Sometimes Numbers Don't Add Up

There is a problem I experience from time to time that I know I am not alone in. It's where I have a number in my phone's contact list and have no idea who in the Hell that person is. This is a relatively minor problem, of course, as it suggests a true connection is lacking and thus, the necessity of having this phone number is not that great. But it can get worse when I have assumed it to be a person of the same name that I see with passing regularity. As it happens, at times I then text this mystery number that I expect not to be mystery at all, only to find that there is mystery indeed. Because it has been some time since the exchange of numbers I identify myself in text, only to find that the recipient is incorrect. Yet surely they are still someone I have met and should they not remember me? Guess I didn't manage to make myself too memorable either.

But the crux of the problem is that when you move about, you meet so many damned people, and after a while, names can get tough. I remember faces very well, but struggle with names, where once I was so good. I can even remember life details, which I think is more important in a lot of ways, and yet it would be nice to get names. Many others suffer from this affliction though, and so we are afforded the opportunity at many reintroductions.

Moving on then, I turned to this blog as a break from some other writing and when I did so I noted that I was on word 1111 of 1111. I greatly enjoy coincidences such as these. That's really all there is to say about that.

Further pertaining to writing, there is a lot of doom and gloom talk about the death of publishing so it was nice to see this piece from Lloyd Shepherd—a Hell of a name by the way—coming out with a much more optimistic outlook. Kudos to my pal Jeff Phillips for sharing it with me.

Shifting to another love of mine, the Track and Field World Champs are upon us. There have been some surprises there is no question, but rather than a long-winded analysis, I bring you my favorite name: Ethiopian turned Bahraini Shitaye Eshete. I am in the habit of saying it phonetically as Shit-eh, Eh-sheet-eh. And I say it with a very bad Italian accent, like one mocking the menu presented by an Italian chef. The accent isn't bad for the purpose of making it funnier, I just happen to be bad at accents.

There is a dude that just rolled into the coffee shop I am inhabiting and I recognize him as a former barista from a coffee shop just down the street from this very one. I guess since he no longer works at the other place, it would be weird to keep showing up there. He looks as if he would fit in very well in The Shire.

Also, it's about to be Fall. That's weird. Gotta wear my white pants as much as possible before Labor day. Insert pregnancy joke. Cool. Later.

Just Say No

I've been watching a good amount of Mad Men lately. A look at my last post notes that I noted having begun watching at last. Good show. Great show. The advertising part of it is such a small facet, but a facet just the same, and I've always been intrigued very much by advertising. There is a flyer that has been on my kitchen counter for days, a direct-mail piece for $5 off at DSW. It shows a pair of nice men's dress shoes on the one side and asks, "What goes great with a birthday suit?" Now, do we have different definitions of the phrase "birthday suit," DSW and I? Is there a new demographic calling for pornography where men wear just discounted high-end dress shoes? Or maybe I took it too far and it is tasteful nudity, with the wobbly bits covered up by discounted high-end dress shoes. There is a better joke waiting to be written, and perhaps a better chance this premise should be cast aside altogether. That's your joke?

A moment of amusement did seize me last night when I attempted to attend a popular open mic. The scene was packed and in an artsy, hipstery, up-and-coming neighborhood and, yes, those are all distinctive adjectives. And yet, when I arrived in a button-up shirt and vest, people seemed to look askance at me. I wore these clothes for a show, I thought to myself. Also I was surprised to find no other vested individuals just because. The problem is the problem I often have of attributing negativity to any attentions. I mean, I don't always do it, but sometimes you're right, and sometimes your wrong. Just this past Sunday, quite late, also wearing a vest—I gotta stop wearing vests to shows—I took some flack. It was as I walked into the train station and a bloated and inebriated cubs fan yelled out, "I didn't get the memo that it was vest night." But fat drunko, jerseys are sometimes referred to as vests in other parts of the world...

The thing is, I probably don't like seeing people in vests either, but I wouldn't totally mind if people wanted to cut me some slack. Some people say positive things too of course, but it's so much more fun to focus on the negative. At any rate, a lot of people do not like when you wear vests. I think that's the obvious moral of that story, extra obvious because we all knew we hate people wearing vests for the most part.

Oh, and I cut lots of my crew neck t-shirts down the middle of the neck and fold in to create v-necks. I think this gets a pretty mixed reaction too. That's a good tagline for me: mixed reactions of the extreme. Just like how this entry was extremely boring you know? Gosh darn blogs...

Oh right, and I'm turning off my short story blog since like even though some of that stuff isn't great or anything I don't want to like give none of it away for free or nothing. Not until I have to, which will be soon. I would, but like, I want that to be the way I eat and stuff. Good thing I like cheap food.

You know what, that's probably plenty of words for the moment. Just meeting my monthly quota of entries folks. Thanks Chi, for the nice weather lately.

The Fragile Internet Ego

It will happen. From time-to-time people will defriend on that social network that is facebook. And I have, at times, been the recipient. I could understand in the wake of some real-life shake-up, or if I were some sort of overactive updater, that kind of thing. Of late I have been tweeting much more than ever, but I keep that separate from facebook, so you wouldn't have to keep up with it, just as you wouldn't have to keep up with this blog if you didn't want. All independent separate sources, united by a common strain of being authored and administered by yours truly. My tweet increase has come at the departure of a couple of friends from facebook and I enjoy communicating with them over Twitter. I still think it's a little weird, but so it goes. I'm bad at change. I feel weird about interactions that aren't in real life.

But that facebook. My friend number will fluctuate periodically, generally the result of the temporary deactivation of an account. But reiterating, I have in fact noted that, at times, it is the result of defriending. The thing is, it generally (everything is happening generally in the post, which I suppose is okay, in general) takes time to realize, and by the time I realize I am left to ponder why it is that it has occurred. I know, rehashing paragraph one. It makes me feel as if some dirty rumor is going around about me and I'm unaware of it. This is so foolish, and yet with the advent of the internet persona, it's also somewhat of a reality. It's why I want to disappear from it at times, and yet there is a remarkable convenience. You take, of course, the good with the bad. I cannot decide if I would prefer a little feedback after the fact—like marketing research—as to why you did not enjoy a specific product. I suppose I lean toward the wanting or this post might not be being typed right? And since those that I have noted have come for no discernible reason. It goes back to my juvenile desire to be liked by all. I've gotten over that all will not like me, but once you have ostensibly granted your basic approval through social network connection, I do wonder as to the changeover.

That's a little much on that. I already addressed my strange fear regarding this whole deal during the day to someone—yes, in real life...But hey, that's sort of what I said might be the hallmark of the old blog here, griping about the very inconsequential matters of the universe. And you know, perhaps it's a glitch in the system, or something akin to my fear that an email I address will end up entirely with the wrong recipient. Entirely? As opposed to in parts? What I meant was end up with the wrong recipient entirely. Or with entirely the wrong recipient. Right.

I thing I do enjoy is the Mr. Little Jeans' track "Angel". Really, it's a good one. And I've finally begun delving into the realm of Mad Men. From the get-go I had an Ad professor raving about it, and critics and other folks raved on after. Finally, I have settled down and I get the appeal. Good work creators.

Each time I blog away these days the entries seem a little too much about me. So let's make the end of this more about funny signs. Like these ones about gay marriage. Or these little edits/responses to existing signs. I actually managed to see an edited bench in my neighborhood, which had been well done to replace "your ad here," with "your ass here." Nice one. And for good measure how about these warnings and product disclaimers? Yeah, I'd say that'll do.

Lolla-pa-lovin-it

This weekend past marked the arrival and departure once again of Lollapalooza. Now while that opening sentence makes this seem like a boring chronicle, there's a possibility that will be true. Thanks to a friend (I try to avoid real names in here because like I don't want this being all personal and stuff and it's already creepy how much you can easily find out on the internet) I was able to get into a couple of semi-exclusive events. What I always enjoy is the mixture of true VIPs, folks like me who happen to have a friend that can get them in, and then the event workers. I mean this is the inevitability in lots of things, like eating at a fancy restaurant. Even when you're the finest and most respected wait staff in the world, you're still the wait staff.

The thing that makes these events so great for me is that, by-and-large, a strong positive vibe permeates. Since things like this are a rarity for me, I enjoy them a great deal, although I do try to maintain that "act like you've been here before" demeanor. But amidst free drinks and food and whatever else, why be in a shitty mood? The only day I was able to attend the festival (with some finagling and bs-ing) itself was Friday evening to take in Bright Eyes and Muse. I thoroughly enjoyed Bright Eyes, though I did long for a few more older tracks (I don't know the newest album at all) but a shining moment was viewing a quartet of girls who disliked a duo of girls in front of them. The duo was into it in that stereotyped free and hippie way where I wonder who their parents are because they were probably all of 18 and I don't know, I was pretty mainstream then and I really kind of am now. In viewing them, the quartet made snide remarks to one another about the duo, prompting them to dance more spirited in mockery of the duo, which all led to my joy in viewing from behind.

As for Muse, I perhaps regret a little bit not staying for their whole set, but the problem I have with concerts in general is that I have very specific feelings about how I want to enjoy and react to a live performance, and if everyone isn't on the high energy level I am, I am let down. We're all there to enjoy the same music, right, so why worry? No, but I get it, it's hard to be completely relaxed and just enjoy something without fear of judgment. I probably would have judged you in the past, but for me there's nothing better than when someone just genuinely loves the shit out of something. But the couple behind me and my friends was on the right page and probably made my day the most when the guy held up his phone and asked if I was Sergio the Saxman.

I did sight and briefly interact with a couple of celebrities and even by making that vague reference it may be even worse than to actually name who they were, but hey, you know, so it goes. I did witness Taylor Momsen sing and I was impressed at her ability to belt it out. A joy was catching a hint of Elijah Wood dj-ing an event as it closed down. I was very on board with his song selection, which included "Iko Iko"—Dixie Cups version—as I left. The real strength though was his opening with "Goodbye Horses." As that is a personal favorite tune I was busy hamming it up on the dancefloor before I realized who had picked the selection. So here's to you Elijah Wood, for being a chill dude.

Yeah, I guess that was boring. Cheers all.

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...