Wi[sh]consin

I'm vaguely fresh off of a visit to the rurals of Wisconsin. And I'm super fresh on wanting to vomit on the married couple seated across from me with their, as I see it, forced affections. The same couple was here yesterday, and one of my favorite moments was when someone went to sit next to this girl or, I guess, woman, and she said, "Oh, sorry, my husband is sitting there." He hadn't been there for quite some time and I rather liked the idea that he was imaginary, but it's funny to me the way that, it should be natural to say my husband because of course he was her husband and yet it still came across as forced to me. Just maybe I kind of have problems. In fact, that's as much the point of this blog as anything else, an ongoing chronicle, stored freely by google, of my association with the world around me and my willingness to share certain thoughts with the knowledge that, of course, it might be searchable and read.

My favorite recent search to land a stranger here: "why deaf people are assholes."

Have I mentioned yet I need to rework the color scheme in here? It's amazing that if you go back and read certain entries where I reference things like this they will one day make even less since since, by then, I may actually have changed them and yet you won't know unless you are diligently following, in which case you will just think that you do or don't like the colors, which is exactly the same situation as now.

But let's talk 'Consin 'cause it's on my mind. I am going to not name the town I was in, to both preserve it's relative untaintedness by strangers like me, and to protect it's identity in general lest anything negative seem to come out. It shouldn't, because this town kicks ass. It's on Lake Michigan and a good ways from Chicago, which is a reminder if I ever needed one of the enormity of Lake Michigan. No really, this lake is enormous. I had to clip an f-bomb there. Sometimes I curse too much. We were outliers there, it's true, and yet we were quickly made to feel at home and it doesn't have to be that way. I am skewed in general by my own liberal upbringing and exposures and while I know very conservative individuals and groups exist, it doesn't mean close to the same thing if you aren't standing next to it.

So I just realized that by keeping this vague I risk making this exceedingly bland, but I didn't want to not give a shout out to how grand this place is. Double negatives can be great. OH MAN I WANT TO STAB THIS COUPLE. It's weird, by the strange nature of their interactions, a bizarre formality and forced (again, as I see it) affections, they seem like robots.

But this Wisconsin town. It's small. Everyone knows everyone, but that doesn't mean everyone likes everyone, and yet it has a safety to it, a regularity in the way everyone attends the few bars in town. I used to live in a small town, not for long, but up here they seemed to get it much more right than where I lived, even though my former residence was much more a known quantity. Guess that makes sense, as when the secret's out, the magic can get lost a little. And so I'll preserve the sanctity of this little town.

Hell, every place I stopped in Wisconsin on the way up and back was so different from what I'm generally used to. I tend to have a short memory for a lot of things. But it made me glad. Glad I can still be surprised by things, glad that not everywhere is the same, and maybe even glad I don't live there. Because maybe the magic wears off, and maybe not, but magic is just unexplained occurrences of real life that you find amazing. You don't always need an answer. Just enjoy. Thanks Wisconsin. Thanks friends.

A Short of Sorts on Shorts

I found myself fiending for a 1984 British Olympic uniform for not the first time earlier, so I embarked on a very non-scientific google search to see if there is, in fact, still some way to acquire these garments. I found little but did not dig deep because I was immediately intrigued by this Wikipedia entry on shorts. It is extensive, as many Wiki entries are, and awesome. I haven't even read the entirety of that entry, but it did say that, after Adidas sponsored the 1980 Olympics, their nylon shorts became a fashion item for some years. Oh that those years still existed!

I truly appreciated the segment on cut-offs and Daisy Dukes, especially for the final sentence which I have placed in bold for emphasis. On a side note, I tend to use far too many adverbs.

Cut-offs or Daisy Dukes

Home-made by cutting the legs off trousers, typically jeans (known as "denim cut-offs"), above the knee. These were particularly popular in the early 1970s. The cut is not finished or hemmed and the fabric is left to fray. They became so popular that they were sold in stores as such. Originally a practical use for trousers with worn-through knees, they are now a type of shorts in their own right. The ultra-short version of jean cut-offs are also known as Daisy Dukes, in reference to Catherine Bach's character of that name from the American television show The Dukes of Hazzard. They are a form of hot-pants or short shorts. The character Tobias Fünke from the television series Arrested Development is also known for wearing cut-off jeans as an undergarment.

With the arrival of warm weather, I get the urge to chop the legs off of weathered pants. Although I wear shorts for far less of the year, I end up washing them far more than my pants because I am routinely sweating through them. The thing is, at my favorite place to shop, Marshall's, it's just as cheap to buy a pair of pants and cut them off as it is to buy a pair of shorts. Especially since I can never seem to find shorts of the length and fit that I prefer. I have minor hoarder tendencies as well, so I often end up chopping the sleeves off of shirts I never wear under the illusion that I will then be more likely to wear them at some point. Hell, I even want to cut my hair every week or less. Guess that's why Meursault ends up shooting somebody. The heat can make you irrational and crazy!

In one maddening moment on a run today I felt a beard hair get lodged in my gumline. I tried to remove it so frantically that I ripped part of my gum off, when a little patience would have removed it easily. Instead, of course, I drove it in deeper and had to execute some surgical precision to remove it once home.

I walked by a coffee shop earlier whose chalkboard read "Home of Sluts" on the first line. But I've been there, and it's not slutty enough for me.

Stoked to invade rural Wisconsin for the weekend. Goal is to not get beaten up for my stupid haircut and dumb clothes. Maybe a beach run in some Daisy Dukes...Viva Wisconsin!

Noontime in Chicago

Excursions to the movies have been somewhat of a rarity for me for quite some time. I suppose in some ways I have always had a weird feeling about movies, or really just going to them. One thing I can't do, for instance, is go to the movies alone. And so I tend to end up there only on suggestion and invite, creating a rather incongruous map of films. This past Sunday I took in the film Midnight in Paris, on the invitation of a friend. As it happens, I hadn't heard of the film, but thanks to the wonders of the internet, a simple search of "new woody allen movie" yielded the film title and a allowed for a quick review of the cast.

Owen Wilson was about all I needed to see on the billing, as his presence alone generally produces something redeemable for me. The circumstances were opportune as they let me go into the film in my most preferred way: with next to no knowledge and thus next to no expectation. I'm not exactly the greatest film reviewer but I'll say this one is pretty delightful. I don't think I spoil a thing by pointing out it pokes fun at nostalgia and the concept of the golden age. See I like it when film and books poke fun at the things I get roiling around in my head from the standpoint of having been there. Condemnation without any association, on the other hand, aggravates me. You get to make the joke because you were or are part of the club. There are many choice characterizations of famed artists and authors that are playful and amusing.

Nor did it hurt to have some moments of Lea Seydoux who you know is clearly a model but has this "but I'm simple and could never be a model, I'm just this country girl" thing. The only problem I have with characters like hers is I then find myself out walking about expecting to find their carbon copy suited just pour moi (to use the extremely limited amount of French I have maintained). I can't explain why I chose French over Spanish in high school, but whatever the little spark was gets reawakened every time I see movies set in France. Heck, I'm listening to Carla Bruni songs at the moment just because of her cameo in the movie. It's a testament to the fleeting and obsessive nature that may always have existed but the presence of all this content at fingertips just seems to magnify.

Merde, it appears that I've already taken to a ramble-a-thon. The evolution or reverse evolution of my blog is such a strange thing to me. A day removed from my aggravating eavesdrop of coffee shop conversation (to be accurate, I wasn't so much eavesdropping as I was unable to ignore the loud and obnoxious monologue/vague dialogue going on next to me) I will refrain from comment as it is something I get to do plenty in here. In fact I feel as if I vacillate between those melancholies and these more joyful embrace posts.

So following that note, I'll keep a theme here and give love to the Chicago summer. It's hot for the moment, very hot, but out in the heat was a free concert treat, with Iron and Wine headlining a show opened by The Head and The Heart. Nevermind the music, which was great—although Iron and Wine sounded like a jam band to my surprise—the atmosphere was unbeatable. There had to be a good 7,000 18-35 year-olds, all in good spirits, likely augmented by having brought their own spirits, wine, beer, and that other grass to enjoy on the grass. I had waves of healthy nostalgia and, for those few hours, everything seemed right with the world.

Me[MyselfandI]Morial Day

Every now and then I just love messing around with Wordle. When it comes to art, I don't really have the old creative skill which, given the color scheme—among other things—of this blog, rather goes without saying. Still, thanks to talented people there are a great many variations and whatnot you can create of the word clouds Wordle creates. I opted to upload a chunk of text from a short story I'm working on and accept the default. It's quite interesting to see from small and large samples what words you have a penchant for using.

I am still wrapping my head around today being Tuesday, as Memorial Day Henry David Thoreau my brain off. The warmth of spring finally arrived, melting me a mite bit as I traversed a four-mile route. Unable to stop sweating, it was clear that whiskey and lemonade was in order. As the day wore on I got that sort of sneaky drunk that transpires when you are well-practiced at drinking. Translation: only I knew how much I was skirting the line of wasted.

As the night wore on, I like to blame fatigue rather than inebriation for an embarrassing episode of paranoia that set in late in the night whereby I thought I'd lost my computer. With unconscionable amounts of intellectual (this word might be a stretch) property on this bad boy, I was in a rather terrible way. I am just glad that at this moment I can laugh about it and, goodness, though every time I say I will back my shit up...I'm gonna back my shit up! Through embarrassment I do hope to mature and grow.

Relieved to have found my computer but queasy from incorrect balancing of food with spirits, I decided the classic detox run was a good idea. For it to be seven miles was not a good idea, as I sweat till I could sweat no more, nearing my peak of wobbly, tight-skinned, drooling mass. Though I will be a dripping, stinky human for the coming months, I am glad it's warm. Sometimes you beat the heat, and sometimes the heat beat(s) you.

More mindless musings on spring and summer sweating to come.

Cremorial Day

While it's not quite Memorial Day, this Friday that is nearly completed was, for myself and some others Cremorial Day. I suppose that is not so apt as we were not the ones cremated but, rather, we witnessed a service devoted to one who had been. And while her husband was not an American veteran of World War II, he had fought for the Britons. After that lengthy explanation of my struggle for a title I've completely forgotten what it is I intended to talk about. Presumably little, as always.

In fact, this past weekend an old teammate and I suppose I could say chum of mine told me that he reads this here blog of mine on occasion without enjoyment. I asked him, then, why he read it, and if he did have an answer—which I contend he did not—I will admit I may have been too soused to recollect it.

In my life I have seen precious few celebrities in the flesh, but after this past Monday evening I have now had occasion to see one celeb (I cringe at that abbreviation) twice. The man in question is Jesse Eisenberg of Social Network and other fame. That he is the same age as me and grew up in a neighboring town are some very loose connections, but now I have seen him twice. Time the first he was accompanied by two dudes and was walking by Chicago's Second City stages and training center building. Time the second he was near Times Square, walking his bike—which appeared to be a brand most average at best—then riding it for less than a block, before dismounting again to rendezvous with a woman I presume is his girlfriend. His posture and manner of movement is much like the characters he often portrays: gloomy, sullen, and hurried all at once. And though his posture remained bent when he met his presumable girlfriend, a smile breached his face (and, I should note, once again a hat adorned his head). Granted this was New York, and I am sure many are used to seeing many celebrities but I couldn't help but appreciate that he flew under everyone's radar and the regular-guyishness he exuded in both instances. Dare I say this is success without fame? And yet, he is famous, so perhaps notoriety is the word I seek.

At any rate I shall wonder if the cosmic crossing of young Eisenberg and myself shall continue and when, if ever, I may annoy him with brief verbal acknowledgment. Cosmic is probably an overstatement, but I can't help but have fun looking for signs and the connections in things. Call it the failed and cynical AP English student in me finally deciding that kind of shit, while contrived, can be good times. Let's take that a recent reader here was from Malvern of all places. There are ~28,000 people that live there and this internet user conducted a standard google search for something perhaps a bit obscure, which I happen to have somewhat addressed in a post here just a few weeks back (three fortnights to get more British sounding). The date of the posting and its connection to my own birth which was, in turn, from the body of an individual whose own birth took place in this very town in England, well, actually that doesn't really mean much. And those sentences were vague enough that even I might not know what I mean when I go back to read that.

After all that nonsense, I'd like to give a shout-out to my alma mater. The pleasures of Wadsworth forest continue to be exquisite, as does the quality of the Freeman Shower (though I am sad the soap smells better now), and of course it allows for me to fully embrace my inner asshat and know that few will judge and so very many will embrace. Cheers to the old 'Tech and all of those whom I have known and loved in my time there and since.

Condiments

Not to be confused with condomints of course, the minty-fresh safe-sex option product I never released. One day, that along with complimints—the mints that say nice things about you in the wrapper—shall continue to not exist. Condiments are on my brain though (no not literally you sillies, old mustard-brain Solomon) but, like, I'm thinking about them because they were the savior of a sandwich I was afraid to eat. Rare are those occasions on which I consume canned tuna but given a far too long stretch of fishlessness, I decided I could settle for the canned variety. As it stands, I made grave error my last excursion to purchase canned tuna, opting for chunk white. While not as vile as chunk light, as I opened the can, worry creased my face. But waste not want not and the best way to learn a lesson is to eat it. So I dropped in some olive oil (mayonnaise is my nemesis) and chili powder and adobo, because those were in my spice cabinet. It's difficult to determine whether these had great effect on increasing the palatability of the primary constituent part of my sandwich, but Grey Poupon really saved the day. The conclusion is that condomints can keep a _______ smelling minty fresh, and condiments can keep flavor fresh. Both can mask something otherwise gross.

Another of the primary things on my brain is the death of reigning Olympic and Chicago marathon champ Samuel Wanjiru. The circumstances are exceedingly strange. That immediately one of the police investigators was shouting to the media that it was a suicide speaks to one of many cultural differences between The United States and Kenya. When I have such little grasp of circumstances, I like to keep any judgment in check so I'll just say that I loved to watch the man run and was impressed by the way he competed. As a distance runner myself, the desire to run long distances may or may not be indicative of a mind somewhat less stable than what is alleged to be the mental standard. If further proof was needed of how insane things can be over in Kenya, I'll forgo some of the stories told me secondhand from visitors and cite this tale of random assault of former (and would-be otherwise current) Division III star Peter Kosgei.

Well, at this juncture I really must be making some ambulatory motion from my current sedentary perch. Chicago, I shall bid you adieu temporarily in some 40 hours. If you could find it within your weather to warm in the days of my absence, I am sure the other residents might be just as appreciative as I.

Man v. Security

In a week's time the strongest recollection in my brain at this moment is the triumph a friend and I made over the security device placed around the lid of a legitimately purchased bottle of scotch. The device, meant to be removed with a specific magnetic key, can be seen below:



The internet being what it is, I expected to find some intrepid and enterprising methods at removal sans prescribed key. But all that I could find spoke to plenty of potential for damaging the bottle. In the end, all it took was a serrated meat knife, a couple of screwdrivers for leverage, and some faith. The triumph was due almost entirely to this unnamed friend but I am always unsure whether to name human acquaintances of mine in here, but the sentiment is there: the victory was mine only in afterward enjoying said scotch.

I heard that new Katy Perry song today, as I have before, the one with Kanye West, and where she comes in at the near chorus moment, I couldn't help but think of T.A.T.U.'s hit "All the Things She Said." The cadence and rhythm more than anything are what remind me, and it's not really as close as a lot of the connections I tend to note in here, but one triggers the other just the same. Perhaps a bit more of my associative brain than melodic theft or even influence.

At any rate, I'm tired just having watched the Thunder beat the Grizzlies, so I'm going to trundle off to bed. Rest well ye weary internet travelers.