the purple bicycle

if you missed the memo

2009-12-03T12:58:00.000-08:00

i've relocated.

teeneyteeney.wordpress.com

Last day of school

2009-05-07T11:19:00.000-07:00

Today I got my ethnomusicology paper back. It turns out that in my bibliography when I was doing the entry for Robert Walser's Running with the Devil: Power, Gender, and Madness in Heavy Metal Music, I wrote that his name was Don Walser.

Probably the funniest thing I've done all year.

April 21

2009-04-21T20:58:00.000-07:00

Whenever my life gets too serious, I watch this music video. It's sort of a happy version of West Side Story, but with Jermaine Jackson and some angry white "men." It's also sort of like The Lost Boys, but without the vampires.

In doing my research, I came across quite a few articles on Pia Zadora. Apparently, she had it all, except a music career: good looks, great style, and a rich husband.

April 8

2009-04-08T14:54:00.001-07:00

Phi Beta Kappa.

It doesn't feel like anything.

April 4

2009-04-04T14:04:00.000-07:00

I decided that I am going to move to San Antonio after I graduate, at least for a year, to continue researching this topic.

I foresee the next year of my life alone in an apartment with Tolstoy and Edwige, stuck in a town with nothing to do and knowing no one, with a super platinum Netflix account.

April 1: My new favorite person

2009-04-01T10:40:00.000-07:00

Last night, while Tony and I were indulging our egos and flattering ourselves, he mentioned that his older brother had once taken a creative writing class. This class involved writing weekly, as well as reading, revising, and editing the papers that other students turned in during the same class. Tony's brother, indulging his ego and flattering himself, took to making these suggestions and revisions in a gold pen. From then on, he took to calling these corrections "The Gold Standard."

What a badass.

March 31

2009-03-31T17:19:00.000-07:00

Apparently, when you graduate from UT, the CO-OP gives you a card that entitles you to 10% off all future purchases. This seems totally absurd to me. When you're a student, busy with things, disorganized, and completely lacking money, they expect you to keep track of receipts for an entire year, and then mail them in. But as soon as you have the time to be organized, or the money to spend on these things, the CO-OP gives you a discount card.

March 30

2009-03-30T13:20:00.000-07:00

When I was still cool enough to listen to the radio and not old enough to drive, my mom would let me sit in the front seat and man the dial. Sometimes we liked the same songs, sometimes not, but I never listened to 101x in the car, since the language and lyrical content of many of the songs upset her (Uninvited's Too High for the Supermarket is one that comes to mind). Instead, I usually hung around the more commercial stations, 96.7 and 94.7, expertly maneuvering between the two.

(For those of you not from Austin, 104.3 was a very bad ass, commercial-free rock station for a while, as well. I think they ran out of money, since they had no commercials. Also, 93.3/99.7 used to be a ridiculous techno station. 102.3 used to be classic rock. Ooooh, back in the day.)

In 2001, Shaggy's version of Angel was released by Universal. My mother loved the original version of this song, and I thought that this new cover would be equally mother-friendly. I was completely wrong.

Shaggy's lyrical rewrite ran as following:

Girl, you're my angel, you're my darling angel
Closer than my peeps you are to me, baby
Shorty you're my angel, you're my darling angel
Girl, you're my friend when I'm in need
Lady

I remember sitting in the car, singing along a bit, getting my fourteen year-old groove going. My mom reached over and turned off the radio. "I don't like that song," she said. "What?!" I was shocked. It was harmless. "Why not?"

"I don't like that dirty thing he says," my mom replied. I couldn't figure out what she was talking about. She turned and faced me. "Christina, what do you think 'peeps' means?" she asked me, eyebrows raised. I tried to explain to her, "peeps" was people. "You know," I said, "Like, people. Peeps. Good friends, buddies."

She shook her head at me, and I could see how naive she thought I was. "Christina," she said, lowering her voice the way parents do when they're going to say something that makes them uncomfortable, "He's talking about breasts."

March 29 (2)

2009-03-29T21:43:00.000-07:00

Today I received a spam email from a kid in one of my classes.

"This is an abuse of the UT email system and strictly forbidden by the UT Acceptable Use Policy," I wrote him back, copying and pasting the relevant part of the policy, and linking him to the entire thing. I almost threatened to report him, but then I realized he could be a super hacker spy.

March 29

2009-03-29T13:06:00.000-07:00

When I was in high school, I dated a boy who never spent his change. Instead, he would put all of it in an empty drawer in his dresser. Once a month or so, he'd put all the change into a sock and give it to a homeless person.

I once lent him my favorite sweatshirt, because that's what you do when you date people. After we broke up, I asked for it back. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said. "You're wearing it in your photo on your band's website," I told him. "Oh." He said. "I lost it."

One of his fingers was too short; I guess he'd lost the tip in an accident, but he never told me about it. He'd also dropped out of high school, and when we met in a park--he chased me down after I had walked past and told me that I was beautiful--he had just gotten out of rehab.

He was a terrible money manager, and always broke. Sometimes we'd hang out at the halfway house, all those sad, middle-aged men around trying to put their lives back together.

We didn't date very long. "I'm sorry," I told him. "I think we should take a break." He got in his van and drove away. "I know what that really means," he said as he was walking away from me.

March 28

2009-03-28T14:11:00.000-07:00

I just wanted to revisit the sheer genius of this article.

1.) It's Putin.
2.) It's Abba.
3.) It's Bjorn Again.

"'He [Putin] was dancing along in his seat to Super Trouper and raised his hands in the air during Mamma Mia when we asked the audience to,' she said."

March 25

2009-03-25T19:24:00.000-07:00

Holy shit. This is like four times the calories I eat in a day. Although I do eat fewer than the government recommended 2k calories/day.

March 23

2009-03-23T13:41:00.000-07:00

When I was young, my parents took our television up to the attic where it stayed for at least the next decade, nestled among cardboard boxes, home insulation, and Christmas decorations. I have very few memories of television--I remember my parents once watching Star Trek, I remember pretending I woke up early enough on Saturdays to watch Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and I remember watching a Disney movie one day with my mother as men replaced the shingles of our roof. But for the most part, I didn't remember anything about having a television, and I didn't miss that it was gone. I spent a lot of time outside.

One of the things I remember best about playing outside (besides the fact it enabled me to watch for and then greet the mail carrier, which was my life aspiration at that point), was the cicada shells. You would find them all sorts of places, where the cicada had decided it was now too big for its skin, and it was glorious for me as a child to find these relics. Sometimes they would be on our wood fence, sometimes the stone of our home, sometimes on a tree, but always magical. A dried, empty, hollow husk of bug, dull brown but, in my small eyes, a complete wonder. We would collect these empty bug shells, take them into our home to show our mother, proud as she was of her beaming children.

The most magical aspect of these skeletons, for us, was that we never saw the real insect. We could hear them alright, every night, but they were shy creatures, I guess, because the only bugs I could ever catch hold of were the big slow moths that clodded around light fixtures. One day my father showed me a picture of a cicada. "What's that?" I asked, staring at the picture. This creature was bright green, vibrant, with beautiful, clear wings. "That's a cicada," my father told me. Looking back I imagine him patting me on the head, but I doubt that happened. I was dumbstruck. How could such a beautiful creature leave such a dull, frightening shell behind?

These days, I don't find cicada shells any more. I don't know if it's because I've gone inside, or because the insects have gone somewhere else. I have a television now, but I still don't have any channels. I'm fairly certain I still wouldn't wake up to watch Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. But I've never resented that my parents took away the television's monsters so that I could invent better ones in my own backyard.

Maech 22--DUDE

2009-03-22T22:27:00.000-07:00

Okay. Blind people in movies and TV? Total gimmick. Who's going to tell them if they do it wrong? DUH. No one. The only people that know can't *see* them.

March 21.2

2009-03-22T19:53:00.000-07:00

I have been watching a lot of TV on the computer the last few days in a valiant effort to procrastinate writing my thesis. I have also over-indulged on coffee, which makes me frenetic and obsessive when I have an empty stomach.

TV intrigues me. I guess this is because I grew up without one, but why isn't really so important. Because I have, in the past, had friends who were really into Grey's Anatomy, it's a show I'm more likely to watch than others, since I'm somewhat familiar with the characters.

I guess what really amazes me about these shows is how obsessive people are over them. I mean, all of the major characters have decent-length Wikipedia pages. That's insane.

But what intrigues me most is how much of them are simply the writers playing with the people in the audience. People watch these shows uncritically! Take for example, what I gather has happened in this season of Grey's Anatomy:

Izzy, who is dating Alex begins having hallucinations of the heart disease-ridden fiance that she accidently killed, but the slutty, bi-sexual bitch intern fucked up the charts, so she didn't find out as soon as she should have. Then Grey's boyfriend got in a fist-fight with his best friend who previously had slept with his previous wife but is now dating Grey's younger half sister, and then he went out to this trailer he has and got drunk a whole bunch of days in a row. And this bone doctor in the meantime has discovered she's lesbian and her first female lover left and now she's totally into this obnoxiously happy hot blond doctor who kissed her in a bar bathroom, but this is all after she ran away to Vegas and married a former intern who later divorced her for the girl that has cancer that is now dating someone else.

What the fuck. Life is not like this. It's such an intentional trainwreck all the time. And all of these fake things have wikipedia pages.

But trainwrecks make me think of The Great Collision by Scott Joplin, and that's something without a wikipedia page. But the event it was written about did. Why not try enjoying a little bit of Texas history.

March 22

2009-03-22T09:14:00.000-07:00

Another SXSW is over. All said and done, this year was rather harmless--No blistering, all-day hangovers, no sunburns, nothing said or done that I wish I hadn't. Just things I didn't do that I wish I had.

March 21

2009-03-21T10:28:00.000-07:00

Holy Moly. Spring break is almost over. I'm bleary-eyed and blinky, squinting at the screen in front of me, the researched microfilm pages splayed across the table. I'm watching my coffee get cold, nursing the inexplicable goosebumps that are sneaking their way down my arms. I am tired. Last night's make up is smeared across my heavy-lidded eyes.

I think I might take a long bath.

March 10

2009-03-10T09:04:00.000-07:00

The only thing I've done well all day is spill my coffee.

I finally pumped up my bicycle tires. Yay for pinch flat prevention.

March 8

2009-03-08T19:17:00.001-07:00

Today I washed my hair.

March 5!

2009-03-05T09:23:00.000-08:00

Today is March 5th. It is a Thursday, and I am currently occupying a position in the glorious coffee haus Cafe Medici. I am procrastinating.

Yesterday I spent all day in the San Antonio library before driving home and losing my phone. For two hours. I also took photos of Tolstoy inside a beer box. Yes, overwhelming cuteness will be coming your way soon. What could be better than beer and bunnies?

I'm going to go to physics at 2:00 and turn in my half completed homework. What a load of crap. I hate that class. Every day I think about the biting honesty with which I will write end-of-semester Course Instructor Survey. It will likely be the highlight of my year.

Last week was the first week in a long while that I haven't picked up the Onion. I always do, and while I don't always complete the crossword, I always put some time into it. The Onion is my favorite crossword. Fuck you, New York Times. Where are your sexual references and inappropriate slang? I'll do the crossword that's written in my language, thank you.

That said, I think I'd be much more likely to read the Chronicle if it had a crossword in it. Actually, I think the Chronicle is much better reading than the Onion. I like to read the fake news headlines, but the fake news stories bore me. Instead, I read my fake horoscope and Dan Savage's fabulous sex column. In the Chronicle, I generally read the editorials and occasionally some other stuff. But editorials are the best part.

This is Teeney, signing off.

March 1

2009-03-01T14:37:00.000-08:00

Goodness, dear readers! (Ha! Get it? I said that I had readers!) I've fallen way behind in the realm of blog lately. It's been busy in my life.

I've had insane dreams lately. Friday I dreamed that I went to Leah's apartment, and there was this insaaaane get together going on where everyone was doing drugs and doing other illegal things, which, in the dream, I slept through (which was very Teeney of me). Anyways, one of the guys there had a dad who had a lot of money or something, I'm a little bit fuzzy on this point, but he sent everyone who had been at the mini-drug fest an email with some sort of attachment that tracked your computer (GASP! DREAM SPYWARE!). The email stated that if any of us closed the email, he'd take our illegal behavior to the DA. Well, I didn't really think the whole thing made sense anyway, and I hadn't even done anything since I'd been asleep (and I don't do drugs anyways), so I just closed it. And then the dude got all up on my ass, telling me he was going to put me in jail, etc., etc., and everyone was just like SHE DIDN'T DO ANYTHING! And then, I was so kind to his asshole son that I "broke" him, and he became a nice person too. Which is probably the weirdest part of the dream, since I'm totally impatient.

I then dreamed another dream that I had three (?!) bunnies and a pet parakeet. That is waaaay too many animals to keep up with. Although I now believe the new bunny is a boy bunny, and have decided to call him Tolstoy.

Last night I had part II of a new series of dreams that I've been having lately. In this dream, I replied to a Craig's List ad to help teach a woman's kids at home. When I show up, she tells me that her husband has invented a time travel machine (No! Really! she tells me) and that they use this time travel as an excellent way to teach their children about history and the like. Anyways, last night my dream continued from this; I went over to her house and met the other teachers (there is like, a team of young people who do this), and it turned out that they had covered all the Lessons, except Lesson 3, which it would be my job to teach the kids. Then the mom went into the time machine with me to show me how to use it. Really, it was like a not very good video game that I was horrible at.

February 26--Letter to Yellowbook.com

2009-02-26T18:25:00.000-08:00

Hi! I received your Yellowbook directory outside my door a few days ago, and although I appreciate that your company considered me, I do not use a phone book and would like it to go to someone less privileged! I have temporarily brought it inside to prevent any unnecessary wear from the weather, but please let me know when your company will available to pick it up and I will give you my address and place it outside my door.

Thanks!
Teeney

PS. I'm sorry I don't feel comfortable giving you my phone number! You *are* a phone book company and I just want to make sure my number stays unpublished. Please let me know if you *really* need it to contact me. Thanks again!

February 22--NEWS FLASH

2009-02-22T16:39:00.000-08:00

IT IS PANCAKE WEEK.

February 20

2009-02-20T18:27:00.001-08:00

I like the number twenty. It is not only a nice, round number, but it has many factors: 1, 2, 4, 5, 10, and 20. Additionally, it is exceedingly pleasant to type.

The word "sniveling" might be one of the most derogatory words in the English language. I have never heard it used in a positive manner, and it certainly gives a the impression of being pathetic, almost evil. Like one of the Hyena's in Disney's Lion King.

The number twenty will never snivel, not for you, and not for any God.

February 19: It's a trap.

2009-02-19T17:55:00.000-08:00

I've spent my Thursday watching Star Wars episodes four and six. "What the fuck, Teeney?!" you're probably saying. "Everyone KNOWS the Empire Strikes Back is the good one." Yeah, I know. And if we ever watch Star Wars together, you'll make me watch that one. Anyways, I've always loved The Return of the Jedi, since I can remember. My parents may have saved my life by making sure I grew up without a TV (but with the internet!), but they were still certain to make sure that I'd seen the Star Wars trilogy (and 2001: A Space Odyssey).

I don't remember a whole lot about that first time I watched the movies. I remember Greedo getting shot, I remember Luke losing his hand, and I remember loving the Ewoks. Who cares that I was, at that time, the Ewoks target audience? I also remember playing that Star Wars computer game about ten years ago on the family's aging Mac. I thought that game was the shit; computer game historians remember it differently.

In any case, I do enjoy seeing how much the characters have grown up from the fourth episode to the sixth. Luke has changes from a whiney little emo kid to an armed and capable whiney emo kid. Han is the same, except in love. Leia is the same, except she's in love and has a brother.

My mom likes to tell the story about episode six being released. Her enitre division at work took off to go see it. Her boss knew, but told them not to let anyone see them, as the other departments would have been upset. Coming out of the theatre was probably the only time anyone in my family has ever had to duck news cameras.

And what's this with Mandy Moore and Ryan Adams being engaged? I mean, WTF? I thought Mandy Moore was still all A Walk to Remember* and music videos with VW Bugs. But more importantly, I remember Ryan Adams--like Luke Skywalker--a whiney little bitch. I also remember his hair being this color. When did he go blond?

*WTF, IMDB?! 7.0!?

February 18

2009-02-18T14:53:00.000-08:00

I looked silently at her lips. All women are lips, all lips. Some are pink and firmly round: a ring, a tender guardrail from the whole world. And then there are these ones: a second ago they weren't here, and just now--like a knife-slit--they are here, still dripping sweet blood.

Yevgeny Zamyatin
"We"

February 17

2009-02-17T09:22:00.000-08:00

It's a rainy morning and for no reason I haven't been able to stop yawning. Also for no reason, I've been thinking a lot about pancakes. My coffee shop experience hasn't been great today. My "for here" coffee was served in a "to go" cup, and she left me an inch for the cream I don't take. I tipped anyway. I need a motherfucking job.

February 16

2009-02-16T17:22:00.000-08:00

Yesterday was a big day. I learned how to drive standard. Well, I learned how to drive in first and second gears in a middle school parking lot. It's not exactly the same.

The new bunny is a-okay. I haven't decided what to do with it yet, but I think Corey and I decided to call it Luffa. You should feel free to come visit Luffa any time, and then imagine showering by rubbing a sudsy bunny all over your body.

I've finally started actually writing my thesis, which is a big step forward, but doesn't change the fact that I am entirely overwhelmed.

February 13

2009-02-13T07:54:00.000-08:00

Happy early Valentine's Day! Corey and I celebrated by rescuing a lost bunny rabbit. Have you lost your bunny rabbit in Hyde Park? Because I probably have it. It's a totally sweet, sweet bunny. Hm.

February 12

2009-02-12T14:07:00.000-08:00

This is a story about how my thesis is consuming my life.

When Black Sabbath broke up and Ozzy went out on his own in the early 1980's, his now-wife Sharon became his manager. He's a big name in the San Antonio scene because of the whole Alamo piss fiasco, so he gets a good amount of press in the the local papers in the 1980's.

I've done about 11 hours of micro-filming total at this point, and after looking at a couple months of newspapers on microfiche, you start training your brain to pick up on different words and phrases. Yesterday, about five hours into my microfilm session, I stopped scrolling and stared at the screen. What the fuck!? I wondered, blinking. Why the hell is Sharon in Israel?! Did Ozzy have a strong Jewish following?

... Yeah.

February 11

2009-02-11T14:48:00.000-08:00

I spoke too soon about yesterday. It did have rain. Lots of it. While I was on the highway, driving 35 miles an hour.

I am currently on the sixth floor of the San Antonio Public Library. I have been looking at microfilm for four hours. My eyes hurt, my tummy is hungry, and I need to use the restroom. It amazes me how many articles the newspapers published in the 1980's on dieting. Seriously. You'd think women would want to read about nothing but how Nancy Reagan and Princess Di stayed thin. There was also a great article published in 1982 about keeping lettuce crisp.

My research has not been very productive today.

What a great day.

February 10

2009-02-10T09:12:00.000-08:00

Well, it's a brand new day, once again, just like yesterday but without the rain. I skipped class to do this phone interview, and now I'm sitting at home waiting for the guy to call me back. Such is life.

I'm planning on heading back down to San Antonio for more microfishing tomorrow, but it'll kind of be a disappointment because I doubt the incredibly nice, friendly Ira will be volunteering tomorrow. I'm going to try and get a few more interviews done, and I have to start writing this weekend. I'm excited about it. Writing is the best part.

February 9

2009-02-09T10:12:00.001-08:00

It's that time of year again! You're either planning something entirely stupid for Saturday or you're planning on pretending nothing happens on Saturday.

Corey and I have briefly discussed going to the gun range.

It's also easy crossword day, so go pick up a Texan while I finish my coffee.

February 8

2009-02-08T13:51:00.000-08:00

Women can come into their own only when men see them as equals, not as property. Then a woman loves a man as he loves her; then he has no rights over her and she none over him. This is the source of women's greatest charm. Without equality, the love of women as objects of beauty is evil. But as yet, her kingdom is small, and it will reach its fullness only in the future.

Nikolai Chernyshevsky
1862

February 7

2009-02-06T22:18:00.001-08:00

It was one of those shit nights, when almost nothing works out. I went with Fidel to see the Reverand Glasseye preform. My plan was to then meet up with Darlene, who had gone home feeling ill. Fidel went to meet up with people I have nothing in common with, so I called Corey, to meet up with him. He was on the other side of town, but headed back to the side of town I was at... in forty minutes.

So now it's midnight and I'm getting ready to watch a movie by myself. It's too late to buy beer at the store and my neighborhood bar is really a neighborhood bar, and closes at midnight.

Fuck weekends.

February 6

2009-02-06T13:09:00.000-08:00

Welcome to the weekend. I have done nothing today except drink coffee and eat my parents' food. Today's San Antonio trip will be tomorrow. It's a beautiful day. My newest new experience is this, and I liked it.

February 5

2009-02-05T09:47:00.000-08:00

Andy is now 21, and the world can breathe a sigh of relief. He has escaped from the Barton Springs Saloon, and can now drink margaritas anywhere he pleases. He can even purchase his own beer for drinking during D&D. I have decided that the apex of passive aggressive pleasure is in pulling up to a car with its windows down at a stoplight, turning your own music up and rolling down your own windows, and then smirking at your neighbor as you watch them rolling their windows up out of the corner of your eye. I don't know what they're running away from. My music's better anyway.

February 4

2009-02-04T12:02:00.001-08:00

Tea is good, but it's no coffee. Today is the best I've felt all week, in spite of making Corey coffee at 7:45 this morning. Today I spoke with a very nice woman at the San Antonio Office of the City Clerk about obtaining records for the May, 1982 meeting in which Ozzy Osbourne was banned from the city. Apparently, immediately after this discussion, the council moved on to discuss the possible banishment of Pac-Man. Oh, those jokesters.

February 3

2009-02-03T11:39:00.000-08:00

My allergies have been awful the last few days, which makes my asthma horrible. This means that when I ride my bicycle, not only do I feel like shit, but I also can't breath. And then snot drips out my nose. Today I took the bus, but it doesn't change the fact that I still feel like shit.

I was excited about the possibility of free Denny's breakfast, but under scrutiny, I realized since I do not like bacon and rarely like pancakes, decided it probably wasn't worth it. The Super Bowl is now over, and the loser was undoubtedly the people who watched it only for the commercials. These people are generally the guarenteed winners, but it was quite an upset this year. Then this lame kid ate my pizza and didn't even say, "Thank you."

January 30

2009-01-30T13:30:00.000-08:00

This is not how you'd expect a band named "Hooray for Earth" to sound. Who would call their band "Hooray for Earth"? What a stupid name. You can't even say it without feeling dumber.

"Hey, Teeney, what are you listening?"

"Hooray for Earth."

"What? I can't hear you. It sounded like you said "Hooray for Earth" or something stupid like that, but I know you're not that dumb."

"... Oh."

Yesterday I sent my Popular Music in World Cultures professor a frantic email. "I've been looking for next Tuesday's reading for twenty minutes and I can't find it!" She wrote back, tiredly, that I shouldn't have any problem finding it because it was mapped out in the syllabus. It turns out that the exceptionally long article that I'd read all of for Thursday's class was broken into multiple readings. Tuesday's reading is a subset of this article--which explained why I couldn't find any articles with that as the mainn title. Boy did I feel silly, but at least I'd finished my homework early.

Hegemony

2009-01-29T15:30:00.000-08:00

Today one of my professors defined hegemony in a way that made it sound identical to social contract.

I find this very unsettling. It might now be a big deal to her, but she is raising demonoids who will justify diminishing individual rights because they were "given up."

I think it is worthwhile to blame the societal collapse on her.

Today's thoughts.

2009-01-28T17:27:00.000-08:00

Few people are comfortable talking about--or thinking about--their parents having sex with one another (or with anyone, for that matter).

This afternoon, I was waiting for my mother at my parents' house, and, not having brought anything with me to do, I turned on daytime TV just in time to watch a thrilling episode of Casino. In this particular episode, besides a murder occurring, an employee being mistaken for a prostitute, and a bikini contest being sabotaged by a contestant from the Mid-West, one of the main character's wives has a fit because she's pregnant, and her husband has too much work to do and is too stressed to have time to sleep with her. Wah, wah, wah.

But this got me to thinking--ugh, parents having sex. But it went further--dad poking mom while I'm the bun in the oven.

Dear God.

Here is some great stop-motion.

2009-01-25T10:57:00.001-08:00

And an okay song.

Today I found the COOLEST thing on the whole internet.

2009-01-19T17:08:00.000-08:00

It involves bunnies, music, AND it's in Italian.

You can find it HERE!

Hurt

2009-01-17T00:05:00.000-08:00

The worst moments in life are the ones you don't expect. It just takes one horrible, early morning phone call to ensure that you will answer any early morning phone call that you ever receive. And every time you wake, blinking sleep into your tired eyes to stare at the resounding phone, you'll relive that first phone call, just a little bit. It gets easier the longer you're around, the more phone calls you receive. But that sinking feeling, the voice coming over the line that first time, the hurt in your stomach when you turn to face the wall, to curl your legs into your stomach and wash your face in salty tears, that feeling never goes away.

Early morning phone calls are the worst. The absolute worst. You never recover from them, and they hurt so badly. They're horrible. They become a metaphor for everything that comes afterward, everything you can never forget, and everything that will haunt you for the rest of your life.

I am making the decisions of the rest of my life, and the only sound I'll remember forever is the first shovel-full of dirt falling on the coffin of an eighteen year-old boy.

How can you trust a God after that?

Selling Sex

2009-01-15T15:13:00.000-08:00

Vice Magazine. Perhaps the glossiest magazine ever. Shiny pages cramped with indulgent hipsterism, selling glorified prepackaged scene cred. American Apparel appropriately owns the back cover. It screams. "Go directly to Scenedom. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200." But the best thing about both of these pandemics--Vice Magazine and American Apparel--is that both are fabulous simply because they are filled with sex.

I know that this is what makes them fabulous, because this is why my father judges me for them. One day, about to drive off my parents' home, I paused to chat with him through the open passenger side window. He eyed the facedown Vice Magazine in the seat, picked it up, humphed at the raunchiness of the ad, and turned it over as if to verify whether or not I was browsing porn. He scowled, dropped it back on the seat, and went into the house.

But that has nothing on the disdain the time that he caught be reading The Story of the Eye in church.

More on "crack addiction"

2009-01-14T10:49:00.000-08:00

One of the girls I work with on Monday morning asked me this past Monday if they'd told me about our Yelp review. "Yeah!" I said, "I even wore makeup that day."

"I think about it all the time now," she replied. "I looked in the mirror and was like, how many colors am I wearing? Is my hair alright?"*

So I guess I'm not the only one.

*This is not verbatim. We had this conversation around 7:00 AM. I cannot remember it that clearly.

More good news.

2009-01-11T19:33:00.000-08:00

Fidel has been in contact with the good people at Playboy, they should be figuring out why I haven't been getting my subscription. This means, of course, that I should start getting my subscription... and I will finally have the necessary amount of smut in my life.

Yelp!

2009-01-09T17:00:00.000-08:00

Apparently, we got a negative Yelp review on Monday morning, while I was working, that said we looked like "recovering crack addicts."

And I actually put on make up on Monday morning.

Good news!

2009-01-07T13:00:00.000-08:00

I have a working computer once more!

I now give you permission to kiss my feet and rub shoulders. Commence!

Dreams!

2008-12-11T09:33:00.000-08:00

Last night I dreamed that I was at a function for my parents' church, and all these old men kept hitting on me. One kept following me around the function, and one kept whispering in my ear. Then, I left and went for a bicycle ride with Leah. She was on a little red fixie while I was on an adult tricycle with a large basket between the rear wheels. We rode through a vintage clothing store, which was particularly difficult with my extra width. Escaping from the ridiculous amount of purple clothing in the store, we met up with a hip bicycle gang and cruised down the street.

Short rides

2008-12-10T09:52:00.001-08:00

I rode my bicycle to a job interview last week, past a playground full of children. "Hey!" One of them called at me. "I'll buy your bike for five thousand dollars!"

"FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS?" I called back, laughing, before continuing on my ride.It's a shame little kids don't actually have money, otherwise I would obviously have no need to go to job interviews. I spent $115 on my bicycle originally, and nows she got a new rear brake cable, some new tubes, and ~~trued~~ truer wheels. However, I strongly doubt that these improvements have added $4,885 to the value of my bicycle. This means I would be making quite a profit on my $5,000 bicycle sale--and demonstrates to me just how profitable taking advantage of small children could be. If only they had the funds.

Dear World,

2008-12-09T21:45:00.000-08:00

Today it snowed in Austin, Texas. I called half the people in my phone as I spun around, through the puddles in my parking lot, with an unconquerable smile, giggling while the flakes stung my face and scattered my coat.

My smile still will not go away. I don't think the weather has ever made me happier.

It's snowing.

Rude Girl Update

2008-12-03T09:22:00.000-08:00

Today, once again, I was behind Rude Girl at the stoplight at Speedway and 38th. Today she was wearing brown shorts over black tights, the only fashion faux pas that I actively campaign against.

My dislike of her has increased, but at least today I rode faster than she did.

Technological progress.

2008-12-01T11:57:00.000-08:00

Cell phones are the perfect example of the ubiquity of technology these days. They're also a great example of the current trend of bringing the private into public. For example, the woman next to me right now in the coffee shop just made a call. "Hi! Whoever left me a message saying I needed to come in for another pap because there was something abnormal or something about the last one!"

Pets and Pet Peeves

2008-11-25T11:20:00.000-08:00

I have decided that, at least of late, the quality of my life has been reflected by the number of kitty cats surrounding me.

About four months ago, my life was devoid of cats (with the exception of the insane monsters that live at Darlene's house, but those hardly reflect happiness). Then, on a bike ride home one day, I was met with the loudest yowl I've heard in ages. YOOOOWL, YOOOOWL. It pierced the air, and I stopped to see if I could find and help the cat, which must have been seriously injured.

Instead, an adorable little fluff ball presented itself to me, coming up to where I had stopped and rubbing itself on my legs. It looked up at me. YOOOOWL.

I don't know the cat's name, but we'll call it Poodle. This is not the cat. This is an image I found
on Google image search and stole. But this is what Poodle looks like.

Poodle then tried to get me to follow him/her into his/her house, turning to YOOOOWL at me every foot or so, but, as cute as he/she is, I didn't. I've seen Poodle numerous times since, but he/she's never made as much noise as the first time. He/she was my first neighborhood cat-friend.

Some weeks later, I met Corey's cat, a beautiful grey/brown/reddish tabby. She bit me. It turns out, she bites everyone until they figure out just how to pet her. Her name is Iris, and it turns out she's quite a friendly little cat.

She looks like this, but even prettier. I also stole this image.

I had gone from 0 cat friends to two in almost no time, but I wasn't done yet. The next cat was also absolutely fabulous, and entirely gorgeous. She's a long-haired black and white cat named Lola who lives near my complex. She's super friendly and likes to roll in the dirt.

I stole THIS one from the BBC.

Last night, as I was leaving my apartment to head to Corey's, a mighty fine, short-haired black cat met me in the parking lot, escorting me to my car. Totally lovable, she sported a sophisicated leopard print color with matching bell, but no name tag (however, leopard print means I assume the cat is a she). I'll call her Panther.Like this, but with two eyes.

This morning, as I was leaving Corey's, I finally met his neighbor's cat, which has a name that I can't remember, so I won't rename it. It is also very sweet, and also likes to roll in the dirt.

Not really like this cat, but sort of. Kind of.

I am quite happy right now, and I think that the number-of-cat-friends index is a good indicator of happiness. In any case, there seems to be a very strong correlation--and to further support this, there were no cats present anywhere on Friday night.

There were also no cats present this morning when some twat on a mountain bike got in front of me at the stoplight. Granted, perhaps he thought that the fact that I was road biking with a cup of coffee would slow me down sufficiently that he would be faster than I would be, but this was entirely foolish.

Now, there are lots of people who ride mountain bikes around seriously who know how to the ride. Many of these people have better bicycles than I do, and are more experienced bicycle riders. Additionally, I have never seen any of them riding with cups of coffee. All of these factors make it entirely possible that the bicycle rider would be much faster than I am.

However, none of these factors applied to this twat, who appeared to still be learning how to use his gears correctly. It drives me nuts when people who suck at bicycle riding don't even know that they suck at bicycle riding, like the girl riding down Cesar Chavez a couple weeks ago, changing lanes without looking backwards over her shoulder. In any case, I was forced to (even more dangerously) remanuever past this twat while holding my coffee and avoiding the pot holes which are endemic at 38th and Speedway.

Then a guy on an expensive mountain bike who seriously knew how to ride it passed both of us.

Bad night.

2008-11-22T08:58:00.000-08:00

She blinked, bleary, at the clock and rolled over, cold and alone, in last night’s jewelry. Her eyes were swollen, and she remembered staring through the mirror, tears rolling past contacts sitting on her cheeks.

She rolled out of bed, looking for pajamas, cold, bare legs goosepimpled in the midmorning interior. She didn’t know what she’d done last night, but hoped she never did it again.

The speakers chattered, and she pretended they were predicting his phone call, knowing they weren’t. He wouldn’t be awake for hours. She looked at the phone, wondered if she regretted last night’s voice mail.

A car alarm sounded outside, not hers. Her car was in South Austin, hopefully still, and she regretted telling him he’d have to pay for it if it got towed. Maybe that was where everything started. She couldn’t remember.

Edwige had been upset. Thump, thump, she’d gone, slapping powerful back feet hard against the floor of her cage. “I’m sorry, precious,” she’d told the bunny through her tears. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Her neighbors were having sex above her, and she didn’t try to escape. She laid, pressed in bed, and cried for all the things she was afraid she didn’t have anymore.

Riding when it's cold

2008-11-21T09:27:00.000-08:00

So, I've been bad. I've been writing entries and saving them as drafts and publishing nothing.

It's gotten cold here, and I think everyone knows that when I say cold, I mean that it's a freezing 46 degrees outside. However, because the internet knows all things, the reason it seems so cold is that it feels like 43. This is likely why my decision to ride my bicycle to campus in thin sweatshirt was a poor decision.

There is a girl who must live in my neighborhood who often rides to class about the same time that I do on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. One day, while I was waiting at the stop light, she blatantly rode her bicycle up the lane behind me, then past me, and stopped directly in front of me. Even those of us on our refined, primitive biycles have manners, and I have intensely disliked this girl ever since. This girl, we'll just call her Rude Girl, has legs the size of my forearm. Not the length of my forearm--they're probably as long as the entire bottom half of my torso--but incredibly tiny. Now, I have nothing against excessively skinny people, but this girl has no muscle on her legs. She does, however, have a very pretty bicycle. It's blue with yellow grip tape, and it's actually funtional at being a multi-speed bicycle (unlike either of my multi-speed bicycles). It's also nicer than my bicyles, and this means that it's faster than my bicycles. The fact that I dislike her, she's rude, and she has a better bicycle is very painful for my pride. However, in spite of the fact that I can never catch up to her superior bicycle as I trail her down the large hill that Speedway is, I'm a better bicycle rider than she is. There is only a small section of the road that goes uphill, and this is where I always catch her and pass her. It's the second greatest moment of every morning, the first greatest being my first cup of coffee.

But on the topic of cold weather bicycling. I need some gloves! I seem to have lost mine in the nine or so months since I last used them, and since we're now down in the fourties, my hands are clamoring for them (by which which I mean numb). I used to have a very great little pair of converitble mittens. These are basically fingerless gloves which have mitten-top attached to them. While riding your bike, you flip the mitten-top down over your fingers, and they all hang out together, sharing warmth and war stories. When you get to the bike rack, you flip the tops off, and voila! You use your unemcombered fingertips to manuever your bicycle lock and key. They're a great invention, but they're lost.

Yet perhaps the greatest cold weather bicycling invention is the Snot Rocket. My father originally taught me this art, which I put to very good use during my youthful soccer career (after the time I blew my nose on my shirt and left a huge snotwad on my sleve, disgusting my teammates, I needed a new solution). I had tried carrying Kleenex in my soccer socks, but it never worked well, and when I finally mastered the Snot Rocket after a messy learning period, my quality of life greatly improved.

I have used the Snot Rocket before while paused on my bicycle, usually at stoplights, but today was the first time I'd used it while in motion. There's only one stoplight on my ride home, and with the weather the way it was, my nose was dripping the way that my bathtub does. Having passed the stoplight but with my nose re-full of snot, I needed a solution. I must say, seeing the snot fly behind me as I ride away is quite a thrill, and I can't believe I haven't done it before.

Now I'm going to go get a flu shot.

Cassavetes is already there.

2008-11-12T16:53:00.000-08:00

Monday, not long after publishing my triumph in the War of the Director's Wall (WOTDW), I sallied into Vulcan looking to rent the immenently fabulous Gremlins. Although not remembered as such, Gremlins is one of the best Christmas films ever made, along with It's A Wonderful Life, A Christmas Story, A Charlie Brown Christmas, and Die Hard. As I browsed the shelves to see if I wanted to temporarily adopt a second film as well, I could hear the employees at the counter putting on a new film.

"Oh, man, good choice," one noted.
"Yeah, we'll have a mini-rest-in-peace,-Wes-Anderson marathon," someone answered back.
"Whoever that Teeney person is..."
"Yeah, once we find out..."

For a second I thought I was in trouble, but Sammy peeked his head into the "Action" section, where I was momentarily cowering. "They're not too happy with your email," he admonished me... then gave me a high five. A few minutes later, having decided I was only going to rent Gremlins, I made it up to the counter. Sammy took care of me, and told me that Gremlins was on him. I've apparently cemented some friendships... but likely sacrificed some others. Oh well, RIP, Wes Anderson.

Craigslist has lately been home to all sorts of bicycle goodness, this most importantly:
Yes. That is a wonderfully purple road bicycle. Unfortunately, I don't know anyone who rides 54cm frames. I hope that someone will give this bicycle the home that it deserves it.

In other news, continuing my quest of Billy Wilder, I finally moved on to his Audrey Hepburn flicks. I had been dragging my heels on these, not because I really have anything against Hepburn, but because I beleive her achieved legendary cult status is... well, I think she's a bit overrated (the same way I also consider Andy Warhol overrated; strangely, the same people who obsess over Hepburn seem to similarly obsess over Warhol). While Hepburn seemed to hold little special during the majority of the film (she was supposed to be a little French girl, and while her father had a French accent, she most certainly did not, and I found this rathert irksome), yet I have to say that in the closing scene, she is perfectly brilliant.

I actually wrote this post, I think on Wednesday, and couldn't remember the rest of the things I wanted to talk about, so saved it and then was off the computer for a while. Here it is! Late and still lacking the things I forgot about. Ha.

Signs of foreboding and the justice that they bring.

2008-11-10T13:16:00.000-08:00

I didn't have high hopes for today. This morning I was abuptly awoken this morning by having my pillow rudely and thoughtlessly snatched from beneath my peaceful, slumbering head, and I can't think of a wose boding to begin the day. Fortunately, although it is only 3:20, it seems to have been a fluke.

I finally dismantled my pirate boatcycle this morning. Having many vertically placed sheets of cardboard makes a bicycle fabulous at catching crosswinds, and it's a notoriously breezy time of year here in the ~~Windy City~~ Live Music Capital of the World. Let me just clarify that when I say "breezy" I literally mean "pleasantly windy.1 While this isn't a difficult problem to deal with, even when riding essentially a giant sailboat, it did mean that I hadn't been able to, to quote Flobots, "Ride my bike with no handlebars." This is tragic. I really enjoy riding without handlebars. It's really the only thing I can do on my bicycle besides riding it normally (although Charles has been coaching me in my kickflips). Perhaps the height of my bicycle career at this point is therefore the morning I rode down Corey's street, waving at his neighbors as they cheered me on.2 As I mounted my bicycle this morning, I was filled with excitement about cruising handless down the breezy street.

But today was no typical November Monday in Austin.
Instead, a slight cold front (a term I use very loosely) had surfaced. Wind gusting! 13 mph to 22 mph! Ridiculous. Absurd. Also, I sensed a hint of moisture in the air. Fontunately, having removed my bicycle bulwarks, I was easily able to cruise down the street while calling the KVUE 24 weather hotline (512 451-2424) on my cell phone to find out if there was a chance of rain without being buffetted by the wind ("thrown overboard," if you will). Because the above screen capture lacks the urgency of the rain-eminent information that the hotline had, here is tonight's forecast.
Whoa! That's a rain-laden forecast, and a frightening prospect for a little girl alone on a bicycle. Miraculously, the rain staved off for a few hours (which is why I had to post tonight's forecast to demonstrate the threat I facing earlier), and I returned home after class, nice and dry, and unmolested by pesky winds (yes, the "air flow" level above "breezy" is undoubtedly "windy" followed by "gusty" and finally "tornado").

As I mentioned a few posts ago, I wrote an email to Vulcan Video, complimenting their new Mogwai and lamenting the fact that Wes Anderson was on the Director's Wall when more deserving directors--like Ingmar Bergman--were not. Today I received my response!

You are correct! A rogue employee put him there and we just have not had a chance to take him down. As for Bergman, since he has made so few movies in English and our Swedish section would be lacking without him, he isn't on the wall.

Any American directors you would want to add?

Cheers!

Joe Shivers

Vulcan Video

Although Mr. Shivers did not mention my compliment to the mogwai,3 you can hardly argue with an email that begins with the words, "You are correct!" If only more of my correspondence were written in such a manner. Also, I enjoy the ambiguity of the the second sentence: "A rogue employee put him there and we just have not had a chance to take him down." This sentence can be read two different ways, one sensible and one awesome. The first is: "A rogue employee put him there and we just have not had a chance to take him (Mr. Bergman) down." The much more fun interpretation is: "A rogue employee put him there and we just have not had a chance to take him (the employee) down." However, I strongly suspect that this was a female employee (come on, everyone who loves Wes Anderson that much has a vagina). Mr. Shivers did leave me with a challenge, however: Who would I recommend being put on the wall? I don't know! Bergman, apparently being the only major film contributor from his country, is stuck being his country. Any suggestions from you guys?4

But one more thing about this email. They "haven't had time" to remove him!? WTF. The people who work at video stores (and I love them all dearly; I think they know this) have nothing BUT time. Sigh.

Another moment of justice today was when I finally signed up for my UFCU accounts. Goddamn, it's easy to sign up to give people your money. I'm going to wait a few days for all the charges on my BoA account to finalize, and then I'm going to cut them folks off without a dime. I am quite excited to be starting this new chapter of my life.

I hope everyone has had a spectacular Monday.

1Oxford American Dictionary

2That morning began in exactly the opposite manner of this morning, full of "win."

3 I highly recommend looking at the mogwai (which may or may not be Gizmo). The artistic representation has captured all of the charm and adorability that the little creatures lose when you feed them fried chicken after midnight. You don't even have to go inside--or even get out of your car to see it; it is directly visible through the front doors of the store which can be easily seen from parking lot. I invite you to do your own drive-by-viewing.

4 Really! Feel free to make me look good.

Belated Halloween photos

2008-11-09T16:56:00.001-08:00

Feeling ill.

2008-11-05T13:17:00.000-08:00

When I was roused from my slumber this morning by the rather adorable jingle of my cell phone alarm clock, I was faced with the harsh realization that I felt like shit. Not only was my throat filled mucus and an itching, scratchy sensation, but my uterus had decided to redecorate and was shooting bolts of electricity through my body as it prepared to put up new wallpaper.

"Aha!" I know you are saying. "This is a perfect day for Teeney to sit around blogging all day!" But this is a very foolish thought. Although I woke at 9:00 A.M. after a sickening ten hour long sleep, I was forced to remain in my bed, moaning inconsolably for the next three hours. At this point, I realized I was going to have to make a sacrifice if I was ever going to get any blogging done, and I managed to roll out of bed, throw on some pants and slide on shoes, and stumble bra-less to Walgreen's. Here I purchased Midol for my lady pains and Sprite for my forlorn throat, then ogled the chocolate candies (which I resisted) as I waited in the check out line. I promptly came home, washed some Midol down with my Sprite, and ate Corey's Snickers bar out of the freezer.

Finally about 1:00, I was feeling nearly functional, and began to assess the as-yet unstarted five-page paper that is due tomorrow. This consisted of browsing the syllabus, flipping through my sources, poking around the online library catalog, and planning how I would write about hating the paper in my end of semester course instructor survey.

I made it out of the house once again around 2, catching the bus--for about the second time this year instead of cycling; don't worry, you can give me a high five and a slap on the ass for that when I'm feeling better--to campus and checking out the remaining needed books for such paper. Returning home from my adventure, I quickly collapsed into bed once again.

Man, this blogging has re-exhausted me. I think I'll get back in bed once more.

If you need a laugh today

2008-11-03T09:44:00.000-08:00

perhaps you haven't seen this video.

errata v.2

2008-11-02T08:45:00.000-08:00

Whoa! What a weekend!

Today is the first day of non-daylight savings time, and I feel great! It's not even 11:00, and I am wide awake, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and dressed. Okay, you're right, I fell asleep in my clothes last night, but that has nothing to do with anything. I'm currently sitting at home waiting for the library and the pet store to open. I know: it looks like I have a thrilling day ahead of me, browsing book-filled shelves, the smell of stale pages (it's such a good smell) and unwashed hobo around me (not so good), and petting bunnies and buying pellets.

I have been emailing anyone who will read them in the last few days. I emailed bikesnobnyc, I emailed atxbs, and I emailed Vulcan Video. This is all a response, I beleive, to the utter ineptness and stupidity of Bank of America that simply sends out form emails no matter what you write them. But I will get them back later this week when I go close all my accounts. MUAHAHAHA. I hope that $10.00 was worth it, you bastards.

My email to bikesnob was informing her of her true identity. Yes, bikesnob is female; I know this because I dreamed it. Bikesnob replied, and uses equally good grammar in private as well as public communication. It's not a farce, as some have proposed (I'm sure you've heard the whispers of "She has a fabulous ghostwriter.") This would explain a lot to me: It takes a long time to craft such excellent, well-organized and well-written essays. These are invariably posted during the middle of the day, which makes me wonder about her occupational status (maybe she's mentioned it in the blog and I've just forgotten). However, the mid-day postings imply that she isn't a messenger, which leaves three options: 1.) Bikesnob, in addition to her ironic orange Julius bicycle, has a moutain bike which he uses to pedicab. This is why she never updates in the evening or on weekends; 2.) Bikesnob works in a coffee shop, giving her ample time and practice in the everyday activity of sitting in dimly lit space, typing on a computer; 3.) Bikesnob is a nighttime messenger, which makes her even more badass. She probably doesn't use lights on her bike, but guides herself through echolocation.

As for atxbs, I merely emailed this article on female cyclists dying more often at the hands (or tires?) of motorists in Britain. This statistic is attributable to the fact that women cyclists are more likely to stop at redlights. Obeying the law is dangerous!

And to Vulcan Video, I emailed complaining about Wes Anderson being moved onto the Director's Wall. I mean, seriously, WTF? Ingmar Bergman isn't even on it, and Herzog only got that promotion in the last year or so. Wes Anderson?! When I commented on it to the guys working, one of them exclaimed: "Seriously! What's next?! Robert Rodriguez and Quentin Tarantino?" When the war starts, we'll be in the same army.

I watched The Jackal for the first time last night. Don't read this if you don't want a spoiler, because I'm about to go all out on your ass. But first I'm going to take a sip of coffee.

So, this severe Russian woman and this black guy (because he's the only black guy in the movie, it's most expedient to identify him in this way. I apologize; his race isn't really important, but it's a lot shorter than typing "the who works for FBI" every time) who works for the end up killing this Russian mobster (he was an asshole). Of course, the Russian mob gets angry, and hires Bruce Willis ("The Jackal") to kill the head of the FBI (who is not black). Anyways, Bruce Willis is this total badass who is an international killer and pretty much unstoppable--and only about 6 people in the WORLD knows what he looks like. One of these people happens to be Richard Gere.

Gere is an Irish guy who did something wrong and got caught and sentenced to 25 years. It turns out, Bruce set a trap for him, and Gere fell into it--with his lady friend, who at the time was carrying his child. She got shot and lost the baby, but survived, then while Gere was in prison married someone else and had two children with him. She is also one of 6 people who knows what Bruce looks like.

So, Gere doesn't like Bruce Willis, and the black guy gets him out of prison to help catch Bruce, which is the smartest thing he could have done because Gere is a total badass, just like Bruce. So, while they're trying to find Bruce, Gere and the severe Russian woman (her name is Valentina) begin to fall in love. It's sweet. Aw.

In the meantime, Bruce flies to Canada and hires Jack Black to build a mount for this giant gun that he has. I'm going to go out on a limb and say this is one of Jack Black's least good roles (my favorites being his role in Jesus' Son and now also Tropic Thunder). Anyways, Bruce guns him down in a dramatically bloody scene, then blows up his car (hey, he was just testing the gun). He then buys a boat, hides the gun in it, and sails to America, where Gere spots him on the wharves of Chicago and Bruce tries to shoot him. So, Bruce gets in his minivan and drives away (apparently badasses drive minivans in 1997), and Gere is convinced there is a mole in the FBI because Bruce wasn't surprised to see him.

Gere is right, of course. They get rid of the mole, and then realize that Bruce knows Gere's old girlfriend's new address, so they evacuate the family, but right as Brce gets there to kill people. ANyways, he shoots Valentina in the stomach, tells her to press her hand just right and informs her she was shot in the liver because her blood is almost black, and if she keeps her hand there, she has 20 minutes to live. If the pain gets too much, she can let go and die in 5. Then he tells her, "if you see Richard Gere before you die, tell him he can't protect his women." Of course, she survives until Gere gets there, and tells him, and Gere is angry. Then he realizes that Bruce isn't trying to kill the FBI director; he's trying to kill the first lady!

And he almost does it. He has his gun mounted in the back of his minivan, and he's got this toootally 1990's computer that he uses to aim the gun, which he connects to with these totally giant 1990's brick cell phones. And his computer has got this giant red button to press to fire. His finger is going towards the button in slo-mo as the black guy is running through the crowd to tackle and save the first lady... and barely does! Bruce shoots up the hospital, then runs away, Gere follows him, running through the subway (Kontroll is a much better subway film), and finally Geres first woman shoots and kills Bruce.

Oh, the 1990's.

I'm sorry about the end of my synopsis. I realized suddenly I was really bored with what I was doing, but couldn't not-write the last paragraph.

Oh well.

The unexpected consequences of dating me.

2008-10-29T20:54:00.000-07:00

Corey bought me a pumpkin.

So, like any good pumpkin owner the week before Halloween, I decided to carve it.

It was a very nice carving pumpkin, so I knew whatever I carved on it had to live up to high standards. What better than to celebrate the benefactor?

Introducing... Charlotte

2008-10-20T14:12:00.000-07:00

So, not long after posting about my bicycle cl addiction, I succumbed to my disease and purchased another bicycle. Note that I do not say "a new" bicycle, but "another bicycle." Without a doubt the least aesthetic bicycle I have ever owned, she is an old Free Spirit, now known as Charlotte.Damn, girl. Them's some ugly.

Charlotte is a horrible tan color that places her squarely in the 1970's. When I got her, she was was accented with equally horrible red stripe stickers.

Sort of like the makeup on a teenage whore.

After many hours of work, I've managed to remove most of these. I'm aided in my endeavors by the fact that I fully intend to repaint her (Would you keep a bicycle this color?!). This means that I don't have to pay really any attention to the paint underneath the sitckers, and can scratch it up as much as I want.

Charlotte is a single-speed in the same spirit as Eileen--someone got rid of the derailler and gear shifts and slapped a smaller chain on her. Very half assed. In any case, I've decided to work Charlotte back up to a ten-speed, and leave Eileen as a single speed. I bought some new bars, and I'm (eventually) going to put them on Eileen and move her drops over to Charlotte. Eventually. I've gotta buy new brake levers and some grips before I do that.

Charlotte might not be a pretty bicycle, but she's got a ton of character, and I'm secretly in love with her and all of her crappiness.

The first thing I did was remove her fender. I'm not going to throw it away or anything, but it's really not my style, and it wasn't installed particularly well in the first place, resulting in a ceaseless metallic chatter. It was driving me nuts, so I solved the problem.

A sad story, the fender has been shunned by even my mop and her boyfriend, the burned pot holder.

Both wheels needed air when I got her, so after removing the fender and reattaching the rear wheel, I proceeded to try to pump the pair of them up. After laboring for a number of minutes with the cheap inefficient Schwinn handpump my father gave me for my birthday, the wheel was approaching ridability, when suddenly my ears were greeted with the sound of rushing air. "Noooooooooo!" I let go of the pump and laid down on the carpet defeated. "What happened?" Charles asked, and reached for the pump, only to start laughing. Turns out I'd pulled the valve completely off the tube. Oooooops. Well, it probably meant I needed new tubes anyways.

Really, I'm just that strong.

Speaking of the rear wheel, perhaps the greatest thing about it is the high pressure tire she's equipped with. How do I know the tire is high pressure? Because it tells me so, baby.

I'm singing Queen in my head now, are you?

"Damn!" you're probably saying. "How high pressure is high pressure?" Let me tell you: Charlotte's rear wheel clocks in at an impressive 90 PSI. High pressure, indeed!

The front wheel, although not self-admitted to be "high pressure" has quite a fabulous (and utilitarian-looking) reflector.

As cool as this reflector truly is, it has nothing on the one mounted on the front of the bike, which really can't even be described in words:

Next best thing to a headlight.

Moving slightly upwards, the greatness continues. Charlotte's got incredibly wide handlebars--"like a cruiser-mountain bike!" Charles and I joked.

I know nothing about Picasa, but as far as I can tell, it doesn't exist for Macs and my photo is staying sideways.

Somethings should be more than 2 feet long, but not handlebars.

But what's even better than the absurd width of these bars --and perhaps my favorite part of the bicycle--is the fact that the grips don't match . Although the brake levers don't match either, this isn't quite as remarkable. Many people buy brake levers one-at-a-time, but grips?! I don't even think you can buy those one at a time. How Charlotte ended up with two different grips, when they're sold exclusively in pairs, is a mystery I doubt that I will ever solve.I guess it's sort of like having one boob a whole lot bigger than the other. Or one nad. Or whatever.

Beyond the brake levers, though, the handlebars have an interesting paint job. Obviously completed some time ago, judging from the number of scratches and nicks in the paint, someone was an incredibly lazy painter. While it's not unheard of by any means to leave your handlebars attached to your stem so that you don't scratch the new paint as you reinstall them, generally those who do this are careful to tape the stem. This is not the case on Charlotte--whose stem is painted, and whose bars are scratched to hell. Poor girl. But it definitely gives her character!

Just to sum things up, here is a photo of the bad ass fake tattoo that I applied this morning:

He's so awesome that he only uses his firebreathing ability to roast marshmellows. And veggie kebabs.

If you can't tell, that is a powerful, deathly dragon on top of a red burst of bicycle loving. And here is a big man on my little bicycle:

The current state of (my) affairs.

2008-10-17T10:56:00.000-07:00

It's been a fabulous week, completely lacking in productivity. However, I am finally finished with my Fulbright application and with that entire process, and it's nice to have crossed one thing off of my endless to-do list. At the same time, I was supposed to submit a five page draft to the American Studies Honor Thesis head today, and I'm not doing it. I don't even have ONE page, much less enough information to write about.

At some point I'm going to blog about Charlotte, my "new" bicycle. She's an old Free Spirit, but was pretty cheap, and is my new project. As a very task oriented person, I find having projects to be very fulfilling. This is likely why I also enjoy jigsaw puzzles, sudoku, and blogging. Yet after setting new time-spent and words-written records with my Wednesday post, I'm going to keep it a bit shorter and more light-hearted today.

Charles and I were hanging out yesterday, bemoaning how hungry we were. "What's cheap?" I asked. "Pizza?" He urged me to check pizza chain websites for coupons, to see if there were any great deals. I logged onto Dominos.com and clicked to look at coupons.

To our delight, Domino's currently has a deal for a large, one-topping, carry out pizza for only $3.99. A large pizza for $4.00?! Charles was almost excited as I was.

But price is hardly where the wonders stopped. Not only were Charles and I about to get a rad deal, but we could even order our pizza online. Selecting mushrooms (perhaps the greatest pizza topping EVER), we placed our order and we greeted by a PIZZA TRACKER window.

Besides asking the invasive question about my political affiliations, this screen--with live updating!--informed us what stage of the pizza-making process our pizza was at, as well who was making it (Ashanti) and when she'd started making it. Charles and I unanimously agreed that this was the coolest thing we'd seen all day.

Once our pizza was done, we drove down to pick it up, leaving the tracker up in the browser while we were gone. When we returned home, we found that the pizza tracker had tracked us all the way to the pickup, giving us a nifty thank you.

No, thank you.

I will be ordering all my $4.00 pizzas online from here on out.

In other news, I'm not sure if anyone noticed my little Freudian slip in Wednesday's post, or even if anyone made it all the way through my entire essay. Although I edited the post so that it now reads correctly, I've included a screen shot of the typo for your convenience.

There's nothing sexier than a man with an analog camera in his hard.

To sum this all up with something that's likely way too obvious, I've rediscovered the screen capture. And it feels great.

Pick up your cameras and use them.

2008-10-15T13:15:00.000-07:00

I had the most singularly amazing moment on my bicycle today. I had to drop something off at the study abroad office, so instead of my normal route home (which is just to ride up Speedway), I rode through West Campus (stopping at Junior's to chat with Jeremy), then turned onto 34th so that I could cross Guadalupe and get back to Speedway. I pulled up behind the cars waiting for the light to change, when suddenly the day's peace was shattered. The Toyota directly in front of me had all of its windows open as it sat, waiting for the green, the quiet of a rainy afternoon as people lunched on the patio of Food Head's. I dropped my toes to the ground, when a dog poked its head out of the passenger side window of the Toyota, turned around to peer at me. "WOOF!"

Apparently, this was the go sign, because a black pitt's head appeared through the rear driver side window, only to be quickly joined by a black lab which materialized at the rear passenger window. The normal sedan in front of me ahd been transformed into a barking motorcade. As I sat at the stoplight, three large dogs, each with their own open window, barking backwards at me, I leaned forward a bit over my handlebars, smiling. Wait, what was that? Was that? Yes... Yes. It was a little Boston Terrier in the rear window, on the back of the seats, jumping in the window and barking at me as well. I had four dogs in front of me, each with its own window, barking at me. It was fantastic.

Yesterday, Fidel posted an article to /r/snobs, titled "Hipster: The Dead End of Western Civilization," then blogged about it. He seemed to generally support the article, but I think it's vapid, foppish swill. I'm about to join that party.

To sum up the article, hipsters are destroying culture because they take everything and give nothing back, acting as mindless consumers in the name of independent individuality. Give me a break.

An artificial appropriation of different styles from different eras, the hipster represents the end of Western civilization – a culture lost in the superficiality of its past and unable to create any new meaning. Not only is it unsustainable, it is suicidal. While previous youth movements have challenged the dysfunction and decadence of their elders, today we have the “hipster” – a youth subculture that mirrors the doomed shallowness of mainstream society.

Poor Mr. Haddow. The 20th century in America is rife with examples of youth movements that haven't "challenged the dysfunction and decadence of their elders." Examples that immediately come to mind are the youth of the 1920's (women drinking, smoking, and swearing is hardly challenging dysfunction and is certainly glorifying decadence); the "countercultural" youth of the late 1960's and early 1970's, who defined coolness" by running away from the midwest to become a homeless, hapless drug addicts in Haight-Ashbury, who justified a life of theft with by idea of being "revolutionary" and raping women by the idea of "sexual freedom"; the entire youth "movement" of the 1980's, which glammified heavy metal, leotards, and big hair, as well as sex and drugs; and even more recently, the grunge movement of the early 1990's which was co-opted and commercialized in such a way that its figurehead and poet laureate (who made the idea of living underneathe a bridge cool) committed suicide. Yet, to date, 21st century hipsterism is apparently the first of these subcultures to mirror the "doomed shallowness of mainstream society."

Take a stroll down the street in any major North American or European city and you’ll be sure to see a speckle of fashion-conscious twentysomethings hanging about and sporting a number of predictable stylistic trademarks: skinny jeans, cotton spandex leggings, fixed-gear bikes, vintage flannel, fake eyeglasses and a keffiyeh – initially sported by Jewish students and Western protesters to express solidarity with Palestinians, the keffiyeh has become a completely meaningless hipster cliché fashion accessory.

This new idea of Western youth trying to be fashionable, dear God, is going to kill society. Nevermind that there is nothing wrong with wearing skinny jeans or vintage flannel or fake eyeglasses or leggings (although I personally agree that leggings are God awful). And let's not even get started on how horrible this appropriation of a meaningful symbol in the name of fashion is. This is much worse and more meaningless than wider society's adoption of Che Guevara, DARE t-shirts, POW/MIA soldier name bracelets during Vietnam, or Livestrong bracelets as markers of cool.

The American Apparel V-neck shirt, Pabst Blue Ribbon beer and Parliament cigarettes are symbols and icons of working or revolutionary classes that have been appropriated by hipsterdom and drained of meaning. Ten years ago, a man wearing a plain V-neck tee and drinking a Pabst would never be accused of being a trend-follower. But in 2008, such things have become shameless clichés of a class of individuals that seek to escape their own wealth and privilege by immersing themselves in the aesthetic of the working class.

Yes, these three items have become completely devoid of meaning. They have lost the historical significance they may have once had. PBR was one of the defining brews that appeared in the US in the late 1800's, and it could truly be seen as a symbol for American history and should be upheld with such honor. The fact that today's working classes almost invariably prefer Bud Light has nothing to do with whether or not PBR still symbolizes them. Shame on hipsters for imbibing it, this symbol of such patriotism, when they could be drinking the even more tasteless, more popular beer of the contemporary working class--even if Budweiser isn't even an American company anymore. It's not what the damn beer is, it's what it stands for.

And don't even get me started on the v-neck! At least they aren't wearing Doc Marten's which "first catapulted from a working class icon to a counter-cultural icon in the 1960's" and by the mid 90's had "festered in the minds of the youth" (as per the official Doc Marten website). And thank God they weren't wearing cammo, adopting the image and symbol of the nation's fighting forces, or the Mohawk, co-opting a symbol and style of a Native American tribe from the precolonial times. Adoption of these things certainly would have resulted in the spontaneous implosion of Western civilization, but as these kids have only adopted the v-neck, we're just at a "dead end." We can still turn around!

This obsession with “street-cred” reaches its apex of absurdity as hipsters have recently and wholeheartedly adopted the fixed-gear bike as the only acceptable form of transportation – only to have brakes installed on a piece of machinery that is defined by its lack thereof.

I am relieved that Mr. Haddow pointed out this obvious hypocrisy. Sure, some states, like Texas, consider the absence of a brake on a vehicle to be illegal, but there is no way these kids would ruin the light, streamlined appearence of their bicycles so that they might be street legal! Moreover, it's not like correctly riding a brakeless fixie requires any skill or strength. What, you don't think everyone can just hop on one and be able to do that? There's no learning process! There's no need to be able to stop on a dime! It's not like cars don't cut you off or passengers open doors directly in front of you, or people step in front of your bicycle....

Lovers of apathy and irony, hipsters are connected through a global network of blogs and shops that push forth a global vision of fashion-informed aesthetics. Loosely associated with some form of creative output, they attend art parties, take lo-fi pictures with analog cameras, ride their bikes to night clubs and sweat it up at nouveau disco-coke parties. The hipster tends to religiously blog about their daily exploits, usually while leafing through generation-defining magazines like Vice, Another Magazine and Wallpaper. This cursory and stylized lifestyle has made the hipster almost universally loathed.

What makes all this all the more horrible is the fact that hipsters are using modern technology, specifically the internet, to be connected. Can you imagine?! Science has given them all sorts of tools, and the bastards are using them. To do WHAT? To plan ART PARTIES? You must be kidding. I bet they even display analog photos at these, which is completely absurd. Analog photography has never in the history of the world, had any historical or artistic importance. It's a completely worthless technology, and has always been! But let's get back to those art parties. The fact that these kids are creating anything, no matter how trite, is beyond contemptable. Couldn't they play a video game or something? Instead, they're purchasing art supplies, selling art, and having parties about it, as if art is supposed to accessible and fun. This is without a doubt the "dead end" of civilization. Personally, I would be thrilled if we were to reinstate the Academy that ruled the art world at the turn of the century. I don't want to look at Picasso or Mondrian or even those panderers like Monet or Manet. I want a classically styled portrait, and I want it now.

But beyond that, the fact that these kids are going to nightclubs on their bicycles--which one can only assume they only do so that they can be seen riding their brakeless fixed gears in skinny jeans (which never get stuck in their bicycle chains even though they don't have to roll them up--seriously, these clowns should walk around looking respectable with one pant leg rolled up like all of us normal cyclists)--is absurd. Absurd. Why these kids don't just hop in cars and drive downtown is beyond me. It's not like they would have to cruise around for half an hour looking for a free spot, ending up paying $10.00 to park in some seedy garage guarded by a leering parking lot patroller. No, driving downtown on the weekend is simple and easy and cheap as hell.

And to continue on with this paragraph, the fact that hipsters blog about their exploits AND read magazines is particularly what makes them loathful. I hate being forced to read their pathetic attempts at self publication almost as much as I hate the fact that I have to see them in coffee shops browsing their free copies of Vice magazine. Don't they know how these behaviors inconvenience and intrude upon me?

"These hipster zombies… are the idols of the style pages, the darlings of viral marketers and the marks of predatory real-estate agents,” wrote Christian Lorentzen in a Time Out New York article entitled ‘Why the Hipster Must Die.’ “And they must be buried for cool to be reborn.”

Once again, Haddow hits upon an important point here. It is the completely the hipsters' fault that style pages and viral marketers and real-estate agents are attracted to them. Can you believe that they let these "culture" and "style" magazines cover their pages with the fashions these hipsters have chosen? And can you beleive that they allow our Western, capitalistic society to market to them, trying to sell them goods and services? I know that viral campaigns are often online and that it makes sense to use that tactic to try and target consumers who use the internet, but as we already discussed above, the hipster shouldn't be online. It's the rest of us that should be the objects of these marketing campaigns.

With nothing to defend, uphold or even embrace, the idea of “hipsterdom” is left wide open for attack. And yet, it is this ironic lack of authenticity that has allowed hipsterdom to grow into a global phenomenon that is set to consume the very core of Western counterculture. Most critics make a point of attacking the hipster’s lack of individuality, but it is this stubborn obfuscation that distinguishes them from their predecessors, while allowing hipsterdom to easily blend in and mutate other social movements, sub-cultures and lifestyles.

Here, Haddow writes the obvious, that hipsters have "nothing to defend, uphold, or embrace." Why else would he write an entire 2,013 word article about them? Undertaking such a challenge clearly underscores and illustrates his prowess as a writer. He's taken a worthless topic and written an entire an essay--and to say that isn't impressive would be a blatant lie. And to suggest that it's the lack of indivuality that sets them apart, what an irony! The fact that they "blend in and mutate other social movements, sub-cultures and lifestyles" beautifully illustrates this lack of indivuality of authenticity and individuality. We all know it's impossible for anyone to have interests that lie in more than subculture, movement, or lifestyle--real individuals are devoted entirely to only one of these. The fact that this idea--that people can bridge interests, movements, and lifestyles--is going global is truly terrifying. We must act now to prevent any type of--gasp--global unity. We cannot afford to allow any sort of international community to develop, especially one that overcomes gaps between different cultural groups. Oh, the inauthenticity that would result!

Gavin McInnes, one of the founders of Vice, who recently left the magazine, is considered to be one of hipsterdom’s primary architects. But, in contrast to the majority of concerned media-types, McInnes, whose “Dos and Don’ts” commentary defined the rules of hipster fashion for over a decade, is more critical of those doing the criticizing.
“I’ve always found that word [“hipster”] is used with such disdain, like it’s always used by chubby bloggers who aren’t getting laid anymore and are bored, and they’re just so mad at these young kids for going out and getting wasted and having fun and being fashionable,” he says. “I’m dubious of these hypotheses because they always smell of an agenda.”

What is WRONG with McInnes?! He isn't mad at hipsters for "going out and getting wasted and having fun and being fashionable"? How does he not understand the sheer magnitude of the crime that these kids are committing against the entirity of Western civilization!? Young people? Having FUN? It's hard to believe that the cops haven't gotten involved, that Senate hearings haven't been convened, and that the issue hasn't come before the UN Security Council. I hope these groups pull their shit together--and pull it together soon.

Punks wear their tattered threads and studded leather jackets with honor, priding themselves on their innovative and cheap methods of self-expression and rebellion. B-boys and b-girls announce themselves to anyone within earshot with baggy gear and boomboxes. But it is rare, if not impossible, to find an individual who will proclaim themself a proud hipster. It’s an odd dance of self-identity – adamantly denying your existence while wearing clearly defined symbols that proclaims it.

Seriously. These punks with their "cheap and innovative methods of self-expression and rebellion" (none of these inexpensive vintage clothes or art parties) and these b-boys and b-girls (who drive to bars in Escalades blaring rap, so much less obnoxious than those pestering kids on fixed gears) are exactly what we should all aspire to be. Not only should we adopt a group identity, but we should be proud of it and proclaim it to anyone who listens. The fact that, as Haddow has already demonstrated, the label of "hipster" is worthless and empty means that there is absolutely no reason for these kids--or anyone else--to deny being a hipster. Hell, from now on I'll be referring to everyone I know as hipsters.

Perhaps the true motivation behind this deliberate nonchalance is an attempt to attract the attention of the ever-present party photographers, who swim through the crowd like neon sharks, flashing little blasts of phosphorescent ecstasy whenever they spot someone worth momentarily immortalizing.

Completely true. People at other parties and of other social groups do not enjoy taking photos and having photos taken. Ever been to a sorority party? Now that's a social group that abhors the camera, hiding from it at every chance. Obviously, the only real solution to this hipster-photo problem is for all of us to adopt the values of the college Greek system.

In many ways, the lifestyle promoted by hipsterdom is highly ritualized. Many of the party-goers who are subject to the photoblogger’s snapshots no doubt crawl out of bed the next afternoon and immediately re-experience the previous night’s debauchery. Red-eyed and bleary, they sit hunched over their laptops, wading through a sea of similarity to find their own (momentarily) thrilling instant of perfected hipster-ness.

Once again, I have to advocate the sorority life style in response to this rather obvious and hipster-specific fact.

What they may or may not know is that “cool-hunters” will also be skulking the same sites, taking note of how they dress and what they consume. These marketers and party-promoters get paid to co-opt youth culture and then re-sell it back at a profit. In the end, hipsters are sold what they think they invent and are spoon-fed their pre-packaged cultural livelihood.

Haddow writes almost as if we are living in a capitalistic country, as if our entire economy is built around people trying to sell us--any of us--anything we'll buy. What a foolish idea! If this were really true, there'd be an Urban Outfitters and an American Apparel in every major American city. Moreover, hipsters would be completely unaware of the fact that these two stores existed solely for the purpose of selling their own "culture" back to them at a profit.

Hipsterdom is the first “counterculture” to be born under the advertising industry’s microscope, leaving it open to constant manipulation but also forcing its participants to continually shift their interests and affiliations. Less a subculture, the hipster is a consumer group – using their capital to purchase empty authenticity and rebellion. But the moment a trend, band, sound, style or feeling gains too much exposure, it is suddenly looked upon with disdain. Hipsters cannot afford to maintain any cultural loyalties or affiliations for fear they will lose relevance.

Haddow is completely right, once again. The advertising industry, a very recent development, is only now, in the 21st century, beginning to capitalize on "countercultures" in the Western world. I mean, just because Woodstock, the apex of the 1960's countercultural movement, was planned as an extremely profitable, moneymaking, capitalist event (and was almost successful at this) means nothing. The youth movements of the 1960's were full of integrity, completely lacking consumerism. Honestly, considering the genuine purity and selflessness of all those involved in the movement, it's amazing they're not still continuing today.

And this whole hipster system of changing loyalties! Yeah, some of them might have an undying allegience to The Smiths or Joy Division or even Bright Eyes, but those bands don't count. And the fact that hipsters fall all over themselves to support bands--for one album only--is dispicable. Maybe they've ended up giving bands like Wolf Parade, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, and Vampire Weekend chances the artists never would have had otherwise, but the fact that they didn't continue to give these artists such opportunities by swearing an unconditional allegiance to them is ridiculous. Who cares that Clap Your Hands Say Yeah's second album was legitimately worse than their first? Hipsters should have bought it anyways.

An amalgamation of its own history, the youth of the West are left with consuming cool rather that creating it. The cultural zeitgeists of the past have always been sparked by furious indignation and are reactionary movements. But the hipster’s self-involved and isolated maintenance does nothing to feed cultural evolution. Western civilization’s well has run dry. The only way to avoid hitting the colossus of societal failure that looms over the horizon is for the kids to abandon this vain existence and start over.

Wait! The youth of the West are "left with consuming cool rather than creating it?" So who's creating it? And "the cultural zeitgeists of the past have always been sparked by furious indignation and are reactionary movements"? How indignant does Haddow really think Marcel Duchamp was when he submitted a urinal to his early 20th century art show? Or da-da-ism as a whole? It's hardly indignant! And pop art? Andy Warhol and Roy Lichenstein as furious? And Robert Rauschenberg! That guy only did what made him happy, and it happened to be considered genius. How about when the Beatles looked to traditional Indian music and Ravi Shankar as they created their music? They were simply recycling the past, but it's considered some of the best pop music ever created. Why do these kids need to start over? How are these kids so culturally secluded if, as Haddow mentioned earlier in his essay, they are able to "easily blend in and mutate other social movements, sub-cultures and lifestyles"? And the idea that this group of kids are going to single handedly cause the Western world to "hit the colossus of societal failure"? You have to be kidding me. And still Haddow isn't done.

The half-built condos tower above us like foreboding monoliths of our yuppie futures. I take a look at one of the girls wearing a bright pink keffiyah and carrying a Polaroid camera and think, “If only we carried rocks instead of cameras, we’d look like revolutionaries.” But instead we ignore the weapons that lie at our feet – oblivious to our own impending demise.

We are a lost generation, desperately clinging to anything that feels real, but too afraid to become it ourselves. We are a defeated generation, resigned to the hypocrisy of those before us, who once sang songs of rebellion and now sell them back to us. We are the last generation, a culmination of all previous things, destroyed by the vapidity that surrounds us. The hipster represents the end of Western civilization – a culture so detached and disconnected that it has stopped giving birth to anything new.

"If only we carried rocks!" Haddow laments, helpless in his own impotency. If only! If only! What creates any great movement, cultural or countercultural is a great leader. In recent struggles of Palestinians and even hipsters, cameras have acted as inaluable tools. In fact, cameras might be the greatest non-violent weapon of today. Perhaps if Haddow was to motivate and organize his peers instead of nitpicking and deriding, today's youth would be out doing something like registering their peers to vote, or inventing new film movements,
or beginning the world wide fight to save sharks or discovering how to biodegrade plastic bags in three months as sixteen-year-old, future hipsters.

Let me quote the hipster favorite The Rapture: "People don't dance no more/They just stand there like this/They cross their arms and stare you down and drink and moan and diss."

It's easy to complain. Haddow can complain about hipsters, and I can complain at Haddow. It's a vicious cycle. In the end, Haddow is one in a long line of those who have critiqued contemporary culture. He's covered no new ground in his essay, and in the end, just like what he's derided, he's left with nothing but an analog camera in his hand. Perhaps instead of complaining about today's hipster culture, Haddow should go out and create his own. But hey, why be proactive and positive when it's so much easier--and cooler--to reiterate all the things that have already been said?

The resubmission to government instruction and the advent of Tour de Fat

2008-10-14T12:24:00.000-07:00

I hope everyone knows that the Tour de Fat is returning to Austin next weekend. Sponsored by New Belgium, Tour de Fat is dedicated "spreading the good word about the positive societal offerings of the bicycle. Costumes and decorated bikes reign supreme as the participants come to ride in the bike parade, then gather in the merriment of good music, entertainment, and tasty beer. Amid the hoopla, Tour de Fat raises money – $806,000 to date! – for local charities, increases awareness for reducing your waste stream, signs people up for Team Wonderbike, and culminates in a Car Bike Swap, where the winner gets a custom Black Sheep New Belgium Commuter bike. Admission to the Tour de Fat is free.
All profits from beer sales go to local non profit organizations."If you want to read more, you can see the website here, and you can read about the Austin itenerary here. In any case, because the event is to raise money, they asked for volunteers. And who volunteered? Yours truly, of course. The job I volunteered for required TABC certification, and since mine expired in July, I needed to renew Fortunately, the Tour is going to reimburse me, but that doesn't change the fact that taking the certification course is literally painful.

Not only does the course take four hours, but it's boring, and stupid as hell. It was divided into seven sections, each of which ended in a short set of questions. These are very challenging--here's one, for example.

If I drink this, will my sinus infection go away or will my fetus die? Will I be happy about it or sad about it?

I'm glad they're easy, but did I really need to sit through half an hour of redundant information to answer that? I think not. Although it would be very, very convenient if alcohol were an oral contraceptive, it unfortunately is not. Just imagine how quickly abortion rates and condom sales would plummet. Women would be able to have their cake and eat it too, and we would all be happy. Except for Trojan.

Moving on, the course informed me that it was illegal to sell alcohol to a drunkard. I know you're wondering how a drunkard is legally defined, but don't worry, the course quickly explained.Wooo! We're all drunkards!

"A drunkard is one who is in the habit of drinking until drunk."

Yes. This means that everyone I know (except Leah) is a drunkard. Pretty much anyone that is served alcohol at any bar is a drunkard. We are all drunkards! Wear the label, be proud.

But drunkards aren't the only people it's illegal to serve. You are also prohibitted from serving insane people, which the course illustrated with a picture of what I assume is supposed to be an insane person.Only lonely people go crazy.

Yes. This is undoubtedly an insane girl. The moral of this is that lonley people, especially people who might be emo, are probably insane. They can be anywhere, and strike any time. What the course fails to discuss, however, is the penalties for serving an insane drunkard alcohol. Are these greater or less than serving either a sane drunk or a sober lunatic?

The course went on to describe methods that can be used to identity minors, and this was undoubtedly the section with the best information.
To sum these two slides up, pretty much any asshole or whore in a bar probably could be underage. This is very helpful.

As the course continues, our insane girl makes another appearence.

You'd be terrefied too if you'd shat yourself insane.

She is now on the slide for "Common Indicatiors of Intoxication," which--hello!-- means someone has been breaking the law. Her libations seem to have increased her level of insanity, as well, as she now looks frightened and paranoid rather than lonely. As one reads the checklist of indictators, one realizes that she exhibits almost none of the symptoms listed. Although she undoubtedly shows mental confusion, it is more likely attributable to her mental state rather than her blood alcohol content. She could perhaps be considered disheveled--she does have that hair in her face, but we have no indication of any of the others. And bladder/bowel control? If this was really so common, those stories or people getting wasted and shitting or pissing all over wouldn't be quite so hilarious (actually, poop is hilarious no matter how many times it happens). In any case, if someone is pissing and shitting themselves while ordering drinks, the bartender isn't going to giving them a beer, they're going to be kicking them out. Perhaps our friend the insane girl has actually shat herself. This would perfectly explain the fact that she is hugging her back to the wall and has an expression of sheer terror on her face.

Now, because alcohol is not an oral conceptive, the course also discusses fetal alcohol syndrome, which is a very serious consideration. However, as someone who serves alcohol, you're required to serve to pregnant women. If they want to fuck up their child, you're not allowed to prevent them. Basically, it's the pregnant woman's right to destroy her future child if she wants, but hey! At least they'll show you a really terrifying photo of an extreme close-up of a crying baby's face while you read about it.

I just really don't think that photo is necessary.

Now, just in case your irresponsible, pregnant customer decides to drive home, and for some reason you get off work in time to encounter her on the road, the course gives some very important tips about how to tell if someone is driving drunk, which include "varied speeds," "weaving or swerving," and "head out of the window."

Basically, if you're Lloyd Christmas or Harry Dunne, you probably drive like you're drunk.

Because I finally found my camera cord and I've been talking about alcohol, here is a photo of me and Jimi for your enjoyment.

Are you laughing at me yet?

I have a problem.

2008-10-06T21:26:00.000-07:00

Yes. I am admitting it.

I succumb to my impusles at least ten times a day. Yes, it's that bad.

My problem is this: I want another bicycle.

When I originally bought Dolly, I had no problems. It was my irst time buying a bicycle, and I was absolutely thrilled. I loved her, I rode her, and I gave her streamers. What more could a bicycle want?

Dolly and I, as previously posted.

I was happy, Dolly was happy. We were happy. Our happiness lasted about two years (this is about how long your "love pheromones" are supposed to last. I know this is true, because the woman on The Real Housewives of Orange County said so). It was about this time that I decided that, as much as I loved Dolly, I wanted to invest in something a little bit more... practical.

With Fidel's help, I purchased a 51 cm KHS Winner, which I never named.

The unnamed KHS Winner.

Now, I liked this bike; she (he?) was in decent shape, only cost me $80, and was a called a "Winner." Uhm, amazing. Unfortuntately, I could barely stand over the top bar, even on my tip toes. My toes were no where near the ground when I needed to stop at a stop sign or stop light... and thus I decided that I needed another bicycle.

I embarked on my Craig's List quest with intrepid bravado, and jumped at a $100 1980's steel frame Huffy that came up. Some quick research showed me that the victorious 1980's USA Olympic cycling team had used Huffy--before the brand Wal-marted out, that is--and that was a good sign. I showed up, the bicycle was decent, and Eileen entered my life

Eileen and I on Corey's front porch, the night of the Harvest Moon Cruze.

Now, Eileen is a decent little bicycle. She's a 10-speed converted to a single speed, but that didn't bother me so much, since I'd been riding a single-speed, coaster brake cruiser around for two years. In fact, Dolly was a big step up. Now, I'm not saying she's perfect, I've only been riding her around for about two months, and she's had her share of flats, and while she masquerades as a single speed, she lacks horizontal drops... but on my own end, I've drunkenly fallen off more than once and even ridden into a parked car. She's been a great learning bicycle.

However, Eileen is a 19 inch frame, which, according to the nifty converter on my Apple's OSX Dashboard tells me is equivalent to 48.26 cm. Here is the problem.

Buying bicycles is really, really fun. Really fun. Way fun. You should try it. It's like sex or potato chips or gummy bears or probably tattoos (although I have none). Once you lose your virginity or eat a Pringle or get a tattoo, you can't just quit. It doesn't work like that. And buying bicycles is the same way. It's like starting a relationship with someone you can break up with at any time with no hard feelings, and you'll never have to see them again. In the meantime you'll go through a lot together, share tears and blood and emotions or whatnot (okay, maybe you don't "share blood" in relationships), you'll either improve the bicycle or ride it into the ground, and the bicycle will either take you places and tone you up, or will flake out on you when you most need it. These things will determine your relationship. And like relationships, unless you're one of those crazy kids who's now engaged to your highschool sweetheart (I didn't even HAVE a high school sweetheart), you're going to want more than one bicycle.

This is where my problem comes in.

I want a new bicycle. I don't want a 48.26 cm bicycle, I want a 49 cm bicycle. And I want it to be purple. I don't care if it's single speed, fixed gear, or 21 speed; I don't care if it's men's frame, women's frame, or mixte; I don't care if it's American, Japanese, or Italian. I just fucking want it.

And this is bad. This means I spend at least an hour (okay, maybe not an hour) on bicycle craigslist every day. An hour total. Not at one time. And I know it's bad, because I recognized the bicycle my friend posted on Craigslist and asked him about it, before he even told me he was moving.

But it's just... buying bicycles already feels so good. I can't imagine how good buying the perfect bicycle feels.

Rabbit?

2008-10-03T10:00:00.001-07:00

Coffee

2008-09-28T08:30:00.000-07:00

My coffee-drinking age is pretty young; I've really only been imbibing for a about a year and a half, which isn't long. It amazes me, though, how much I enojy coffee these days. I can be having a horrible day and then sit down with a cup of quality coffee and feel lovely.

My dad always praised my non-coffee-drinking, telling me "Don't start any bad habits you don't already have." It's good advice, and it's probably part of why I never started smoking. The problem in my mind is that drinking coffee isn't a bad habit in any way.

In fact, before I embarked on my quest to begin liking coffee (I started with the mocha and worked my way to plain coffee), I researched it to make sure it wouldn't be a bad habit. I'm in school, sometimes I need to stay up realy late, and really, I wanted to get my caffiene in the healthiest way possible. Now, because Wikipedia is the end all of internet sources, I checked out their page on coffee and found that while it has a couple minor negative effects, it has many more good ones. You can look at it all right here.

To me, the greatest danger in coffee drinking seems to be this:

CEDAR RAPIDS, Iowa - It wasn't just the caffeine that gave an Iowa woman an extra jolt after she had her morning coffee. It was also the bat she found in the filter.

The Iowa Department of Public Health says the woman reported a bat in her house but wasn't too worried about it. She turned on her automatic coffee maker before bedtime and drank her coffee the next morning.

She discovered the bat in the filter when she went to clean it that night. The woman has undergone treatment for possible rabies.

Health officials say that the bat was sent to a lab but that its brain was too cooked by the hot water to determine whether it had rabies.

Coffee? Generally safe, but sometimes with some extra protein and a side of rabies.

Tresspassing.

2008-09-25T12:14:00.000-07:00

Anyone who has been to visit me at my apartment has read the note taped to my front door: "Please do not leave flyers or coupons on my door. Thank you!" It's on a pink background with flowers, an entirely polite way to ask people to stop wasting paper (and their business's resources) on me and my front door. For the most part, being polite has worked and people have respected my wishes. However, compliance has certainly not been uniform.

One local restaurant, who just opened a location a little ways away (it's not quite in my neighborhood, it's in Allandale and not Hyde Park), left me a menu. "Well," I thought. "This isn't a flyer OR a coupon. It's a menu. And I don't have anything about menus on my door!" I gave the restaurant the benefit of the doubt, dropped the menu in my recycle bin, and taped an addendum to my door: "OR MENUS."

Now, I know that this warning is completely comprehendable, because one morning (okay, it was a really afternoon) Corey and I had a pizza delivered. The driver scoffed at my door, "Did someone really leave you menus after you put that first part of the note up?" he shook his head.

I've lived on in relative peace since then, my door generally unmolested (someone did leave a voter registration form on my door, and although I'm registered, it wasn't a commercial endeavor so I didn't really mind). But yesterday, returning from 8 hours on campus, disgruntled and tired, I came home to find a brochure for a chicken wings "restaurant" on my door.

That was it. I was mad. MAD. I am a VEGETARIAN and I don't eat chicken, and even when I did eat meat, I didn't eat CHICKEN WINGS. I find it incredibly disrepectful for someone to ignore the explicit desire that I've spelled out on my door, as if it's either a joke, or as if their chicken wing product is above all the other products I receive flyers for.

This set me off on a vicious Googling binge for information about whether or not it was legal for companies to place flyers where they were expressly asked not to. While I discovered that lots and lots of people have the same problem as I do (a number of people with mail slots reported a much more intrustive problem of opening their front doors to find their foyers filled with this swill), I found out that there really isn't much you can do about it.

Leaving flyers isn't considered a form of solicitation, so you can't actually prosecute people who flyer you even with a sign up. A Google search of the terms "door" and "flyer" on the City of Austin website (http://www.ci.austin.tx.us) gave me nothing relevant, but brought up some examples where the city had even sponsored door flyers. This was lame.

The only thing I found that you can get people in trouble for is tresspassing. This is different for me than most people, because they have some type of front yard or the like that a flyer-person has to cross in order to leave flyers on the front door. Additionally, the outside of the door where I live isn't really "mine" since I live in a condo complex, and the outside of the doors are all, techinically I believe, the cohesive property of all the unit owners (and I am not a unit owner, by any stretch of the imagination). So I'm in a sort of legal quandry in regards to the flyering of my door. I'm thinking about putting up a sign that says something along the lines of, "This door is private property, and leaving flyers of any type on it will be considered trespassing. Violators will be prosecuted." Unfortunately, I don't own the door, and, if I did, there seems to be very little I could actually get out of prosecuting someone. It'd'be a scare tactic, really.

My mom proposed a much simpler solution that could have more of an effect: posting my sign in Spanish.

In the meantime, I've been progressing (in tiny, tiny steps taken very, very slowly) on my thesis. What I think I really want to write about right now is the San Antonio heavy metal scene and why it has been largely ignored, and how this is because it clashes with the image that the city wants to maintain for itself, which is largely one of iconic Texas history (the Alamo) and authentic Hispanic culture. In 1982, Ozzy Osbourne got drunk, put on one of Sharon's green gowns, and peed on the Alamo. Urban legend states that a faint 666 is visible where his urine came in contact with the wall, the mark of the devil left by the Prince of Darkness. The way he tells the story, he needed to take a piss, found a wall, and found out it was the Alamo when he got arrested; not a story of rebellion, but a story of drunken and accidental confusion. To sum up the story, he was banned from the city of San Antonio (by the governor!) for ten years, until he donated $10,000 to the Alamo in 1991. This is more or less a metaphor for what I want to write about.

Now, I'm no Ozzy expert, but like most people, I knew he'd bitten the head off of a live bat at one of his shows. As I watched youtube interview footage yesterday (the Letterman/Ozzy interview from 1982 was priceless), I learned the whole story. Ozzy had habitually bitten the heads off of bats at his concerts in the past--rubber bats. When a bat appeared on-stage that fateful night, he rationally assumed it was of the rubber variety. Unfortunately, it was a live, stunned bat, but Ozzy didn't realize that until too late. The best part about this story is that Ozzy had to receive a series of rabies shots, and even the Price of Darkness bitches about how much they hurt.

But what I didn't know--and I think, what most people don't actually know, if that Ozzy Osbourne did intentionally bite the head off of a dove, and he did it in a way that was a million times more bad ass than if he was onstage performing. After being kicked out of Black Sabbath and after a period of depression and self-destructive behavior (more so than usual), Sharon got Ozzy back on his feet, getting him signed with Epic to release a solo album and restart his musical career. As a part off this, she arranged a meeting with the Epic bigwigs, so that they could all see each other and Ozzy could reassure them, perhaps of his reliability, perhaps of his normality. I'm not sure. As a part of this meeting, however, Sharon and Ozzy decided to bring doves and rlease them in the meeting, both as a symbol of peacefulness and to get the executives to notice him. However, as with many things Ozzy, this didn't go quite according to plan.

Forgiving the fact that releasing doves in a meeting room has to be a horrible idea no matter who you are (bird shit, come on), things went horribly wrong. No one seemed to be noticing Ozzy, and he found this unacceptable. He sat down on the lap of one of the women there, I believe she was an advertising executive. In no terms did she want Ozzy on her lap, and this is plainly obvious in photos taken of the moment where she is leaning as far away from Mr. Osbourne as possible. As he was perched there, one of the doves landed in his lap. Wanting even more attention, he casually picked up the dove... and bit its head off.

While he talked about how awesome he thought the moment was in the interviews, talking about the blood and puke and feathers that the room quickly was covered in, Sharon was less enthusiastic and admitted she peed herself when he did it. But the point is this: They didn't drop his record, they didn't decide not to release it, they didn't penalize him. They banned him from the building.

It all comes back to tresspassing.

retail.1

2008-09-21T13:58:00.000-07:00

Yesterday:

"Oh, yeah, well I'm from Beaumont, I evacuated because of Ike. My two kids go to school up here, so I got to see them. What about you? Are you in school?"

"Yep, sure am."

"Where do you go to school at?"

"I'm at UT."

"What are you studying?"

"Oh, I'm an American Studies and Plan II major."

"What'd you say? Plan what? What's that?"

"It's a sort of honors major."

"Oh, so you're brilliant. I never would have known, you're so cute."

"... Thank you."

"Usually the smart girls aren't as cute. You can usually tell."

"Mmm."

"My daughter's pretty sharp."

.... Did she just tell me her daughter was ugly?

Complaint #753:

2008-09-20T20:04:00.000-07:00

I hate when the guy who lives above me gets high and drops cans of food on the floor. The THUD....roooooooooooll noise always catches me by surprise.

Losses.

2008-09-20T16:34:00.001-07:00

In the last couple weeks, I have now lost a shoe, an earring, and my cell phone while riding my bicycle.

Palin's email

2008-09-18T10:59:00.000-07:00

The point of this whole "scandal" is nothing political. 4chan and such don't really care that much about politics. The point of the whole debacle (because it's a debacle and not any sort of scandal) is that YOU SHOULDN'T USE FUCKING YAHOO EMAIL FOR IMPORTANT SHIT because it's not an issue of if it will be hacked, but when it will be hacked.

Everyone who knows anything about computers and the internet (which definitely isn't Senator McCain and apparently not Governor Palin) should be standing up and pointing out that using a Yahoo account--with a published address (she DID use it as a press contact)--is asking to get it hacked.

I have no sympathy for her, and I'm indifferent to those who hacked. You can't complain when you get what you're asking for.

Camila.

2008-09-17T12:26:00.001-07:00

I love when class assignments allow me to write informally and self absorbedly about films. Like for Camila.

I think, as a whole, I liked this film, but at the same time, there were a number of points about it that I didn’t like.
The film begins sort-of in medias res in that Camila’s grandmother is arriving at their home, and it is not immediately apparent that she has been sexually involved with a member of the clergy—although it is vaguely implied, and it’s definitely spelled out on the back of the box. In medias res is actually fine with me, but I think the film fails to do it smoothly, and I find this grating.
Additionally, I’m not sure how good the production values are. I understand that this was filmed in the 1980’s, but to be honest, the harshness of the lighting, contrast, and colors, combined with the quality of the footage itself, make it look like a BBC TV series. Or maybe PBS. This is a shame. Although I do not know if the costumes, hair, and make up are appropriate to the time period and location, they are exquisitely and excellently done. I wish that the characters looked as good on the screen as I think they probably did in real life.
The script was well done, but certainly not perfect. A good amount of the dialogue between Ladislao and Camila was overdramatic swill. This is particularly aggravating in that this is certainly a stereotype afforded to Latin American screen productions—being excellently exhibited in Mexican soap operas (thank God Americans don’t all talk like the recently reborn 90210). Additionally, the passionate scenes—although there aren’t an abundance of them—are a little over the top, and rather sloppy. This, however, I found to be an endearing quality of the film, as it made the characters seem much more human. I do not believe in the existence of the overly glamorized sleekness of Hollywood sex.
I did feel like Camila’s brother, however, was a shill character, which is a shame. The religious brother of the philandering sister has a lot of potential for fantastic character development, and yet throughout the film he is a completely flat character. The father, as well, is very one dimensional—perhaps this is supposedly how people were in the mid 1800’s in Argentina, but I doubt it. If the film makers were really trying to highlight the difference between Ladislao and Camila with the rest of the characters as individual and independent, thinking characters versus the flat puppet like depictions of their counterparts, adamant and unthinking in their social roles, it could have been done much more artfully (or artfully at all), so that it resembled a story telling technique rather than a bleak omission.

The story itself was interesting to watch; it was particularly interesting for me because, although I began watching the film blindly, I happened to watch the first hour of the film the day before Dr. Burnett discussed it in class. This means that I had the perfect context in which to watch it—a discussion of the culture and history that were defining the time period and the area. Unfortunately, this also meant that she spoiled the ending for me, although I’d probably read it on the back on the box anyways, and then just forgotten. However, I think that, were the film not based on true events, it would have been an incredibly lame story—very trite. Instead, it was almost shocking, and I think this is probably what made the film worthwhile.
I think that the film did an okay job showing the context of the setting, but I think this could have been done better as well. I certainly got a feel for what life in Argentina was like in the mid 1800’s, but I’d hardly say I understood it. The film makes it clear that Camila is in the upper class, as she donates her old clothing, etc., but it never shows the other classes and what their life is like, or why, as Ladislao says, they would have no use for the clothing of a rich woman. At the very least, it seems they could be made into blankets or rags.
Additionally, there is one scene where Camila and her brother hear gun shots and run to the door to watch men ride past on horses shooting their guns into the air. This scene could contribute to the description of the period, but it lacks any type of explanation—leaving the watcher confused and uncertain what had just happened. Had we not discussed it in class, I would not have known what had happened, and it would have simply been an incongruous and out of place event in the film.
The tone was interesting; it was very open and nonjudgmental. It seemed to have little to say about what was happening within the film. Although Camila’s family (besides her father) seemed upset about what was happening, and although the men who executed the lovers seemed unwilling to do so, the script itself, as well as the making of the film, seemed to lack any real sort of commentary on the issue and the situation, portraying the whole situation very simply and straightforwardly. Once again, if this was done (in my opinion) more masterfully, it could have been a much more affecting film, but once again, I felt that it fell short of this.
Camila was a decent little film, but altogether seems to lack any sort of strong statement, either about the time period, the story, or the art of film.

Bummer

2008-09-16T19:04:00.001-07:00

Today I lost an earring bike riding home in the dark.

Errata.

2008-09-15T10:42:00.001-07:00

School is really interfering with my blogging. Sure, if I was just going to school and blogging, I'd have no problem. As it is, the fact that I do both of those things, work, and have a social life and a bunny rabbit make me a very busy person. I was actually going to sit down and do a nice, long, extensive photo entry today, but I haven't been able to find the cord to connect my camera to my computer, and there's no way my peice of shit camera would ever have bluetooth, so I'm kind of fucked at that. Anyways, I thought I'd found it, but it turns out that the cord to connect my camcorder to my computer is nearly identical to--but not compatible with--the one for my camera.

Speaking of going to shit, my computer is starting to fall apart. No, literally. Anyone who's seen my computer knows that it's been dropped more times than it should--and, here's a testament to Apple, it's still working today, three years after the first major drop that bent its shell casing.Since then, it's been dropped another two or three times by me, and once by Fidel. Goodness. It's amazing she's still here. The point of this being that the casing isn't at its high point. The plastic on the right corner of the screen is cracked (if I didn't have a metal casing on this computer I'm fairly certain it would have perished that day three years ago). Well, the plastic is attached to the metal that surrounds the screen, or, it was. This means that the metal frame is coming away from the rest of the screen, and yesterday, a mysterious metal piece detached itself from inside the screen. It looked like a fairly harmless piece, but In any case, it's a dangerous road to start down.

So it was a good enough weekend. Well, all in all it was a great weekend, but I had a bit of a slow start when my drawer was $300.00 under on Friday afternoon. Freaked me the fuck out, making me really stressed really quickly, but all in all it wasn't my fault, and since I'm no manager, it wasn't my problem. I just got really stressed about it. Corey called just as I was locking shop, wanting to come by and pick up his beer (somehow, we independently both bought 12-packs of Session on Thursday, which isn't a regular beer for either of us. It was strange.). He was waiting when I got home--he'd had a bad day too, it turns out, and we ended up getting some dinner, drinking a bottle of wine, and going to bed before midnight. Bad days are exhausting.

Saturday was nice; we went for coffee at Quacks and saw trash-can killer Daniel. Corey ran into an old neighbor, and I got to see Josh and Ann. It was a nice morning. Went to work (it was slow), and then headed over to Jenn's for a ridiculously amazing dinner party. Delicious marinated portabella mushrooms with goat cheese and basil and some amazing salad and humus and sourdough bread and did I mention beer and wine and cute puppy dogs and good music and even better company? It was way awesome.

Until about 11:30, there was no weather manifestation of Ike in Austin, but then it started raining. A number of the party goers ran out in the rain to dance around, but I sulked. It was Harvest Moonlight Cruze night! I didn't want it to rain THEN. Fortunately, the rain stopped around 12:30, about the time I got to Corey's. We hung out a bit then biked down to the ped bridge for the best ride of the year. I'm horrible at estimating numbers, but there were probably 400 or 500 people. Lots of good people there, way lots of fun. We got a little lost from the group when we stopped for some people who'd wrecked on Burnet, and Corey and I ended up swimming at a random apartment complex with about ten other people from the ride before heading back to his place at around six. Five hours later, we were up--Corey had to go to work.

Emily! was in town for a wedding, and she and Adrien and I met up at Tazza Fresca to play a game of Scrabble--I was second by a mere 15 points, and then Emily and I hit up Room Service. I thought I'd pick up some t-shirts for Corey since he seems to have a dearth of them, and she and I had a great time looking at all the ridiculous clothes and furniture, etc. If I had a camera cord, I'd post pictures of what all I purchased.

I dropped Emily off at the airport then went to dinner with my dad, which was really nice. My mom's been out of town--coming back tonight--and I think he's been a bit lonely. Darlene called me--she was at the reopening of the Peddler, and I called Corey to see if he was home, since I'd left Eileen at his house that day. I drove over to pick her up, and he felt miserably sick with a horrible headache. I picked him up some soup and food, hung out with him for a little while, then drove home. I biked over to the Peddler for about 20 minutes to say hi to Darlene and Jimi, went home, cleaned the kitchen, and was in bed by 10:30. I was exhausted.

Going to bed so early meant being completely and totally and fully rested when I woke up ten hours later, around 8:30. I had time before class, so I cleaned my bathtub, then headed to biology for the rest of the condom talk.

Hopefully, tomorrow I will have photos. We'll see.

Ike has hit Austin.

2008-09-11T19:42:00.000-07:00

There's no rain yet, but I thought I'd "stop by" the grocery store to pick up some beer. It was as busy as Sunday afternoon--at least, as the one time I went on Sunday afternoon, and then decided I'd never do that again.

So, I park all the way at the end of one of the rows near the side entrance. What the hell! I never have to park this far away. No matter, walking is good for me, and I'm not going to complain. I make it into the grocery store, and blink at the vast number of people who are there. Goddamn. I make it over to the beer section, browse around a bit before selecting my beer, and head to the check out line.

Just a quick intermission, I hate how expensive beer has gotten since prices have been going up. Now I NEVER get anything nicer than Shiner. Nothing fantastic was on sale tonight--well, some good stuff was on sale, but only in 6 packs, and it's such a much better value to buy 12 packs. I've been drinking a lot of Shiner Black lately--anyone who's been over lately knows this--as well as the old standby, Lonestar, and wanted to mix it up a little. I'm drinking Sessions.

Anyways, I figure I'll check out the isolated little check out that's over by the produce; it rarely has more than three people in line and hooooly fuck, the line extends all the way into the sort-of "cafe" area; I can't even see the end of it. I head back to the mass check out area, and stake my spot at the end of one of the express lines.

"Gee, it's just going to be a little rain and wind!" the man behind me jokes, surveying the crowds. "Yeah, your trash might blow over, you might want to get some extra trash bags," the man in front of me shoots back, and their girlfriends exchange looks. "We came here to get sesame seeds," the girlfriend in front of me comments. "We figured as long as we were here, we might as well get other things we needed, like toilet paper!" I scope out their groceries as they lay them on the conveyor belt: sesame seeds, trail mix, provolone, and toilet paper. Interesting, but hardly hurricane supplies.

"Yeah, we were just getting the necessities," the couple behind me giggles, laying their soymilk, pudding, and Debbie cakes down behind my 12 pack. "We're ready for anything!"

"You can really tell who isn't buying stuff for the hurricane," I finally chimed in. "That kid has his skateboard and his ice cream," I said, pointing at the kid with green hair in the adjacent line. "And that person's only got air conditioner filters." I pointed at a girl.

"You guys check out the water aisle?" the guy in front of us asked. "Man, no one wanted Dasani! Everything else is gone." We laughed.

Somehow, our the guy who checked us out was still smiling. I guess there are miracles.

"Trees... tell them that we love them and that we don't want them to die."

2008-09-11T10:45:00.000-07:00

I don't like posting too many youtube's at a time because it makes everything move soo slooowly, but this is sort of overwhelmingly absurd...

Things I've been (re)listening to

2008-09-10T07:20:00.001-07:00

You are the music that you listen to?

2008-09-07T14:36:00.000-07:00

The AP ran a very interesting article yesterday, titled, "Musical Taste 'Defines' Personality." Professor Adrian North of Heriot-Watt University in Scotland has been doing work on the correlation between musical preference and personality, by giving over 36,000 an extensive survey about music, and, unsurprisingly, found that people who like the same sorts of music tend to share personality traits. The article says:

The study concluded that jazz and classical music fans are creative with good self-esteem, although the former are much more outgoing whereas the latter are shy.

Country and western fans were found to be hardworking and shy; rap fans are outgoing and indie lovers lack self-esteem and are not very gentle.

Those who like soul music can take heart as the research concluded they are creative, outgoing, gentle, at ease with themselves and have a high self-esteem.

This is very interesting--I thought the fact that indie lovers "lack self-esteem and are not very gentle." However, I think it's entirely wrong to assume that the music people listen to is what defines their personalities. One of the first, and most important, things you learn in any statistics class is that correlation is not causation. The similarity of personality traits can be occurring for a number of reasons. For example, indie rock is a genre with a fanbase prmarily of young people--which are the type of people who seem to have more issues with self-esteem. Classical music's audience tends to be older or musically educated, both two groups which also tend to have achieved a level of financial security (at least more so than young people) and it makes sense as well that they would have higher self esteem. Jazz itself is a genre that's incredibly conducive to creativity, since it often has an emphasis on improvisation.

It's incredibly interesting to see what traits are associated with what music, but it seems totally obvious that the people who compose the differing subcultures would have similar values. While the data itself is very interesting, the most intriguing part, to me at least, would be a deeper analysis into how groups gather their own identities and traits, and how they arise.

I'd write more, but I've got to get beer before kickball starts. Just some food for thought.

Okay. I know this is my third post today, but...

2008-09-06T15:23:00.000-07:00

Browing bicycling Reddit, I came across this story, which I found interesting (it's on bicycling safety). In any case, I did not notice the photo's caption, until Charles pointed it out to me:

President George W. Bush fell off his mountain bike and down a hill in May 2004.

This set me off googling for results about his bicyle fall. I stumbled upon this Washington Post article, which contained this gem:

In January 2002, Bush was on the third floor of the White House residence, watching a football playoff game between the Baltimore Ravens and Miami Dolphins when he choked on a pretzel. This caused him to faint and fall, bruising and scraping his face. Bush was accompanied only by dogs Spot and Barney.

I then found this about.com article mocking the situation, and topped it all off by finding this photo of Bush on an Israeli bicycle.

Oh man.

2008-09-06T14:48:00.000-07:00

Today I purchased one of the greatest films. Unfortunately, it's in full screen, but that's the downside of purchasing used. What is this fabulous film I'm talking about you ask?

I'm a bit hungover this morning, and just remembered running into a parked car on my bicycle.

This film is the best thing that could have happened today.

Jen reads my blog every 1-3 posts.

2008-09-06T09:39:00.000-07:00

JEN! Are you reading?

Mount Eerie is playing on Tuesday. I hope someone wants to go with me.

Okay. New hair.

2008-09-03T21:42:00.000-07:00

Hair potential.

2008-09-02T15:05:00.000-07:00

Thinking about this:

That is Alice Glass of Crystal Castles.

I'm thinking about keeping a dream journal.

2008-08-31T07:57:00.000-07:00

What say you?

This morning I dreamed that I was at a sort-of slumber party at a hotel. As we were walking in, something fell from the sky and hit the pavement a little way away. It was a human hand. This was discomforting, but I figured someone had commit suicide. Okay.

We went inside to this sort of conference room where we were hanging out. However, the room had windows and a balcony--and what looked like a section of leg was stuck through by a lamp post outside. We changed conference rooms.

In the new conference room, one of use had an encounter with a ghost, I think it was this kid Ryan that I played basketball with in middle school. She was trying to lure him to some sort of death (I've been awake fifteen minutes and I'm already losing things), but he woke up out of his trance or something. Later, the ghost lured another girl into the pool, where she drowned.

In the meantime, I went to brainstorm about why all of this was happening. There was a long history of people dying in the hotel, including a Matthew Maconaughey look alike who was there with a group of friends when terrorists or something came, and forced them all to jump over the balcony.

Anyways, I went down to the main lobby, and there was this sort of event or something going on--but more importantly, there were all these different coffee's set up. There were four or five little round tables, and each table had four different coffees on it. I wandered through them looking for a dark roast for a while... before I found the Double Chocolate Coffee, which strangely enough had a lable that looked pretty much exactly like Young's Double Chocolate Stout. Ha.

Anyways, I also made myself a cheese sandwich, which prompty fell apart and I had a large degree of difficulty carrying, since I had only napkins and no plate. I began to return to the conference room, when I ran into a fellow party-goer brainstorming in the dark, trying to connect the deaths of all those who had died so that we could understand why we were being targeted and how to solve the problem. He suggested that the only thing he could come up with was that everyone who had died was scottish.....

I woke up. It was one of those dreams where I try to fall back asleep so that I can see what ends up happening.... to no avail.

It's been a busy week.

2008-08-29T11:05:00.000-07:00

School started on Wednesday. I went to class, came home, drove car-less Charles to the grocery store, changed clothes, went to this SIMS fundraiser for over three hours, went to my parents' as my sister suddenly had decided to come into town, went to dinner with the family, and got home about ten absolutely exhausted. I watched about forty minutes of The Emperor's New Groove, talked to Corey, and passed out.

Yesterday, I went to class, biked home, went for coffee at Quack's and did a little work on my Fulbright App before going back to campus for another class (I now have working drafts of both my personal statement and my proposal! now that they're due on Wednesday, ha). Went back to my place, went to Flips and did more work on my Fulrights, went back to my parents' for dinner and to shower (I'm hoping my tub drip gets fixed today so I can turn my hot water heater back on), took out the trash and found my internet bill (which I still need to pay), then actually relaxed for a little while, playing some Tony Hawk, before Corey came over (and we swtiched to SSX Tricky). Then we headed down to the Saloon to meet up with Kacy and Andy, and Eliot and Liz, and it turned out that I ran into James who I used to work with, who happened to know Andy, and of course the enitre reason for out late-night Thursday meet-up when Andy had class early and I had class early the next day was that THE LOVELY JEN IS BACK IN TOWN! Woooo. My life is already back to feeling more complete. I came home and passed out.

So, today I woke up went to class, came over to Quack's to drop off the kick ball flyer and get some coffee, finished setting up the Fulbright website for my recommendations, and now I'm about to head home to recharge my phone a bit before heading back to campus for this meeting I've got at 2. After that, I'm going to head home and meet up with Angelo and co. to play some pick up soccer, then probably stop by my parents--with Fidel, so he and my sister can meet and be all Ivy League chum-chum-chummy together, before hopefully watching Mad Men disk 3 and eating pizza, or something. If my shower's fixed, I'll even get to shower in my apartment... but I'm not getting my hopes up.

Anyways, it's good to be busy.

My family: More Converative than God.

2008-08-27T06:51:00.000-07:00

[Coming home from dinner, we drive past a girl walking in our neighborhood with pink hair.]

Cousin-in-law: I think that girl should go dye her hair a better color.
Me: I think people should be able to do whatever they want with their hair.
CIL: If God didn't want my hair this color, he wouldn't have given it to me.
Me: If God didn't want you to dye your hair, he wouldn't have given you the ability to do so.

Why the FUCK does a person's hair color even matter?

A good day!

2008-08-25T08:40:00.000-07:00

Once again, yesterday was a fabulous day. I awoke on Darlene's couch, as Jimi was getting ready to leave to go... somewhere? Lounged around for a little while longer--cleaned a bit of my ridiculously smeared make up from the night before off my face, and then headed home. Ambitiously, I got my stuff and headed to Quack's to get some work done, but after browsing listlessly online for about an hour and a half, I realized that was the farthest thing from anything I wanted to do. I needed to do work, I should do work--Fullbright app's are due on Monday!!! but... it was beautiful outside... I looked out the window. Well. Fuck it. I wasn't going to do any work, and my day was going to be amazing.

I rode home (on Dolly), where I locked her up and loaded Eileen onto my new trunk bike rack (best gift ever), then headed to my parents. I hadn't been riding her at all since the seat was waaay too low, and the way that the reflector was attached made it impossible to undo the nut with my cheap little wrench. I knew I needed a ratchet for the job, and I was feeling inspired since Corey had moved my back wheel back a little bit to make my chain fit better. And hell, I might as well shower while I'm at my parents', since my tub is still dripping hot water, so my hot water heater is still off.

I get home, and neither of my parents are home. It's about 12:30, so they would normally be home from church by now. I figure they went out to lunch by now. My dad has the same sort of boundary issues that I do--he doesn't care if people use his things, he just wants them to ask first (and put them back when they're done), so I hung out for a while to see if they'd make it back, watched about half an hour of Jezebel on TCM, then decided fuck it, if my dad got mad, I'd deal with his wrath.

Well, I found a ratchet set and got to work... the 1/2 inch head fit the nut perfectly... but the ratchet was turning in the wrong direction. Well, I didn't know how the fuck to make it change directions, so I went back into the garage and found another ratchet set. This one was going in the right direction... but the 1/2 inch head was too small, and the 9/16 inch head too big. Well, fuck. And the heads of the two different ratchets were incompatible. Lucky for me, after delving back into the depths of the garage, I was about to find a third ratchet set. This one was going the right direction, and the 1/2 inch head fit the nut. Everything was perfect. I unscrewed the seat, took off the God awful reflector, raised the seat, and took a little spin around driveway.

Well, I also wanted to tilt the seat further down, and this required the use of a regular wrench. Fortunately, in my excessive ratchet searches, I'd located my dad's wrench collection, and I dove into it with gusto, looking for the 1/2 inch wrench. It wasn't there. Well, I thought I'd try the 9/16... too big. 7/16... too small. Fuck. After some more frenetic searching (you know, ten minutes or so), I locate the 1/2 inch wrench... in a box of screwdrivers. So I try it on the nut... too small. Well, fuck. I figured I'd move onto metric. 11 mm was too small... I found a 14 mm... too big. I began to pull out each wrench, one at a time, hoping for a 12 mm or 13mm... and found a 13, which was right on the money. I adjusted the seat, resecured it, and took her for another spin. Perfect... except the tires needed air. Pumped 'em up, and I was ready to ride her anywhere (in spite of the rear brake not working). All in all, it only took about an hour to raise and adjust my seat. Ha.

anyways, I took my shower, drove home, and decided to go for a ride... and ride I did, for about two and a half hours. I took Eileen all the way down to Barton Springs, then rode over and back across the river at First street, down 2nd, over to... Trinity, I think; took Trinity to 13th, and rode around the capital for a while, before heading down the other side of 13th back to Nueces, rode back up to 27th, skipped two blocks West and rode Rio Grande to 3oth, down that wide road that runs through back there, coming out on 34th; crossed back over Guadalupe, to Speedway, the rode up and around in Hyde Park, evenutally up past North Loop and all the way to Koenig before winding back down North Loop, past the IM fields, and then home. It was a really nice ride... and I was pretty tired at the end. I probably would have kept riding if it hadn't gotten dark. Nicely, the only thing sore today is my shoulders, which is kind of weird.

Anyways, I rented movies--Disk 2 of Mad Men was finally in, so Fidel came over to watch Eps 4 and 5 (we still have 6!), as well The Front Page. I've been going through an extended Billy Wilder phase--which originally started when I saw The Lost Weekend in all it's alcoholic glory--and I'm fearing that it's going to turn into a full-blown Jack Lemmon phase. He's just so charming. I watched Avanti! last week, and I aboslutely loved it. The Wilder/Lemmon/Italy combination just pushed all my "happy" buttons, or something, but I've been generally happy of late anyways, so I'm not sure what correlation there really is.

Anyways, today has more promise, as I'm going to swim and grill with Corey, and because I'm supposed to be getting my tub drip fixed, and a keyless deadbolt installed on my door. Thanks, Landlord. You're a pal.

At Quack's.

2008-08-23T07:05:00.000-07:00

The dude sitting near me has holes in the ass of his pants, and has no undies.

Words with Leah

2008-08-22T09:24:00.000-07:00

Yesterday at the Springs Leah and I were joking about dating boys in horrible bands--like the kid David I dated while in high school (although I still have his band's t-shirt). In any case, I started it off: "Yeah, if your band was any good, I would have kept going to your shows after we broke up."
"If your band was any good, I would have bought the CD," she countered.
"If your band was any good, you would have given me the CD."
"If your band was any good--"
I cut her off. "...You wouldn't be dating me."

It's healthy to laugh at yourself.

No fun.

2008-08-20T08:24:00.000-07:00

I snapped this this morning outside Trianon. I'm not sure why they're worried about bicycle riding, since there isn't a bike rack anywhere in the shopping center, and it's pretty much got a plain, flat parking lot (with lots of cars) so there's no reason to BMX around. I've seen kids skating a couple times, but they're just practicing ollies and other things like that, and I don't think anyone's rollerbladed in the last ten years--and roller skating? Cooter riding, on the other hand...

Moments I feel stupid

2008-08-19T08:46:00.000-07:00

In a t-shirt mood this morning, I thought about it and finally pulled my Interpol shirt out of my drawer, put it on (I would have just worn the shirt I wore last night, but one of the girls who works at the coffee shop I was going to has the same shirt and that would just be awkward). I grabbed my "new" hoodie that Andrei and Andrew found cleaning their house before the party, just in case it started raining, which is totally bad ass--except that it's a Rilo Kiley hoodie. I went into the living room to grab my tote bag... and realized my stuff was in my Flaming Lips bag. This was too much. I moved it into my messenger bag, showed up at Quack's, and pulled out my computer... oh yeah, it has band stickers on it.

I'm such a tool

sockhop/cake/birthday/dayafter/birthdayparty

2008-08-18T09:02:00.000-07:00

Birthday.

2008-08-17T11:32:00.000-07:00

Well, Birthday 2008 is finally over, and I am 22. I feels about the same, except suddenly I am falling asleep around 12, 1 a.m. and waking around 9. I am apparently aged ten years in one week. It is a terrible feeling.

My birthday itself was way fun. Well, actually, it started a little bit awkwardly.

I woke up and went to look at this Mixte frame bike--it wasn't a great bike, but it was only $125, and I don't have a Mixte, so I thought it would be fun, but I had to make sure my mom would buy it for as a gift since I didn't (and don't) have an extra $125 at the moment. But I thought it would be awesome to have two road bikes to fix up (Eileen could use a friend,you know). Eileen is a poorly converted ten speed to single speed, which essentially means they simply removed the gear shifts and derailler--and this Mixte frame was pretty much exactly the same thing. For a moment, I had dreams of having a ten speed AND a single speed AND a cruiser.

Anyways, I met up with my mom and brother for brunch at Magnolia Café where we had an incredibly friendly water boy. By incredibly frienly, I mean he introduced himself to me, wished me happy birthday, and kept my coffee cup full to the brim (I was nearly shaking from caffiene by the end of the mean), saying, "Here you go, Teeney," everytime he refilled it. After we introduced ourselves, he said, "Well, how old are you turning? 22? Well, maybe we can do something to celebrate later." WTF? What am I supposed to say? I'm with my MOM for fuck's sake. I mumbled some reply that didn't blurt out the fact that I was going to get drunk to celebrate (hey, someone has to protect my mom from the truth). Anyways, the entire meal, anytime he can catch my eye, he gives me this giant smile, and then, at one point, he WINKED at me. What?! I've NEVER been winked at in any form of seriousness before. It was weird. Then, he brought me a complimentary cup of hot cocoa (I guess since I was drinking hot coffee, he figured I didn't mind hot drinks when it's 100° outside). He kept this ridiculous level of "flirt" up the entire time. But really, that kind of flirting will never work on me for a number of reasons:

1.) You know it's my birthday, and for all I know, you're humoring to make sure I have some flattering story to tell on my big day.

2.) You could do this to any girl who comes in, for all I know. It's not hard, and as some one who's done my share of waiting tables, I know it can significantly increase tips. Hell, I flirted with any guy (without a girl) who sat in my section. It makes more money.

3.) My mom is right there. RIGHT THERE. If you something along the lines of "Maybe we can do something to celebrate later," in front of my mom when I don't even know you, what are you going to say in front of her once we've gotten all chummy? I don't even want to know.

Anyways, after this, my mom called the girl about the Mixte frame, and she'd sold it. Damn, oh well--wait, she realized she needed birthday presents for me, so we went shopping. The present I've drooled over the most since getting it is the She & Him album on vinyl. That format just really suits the album, and the album is so good, and I've really just playing it over and over again. It's wonderful.

Anyways, after shopping, I came by work, where I was supposed to meet up with Kacy for a quick birthday drink, or whatever. I came into the store, and there was no one there, and for a second, I was completely puzzled. Suddenly, everyone who works downstairs jumped out from behind the counter, shouting "Happy Birthday!" It was awesome, and caught me totally off guard. Then, they presented me with a cake and gifts. The cake was by Kacy's boyfriend who is a pastry chef, and was mightily delicious, and the gift was a pair of Ornamental Things earrings I'd been ogling for a while, and new replacement streamers for Dolly, since Kacy had broke my last pair. I was all smiles, and almost cried. Aw. Thanks, guys. :)

Looking at the clock, I realized I was running behind schedule, and was suddenly terrified I'd be late for my makeup appointment. I rushed home, showered, threw on my black B. B. Dakota dress, and drove to my appointment as quickly as possible. I arrived right on time, and sat foto get beautified. I needed new make up, and the plan was to go ahead and get the makeup as a gift, and get my free makeover. It was awesome. I looked fucking hot.

Ran home, did my hair, and collected the fam and Fidel for dinner at Manuel's, which was fucking delicious. They even gave me free flan. I almost died. Back home for cake and presents, before heading out to Trudy's for my free Mexican Martini, where I met up with Fidel, Adrien, Emily, Erin, Andrei, Corey, and his brother Dustin. We had some drinks, I was feeling good, and we transitioned over to Barfly's, Erin giving me a ride on her adorable scooter.

Unfortunately, this is where the night sort of fell apart. I ran into a girl I know, Jessica, at the bar, and mentioned it was my birthday. She told the bartender, and before I knew it, I had a full glass--not a shot--of Jameson standing in front of me. I'd had too many drinks to say no, even though I knew it was probably a bad idea... and I drank it down. My immediate thought was, that was probably a bad idea. Next thing I know, Fidel's driving me home, and I'm vomming out the window, all over my arm, then I woke up in my bed in a t shirt and undies. Fidel was sleeping on my loveseat (Really?! The loveseat?). I was still wasted, and wonderfully enough, managed to rehydrate before sobering up. Aside from the vomming, it was a birthday of win.

I came back out to flips for some much needed coffee, and chatted with Esther, before driving over to my parents' to do whatever it was that needed doing there. Corey, with whom I'd made informal plans to go canoeing with the night before, called. "Hey... I was just calling to see if you were still wanting to canoe today." "Uh... I'm not sure I can do any canoeing." Turns out, he was in the exact same boat that I was (Hahaha!!!! I'm hilarious), and we decided, instead, to go to freeswim at Barton Springs instead.

He picked me up at 8:30, presenting me with a Stevie Wonders - Greatest Hits LP (fuck yeah!), and we swam. I resisted his efforts to get me to go off the diving board, and he resisted the urge to run in the sprinkler that was set up. We stopped back by flips (apparently, this is where I spend all my time these last few days before the semester starts), had some beers (I was surprised that I was able to drink so soon after my vomtastic night), and then he took me home. It was a lovely, low key night.

That was the birthday celebrations. Too much fun. :)

Last night was Andrei and mine's joint birthday party. It was good and low key, but I got super tired around 1. I escaped to the front porch for some quiet... and promptly fell asleep on the porch couch, waking up (and pretending I'd been awake) when Bryan came outside. I figured it was time to go home if I was falling asleep, and left my own party around 1:30, went home, and fell dead asleep.

And that was the official end of things.

But Andrei's birthday is Monday, and who knows what will happen?

Stay tuned for an exciting photo update tomorrow!

Welcome to the neighborhood

2008-08-15T20:07:00.001-07:00

Well, apparently one of Andy's ex-girlfriends just moved into my neighborhood. Always the nice guy, he was quick to tell her about the previously mentioned violent sexual assault that happened on my street. Luckily for her, her car was broken into the next day (in the middle of the day), and then she read Leah's column about the crime inHyde Park, and about "her friend getting knocks on her door in the middle of the night" (Andy's words; I'm the friend). Anyways, she's apparently too scared to stay in her new apt. now, and is staying at her parents'.

The real kicker is this: She moved to Hyde Park from West Campus--which has one of the highest crime rates in the city. Ha.

n00bs.