Bye Bye July

Good googley moogley, that there month of July seemed to go by pretty quickly and I don't know that I like that. Sure it was hot as monkeys (monkeys get hot you know, with the fur and all) a good number of days, but when I can ignore my crackhead level of sweat it's the summer after all, and summer is great.

Tonight I took in that Crazy, Stupid, Love film and I'll give it the old seal of approval. Steve Carrell just cracks me up and there was the presence of old guard hot redhead Julianne Moore, and soon-to-be-huge hot redhead Emma Stone. A reasonable dose of cheese and cliché thrown in but enough self-awareness to keep it reasonable. Will it be the best movie you see all year? Probably not, but I don't know how many movies you watch. It does, though, have a healthy dose of humor and if you're not being an overly critical dingus—as I have certainly been many times in my life—I'd say you'll enjoy yourself.

The previews prior to the film—yes, that is redundant—were nearly as hilarious as the high points in the film for reasons rather entirely different. None inspired much confidence and I was rather ashamed that they were made and the lines of dialogue delivered were of a quality of unintentional humor. One of these days I'll go and get a screenplay together and it will ascend to mediocrity. Standards must always be kept high.

Another place I employ high standards is in wardrobe. As a friend noted last week: "[I] clean up nice." This is the polite way of saying, "you are often dressed like a slob." I take no offense at this, though, because my general attire is indeed quite casual. Yesterday, at long last, I debuted my smiley face t-shirt, where a mouth is cut out at navel level, and eyes on the medial sides of nipples (not trying to be obscene, you know?). This is trademark and copyright me. Heck, I doubt I am the first to consider this, but just in case, July 24th, 2011, I done did it. I am choosing to ©™ the creation date since it's earlier. The response was as expected. There were those that got it and appreciated the shit out of it, and there were those that got it and were not quite feeling it in that way but at least got a good chuckle out of it. And that's all I wanna do, spread a little mirth one way or another, maybe give you a silly little story to tell a friend.

It went over way better than my running through Humboldt Park this evening. This is something I do frequently, but at times you get hmm, let's call them non-fans. This particular gentleman told me I should "get the f#ck up outta there." But these details are best reserved for my running log. See you in August folks or, like, not quite see, not in a literal sense, but you know what I mean. Rock on.

Thanks for Being a Dick...

...dick. Not really, not totally, not anything too extreme. I'm just making a little incidental reference to an interaction I've just had at a coffee shop I frequent. Though free wireless internet is provided, the network is password protected and altered periodically, to maintain less of a strain, I would think, on the system. When I asked a guy at the table with me if the password had changed recently, he said, "It depends on the last day you were here, they change it every week or so." Now this is actually something completely reasonable to respond with, but I did specify in my question that the change would have been recent and, also, the iteration prior to this one had existed for more than a month. Add in, too, that he is also a frequent attendee of said shop and I took it as a specific affront of not noting who the Hell I am. Have we had deep, mindblowing conversations? No. Have we even exchanged names? No. But we've seen each other a bunch of times and even if he doesn't know me, he recognizes me, so I don't think he needs to deliberately act as if he has never seen me before and yet I get why he needs to and it speaks volumes about the type of person he is, and the type of person he takes me to be.

Sometimes, of course, you just interpret things incorrectly, like the other day, when I saw a linked article referencing "hijab" and processed it as hi-jab, as in perhaps a boxing reference, not the traditional headdress of Muslim women. I like making mistakes like that, it keeps you grounded.

Speaking of not grounded, The Fifth Element was on TV the other day and man does that take off (even literally, dudes and dudettes, 'cause there are like spaceships and stuff). But really that movie is awesome and everyone I know who has seen it seems to like it and I've probably even talked about it in here before. Everything about that film is great, but it's hard for me not to have an extra soft spot (boner joke redacted) for Milla Jovovich as Leeloo. So of course during the film I google image searched old Milla think this image of her is most excellent:



As luck would have it, a fellow from down under whose blog I periodically peruse had posted this very same image of MIlla only about a week ago. That was probably right around the time I was watching that movie anyway. Cosmic alignment or something. But he posts lots of really cool pictures and stuff so if you like cool stuff check out his blog. It's more than just tasteful degrees of female nudity.

Damn damn damn, look at the time or, really, the length of this rag already. I might post but once a week but I'm still not trying to have long dense pockets of boring shit from my brain.

B oring
L oad
O f
G arbage

Come up with your own acrostics kids! Shoot, a couple of funny things happened in my life in the last couple of days I swear, but I don't think this is the place for them. No humor here, just griping! Damnit, life is too good to gripe, but I still have to gripe about nonsense because it's kind of fun. I have sort of forgotten what this place is for. Oh yeah, just to keep me honest about um, sort of something. Writing? I guess. I do that all the time. I'm going to go do that now. I just wrote an email to some sales and marketing rep that believes I teach French at my alma mater. I hope he writes back! I think the bottom of this cup of coffee tastes like weed or, I mean, what I would imagine it would taste like based on the smell I have smelled before that people say is attributable to that. Okay okay, I'm done here.

Don't Profess to Being a Professor

This past weekend I found myself on a plane headed from Chicago to Boston. I would not specific the locations but for the differing experiences associated with each. To preface this tale, when I was booking my ticket, I thought it would be great fun to list myself as Professor [My Name]. I believe I have made prior reference to some exchanges with students at my alma mater mistakenly crediting me as a certain professor there, so in some ways I've already done this sort of thing before. But with it always right there in the drop-down menu, I thought I needed to go for it. And yes, it's true, one day I wouldn't be completely against being a professor, which is more than you can say for the people who would have the power to make me a professor.

At any rate, on the leg out, there was no incident beyond my silent smirk (do smirks generally make noise?) as I printed my boarding pass. On the return leg, however, there was a moment before I got into a security line, the one where they actually check your ID against your boarding pass. There seemed to be a delay, and I don't know who flinched first, but it was probably me. It was like a football game though, as I felt I'd been drawn offside by this woman's hesitation. An exchange ensued regarding the professor business, which amounted to me, at a time, saying, "I'm not really a professor, I just thought that would be fun to put there." She was not, as is to be expected, amused. "We'll let it slide this time," she said, crossing out the four-letter abbreviation in front of my name. "Right," I said, "thanks."

"I wouldn't do it again," she scolded me, "you'll be noted down as a troublemaker." A troublemaker?!? NO! The highest offense of any 4th grader, the kind of thing that might make 5th graders know who you are. I wanted to continue on because I couldn't see the real dilemma. Was someone going to ask some very academic and integral question aboard the flight, prompting a steward or stewardess to ask, "Is there a professor aboard?" Then this bitch would chime in, "No, but there is someone professing to be one." I'd commend her pun, then feel like I was belonging somewhere in the late 1930s or early 40s along with Camus and some other absurdists. Side note: I wish there were a good "Camus the Whale" joke. Maybe if he had ever gotten fat or something.

At any rate, that's about enough on the old boring stories from the life of me front, even if this is me damn blog! I'll sign off with a grand little number sung by 11 year-old Anna Graceman during the tryouts for "America's Got Talent." After viewing I called it the best performance I'd ever seen on anyone of these vocal-based or vocal-inclusive talent shows that have emerged. Oh, and she's also playing the piano at virtuoso-enough level. From Juneau, Alaska, I like to think it's a testament to the focus one can have when a little more of the beaten path. But seriously, she kicks ass. Merry mid-July folks, and a happy early Bastille Day. Bastille? All they took was their freedom...

Uh-mer-kuh

The fourth of July has passed on again and, as always, it was a great time. It really is one of those things that brings people together. I will say, however, that running shirtless in American flag shorts through the predominantly Hispanic neighborhood of your city may not be the most sensible. One driver did yell "America," but that was before I had crossed the line—the literal neighborhood line. And though I run through this neighborhood all the time, one man did ask, with reasonable menace in his tone, what in the f#ck I thought I was doing running through there. The best thing to do sometimes is to keep running. As I neared my abode on the return, a man yelled from his third-floor balcony, "Woooo, America, f#ck yeah." I gave him a woo back and my faith was restored. The unusual thing was how deserted the roads were, and how few people in general I saw. It was like a scene from 28 Days Later or any such [zombie] apocalypse film, and it was a rather creepy thing. For all that at times I might want less bustle, the contrast, when not changing environs, can be confounding to the point of mild disturbance.

At any rate, I'm sharing the following photo to show how I decided to embrace America the rest of the day. Even amongst the eclectic attire of Boystown and certainly on the lakefront, much commentary was inspired. I only wish I had a photo as a good chum and I—he decked out in equally intriguing cut off America jeans—entered the liquor store, a spectacle in itself with half of its facade a rather cheap-looking castle. To be able to do this, spend time with good friends, and walk to the lake to watch free fireworks with thousands of strangers, this is why I love this country. I can't describe why it is I get such specific joy. Perhaps because everyone seems so on board with one thing, a rarity amongst the overarching culture of antagonism and negativity I see in a lot of pop culture that sometimes is thrown under the moniker of hating.

As I rode the train last evening in cut-off corduroys and cut-off tee (the very one in that photo in fact), I couldn't help but allow some negativity of my own to seep in as some loop workers boarded the train along with me. All of the stereotypes about douchey behavior of finance types were being fulfilled in speech so I did what I sometimes do and stared judgmentally at them. I recall a time an ex-girlfriend did this on a subway train in New York to marvelous effect. Silent, seething disdain, while generally not the best way to go through life, I do appreciate when it puts at least a temporary stick in the spokes of boorish buffoonery. My true favorite moment, aside from the slow realization, is the discomfort when one of these parties of two vacates the train, leaving the lone man or woman to stew alone. It all starts when they get on and give me a look for my attire and haircut and I only need remind them judgment goes both ways. My constant vacillation between fun-loving human and a nauseous distaste for so many of my fellow humans may very well be what helps propel me through life

In other news of crappy chronicling, a proof copy of my first effort at a novel arrived. While it's entrance to the public domain is dubious, I couldn't help but grin with the sense of completion there is in having a tangible copy of my effort. Maybe if I started using a typewriter...And maybe it sucks, but it's a hell of a feeling just to have completed something. I, for one, don't do that enough. So yeah, there, once more, for Uhmerkuh!