if columbus was wrong i'd drive straight off the edge.

today i reached a dreaded certainty. everything in my life is finally alligned. things are swell. yet - there is still this twisted knot, eating, rotting and corroding my insides full of anxiety, sadness and torment. it's so obvious. but do i have the courage to admit it?

i've got a big fat fucking bone to pick, with you my darling.

Wolf Parade: 11/23/10 - House of Blues, Chicago

I think I kind of have a music crush on Dan Boeckner. Between Handsome Furs and Wolf Parade, I’ve caught the dude blowing my mind (and eardrums) probably around 7 or 8 times by now. When I heard Wolf Parade would be back in Chicago after their brief, but enjoyable performance at Pitchfork, I knew I had to check it out—even if that meant going against everything I stand for in music venues and returning to the dreaded House of Blues. Now to be fair, I had only frequented HOB once a few years back; ironically enough, to catch Wolf Parade—but the bad taste that was left in my mouth from the obnoxious security personnel and staff just wouldn’t fade. (Seriously, who the hell doesn’t let someone with a press pass in with a PEN?! I mean, I know I’m super cool and Wolf Parade would probably throw me on their guest list once they got to know me on a friend to friend basis, but . . . seriously.)

While the security personnel allowed my blue point bic hassle free this time around, I was slapped with a handful of even more painful fun killers--$6 cans of beer (sober night), a crowd of obnoxious underage fleece sporting nerds and bros (almost had a $6 high life spill on my kicks when some 17 year old flew down the stairs at my feet; not to be topped off by the drunk jerkstore on my right who “loves snorting lines of coke off his iPad”), and the most god awful opening band in all of history. I could almost dedicate this entire review to how terrible a pair-up whatever nonsense it was that opened up for WP sounded (and I’m not talking about the cutesy Japanese band, either), but I think my six-word scribbled descriptor of “cringe-worthy nasal nuisance nineties reject rock” did a fair enough job of summing them up. And of course, they had the longest sound check of all time—so by the time Boeckner, Krug and crew eventually took the stage around 10:15, it was safe to say I was on my last nerve’s end.

It only took the first key chords of “Dear Sons and Daughters of Hungry Ghosts” to quickly turn me around, however. Instantly clicking with an old personal fave from Apologies to Queen Mary was just the anecdote to my unease, and I realized that maybe the next 75 minutes would prove to be worth the wait after all—plus I got the spiteful amusement of watching the staff finally catch on to some underage drinkers and throw their asses out. While banter was somewhat consistent between songs, it remained at a fair minimum—with Krug throwing in self-deprecating retorts to Dan’s annoying female “I LOVE YOU DAN! WOO’S!” along the lines of, “Well can you say Spencer, you fat fucker? I mean, I am getting a bit older, things are changing.” Additional awkward quips of watching themselves on the HD TV—“infinity mirrors” and commentary on the overwhelming odor of popcorn VS the typical ‘weed smoke smells’ followed; proving maybe Krug should have either stuck to sucking his bottle of Jameson or belting out his fantastically wavy, garbled wails.

Awkward banter aside, Wolf Parade succeeded in their rocker mission of the evening—coming across as cool and crisp in their overall instrumentation as one could hope for with their guitar, keys and percussion dead on the mark. While the majority of the songs represented stemmed from their most recent release, Expo 86, there were a handful of oldies in the mix too, with At Mount Zoomar’s “Soldier Grin,” “Fine Young Cannibals,” the 10-minute rendition of “Kissing the Beehive,” and Apologies’ “I’ll Believe in Anything, the encore closer “You are a Runner And I am My Father’s Son,” and my personal highlight of the night, an electrified, dancey rendition to “This Heart’s On Fire.”

By the end of the night, I was a pretty sleepy, yet content gal—even despite the high influx of drunken bros polluting the crowd. While I would have admittedly liked to have heard more Apologies’ numbers, I felt satisfied with the equal representation of WP’s catalogue and look forward with what’s to come in the future. But here’s to hoping dudes will wise up and rock The Vic or Metro next time around.


Side Note Non Review Addendum/RANTS

• Dudes, it is not smooth, cool or ever a good idea to interrupt someone who is obviously in deep thought taking notes - ESPECIALLY if said person is female and you are trying to get in her panties with lame slurs like, 'arrrrrgh yew rigghtin' a revuue?' 'that's shlooo aweshum,' 'what bhlowg? i liv in shikawgo so i probaablee reed it.' gross bros, piss off. if i wanted you to read my shit or talk to you, i wouldn't give you my meanest bitch face with my arms crossed. i also wouldn't say 'a blog' when you asked where i wrote. I HATE DRUNK BROS.
• To the guys to my right who wouldn't quit saying 'NOW THAT WAS A JAM!!!' you are very fortunate i did not reach over the railling and bash your respective craniums into the stair banister. seriously.
• That new song in the setlist i didn't really mention above in the review, I had never heard it, i just know they kept singing, 'search for discovery' and something about a 'precious stone.' this song ruled. i want to hear it again. that is all.
• Never again will I go to a show 100% sober.
• While I love Wolf Parade, they need to shorten up some of their songs. Strictly personal opinion, but I was getting bored with some of the extended outro jam seshes. (NOW THAT WAS A JAM!!!)

ok. set list time:

Wolf Parade Set List – 11/23/10 – House of Blues, Chicago

1. Dear Sons and Daughters of Hungry Ghosts
2. Soldier’s Grin
3. What did my Lover Say? (It Always had to go this Way)
4. Ghost Pressure
5. Cloud Shadow On the Mountain
6. Fine Young Cannibals
7. New song
8. Palm Road
9. I’ll Believe in Anything
10. This Heart’s On Fire
11. Kissing the Beehive
12. Yulia – encore 1
13. You Are a Runner And I am My Father’s Son—encore 2

dresden dolls do chicago : amanda palmer is cooler than me.

The Dresden Dolls have always been one of those bands on my radar that I consistently enjoyed, but never really put much effort into. Every song I’ve ever heard, whether it be through my former college radio roots, via friends’ recommendations, or on blogs – I’ve thought to myself, ‘Man, I really oughtta pick up their discs and give this a full go.’ But, alas, I have failed – and after last Wednesday night, I see how dire my failure to myself really truly was.


First off, it’s no secret that Amanda Fucking Palmer is a rock goddess. The woman is truly amazing. I don’t think words can really do justice to her impeccable showmanship and dedication to her craft. After I saw her at SXSW in 2009 when she was touring her solo debut, Who Killed Amanda Palmer, I was stricken stupid. Her solo album became one of my top releases for the year instantly. But still, I neglected my back research on DD. Fast forward to now, nearly two years later, and I’m finding myself speechless in my vain efforts to write a review of what could possibly be one of the top performances to grace a Chicago stage in 2010.

While specific song titles elude me, I will do my best to give an overall recap of what went down at Chicago’s Vic Theater on November 17th, a night I can best summarize as one of tantalizing magic, seductive mystery and cabaret triumph. From the moment Palmer and Brian Viglione took the stage, the crowd completely lost their shit. Screams, shrieks, desperate shouts and cries were only overtaken by the thunderous applause. Palmer strutted in a red cloak of sorts, tight black pants and a captain-esque cap as Viglione sported the token bowler cap and vest—both of which get ups didn’t remain on for long. After shredding and chucking a fan-given bouquet into the audience, the duo wasted no time to getting down to business.

The sold out venue was overflowing with positive energy and the crowd was one of the most diverse I’ve seen in ages – parents, LARPers, cabaret kids, and random dudes from the street you’d never guess in a million years knew, let alone adored, the Dresden Dolls made up the mix. Not a single soul ceased to be entertained. For the next 90 or so minutes, Palmer belted out a good majority of their catalogue as if her life depended on it. With her very articulate, yet powerful vocal delivery, it’s amazing how Palmer is so muti-faceted to concentrate on both singing and her intense piano pounding, and at other times, drumming. Viglione was an incredible yin to her yang, never once slowing down the energy levels on percussion and back-up vocals. I don’t think there was a single song in the set that didn’t involve crowd sing along participation.

The aroma of incense wafted amongst the front of the house, adding to the surrealism of the red, purple and blue illuminated stage. Whether I was at the top of the balcony area, back by the main bar or elbows propped on stage in the photo pit, the sights and sounds were pretty fantastic. After a couple whiskey cokes, I got swept away in the magic of it all and my notes transitioned from song titles and stage banter to scribbled notes of “Amanda Palmer is cooler than me,” and creepy illustrations of what I imagine a Coin Operated Boy would resemble.

As she crooned in “The Kill,” Amanda Palmer may be an anarchist, atheist, and even the Antichrist, but she sure as fuck knows how to put on a show; plagiarist, terrorist or not—one thing’s for sure, she’s one helluva entertainer. I feel down right humbled and extremely fortunate to have caught this show, especially considering the limited run and mark of the duo’s ten year mark.

jodi robin root : takes over the world.

(circa 2001)

doodz. im pretty sexxxcited. turns out my radio shenaniganry went a lil smoother than i anticipated it would and i have my first official subbing on-air shift! considering five years of my life were invested in  noncommercial radio and i've been a music obsesser since i escaped outta argyle approx 10 years ago, this is pretty big news at least for me personally. ive been on this whole 'finding myself' bullshit cliche kick since i got laid off last feb, and it looks like i'm finally (kinda) getting there. romance and career bullshit aside, i've definitely grown and networked my lil wormy way now into magazine publication, blogs, city-based webzines, major city venue production/jack of trades and now finally fucking radio.

had my first shadow shift last night and hearing my creepy voice in the studio phones felt like home. i'm back, bitches. although only subbing for now, i think it'll be a perfect fit. when yer bored of shoving yer face at your fam's cribs on turkey day (this thurs), make sure to stream my noise on http://www.chirpradio.org/. i'll be the awkward homegirl pumping robyn from 3-6.

luv.

cryin' over peter wolf.

The only thing that pains me more than seeing one of my favorite bands put on a poor performance is having to write a poor review on it—especially when it’s factors out of the musicians’ control. Ever since seeing Peter Wolf Crier blow me away as my personal top performance at South By Southwest 2010, I have been all about any and everything these two Mid-Western dudes have been about. Their debut album, Inter-Be, was one of my most played this year—both intimate yet powerful with their folky drum and guitar acoustic collaboration. “Crutch & Cane,” “For Now,” and “Untitled 101” are my jams, period. So when I was randomly selected as a winner on Lincoln Hall’s Facebook page for their gig last week, I was beyond stoked. I didn’t even realize these dudes were in town, since they were the opening act for Dawes and Vetiver, it wasn’t publicized very much. I quickly became giddy with excitement, even recruiting a girlfriend to whom I oohed and ahhed relentlessly to about how powerful Peter Pisano’s falsetto melodic vocals and drummer Brian Moen’s eerily animalistic mad drumming skills were.


Seriously--I was like their biggest fan. And well, to be fair, I still kinda am. When my gal pal and I secured our spot up front and center of the stage, I was sure we were in for a special treat. Up until, some bro dude to my direct right shouted at a semi-glassy eyed Pisano, “Yo Peter! Whatchya’ drinkin’ man?” To which Pisano politely forced a smile and quietly and forcibly replied, “Maker’s. It’s a whiskey; I’m feeling a bit under the weather.” “Dude, I know what Maker’s is! Right on!” Oh no, I thought. Peter’s sick. How the hell is he gonna cry for us tonight? I cursed the bro man to my right for wasting the limited and valuable vocal chords of my beloved crooner.

Around 9:00 pm on the dot, Pisano and Moen got down to it. And at first, it was promising. They opened up their 30-minute set with my personal fave, the album opener “Crutch and Cane” and then transitioned into the addicting, two minute tapper “Untitled 101.” But then Pisano’s voice began to dry up. And looking back on my videos, the sound itself was less than satisfactory. I’m not sure if it was something that was up with Lincoln Hall’s acoustics, the fact that the main room was emptier than what I’m accustomed to (since I’m not usually there early enough for the openers), or if it was the fact that I was so close to the speakers on stage – but as you can see in the video, the sound was distorted and not the clear, crispy goodness I’m so spoiled on with this venue.

Pisano’s typical honey dripping serenade was a forced, throaty series of croaks and my heart instantly sunk. I can barely drag my own butt out of bed with a sore throat to work in a mere cubicle; I can’t even begin to imagine how much it has to suck when you make your money with your voice and it’s shot. To top it off, Pisano’s parents were in the crowd. Poor guy seemed to be having a rough night.

On the upside, Moen was his usual full forced self, banging on his drums for dear life, and Pisano, although ill, still managed to tear up his guitar seemingly unaffected. But unfortunately, any fan of Peter Wolf Crier can attest that Pisano’s vocal range and prowess is what makes the group stand apart from their competitors, and even Peter Wolf Crier can’t wail with a sore throat. For anyone who has seen PWC prior to the LH show, you know what I’m saying that it would be a crime to pass up the chance to check ‘em live; but for those of you who’s first encounter was this past Thursday, I beg of you, pick up their record and give them another go. They’re one of the only bands this past year to give me goose bumps, just more so with the crying vs. the croaking.

well i guess this is growing up

wow. wow. wow. so many things about this video. where to begin? i guess i could start with my confession of undying adoration in my teenage years for blink-182. this vid, being the kicker for my 3 something year infatuation. thanks to 120 minutes, this was the beginning of my skater girl 'punk' phase. (popunkpopunkpopunk).

embarassing fact #1: i had the poster for enema of the state with mark/travis/tom in their boxers tacked up above my bed on the ceiling.

embarassing fact #2: hotmail never accepted Root as my last name - it would always reject it and say my last name was 'invalid' no matter how many times i tried. so instead, not knowing how email worked, and that everyone who would receive a message from me would see it, i saved my last name as Hoppus. As in, Mark Hoppus, cuz you know, we were all gonna get married and stuff. *sick.

embarassing fact #3: i met the boy i lost my virginity to and deemed my first 'true love' in high school at the movies seeing 'american pie.' the only ppl in the theater were me and a girlfriend (who i probably haven't spoken to since), said virginity taker, and his two friends. we shouted at each other across the theater about who was the bigger 'blink' fan and contested each other with random trivia. 'well, do you have cheshire cat??' 'whatever happened to scott?' 'college, duh.' so i guess, thanks, american pie and blink - 182 for the hot 16 year old pop-punk affair.

but anyway. goddamn. i don't care how embarassing it is, but embarassing fact #4: i still think Dude Ranch, as obnoxious and harsh as it is, is a fucking killer album. Even with those needless filler tracks of tom kissing some horses' balls, or whatever the fuck that is, that's my shit. enema of the state, god, i haven't heard that since i was maybe 19 or so and i guess a listen would be amusing for a bit, but that's where i have to draw the line. i always pretended to be the biggest fan of their first album, cheshire cat for 'street cred,' but let's face it, that album sucked. (even though i think that shitty 'carousel' song was me and v-card's 'song'.)

but this video? the reason i even youtubed it in the first place is that whenever i'm having a new quarter-life crisis of sorts or am pissed, sad, stressed, whathaveyou, i think back on the wisdom of my husband that never was, the frost-tipped (seriously, what's up with that hair? totes forgot about that bad bleach job), barking, 'nobody likes you when yer twenty-threee' mark hoppus and his solid life advice: "well i guess this is growing up.' and i'm like, yap, mark, feel yer pain brotha. growing up suxxx. (embarassing fact #5: i remember the part in the song where it breaks and on mtv springbreak 2000 and the show i saw in tinley park when i was 16 when BAD RELIGION and fenix tx opened up for blink 182 and mark raps 'ice ice baby'. stop, collaborate and listen. .. oh gawd.) but yeah, well i guess this is throwing up.

but yeah. whatever did happen to scott? (shouting across the theater: 'HE WENT TO COLLEGE!')

sucker.

levi's puppet vs. dub-step = girl talk

The 9th track on Girl Talk's 'All Day' had a familiar electro beat featured post bassment jaxx where's yo head at breakdown. you may or may not recognize it yerself in the old skool levi's commercial above. is this what dub-step is? i'm so confused. it seems like every electro party or gathering with dub-step kids this same bassy line is repeated over and over again while the club kids go nuts. didn't these drug happy dub-steppers watch mtv in the mid-to-late 90's when levi's was pumping this shit out every fiveminutes? i only know one other person who remembers these commercials and suffice it to say i'm pretty confident my former junior high/high school gf isn't down with the dub-step know-how (or anything non-godsmack/nu-metal related tunes) these days. although side note: that puppet is the same puppet as featured in the british office when ricky gervais is giving a tour of the office and shows off the hilarity of a zany puppet hanging out on the coat rack. i don't know why, but i really love that puppet. but really, really, really fucking hate dub-step. i'da rather get dubstepped on then have to ever endure another minute of that electro-drug craze. gag.

girl TALK.

ugh. so i totally grossed myself out this past weekend. sometimes i let my ultimate warrior she-ra guard down and end up getting effed. this isn't a post about why i just spent the past 4 days rocking the same stanky clothes with unwashed hair in my crumb infested nest of a bed, but what rousted me outta it. (and sadly, forced me to change my underwear). let's call this my 27-something-slump. but you know what? fuck that noise. i'm better than them demons that haunt me (both imaginative and unfortunately, real). so ima rise, just like niki manaj (if you get that reference than you rule. weezy 4 lyfe).

today, after a slew of unanswered text messages beeped me to life, i finally rolled over my slumbering kit kit and reached for my laptop to plug into the virtual world. and there it was in my in-box, 'new girl talk drops today - for free.' whaaaaat? totally unexpected. it'd been 2+ years since 'feed the animals' dropped - i don't remember exactly when it dropped, 'cept i was still living with mike, who surely did not share my sentiment for booty shaking mash-up retardation. 'feed the animals' is still on heavy rotation, to this day, whenever it is i need a swift kick in the ass to get ready for the morning or wake the fuck up. so when i read this email, i carelessly tossed my laptop to the side and stumbled outta my room for the first time in what felt like years - (seriously, ya'll, i'm pretty sure i morphed into one of those creepy bat dwelling critters that never see the light of day after not leaving my apartment for 3+days after something like 80 consecutive hours of slumber).  i ran to my living room comp and in dismay, attempted said download of girl talk's latest release, 'all day' time and time again.

just like every other rotten hipster in the universe.

turns out illegal-art's servers were in such heavy demand  some shit down the way crashed - prohibiting my stanky ass noon dance party. after about an hour or so, i finally mcgyver'd that shit and found an alternate link. (want it? just google 'girl talk AND all day AND mediafire' yer welcome). and i gotta say, that while girl talk was inspiration enough for me to get the fuck up and quit rotting away in girly-god-i-hate-boys-and-life-what have you, i'm just now, 7+ hours getting the chance to rock the album in completion for the first time. i'm sure a full up review will be up in the near future - but for now, it's safe to say this shit is rad as fuck. 'tenderness' + 'can i getta?' omfg. luv.

but i gotta say, the theme of today, girl talk, is my fucking savior. my boo lisa, like a fucking saint, swooped down from the comforts of lincoln square down to my dirty dwelling to cheer my ass up. nonjudgemental. nonbiased. pure girly power. we rocked some bigass fucking burgers complete with waffle fries. went to kmart where we pretty much cleaned out the beauty product section. rocked more junk food from jewel than the homies from half baked. indulged in facials, cukes on the eyeballs and all, and rocked strawberries & champagne, topped off with half a can of redi-whip with the comfort of girly classics clueless and pretty in pink in the background. man. i thought i was bummed out - at least a rich boy didn't invite me to prom and then take it back!!!! (seriously, that movie is kinda rough to watch. most rigid and awkward concluding kiss finale of all time. i'm glad i aint' molly ringwald, that shit looked sick). and man, at least i didn't fall for a gay boy and then fall in love with my step brother! talk about dramance!!

anyway. girl shit rulez. both solid homegirls and dance party shit. im listening to a mash-up of big boi's 'shutterbugg' and portishead's 'dummy' right now. and jezus christo. this is my shit. it sure as hell beats listening to gayngs on repeat with eternal sunshine of the spotless mind on the background.

as a one genius mark hoppus once stated, 'well i guess this is growing up.'

this person is cooler than me: wendy's fan.

while waiting for the cta earlier this evening, i decided to flip through some old photos on my camera and clear up some memory space. that is when i stumbled upon this particular goodie. i spaced out, amazed and flabbergasted - but finally managed to track this back to a night of post drinking at rainbo. stumbling home on division with a couple other pals, they didn't even notice when they crossed the street and i stayed amazed at my discovery on the southern side of the road. the fact that someone took the time to measure the exact size of the drive-thru wendy's face to blow up the picture of their own girl and then perfectly cut out the bangs and glue it onto the flourescent sign, well, quite frankly that is the coolest thing i've ever seen. intoxicated or otherwise.

no way would lincoln square's wendy's have a creepy mexican baby's face glued onto its drive through sign. this is reason one of many why i really like my new neighborhood.

who said lucifer wasn't a crafter?

to keep myself from going nutso with the upcoming winter months and just b/c im a crazy betch in general, i decided its time to layoff the hardcore boozing and try to get myself involved in more extracurriculars. now that i got somewhat of a 9-5 thang goin (temporary whateverness it may be), i need something to look forward to and prevent me from getting locked up in the looney bin. (something tells me that my roommate and kitty cat don't enjoy my shout-singing at the top of my lungs rendition of kanye's 'SO HERE'S A TOAST TO THE DOUCHE BAAAGS,' every five minutes). plus, i need to save moneys and not get super fat from pbrs. so venturing out, this past week has been a bit of an experiment. A) What can I do that does not involve alcohol - or if it does, small amounts of it? B) Will it kick ass or will i just get super bored? C) can i survive with little to no sleep?

The answer is all three things are def possible. With the exception of my day off on Tuesday which was my typical funemployment style day off (i.e. sleeping in bed with instant netflix streaming shitty movies all day), I managed to get out and do shit all week. Participated in volunteering activites for CHIRP radio. Caught 2 different sets of live music (both free! both with only 2 beers each!). Saw some gal pals. Made crude jokes (gotta love tampon and pubic hair humor). Have some upcoming art shows and other nondrinking activities in the works for this weekend as well. But tonight was probably my highlight.

Since my attempts at craft night, albeit were succesfull at eliciting responses/interest, pretty much sucked with everyone consistently bailing on me - it was nice to hear a friendly female companion was equally interested in her own type of alternative craft night. Homegirl had hella snacks, a lotta cool new peeps, and a Lisa Frank sticker collection to make any former 8 year old girl salivate (even 20 years later). I managed to make some creepy cat head earrings (see above) and her dude even stole some hot glue gun sticks from the local CVS as his contribution. With a glass and a half of wine in me, I still succesfully managed a social and fun evening and am now innocently enough, in bed tucked in before 11:30. Greatest part is that this will be a reoccuring activity. Now hopefully with 'The Sewing Circle from Hell,' as it was so cleverly deemed (logo and everything!) and book club, I'll manage to maintain a healthy balance of movies in bed winter hibernation and nonlethal social interaction.

P.S. if anybody wants some creepy cat head earrings, holler at me and they're yers.

aaagghh! real monsters : lawn gnome edition.

so i got to thinking after i pummelled out my monster in the attic bit that i have probably encountered more unusual/maybe/sorta/kinda paranormal happenings than the average person. i credit/blame this on a handful of factors: 1) my mom and aunts let me and my cousins watch whatever the fuck we wanted growing up (which of course, was freddy/chucky/jason movies; at like, ages 5-10); 2) my mom bought me a ouija board when i was 9 (i didn't even know what it was, let alone asked for one); 3) i was a loser in gradeschool/junior high/highschool (still now); thus totally cast spells and shit on kids who made fun of me and boys who refused to like me; 4) i've survived 7 concussions without any severe trauma (other than a loooooottttt of childhood memory loss).

that being said, i've seen (or at least thought i've seen) hella crazy creepy shit. i could go on and on. and maybe i will. i need more reoccurring column/post/whatever thingies on this joint, so why not exploit how lame and naive i was and still am when it comes to ghosties and things that go bump in the night?

i'll start with my first (or maybe it was my 2nd or 3rd ) sighting. (unless you count the time i was in my first apartment growing up. mom was brushing her teeth in the bathroom. i was standing directly parallel to her with the bathroom door open, staring out on the open balcony - we lived on the 2nd floor. i turned around to a quiet whirring noise. there was a fucking mini truck-trailer thingy driving around in circles on our balcony i shit you not. i asked my mom, 'why is there a tiny truck driving around on our porch?' this was not a toy. it was like, the size of a medium sized dog. i swear to this day this is what i saw. i turned around when my mom gargled, 'whaaat?' spitting out her toothpaste in the sink. 'right there' - i pointed. and of course it was gone. now this wasn't scary or anything, up until last year when i saw a full sized replica of the same exact fucking truck driving in chicago. maybe it'll end up running me over someday and i foreshadowed my death. or maybe as my mom said, 'jodi your imagination runs wild.' whatever i totally saw that fucking mini truck thing.)

tangent - let's try this again.

so i was at some creepy extended relative's house. if i had to guess, i'd say i was maybe 7 or 8. i don't remember who's house it was but i think it might have been on the root side. any of you who know me know i don't know my dad or who he is, so you're probably thinking, i thought there was ONLY the root side, but truth is my grandma was Turner, my stepgrandfather, the one i grew up with was a Parr, but my biological grandfather who died 3 years before i was born and was divorced from my grams years and years before that, was the Root. George Root. I hear he was a real asshole. Anyway, we never really hung with that crew so that would explain why this particular family outting was different than the rest. It was like some of them had money! I remember vividly that they had this nice house, different from all the rotting trailers and decrepid farmhouses or lurky marijuana basements the rest of my family resided in. A huuuge, green backyard, with plenty of floral arrangements and mini gardens. The food/picnic was awesome, with branded chips! No Roundy's! Real fruit punch! But all the relatives were weirdos and the 'cousins' i was sposed to play with dressed better than me.

One or two of my first cousins I grew up with were there too. But the details are kinda foggy - because, like i said, i was A) only 6 or so and B) survived 7 concussions; there's a lotta shit i don't remember from growing up.

The shit I do remember though still haunts me to this day. Ever since I was little, probably from the day i first saw that whirring mini truck circling around my balcony, I've been able to get weird feelings. Not the sense of, 'man this dude is a date rapist i should flee' or 'this toothless homeless person might rob me,' but like, unmentionable weird creepy vibes. like something is super not right, even if it looks right. I mean, here I was, pretending to not be white trash! Eating hella candy and playing with rich kid toys! I shoulda been happy as a clam! ( i dont get that expression). Instead, I caught myself looking over my shoulder constantly. I tried to play inside with my other first cousins, but my mom and aunts kept shooing us out, to play in the yard since it was such a nice day. blah blah blah.

I didn't like that back yard. Not one bit. The front yard was fine. That's where the picnic set up was. The people. Grown Ups. The back yard, on the other hand, just had the lawn gnomes. Those. fucking. creepy. ass. lawn. gnomes. Now, I'm not scared of lawn gnomes. I think they're just as quirky/kitschy as the rest of ya'll. Ha ha funny gnome. Let's steal it and take polaroids of it. Whatever. But these gnomes were different. Straight outta some R.L. Stine Goosebumps shit. But this was years before that series.

There were 3 or so of them. And they were placed at different spots by one of the mini gardens in back. I don't remember if we were playing freeze tag or just randomly rolling around in the grass. But everytime I'd turn around, those fucking gnomes would have switched spots. There were only 3 or 4 of us kids and I was the closest one to the house, so it wasn't like anyone was sneaking behind me and moving the gnomes to freak me out. Plus, these kids may have had richer parents than me, but they weren't that fucking clever at age 7. At one point, I elbowed one of my cousins and pointed out that these creepy little fuckers were moving. We started staring at them, and I can't be sure if I saw anything or not, but at the time I remember swearing I saw one move. Whether or not they did, fuck if I know. But I'll never forget that pinching, exhilirating rush I felt as the adrenaline of fear rushed through me. Taste of batteries in my throat. Racing heartbeat.

At one point I ran in the kitchen. "mom. mom. come out here." 'jodi go back outside, what do you want?' "mom, the gnomes outside are following me, i can feel their eyes." 'jodi, quit being ridiculous.'

by the time i was back outside, my cousins were fully aware of the creeping lawn gnomes. they too got freaked out and we spent about a half hour just staring at them. we got too freaked out and hid in the basement and played board games for a bit. maybe an hour or two later, we rolled back outside. the lawn gnomes were all back in their original spots - but each gnome in a different place. none of the adults ever ventured outside as they were all too busy hitting the keg and smoking joints in the garage. the lawn gnomes never moved super far, but i'm telling you they moved enough to notice. maybe like, a couple feet total. like i said, this story is lame and very well could be the result of my 'wild imagination.' but at the same time, while the names and faces of my extended cousins are long forgotten, the fucking pinching oh-my-god twisty feeling in my gut that i still get from time to time is far from long gone.

that shit gave me the creeps. and that, (other than the creepy truck thingy), was my first 'are ghosts real?' contemplation. from there on, it just got creepier and creepier. but i can't give all my secrets away now right off the bat, right? i kinda want a lawn gnome now. i would name him gerard.

that is all.

i almost cried for peter wolf crier tonite.

out of sadness. and out of laughter. this isn't my official review (which will follow later), but my 'man-i'm-so-exhausted-i-can't-believe-i'm-still-awake' genuine first rambly impression).

first off, i love peter wolf crier. inter-be is a fantastic album. 'untitled 101' and 'crutch & cane' are two of my favorite indie jams of 2010. truth. but doods, i knew from before the set even started by the glassy look in poor leadman peter whatever his last name's eyes, that dude was sick. bro in crowd shouts ' yo peter whattchya drinkin??' like they're best pals and homeboy sadly smiles, 'makers. it's whiskey' 'OH BOY I KNOW WHAT MAKERS IS," bro shouts back. "i'm under the weather," peter force smiles.

awwwwww. anyway. yeah, poor dude had a sore throat. and as badass as he and his drummer were banging their shit instrumentation wise, his voice sounded like a croaking frog. like, in 'crutch and cane' instead of smoothly cooing in his sexy falsetto honey way, 'babeeee zan-zo-barrrr,' he throatily croaked, 'babreeee zshan-zsho-bhar,' and i thought, 'dayumn. i cant even crawl into a cubicle feeling like that. i can't even begin to imagine the frustration if my voice was my carurrr.' and to top it off, his parents were in the crowd. awwwwws all 'round.

so that sucked. the show didn't quite suck, but at the same time yeah it kinda did. but then megan points out the sexy drummer dude's hair (future man i want to date for sure. gotta google stalk that bitch's name. full package : sexy glasses. sexy tattoos. sexy little boy haircut.) the three little cowlick tendrils are fucking blowing in some mysterious windy breeze i can't even see where it's coming from. this is in the midst of 'down down' which is a pretty slow and quiet song. so us geeky dorks (sober, mind you even), attempting to gulp our urping stifled laughter just made it that much worse as we dreamily stared at the blowing hairs.

yes. we are dumb. whatever. that made the show to me, to be honest. at one point i turned to megan and said, 'that man needs to be my boyfriend. now.' and then he started making possessed like facial expressions, banging on his drumkit, appearing to lip sync the words 'bow wow bang bam' or something of the sort. hairs blowing in the wind.

i'm laughing out loud now. i think it's time my sleep deprived ass got some shut eye.

men i want to date: michael ian black

i woke up to a text message this morning and saw that i had also received an additional unread text which i apparently sent myself  at approximately 3:05 am. it read of three simple words: 'michael ian black.' oh, the foggy late nights of estelle's and the effects it has on me. luckily for my wallet, (despite losing twenty bucks today somehow after being so proud of not spending it last night), it was a relatively tame evening so i was able to retrace my way of thinking to why i would text myself such a cryptic message. between amazing infomercials of collapsable deep fryer collanders and whatever else garbage is on the tvs at estelles post 2 am, i caught a glimpse of michael and michael have issues on comedy central. seeing mr. michael ian black's mannequin boy like face made me remember my days of lusty crushhood on him. i figure, even though i haven't thought about this wise cracker in a while, he still deserves a place on my men i'd like to date roster.

reasons why i want to date michael ian black:

1. even with his obnoxious facial expressions and mannequin like mug, i still think he's super hot

2. i bet he could help me get a copy of the state on dvd

3. he could totes introduce me to the gang from reno 911/the state. i've always wanted to sing 'AND THE INSPIRATION IS FREEEEE' to them personally.

4. if we went out to like rainbo or estelles' or something, ppl i know would see me with him and whisper, 'hey check it out, jodi's out with that i love the 80's dude' and i'd be super popular

5. he could be fulfill my one time 'older dude' conquest

6. i could see if shit he says in real life are as clever as his tweets

7. he was in wet hot american summer. (maybe an introduction to fellow man i want to date paul rudd??)

8. he makes really convincing condescending facial expressions so i could bring him along to job interviews if they're not going well to pressure the man into giving me a job.

9. supposedly he's got a talk show in works for mtv next year. if this is true and our relationship worked out, i could attend filmings and find out if my suspicions of news anchor john norris are true and that he really is the crypt keeper

10. again, he's hot.

walking with THEE.

i see that clinic is playing lincoln hall this thursday. if my week wasn't already super jam packed with randomicities (thurs being craft night), i'd totes check em out. not super familiar with their catalogue, but i def have a special place reserved for 2001's single and vid 'walking with thee.' as you can see above, these brits got mannequins that bone. super sweet boots. twister. bad hair. and erect nipples. takes me back to my first college radio show, with me and tessa blaring this on our monitor, screaming in an awkward british nasaly accent,  'NOOOH!' to which abeolicious would bust in and blurt on air. good, innocent, dorky times. if i could get abe and tessa down to chicago in a day's notice, we would totally rock out at the clinic show. instead, i will just watch this video on repeat. friends. why they gotta get married and have families and live so far away and shit.

sidenote: i totes want a mannequin now.

let's have a toast for the scumbags

it's november. my least favorite month of the year. two years ago i went through a pretty damn tricky emotional rollercoaster the last week of october/month of november through, well, damn. i guess june of the next year? but 2008 winter was particularly cold. 'the coldest winter' i guess you could say. there's a song called that, you know. by a one and only mr. kanye west.

now before you start with the involuntary eye rolling, this post isnt about how awesome/amazing ye is and how he's my hero with his bravado and ego antics and sneaker collection. i don't care what kinda dude he is, and even though i'll step up and speak on his behalf (at the chirp hip hop primer/education night last week they mentioned ye, called him a 'horrible rapper' to which i spoke up, 'dudes he rapped with his jaw WIRED SHUT,' to which someone said, 'no that was fiddy,' 'HIS BREAKOUT SINGLE WAS CALLED THROUGH THE WIRE, ABOUT HIS CAR ACCIDENT AND HOW HIS JAW WAS WIRED SHUT,' 'well, whatever, his album with autotune was obnoxious, his crying about getting dumped' 'HIS MAMA DIED.', the subject quickly changed and i'm pretty sure i lost all musical credibility with everyone in that room.) but whatever. you know? i hold a special spot in me for some yeezy. tangent aside, he was kind of non-ironically speaking, my savior of sorts.

sure, i enjoyed college dropout. late registration was a cool enough record. (now days ill retract both statements and say AMAZING albums, but at the time, i was ambivalent with slight interest). graduation i enjoyed, but was re-emphasized to me by a certain pal who meant more to me than they'll ever realize, with really poor timing.

2008 was a life changing year for me. i fell in and out of love. with different people. but i was in a relationship. a serious relationship. so the falling out of love part, well, that sucked. and anyone who knows me knows i'm no longer in said relationship. to this day, we're pals and i'm ever so grateful for that, truly. and i'm good and over the dissolution of the romance, but at the time it was like getting hit by a car and only realizing you'd never walk again months after the fact. at the time, just like any breakup, i knew it was for the best and i was anxious to get away. but then when it inevitably happened, well, anyone who's experienced a breakup from a serious relationship knows what i'm getting at.

this was right before the coldest winter. i had no friends in the city. even though i lived here two years, i realized i could count my friendly acquaintences on one hand. one, being my roommate, who conveniently enough, had her heart smashed to smithereens the same time as me. and we were both pretty fucking miserable. in our case, misery did not in fact, love company. well a certain somebody (mr. west!) had just gotten  dumped by his fiance and lost his mama. so yeah, his least credible record to date, 808's and heartbreaks, was the ending result. autotune overload. hardly his masterpiece, i can't really argue with critics who trash it. but do i want to jump up on my soapbox and defend it to pieces? fuck yeah. just like the smelly kid in gradeschool, you KNOW homeboy smells, and chances are 9.5/10 that you (and me, cuz i was that kid), didn't defend the kid at the time - but looking back on it now, don't you feel like a shithead? well, i will admit proudly that i still enjoy 808 and heartbrakes, but tangent aside, the reason this record means shit to me isn't because of 'robocop.'

anyway. fuck. this ramble is going longer than i projected. something about 808's matched my mood at the time. i think 'heartless' is still my number one most played song on my laptop's itunes 2 years later. i couldn't stop. i just kept listening. as lame as it is, there was something with that album that reached out to me and kanye helped fuel my depression, empathize with my broken heart, yet encourage my desire to move on simultaneously. and like the winter of 2008, as soon as it blossomed into spring/summer that next year and my feelings finally returned to that of a normal, hopeful - even, human being, i shelved that record into my dusty cd rack to be forgotten about.

2 years. man, that's a long time. a year later, i met somebody else and couldn't believe my luck. how happy i was! i met so many new friends. i was in a good place. emotionally/physically/professionally. then shit fell apart. lost my job. went through another kinda/sorta/notreally/butyes,really breakup. drifted apart from friends. had some fallouts with my family. which brings me to now. i'm starting to rescrap from the ground up. the dark period is behind me. it's time to stand up proud, and say fuck all ya'll haterz (or douchebags, jerkoffs, scumbags, assholes - as ye puts it). and you know what? dude is kinda retarded. the video/film he made for 'runaway' is laughable to put it lightly. dude falls in love with a bird. they try to feed the bird a bird and she freaks out. some ballerinas come out. bird hangs out with deer and shit in kanye's yard. then the bird bursts into flames and kanye's sad. but you know what? i get where he's coming from with this song. it's his 'fuck you guys, i said i'm sorry and i tried to do right. if you still can't be down with me, i ain't gonna let you drag me down anymore. good bye deadweight.'

i like that philosophy. hence, tonite was my toast to the douchebags. i locked myself up in my bedroom and went through some much needed personal self-therapy. watched bad movies i've secretly been jonesin' to see for months but was too embarassed to admit. enjoyed a glass of wine. cuddled with my kitty and meowed at her like i was in heat. ate a steak dinner for one. listened to kanye's 'runaway' on repeat on my new headphones. and took a 90 minute steaming bath where i treated myself to every miniscule beauty treatment i possibly could endure in the convenience of my own bathroom. fuck, gave myself a foot scrub/massage. haven't done that shit since, well, 2008 i guess.

moral of the story is: everyone's got that one trigger. maybe it's not music for everybody. maybe it's a location. time of year. food. scent. person. for me, i guess everything that sort of narrates or relates to my emotional struggles and triumphs comes down to music. and kanye is hardly the maestro to my life; the soundtrack of my life is much more expansive, i assure you. but you better well goddamn believe that he's at least a chapter. and to say i have high hopes for this new record is putting it lightly - but expectations? non-existant. i'll either love it or not love it. there's always going to be november 2008.

so i think it's time for us to have a toast.

welcome back weezy!!!!

so dudes, today was a pretty special day. for those of ya'll not in the know, mr. dwayne carter III, aka the martian, aka weezy, but probs best known as Lil' Wayne, was freed from riker's island after serving 8 months behind bars for violating some sort of weapon possession charge. (holy run on sentence). while i admit i haven't given his latest ep 'i am not a human being' a single second of my time, (not really diggin' where he's going with this recent bout of experimental 'rock' garbage), but i still got nothin but mad love for this dude. supposedly, he'll be dropping the anticipated tha carter IV on 12/15 - (40 days ieeeee!!!), but any fan of wayne knows he's a pusher-backer when it comes time to throw out shit. not that he doesn't keep his fans happy with leaks and mixtapes or what have you, but let's face it, the carter series are the epitamy of his existence.

tha carter III remains one of my fave releases to this day, and tha carter II is perfect chill-'im-so-street-and-not-a-scrawny-white-girl-from-wisconsin' record. i also feel quite attached personally to him as he drops more oshkosh reps than fellow emcee sean daley. but whatever, i already dedicated a post from 'men i want to date' bout weezy so im not gonna spend more time professing my confusing admiration for him anymore. but cmon everybody, WEEZY'S FREE!!!!!!! i haven't been this stoked since gucci mane got released (but according to what i've read this past week, he may be soon again behind bars for driving on the wrong side of the road, destroying govt property and other badass shenaniganry).

i want a rapper man. 4 realzies. specially weezy, cuz lines like these make a bitch weak in tha kneez.

'abracadabra, im up like viagra.'
'you like a bitch wit no ass, you ain't got shit.'
'i got summer hatin on me cuz im hotta than the sun.'
'thats why she wearin tha jeans that show her buttcrack, my girl cant wear that; why? that where my stash at.'

the books - vic theater, chicago, 10/28/10

The Books read mystically into musical purgatory in Chicago
(from Venuszine.com - http://bit.ly/9hPuS1 )

After a near death experience with a maniacal cabbie, I wasn’t sure I made it to the Books concert as a living being or if my soul was swept into some form of musical purgatory. Once I arrived, the first thing I noticed was how cold the venue was—it was literally winter jacket inside cold. Perhaps it was because of the Vic Theatre’s more intimate set-up, with lines of folding chairs versus standing general admission, or maybe it was because the crowd was much more tranquil themselves, quietly conversing in polite anticipation for the experience that was to follow. And quite the experience it was.


It’s hard to summarize what the Books put on as a performance per say as the entire showcase was much more of a multi-dimensional experience of visuals, recordings, and peaceful yet subdued instrumentation. The 80 or so minutes the trio of musicians were on stage included several songs from the latest release The Way Out (Temporary Residence), starting with the hypnotic narrative album opener “Group Auntogenics I.” Visuals swirled on the oversized backdrop, with various images complementing each specific track’s samples and overall vibe.

With the shadowy stage and artsy film series, it was easy to forget that musicians were actually seated on the stage. The melodic guitars, strings, and vocals were ambient, while gripping, but still seemed secondary to the experimental loops and samples displayed. The overall sound was crisp, sounding like a stripped down and non-dancey version of fellow electronic indie artist Caribou.

Banter was minimal and somewhat dry, which was surprising considering the humorous and lighthearted content on the screen above. Whether it was a song about golf, the infamous Home Alone Talkboy, family, or even a death march, the crowd was thoroughly immersed, clapping treating them to a standing ovation prior to the three song encore which featured their Dark Was the Night compilation contribution “Cello Song.”
It was perhaps one of the calmest events in an otherwise hectic and party-filled Chicago for Halloween weekend, yet the overall contemporary and soothing sounds made for a perfect hideaway—leading me once again to ponder if I had indeed survived my hectic, high speed cab ride or if the experience was all a peacefully haunting glimpse into the afterlife.

night (terrors).

wikipedia defines night terrors as such:

A night terror, also known as a sleep terror or pavor nocturnus, is a parasomnia disorder characterized by extreme terror and a temporary inability to regain full consciousness. The subject wakes abruptly from slow-wave sleep, with waking usually accompanied by gasping, moaning, or screaming while waking. It is often impossible to awaken the person fully because they are so concentrated on waking, and after the episode the subject normally settles back to sleep without waking. A night terror for some can rarely be recalled by the subject. For others it can be. They typically occur during non-rapid eye movement sleep. Some recall a blurry face within the first five minutes of sleeping that floats towards then. When swinging or yelling at the face, it disappears.


i've been extremely sleep deprived, especially the past week due to this shit. the worst part is, i'm part of the % that remembers their terrors. in fact, i'd say i remember them clear as day 90% of the time. the dream itself isn't the terror, the dreams are usually lucid and typical whateverness. but the terror is always the same.

i'm in my bed, aware of my surroundings, in my current bedroom. just like i'm asleep as i went to sleep. wearing the same pajamas, spooning my pillow the same, etc. nothing out of the norm. and then i hear footsteps towards my bedroom. the door opens. someone crawls into my bed with me. i'm asleep, but unable to wake. i don't feel comfortable with the idea that someone is crawling uninvited into my room. for a split second, no matter how many times i experience this, i always feel relieved and think, 'oh it's just charlie, coming over after work to surprise me,' and then i realize - charlie doesn't have a key to my apartment. he doesn't come over to my apartment unannounced and would never just crawl into my bed. he's also no longer my boyfriend. then i feel overwhelmingly sad for a split second, and then even worse, paralyzing terror.

who is this, then, that is crawling into my bed? i feel the bed shift. i feel the weight of another person crawling under the covers beside me. i struggle to wake, try to thrash my body, arms, head, neck, anything, any which way but am paralyzed. i just want to open my eyes! say something! tell my intruder to begone! i'm always sleeping on my stomach in the terrors and i always physically feel the pressure of another person's body pressing on top of mine. not in a sexual way, but in an intimate embrace. then usually, their hand will envelope mine and nonintimidatingly hold me. but i don't know who this is. and i don't want them in my room.so i'm simultaneously sad, terrified, and confused. and i struggle to gasp for breath so i can say anything. so i can scream. so i can tell them to get off. to buck my hips and body weight to remove the intruder. but i'm helpless. every. fucking. time.

and i physically in real time feel myself levels and levels deep into subconcious. i can hear real sounds - if my roommate is banging things around in the kitchen in real time, i hear it. if molly's knocking things over in the corner, i hear it. but i also feel this body. so it's very real.

i wake up every time with a struggle, gasping for air, moaning and sometimes without even realizing it, sobbing. disoriented, i'll turn into the wall and clutch my pillow and try to fall back asleep. usually this doesn't work out too well because i'm too freaked out. last night i experienced this exact same terror on three separate occassions.

basically, night terrors suck. anyone have personal experiences/advice/remedies? maybe i just need a real person to come and hold me in my sleep so this intruder will disappear for good. or maybe i need a regular alarm clock. whatever it is, fucking sleep deprivation blows.

aaaghh! real monsters : (monster in the attic).

cooped up with the sniffles, 4 loads of laundry and a struggle with alligning a regular sleeping pattern now that i've rejoined the corporate 9-5'ers, i took advantage of some instant netflix streaming this evening. still in the halloween spirit, i decided to finally give paranormal activity a shot. i had heard mixed reviews from horror buff pals and scaredy cats alike, so had always been pretty indifferent as to whether or not i gave it my ever so valued 90 minutes. gotta say - it was better than i had anticipated. call me a cynic, but any modern 'horror' has failed to make my eyeballs bulge or shift in my seat since probably wes craven's 'scream' in 9th grade. and well, that was 9th grade. sooo. . . .yeah.

anyway, this isn't a review of paranormal activity. although i will say that after viewing the first i'm halfway intrigued in viewing the 2nd, even if just for the last ten minutes of the first flick. that last scene was creepy, whether or not the movie is worth a second viewing. but yeah, this is more my rambling recap of my own personal paranormal experience. (one of several). maybe this should be a reoccurring column since i've seemingly run out of 'men i want to date' as of late. (what's up with that, jodi? normally bitch is boiiii craaaazy). ghosts intrigue me. while i may not be a religious person, persay, i definitely believe in some form of afterlife or spirituality. not atheist, not quite agnostic, just kind of in between. i guess i believe in ghosts.

(take heed, my peers. if i suddenly croak in the near future, you KNOW ima haunt yer ass. droppin bars of soap in the shower, making creepy meowing sounds vs. the atypical ghostly boos and whatnot. can't wait, jus' like tori amos ima be a 'happy phantom.')

again. tangent. i blame this on the two glasses of yellowtail and recent bout of severe sleep deprivation and night terrors. (which are AWESOME, btw). *sarcasm*. but that's another post. . . . ok, ok.

Monster in the Attic.

this shit is real. out of all of my supernatural/freaky/whateverthefuckyouwannacall'em experiences, this was by far the fucking scariest and had multiple witnesses.

it was winter, 2005. a fucking cold ass winter, only to be rivaled by chicago's own in 2008. i was living in oshkosh, wisconsin - about halfway between milwaukee and green bay, wisconsin, in the mid to upper east side of the state. i was just finishing my last semester of school and preparing for the 'real world' as a college graduate. i was dirt ass poor. i lived with two other girls, one of which was graduating in the fall semester on the 4.5 year plan like myself and one who was done that may. it was a bit of a struggle to find an apartment willing to accommodate a 6 month versus 12 month lease for us december grads, but thanks to a highly personal incentive investigative journalism final piece the previous semester, i had finally found a rental company willing to work with us for an august-january lease.

the semester ended mid december, and shit it was cold. neither of my roommates had a job other than being a full time student, and my gigs as student paper managing editor and music director at wrst left little room for me to work other than the spare change i picked up working the front desk of one of the dorms. thus, we had no heat. we flat out refused. we were going to beat the man, goddammit. and that we did - kinda. we taped plastic on our windows. tacked multiple layers of heavy duty sleeping bags, blankets, whateve we could find. space heaters. electric blankets. multiple layers of socks, sweatpants, hoodies and t-shirts. this still didn't stop us from waking each morning to our heavy clouds of breath.

but again, i digress. let me back up. my two roommates lived in remote parts of the state which basically left it up to me for us to find a place to live our final fall semester. the apartment itself was a pile of shit. drafty as fuck (hence the cold). an oblong, twisty hallway shape. an upper level of a two story apartment with a recently renovated unit below us. our unit, on the other hand, hadn't even received a touch-up paint job or safety check in years. piece. of. shit. but it was cheap. for 200 bucks a piece, we had a 3 bedroom space big enough for us all a mere 2 blocks from campus and the bar scene. we had free water and electric was cheap. it had free parking, and most important of all, allowed us our temporary lease. when i first signed for the place, the landlord had mentioned a few off-hand comments i paid no attention, something along the lines of, 'well the upper unti hasn't been rented in quite a few years, but since you're only renting to december/january, there shouldn't be a problem,' as well as 'just don't go in the attic--you won't see it, the walls are boarding up the entry way, just stay clear.'

easy enough. no bigs.

so we lived in our college slum and coexisted peacefully, while freezing, from august until december. after annette and i graduated, she decided to peace out while rachael and i decided to stick around for a bit longer. our landlords were slumlords and didn't give two shits what we did as long as it meant more money in their pocket, so out went their 'as long as it's only to december/january' stipulation in lieu of 'month to month is fine by us.'

uw-oshkosh's semesters had an especially lengthy hiatus between fall and spring. while annette moved on, rachael still needed a place to reside while she continued her studies. i, on the other hand, had no particular desire to return to argyle for a month and a half, so decided to pursue a temporary job situation since graduation. i had tentative plans of relocating to chicago but knew i wasn't getting there with my mere $50/week i picked up from whoring my plasma out, so stuck around and got a brief horrendous stint at an old navy outlet (we're talking 3 shifts people) and a humiliating caffeine induced, flair sporting, waitressing position at the newly opened red robin. (that's a whoooooole other post there. eeek.com). rachael was close with her family, so had opted to go home for the last half of december and the month of january. my current beau at the time decided to head home too, so i was mostly on my own, working and hanging with random acquaintences for the interim--sleeping alone in the creepy, drafty, empty apartment problem free for nearly 2 months.

it wasn't until the night before spring semester started in the end of january that we heard the monster. sure, the apartment was drafty and old--we had upstairs squirrelly and birdie upstairs tennants. we'd occassionally hear the roll of acorns and scampering of tiny rodent feet. how cute, our friends are lively, we'd joke. whatever, right?

well, fast forward to the first night rachael and mike returned to join me in occupying the apartment. sleeping as typical (cold frosty breathy air included), mike and i awoke around 3 am to a quiet, whimpery kind of moaning sound. unsure where it was coming from, it was still subtle but disturbing enough to wake us both up (and we're both pretty heavy sleepers). i got out of bed, moved the pounds of bedding away from my bedroom window, and sought out anything unusual on the street below - it sounded as if a dog had gotten hit by a car and was painfully suffering its last lag. a very distinctive, ueeeeuuuuhhhhhh? uuuueeeeeehhhhh? low, but repetitive. after finding nothing, mike and i shook it off and passed back out.

we weren't asleep for long, however. fast forward to four am when we woke up to a THUNDEROUS and defeaning thumping of some creature running in circles above our heads at approximately 5,000 miles an hour. literally. this shit wasn't any squirrels. and it wasn't slowing down. it ran. and ran. and ran. very heavily. very noisily. and extremely rapidly. 'what the fuck' mike whispered. i just whimpered. and then it made the sound i will never forget. at first, a series of the low pitched ueeeeehhh???'s, but then followed by a ferocious and gutteral shrieking monstrous growl i can only describe by typing as RHHHHHEEEEEOOOOOOOORRRRHWWWWWOWWWH. (extremely high pitched in volume). never once, slowing its rapid race around my attic. this is when i heard poor rachael from the other side of the apartment shriek, 'joodiiiiieeeeee????!!!!!" 'i have to pee.' i whispered nervously to mike after nearly two hours of this horrendous debacle. it was 5:45 am. this shit started at 4. "just. wait. until daylight." he whispered.

oh shit. the boyfriend was even scared. dudes aren't supposed to get scurrred, and mike of all dudes was the last person i'd ever take as superstitious or supernatural. we didn't sleep any more that night. eventually the madness ceased and i called the landlord. 'ummm, there's something in our attic. not squirrels. something big. something loud. and something very very terrifying.' they assured me they would send someone right away. as rachael and i prepped for our morning routines (her class, me work), mike got the fuck outta there and ran home.

eventually two old white dudes with greying hair and sporting bib overalls and oversized utility belts strolled up our apartment. 'so ye gurls got squirrels, eh?' one croaked.  'um, i wouldn't be so sure they're squirrels,' was all i could retort. the oldies got to work unnailling the wall that led to a mysterious staircase to the upper level, disappeared for about five minutes and thumped around with flashlights and hammers, trying to 'scare the squirrels out.' they set up a trap, came down the stairs, reported no findings, and said they'd be back the next day to 'catch them squirrels.'

whatever. they totally thought we were dumb defenseless girls. but they didn't hear that shit.

luckily, they nailed up the temporary wall to the attic and then were on their way. rachael and i were frustrated, but relieved to know there wasn't a gigantic wildabeast terrorizing our attic.

the  next night, nothing. the men return as promised and tear down the nailed wall once again. this time mike convinced me we should follow the old dudes and get a glimpse of this mysterious attic ourselves. terrified, i reluctantly agreed once curiousity got the better of me.

it was a fucking apartment. well, kind of. there wasn't a bathroom. or any running water, but what we walked into could hardly be considered an attic. there was a former bedroom with rotting caved in ceilings. a living room like area complete with a lazy boy recliner, a tv stand with an ancient tv set, looking as if it had been one of the fresh models when color tv was all the rage. random portraits hung from the walls. a love seat. a table. poor, rotting, unkepmt condition, but a separate apartment sans kitchen/bathroom nonetheless. now why would they nail this up and not renovate it for a couple extra bucks as an add-on to the apartment rachael and i currently resided in? made no sense. what also made no sense was when the oldies found not a trace of a living being and condescending laughing, took their empty cages back down telling us girls to 'not worry our pretty little heads about any more squirrels - them little critters wouldn't be back no more.'

and they weren't. for like, two months.

one night, mike and i had met a mutual friend for a couple pitchers of lizard lager down at peabody's. in a semi intoxicated haze, we reiterated the one night of terror we had experienced the februrary before. laughing it off, 'whoa, what a weird experience!' at this time, rachael and i had found a new roommate to occupy annette's empty room, a dude i had waited tables with at the lovely red robin SMILING BURGER world. mike and i had stumbled on our jolly way home, and without any instances, knocked out per usual. until around 2 am, we heard a familiar, uuueeeeehhhhhh??? uuuueeeehhh?? whimper. we woke up. 'no fucking way.' i shivered. it was fucking eerie. 'you've gotta be kidding me.' was all he could say back.

that's when the running started up again. i forgot to mention, when the oldies were stomping around after the last occurrence, their 200 lb per dude weight had sounded nothing like the weight of the beast running above us. that made it even scarier to hear the heaviness race at mach speed in circles. once again rachael screamed, 'jooodi!!!' and the new roommate, also a mike, muttered a 'what the fuck?' so that made four of us. all fucking petrified in our beds. the growl shriek returned and we were frozen stupid.

once again, the next morning, i called the landlord as early as possible. but this time, the monster didn't stop with the daylight. like paranormal actiivity, i busted out my handheld camcorder in hopes of capturing the 'uuuueeeeh's' and moaning. the screaming had subdued and the running slowed down, but that beast wasn't done crying. in fact, it was still fucking racing around--DOWN THE FUCKING STAIRWAY KIDDIE CORNER TO THE BATHROOM WHERE I WAS BRUSHING MY TEETH. it hurled its body down the stairway and flung its body against the barely nailed on makeshift wall. i belted out a scream any 70's cult horror flick female victim would kill for, unaware my body was capable of belting out such a bloodcurdling scream. rachael was freaked. i was freaked. new roommate was freaked. mike, had of course, peaced out.

even by the time our old dudes returned, chuckling at the scaredy girls of squirrels, we could hear the quiet 'uuuueeeeh's?' the old dudes weren't having it, though. conveniently enough, the sounds ceased as soon as we finished insisting the sounds were'nt squirrels and they once again disappeared up the stairs and this time the monster sounds stopped. the old dudes once again stomped around, pounded on some windows, and returned down the stairs without any condescending 'oh you girls' comments. they retacked the wall to the stairway back up and promised to return, telling us 'you better not go up there.'

we didn't. the next night was even worse. the running resumed. the shriek growling continued. the whimpering as well. but this time there was a series of loud thumping sounds in addition. THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. as if someone was standing on a table, dropping heavy bags of groceries onto the floor above our heads. what. the. fuck. mike was a good enough boyfriend to still keep me company at night, despite the madness ensuing above our heads - why we didn't spend the night at his house across the street is beyond me, but we still stayed in my bed. didn't sleep very much, though.

when the oldies returned the next day i took a peek upstairs. the lazyboy chair was flipped upside down. as were the pictures from the wall. the tv stand knocked over. well, there were our thumps. i raced outta there and the oldies took their equipment, pounded around some more, and then nailed that wall up super tight.

after that, you better damn well believe there were sleepovers at mike's house. rachael suddenly started going home on the weekends. this was early may. one other occurrence, that was never really quite explained, was when this dusty, gross looking old stuffed sheep toy suddenly appeared at the top of our stairwell. i assumed it must have belonged to rachael, being a crafty and kinda sentimental stuffed animal kinda girl, like maybe as a childhood toy or something. after two days of kind of ignoring it but wondering why she left it in the middle of our stairway, i asked her jokingly, 'dude aren't you lonely without your stuffed lambie?' her face grew pale. 'i thought that was yours.' 'what?' 'yeah.' 'no.' we reluctantly went back to the toy, which appeared to have been from another generation entirely, absolutely positivie it didnt come from the oldies during their last stay and knowing it wasn't ours. we were too scared to touch it. we kicked that mother fucker down the back stairway where it remained until we eventually peaced out.

no more sounds from the monster - but again, i basically moved in with my boyfriend at the time at that point and rachael got the fuck out too. we had given up any hope of getting our security deposit back after our new roommate had taken the liberty of adopting a baby pitbull which he then locked in his bedroom during work, and pissed and ate up the carpeting. awesome. well, we were surprised to get the full amount back, no questions asked.

we moved our separate ways and that was that. the 'dont go int he attic' 'you're only living until january (prior to the monster occurrences)' and 6 month leniant lease were suddenly making more sense, especially with the oldies grave faces the final time they visited. the reason we got our security deposit back is because the landlords never even bothered to check the fucking place out.

mike and i had returned to oshkosh after our move to chicago in september 06 for a friend's wedding. after a couple too many beers, we thought it'd be a good idea to see if we could break into the old place since it didn't look like anyone lived there.

the front doors were unlocked. noone lived there. in fact, our keys were still sitting on the kitchen counter where we were told to leave them when we moved out 4 months prior. i found an old cd i had forgotten in my bedroom closet. the place was creepy and eerie as fuck.

to this day i have no idea what the fuck went on at 611A wisconsin, and you know what, i don't think i really care to know. whatever it was, it certainly wasn't human - but also left no evidence or trail other than the flipped furniture and nightmares etched in my roommates and my memories.

to put it quite frankly, it was pretty fucking awesome. but i'd sure as hell never live there again.

ouch. (the owls are not what they seem edition).

sometimes, when we are young, we do foolish things. like, oh i don't know, decide to get tribal tramp stamp tattoos. and then a year later, 'fix em up' by adding emo stars to each side. and then hell, why not add an ugly tribal sun tattoo to your shoulder which slightly unintentionally resembles the 'godsmack' logo and then later on 'fix that one up' by adding your zodiac gemini sign and an ugly misplaced star?

or wait. maybe that was just me.

well, the tramp stamp is here to stay, tacky emo stars and all. (at least until i 'fix it up' with maybe some sweet fairy or butterfly wings, that is). but the godsmack (seriously was NOT my intention until a certain 'clever' gentleman brought the resemblance to my insecure attention) sun is now, thankfully, long gone. half twin peaks inspired (the owls are not what they seem, ya'll), half 'i just need something bad ass to cover this shit up with,' i went under the needle for the, let me see here, 15 or 16th time last week (although this is technically tattoo number 13 since it covered one up, 'fixin's and all'). 4 long hours of ouchies with one very talented and patient tattoo artist, and i now got a badass owlie covering that shit up. see pics above for the before, during, and afters. as soon as this shit heals in the next couple o' weeks i'll be heading back for final touch ups.

bad. ass.

kaaaaaaaaate nashhhhhhhh.

so i got an email asking if i'd do a phoner interview with the lovely brit pop songbird kate nash this week in preparation for her 11/9 gig at the vic. (anybody going? or want to go? good chance i can cop a plus one).  this is kewl, bc she is neat. this is unfortunate b/c A) i have a cold and sound like a nasaly geek and B) phoners with brits (as i learned with al doyle of hot chip) are extremely difficult to decipher, specially with my shitty speaker phone and lack of proper interview equipment.

that being said, all i really wanna ask her about is how awesome it must be to be married to one of the jarman brothers and if she gets to hang out with johnny marr all the time since he's dropped outta the modest mouse roster and joined forces witht he cribs. does her husband's lip still bleed all the time? does that affect makeout sessions? as you can see, im at a loss for proper interview content. i dont really give a crap about her new record, sure it's dancey and quirky and sassy and fun. i know this already. what do i not know? has she overcome her jitters from her 08 performance at the vic? (painful to watch, sadly).

erg. i wish my chirp 'how to interview bands' workshop was this week instead of after this interview. OH WELL. maybe i can record it and bring it in as an example of what not to say. suggestions for questions in comments, 'preciated.

the vaselines slather up tha' sexin' at lincoln hall

I may not have known shit about The Vaselines other than what Nirvana taught me up until a few weeks ago—but I got one helluva semi-private lesson at Chicago’s Lincoln Hall this past Thursday night. The Scottish duo Eugene Kelly and Frances McKee came off as a blink-and-miss-it blip in the mid-to-late 80’s alternative rock scene, forming in ’86 and releasing their debut record Dum-Dum in ’89—only to break up shortly after its release. If the garagey lo-fi outfit hadn’t found a fan in a certain Seattle grunge ringleader, it’s hard to say if The Vaselines would have the reputation they have for themselves today. Thanks to Mr. Cobain, (who even named his daughter after Ms. McKee), several of us are more familiar with the work of The Vaselines than we may even realize after covering tracks such as “Molly’s Lips,” “Son of a Gun,” and “Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam” on Insecticide and MTV Unplugged, respectively.


Twenty some odd years later, for whatever reason, Kelly and McKee decided to give their simple, two-bit guitar cult status another go with a reunion tour in ’09 and a sophomore LP release, Sex With an X on Sub-Pop Records this year. Their performance last year at the Metro had stirred up a lot of hype, and after hearing several friends and critics’ raves, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to check them out personally at the always incredible Lincoln Hall.

Unfortunately, opening act Dum Dum Girls had to cancel the most recent lag of their tour for undisclosed reasons; while McKee still made light of the situation, claiming it was Kelly and the trio of male back-up musicians’ overtly sexual come-ons that frightened them away. I can’t remember another show that came remotely close to cracking me up as consistently as McKee and Kelly’s humorous, sexual charged stage banter. Poor Kelly served as the butt of McKee’s constant cracking; from his lack of groupies, (“Just put a paper bag on Eugene’s head, ladies—any takers?”); his fashion sense, (“What is up with your t-shirt?” McKee jabbed, “It’s my comfort shirt, c’mon,” Kelly pleaded); to his desperate, (yet somehow endearing), come-ons to female members of the crowd (“Who smells so good? Is it you, pink scarf girl?” to which McKee retorted, “How can you smell that far? Are your senses heightened because you lost all your hair? Or is it your bad teething?”). McKee also made stabs at herself, coming across like an adorable, yet sadly, sex-starved rock heroine; joking about ‘relieving’ the male band members and nightly gangbangs—only to turn around and assure the crowd they were more of the ‘tea and scrabble sort.’ The comedic routine nearly exceeded the performance itself—but not quite.

The sound in Lincoln Hall was crisp and clear, as always. Red and gold hues illuminated the stage with blue strobes flickering the background. The crowd, whilst sparse and maybe 40-50% at capacity, made up for the lack of bodies with their enthusiasm. Those in attendance weren’t your typical arms crossed hipster dudes, but hardcore, vinyl collecting, fist pumping, older white men without rhythm--who you knew that if they didn’t now, had worked in a record store at some point in their life. Dancing, swaying, and lots of applause echoed the crowd’s enthusiasm for the stellar showmanship that took hold of Lincoln Hall. If you haven’t had a chance to catch The Vaselines live yet, or visit their classic release Dum-Dum, do yourself some much needed research and check ‘em out now. Better later than never.

Set List:
1. Oliver Twisted
2. Monster Pussy
3. I Hate the 80’s
4. The Day I was a Horse
5. Sex With an X
6. Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam
7. The Devil Inside Me
8. Molly’s Lips
9. Slushy
10. Poison Pen
11. Bitch
12. Such a Fool
13. No Hope
14. Rory Rides Me Raw
15. Ruined
16. Son of a Gun
17. Let’s Get Ugly
18. Mouth to Mouth
19. Dying for It
20. (Enc 1) Sex Sux
21. (Enc 2) You Think You’re A Man
22. (Enc 3) Dum-Dum