Bird has up his sleeves although I’ve gotten a pretty good taste already with all the internet leaks and his free set at Pritzker Pavilion at Grant Park this past summer. Solid. Dude can work multiple crazy ass instruments simultaneously, sing like a siren and still look mighty fine in a suit and tie. For this, I adore him. In final anticipation? Fucking BLUR is getting back together!!!!! I mean, shit girl, shit. None of this “Crazy Beat” nonsense either, or whatever the fuck Damon tried to excuse for a single/album a few years back. That shit was bananas, and not in a good way—just a bunch of overproduced noise. Albarn needs to keep that shit restricted to Gorillaz, doesn’t he realize that Blur is actual singing and geetars? Fuck the synthesizers—save that stuff for resurrecting Park Life, feel free to bask in the glory of early 90’s/late 80’s power pop, but do NOT whip that noise out in the late ‘00’s, bro. C’mon. You know better. Mr. Graham Coxon is pretty fucking talented, take advantage of his skills instead. You don’t need false instrumentation sound-alike’s, you need the real deal. So thank you and congratulations, future husband of mine, you made a very wise decision in patching up the bygones with Graham, you and he and Alex and whatever the other dude is named will make a hellaciously radical comeback album and tour in Chicago very very soon where I can openly melt in pleasure, singing and dancing and drooling along to your musical masterminds. Anything you touch turns to gold, Mr. Albarn—gorillaz, your freaky solo African project, the collaborations with fatboy slim, fuck it, even that god-awful monkey opera is good; just please, stick away from another song like “crazy beat.” I’m confident Graham won’t let you. And this is good.
Morales of the story? Lily, wear underpants and stay away from the nose candy. Focus in the studio and wear my cute dresses in your videos. Andrew, you are fucking awesome—stay that way. Damon, Graham, play nice and don’t disappoint me.
I’m confident with all your combined powers; you will make 2009 a solid year in music and maybe even put 2008 to shame. Here’s to hoping anyway, my fingers IZ crossed. I’ve also heard murmurs of another yeah Yeah Yeahs and Kanye sans autotune? OH MY GOD. I think I’ve just gone in heat even thinking these dirty little thoughts. . .
AIMEE MANN WILL HERT U.
Aimee Mann.
She makes me so sad, but so happy. But so empowered. So lesbian, feminist, so righteous. So okay.
Whatever she makes me feel, I feel alright.
Not like Tori and too much wine, Aimee is more optimistic in a way.
Maybe it’s because in Magnolia, everything works out okay despite the frog storm?
Not sure, but I’m really disappointed with myself for discovering her wondrous honey like vocal style and delicate guitar picking this late into adulthood. There are no excuses; I had multiple copies of “the forgotten arm” from my music directorship at wrst. What. Was. I. thinking. Well obv, I wasn’t.
Anyway, I think you should all listen to Aimee Mann right now. If not this instant, later on today. Tomorrow, first thing in the morning. Listen to “you could make a killing.” or “one is the loneliest number.” “Save me.” “Today’s the day.” “Wise up.”
Damn, Miss Mann’s the next Fiona apple to me. And that’s a big statement. I heart me some Fiona big time. She was my first tori. And yet, when I think of Aimee, I can’t help but reminisce on esthero’s first album, “heaven sent.” her second and if any after that . . . not so much. But “that girl,” “breath from another,” and whatever the intro track on that album was called—solid, total feministic girl power. That sounds so 12 year old, prepubescent. I’m not talking spice girls here, although I can definitely comment on why liking them is totally ok too. Fuck posh and her hot soccer husband. Or the black one with her dumb dancing show. I’m not talking about that, I’m referring to being on the verge of 13 and hearing “wannabe” for the first time at 3 am, waking up to get ready to visit dying gramma in the hospital, not quite ready to get in the car even though mom’s calling for me, because I’m too mesmerized by this group of British girliness, hopping around in halter tops and chunky platform sandals, cooing out words like “luva,” “friends” and zigazigahh. Wow. Hmmmm. this is neat.
That’s what I’m talking about. Not that tabloid shit. Fuck that noise.
But Aimee Mann. She’s got some pipes on her, eh? She’s pretty sounding, delicate, yet you just know by listening to her that she isn’t some typical bimbo you can push around. If you tried to snatch her guitar from her and call her ugly, she’d give you a look, or kick your ass, or something else equally intimidating. Or maybe she wouldn’t even have to resort to violence; you’d just KNOW not to mess with her. You’d feel guilty and immoral. But wait a minute, why would anyone want to kick her ass anyway? Man, red wine makes you think up unusual hypothetical situations, don’t it?
Live Birth - Jaded on Yellowtail Merlot
INTRODUCING:
who knows how long i'll stick with this one? what evs, it's worth a shot anyway.
who knows how long i'll stick with this one? what evs, it's worth a shot anyway.
I wanted to create an outlet for me to ramble freely, similar to my whiney myspace blog posts, but more of an anonymous outlet where my readers can’t stare at my pictures. of course, the three or four of you who know me and are interested (or more likely, bored out of your freaking skulls) to read my stupid shit, you’ll know my true identity. my clark kent to superman. ru paul to whoever the hell rupaul really is. you get it.
be prepared to intercept several spelling errors, lower caps and grammatically incorrect phrases and words that don’t mean what I want them to (at least according to that ho-bag Merriam Webster, anyway). I’ll still ramble whiney sweet nothings on my MySpace when I get drunk or wistful enough, and I’ll contribute my reviews to mob, but this is where I go to make no sense and bore you all shitless.
I once met this guy who begged to read some samples of my writing. after some coaxing and reassurance, I was stupid enough to send him some reviews I was most proud of—to be sent an email back reading: “Your writing is a bit unpolished, yes—but some people really like that.” Hence, the title of my new ramble forum. SOME, not all, or even him, for that matter, but SOME people really like that. Best part of the email? He attached a photograph of himself wearing a stupidass fedora hat with a constipated like “I’m so cool” facebook facial pose and said, “I’ve attached a photograph of myself for you to enjoy.” Oh yes, thank you. You insult me and I get to see a picture of you. See? I’m not gonna do that here, only pictures of cats allowed.
Don’t say I didn’t warn you, you’re about to be exposed to some massive Unpolished ramblings, in fact, the more unpolished, the better. See here? That’z my goal.
Fuck yeah.
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