The Trumpet Player

Outside my apartment, but somewhere just out of view from my windows when I peer between the blinds, someone is playing a trumpet. This person does not know how to play a trumpet. At least, this person does not know how to play a trumpet well. Every other a minute, after a few (semi) successful notes, I hear those sharp, painful squeaks one might associate with sounds coming from a middle school band practice room.

With each new squeak, Mufasa, my cat, jerks her head around wildly. At first I was trying to drown out this noise with music, but now I’ve put it on pause, indefinitely.

The trumpet player has started to shout, or laugh, after each screw-up. At first I was confused: Am I imagining all this? Are the neighbor kids playing a prank? (I guess now that I’m 30, I legitimately have thoughts that include “the neighbor kids”?)

After one of the most offensive of the squeaks thus far, someone clapped. A dog barked—yipped, rather. Another squeak.

But then. Then! Back to the playing.

It’s been about 20 minutes. The squeaks are not as constant. Below the dim of traffic passing on California Avenue, I can hear it. The playing continues. It’s fainter, now, but steady. Every so often, there’s another squeak. Another shout. The playing goes on.

---

When I was about 8 years old, my mother bought a used piano. She had taken lessons as a child, but she decided she wanted to practice again. Whether this urge was driven by her purchase of the piano, or vice versa, I’m not sure. Regardless, she was going to take lessons, and as such, so would my brother Jay and me.

While my talent for the piano never went much past repeated one-handed playings of the Tarantella, or my other favorite, songs from The Little Mermaid book, my mother continued to practice. Our miniature poodle Tinker was not a fan of her playing. In particular, the dog was less than fond of her repeated attempts at learning to play Für Elise on Saturday afternoons.

From my bedroom, a short hallway away, I’d often be reading a book when Mom would take up her playing. She wasn’t bad, really; she just reached a point in the song where she’d miss her key, and then Tinker’s whine would get louder. She’d stop, yell at the dog, then start over. With each new beginning, she’d play the start with renewed confidence. You could hear it. I’d perk up a bit as I’d rest my book in my lap, listening. And then, the fumble. The dog whining. This would continue, until finally I’d hear her close the piano and open the front door to let “the damn dog out.”

Those opening notes of Für Elise have been burned on my brain since childhood. I can even picture her sitting at the piano, her posture perfect, just as it was whenever she sat at the computer.

She never did master the song. But better still, the memory of her perfect posture; the intensity with each fresh start; even her annoyance at the poor dog.

---

It’s quiet, now. The cars pass by on California Avenue. Mufasa is asleep, next to me, her head resting on my knee.

The trumpet player has retired for the evening.

But Today, We Got to 30

Winter on California Avenue

To say this has been a rough winter is to grossly underestimate. The Chicago Tribune ranks it as #13 on a list of lowest temperature seasons in Chicago. Considering this list includes winters as far back as 1886, I think it gives us ample cause to say: It’s been really fucking cold.

One afternoon in January while I was working from home, my furnace started to crap out. As I waited for my landlord to show up, I shivered in front of my space heater, wearing a scarf, fingerless gloves, and a blanket wrapped around my shoulders. I felt so ridiculous I wanted to laugh, but I was too cold to laugh. I thought of Laura Ingalls Wilder and The Long Winter and told myself it wasn’t so bad. After all, it’s not like the snow was making my eyeballs bleed; I hadn’t been house-bound for months, I had just been sitting in my until-then warm-ass apartment watching Bob’s Burgers with a cat on my lap. Things weren’t really all that bad.

Yet I still keep finding much to complain about, if only in my thoughts, to myself. Like the evening the 66 bus was delayed and I waited for 20 minutes at the bus stop, the cold shooting needles of pain through my toes and fingers. Or how every time I’ve had to do laundry since before Christmas, I fear my death from the climb up and down to the basement on the steep ice- and snow-covered stairs. Or the mornings the thought of putting on all those layers, yet again, and stepping outside to start my commute made me feel so despondent that I stayed in bed for a full extra hour than I should have.

I try not to complain, because again, it’s really not that bad, right? I have heat and a home and all those layers to keep putting on, morning after morning. I have enough hot tea to last for months. And I can almost always afford to add one more bottle of wine to the shopping cart (it helps when it’s $3 Winking Owl from Aldi). Last week, leaving the bar with a friend, we got in a snowball fight. One snowball smacked me in the ear, and slid down my neck below my scarf, but I was so flushed from laughing that the cold felt good. Yeah, it’s not all that bad.

Today, the temperature made it all the way to 30 degrees. I forgot my hat, and I was okay! It was utter madness. I missed my first bus leaving work, but in the four-and-a-half minutes waiting for the next one, at no point did I feel murderous from the cold. I came home, and made enough pasta to feed myself for the rest of February. I had to do laundry again. My steps are still so covered in snow and a thin sheet of ice that I probably should have just luged down to the basement. But I made it down, one small step after another; and up, one hesitant step after another.

As I walked back up the steps the last time, clutching my laundry basket, the neighbor’s dog jumped at the fence, barking at me like always. I almost lost my balance, but I didn’t fall. Beau, the dog, continued to bark.

I grinned back at him. After all, my bathroom is inside. And so is my wine. Ha, ha, I win this round, Beau.

Every day I don’t fall down in this ice and snow and slush and shit is like a gift. And the bus always shows up eventually.

Today, we made it to 30. Spring awaits. We can do this.

Monday Mix Tapes: Spend Your Snow Day with Sharon, Stephen, & SITA

Happy 2014, geeks!

It's really fucking cold outside!

Today in Chicago, it's record-breaking cold. We're talking wind chills of minus 50 degrees, here. In other words, it's the perfect time to wrap up in three different blankets, a scarf, and write while wearing fingerless gloves!

There are so many great things happening out in the world of music while I huddle with my Macbook in front of my space heater. First up, the much-anticipated arrival of Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings' new album, aptly titled Give the People What They Want. (You can stream the full album on NPR.)

"Retreat" (and its delightful, animated video) almost makes me forget that I'm currently living in the Arctic. This was recorded before her cancer diagnosis and battle, but I still take it as further proof that Sharon Jones will kick anything's ass. She is the boss.



Next on my list is Stephen Malkmus & The Jicks, largely because I'm geeking out over their upcoming album's name (Wig Out at Jagbags) and this video for "Lariat" accompanied by the lyrics, in French. (Also, to the girl applying eyeliner and the dude reading in the tub, je vous aime tous les deux.) You'll have a crush on the star of this video by approximately 34 seconds in, too. I promise.

"Tu n'est pas ce que tu n'est pas."




I can't stop listening to this next one from James Vincent McMorrow, either. Maybe it's just how high and perfect his voice gets when he sings, "I remember my first love." I can't wait to hear what else he's bringing on his new album Post-Tropical.





I found this next gem over at Disco Naïveté. Brace yourself. This girl can sing. Here, she's doing a cover of James Arthur's "You're Nobody Till Somebody Loves You," and I can't wait to hear an original. Holy shit:



What's on your music radar this January? Tell me everything.

Monday Mix Tapes: You Wear Smug So Very Well

My brother sent me “Logan’s Loop” by Andrew Bird this past weekend. And as I sat in my Logan Square apartment listening, having only moments before, actually driven around the circle in Logan Square, I was so utterly delighted I clapped my hands with joy. And then listened to it five more times.

It’s his song, “Pulaski at Night,” though, that I want to share here. As with “Logan’s Loop”—and most Andrew Bird songs—again, the word that comes to me as I listen is delight.

“Greetings from Chicago / City of / City of love”:



Spotify really is a wonderful thing. Along with the delights from Andrew Bird that my brother shared, today, my friend Brad sent me this song by Poliça. His message with it was “All the feelings.”

As usual, Bradley, you are correct. I actually didn’t really pay any attention to the lyrics on my first five listens or so (because yes, I’ve listened to this at least 10 times today). But I’m paying attention now, and damn:

You’re pushing me away and then you’re pulling
You wear smug so very well
If you were in love with me I could never tell

It’s time for you to go
But I’ve glued my feet to your floor
It’s time for you to leave
But I’ve wrapped my hand around your leash
It’s really quite confusing

Speaking of all the feelings, like most of America, I saw "The Hunger Games: Catching Fire" this weekend. So let’s listen to a song from the soundtrack! Here’s Sia being fucking rad like always, with a little help from The Weeknd and Diplo.




Happy almost-Thanksgiving!

Let the Breeze In

[image via herpaperweight]

After last week's Chicago heatwave—and spending much of that directly in the sun while attending all three days of Pitchfork—today's almost-cool breeziness has been so refreshing. And that's not to say that I've been wandering around, enjoying the weather all day. I actually spent my day waiting on a technician from AT&T to show up (who finally arrived 40 minutes past my 4-hour service window)—and then waiting another three and a half hours for him to fix the lines that would give me my Internet back. 

But my windows are all open, and from the second floor of my apartment, the breeze has been blowing in since I woke up this morning. While I waited for my Internet to return, I read Vogue and Vanity Fair. I painted my toenails. I folded my laundry and poured extra cream in my coffee. I tried a new circuit workout. I wrote a letter to my grandmother. Life without the Interwebs wasn't so bad after all, I figured. Aside from the increasing anxiety that I was never going to get work done for the day. 

Once the lights on my modem finally flashed from red to green, I started frantically catching up on work for the day. But then I decided to calm down. I'd get it done. I poured myself a glass of wine and listened to Camera Obscura and Daft Punk while I wrote. 

I got it done. 

And I feel just like this picture. 

How Much Was Mine to Keep?

"And I asked myself about the present: how wide it was, how deep it was, how much was mine to keep." ― Kurt Vonnegut

Last week, the editor-in-chief at my job called all of us in for an announcement. As I walked toward the cafeteria with my friend Logan, we joked that this was it. They must be announcing layoffs. I lined up against the wall with a pit in my stomach as I looked at the managers, and waited for them to start talking. I told myself I was being negative, but from the looks on everyone’s faces, I knew it had to be grim.

What we learned that morning was far worse than that. My coworker, 26-year-old Bobby Cann, had been killed the previous evening riding his bicycle home from work. As others cried—some quietly, some loudly and openly—I felt like I was folding into myself as I bit the inside of my cheek and forced myself not to do the same. As we all walked out of the cafeteria, the collective stunned silence was unbearable. People who had walked in late had bewildered looks on their faces. “What is it?” they asked.

I tried to answer, but could barely get the words out, the tears coming as soon as I spoke.

"Were you close with him?" someone asked, and I shook my head no.

[Memorial for Bobby, via here]

When I got back to my desk I felt sick. Someone—an oblivious coworker, I could only hope—was laughing. Everything just kept going on. But yet it didn’t. Everything felt off.

Meetings were canceled. Emails were sent. But there were still things to write, things to do. We all just kept going on.

Finally, work was over for the day. I got on the bus, surrounded by so many others, just trying to get home from work like I was. Just like Bobby had been the evening before. I felt deeply sad. Because I did not know Bobby well—no more than smiling at him as we passed each other in the hallway, or making small talk in the office kitchen—I doubted my own feelings. Why did I feel so angry? So sad? So sick about the whole thing?

As soon as I got home, I flopped on my bed and stared at the ceiling. I stared at the ceiling until I couldn’t bear it any longer, and then I grabbed my yoga mat and unrolled it. To be able to concentrate on breathing, exhales and inhales, felt like such a gift. Once it was over, I laid motionless on the mat, sweating and breathing heavily. I didn’t realize I had been crying until I stood up, several minutes later.

Finally, I allowed myself to feel all of the emotions of the day. A young man had been killed by a drunk driver, and it was tragic. I might not have known him well, but many did. So I felt sorrow for his family and friends. I felt pissed off at the drunk driver, another person close to my age who, with one horribly stupid and selfish mistake, had stolen a life and in turn ruined his own.

I felt glad to be alive. I felt selfish at the thought. I felt.

I felt.

In honor and memory of Bobby Cann, Groupon is running a campaign with Active Transportation Alliance to raise funds for more protected bike lanes in the city.

The Pedway

Underneath downtown Chicago, there’s a system of tunnels that stretches across roughly five miles of the city. This is the Pedway, where tens of thousands of people walk each day, to and from the office to the train and back again, maybe stopping in Macy’s or at Au Bon Pain before getting on the Red line or the Metra, or before walking up to earth, where the city is alive above.

Until I worked in downtown Chicago, I was completely unaware that this underground world existed. On any given day, I can get off the train and stay underground, winding through this system of tunnels, all the way until I get to my office building. From there, it’s only an escalator ride up and a quick glimpse out the windows to see the real world before I take the elevator to my office floor.

Usually, even when the weather is at its worst—and in downtown Chicago, worst really can and does mean exactly that—I hate taking the Pedway the entire route to or from the office. I feel like a rat in a maze, following the herds of people bundled up in their winter coats, a dull mix of fur-lined hoods in greys, blacks, and browns. (When did we all receive the memo to be drab and colorless in the winter?) We all take our turns through one revolving door after another, until we make it to our train station or the steps leading up, and out.

***

It’s Sunday, which means I’m not downtown and don’t have to worry about my commute. I’ve been cooped up in my apartment all weekend, sick. Today, finally, I felt better, and was eager to get out of my apartment, and back to the real world. I was antsy to get outside, even though the view from my window was gray and bleak: snow turning to freezing rain, and barely any one walking down the street.

So I ventured outdoors for the first time in two and a half days, carrying my garbage and walking sideways, slowly, down my back steps, afraid I was going to fall. I made it to the last step, and then, walking around the corner on the sidewalk, promptly fell flat on my butt in a patch of ice. The garbage bag fell out of my hands and I cursed to myself, looking around to see if anyone had seen. There was no one around. I tried to get up and slipped, again. As I clutched the neighbor’s fence and pulled myself up, I still felt embarrassed, even though I was positive no one had seen me fall.

A minute later, as I was scraping the snow and sleet off my car, a couple walked by, bundled up and clinging to each other, maybe for warmth, maybe for balance, maybe for comfort. It was probably all of those things.

***

In the Pedway, it seems, everyone is alone. And maybe that’s why it depresses me to walk along with the masses down there: We’re right there, in Chicago, but yet we’re not. It’s a means to an end. We’re underneath it all.

Last Thursday, leaving work, I reached the point in my Pedway walk where I have a choice: I could go one more level down, and take the Pedway all the way to the Blue line (as I had done that morning). Or, I could head outside to Michigan and Lake, and deal with the cold the rest of the walk. I paused, only for a second, and headed to the revolving doors leading outside.

I didn’t have anyone’s arm to cling to, and it’s much more likely I could fall in a slick patch on the sidewalk. But outside, the city was still lit up and beautiful as ever. I played a new song on my iTunes and turned it up, loud.

It was cold, but it didn’t feel bleak. I was right there.

***

By tomorrow, this mix of sleet and freezing rain will turn all the sidewalks into a giant skating rink. It’s likely I might fall down again. I might have to take the Pedway all the way from the train to the office. I’ll be wearing a fur-lined hooded coat and boots like the rest of the masses. It might seem a little bleak. I might feel a little alone, surrounded by strangers doing the exact same thing.

But that’s okay. Above us, the city waits.

Can You Spare a Quarter?

I do not wish to squawk about being hit financially any more than I would squawk about being hit physically. I need money, badly, but not badly enough to do one dishonorable, shady, borderline, or 'fast' thing to get it. I hope this is quite clear. —Ernest Hemingway, in a letter to Alfred Rice, 1948 (Selected Letters, p. 655)

Last Saturday I was walking to the train, thinking, like I often do, about how much money I had in my checking account. I was waiting for $100 to come in for a freelance job I'd been working on, and doing quick math in my head about how much spending money I'd have until next pay day if that didn't come through beforehand.

I was feeling a little sorry for myself.

I shoved my hands deeper into my coat pockets and looked ahead down the block. There he was, the same guy I'd been seeing recently outside the California stop. I was far enough away that I couldn't hear, but could see, what was going on—two people walked past him, as he leaned forward, sticking his hand out slightly. They walked faster, without looking at him. As I got closer, I saw him notice me.

I could feel change in my pocket as I got closer to the man, and the train. I saw the dirt on his face. He looked at me: "Could you spare 75 cents for the bus?"

I only had a quarter in my pocket. A quarter, and a penny. I put the penny back in my pocket, because it felt like an insult, somehow, to give this man a quarter and a stupid penny. What would he do with a penny?

"I have a quarter," I said, and handed it to him, feeling guilty. He saw me put the penny back in my pocket.

I walked through the doors at the train stop, pulled out my CTA card, and got the green message to enter. As I walked up the stairs to the train, I remembered seeing that same man digging through the trash can last week. Maybe he could have used the penny after all.

Once the train arrived, I got a seat and looked out the window, feeling ashamed of myself. Before the train even made it to the Western stop, a man walked through the doors from the car ahead. I kept looking out the window and waited for it.

"Ma'am, could you spare a quarter?"

I looked away from the window, and up at him.

"I'm sorry, I can't."

I could, but I couldn't, because I had a paycheck coming soon, but all I had left in my pocket was a penny.

Poetry Slam Tuesdays: Fierce as a Dog

CHICAGO
By Carl Sandburg

Hog Butcher for the World,
Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat,
Player with Railroads and the Nation's Freight Handler;
Stormy, husky, brawling,
City of the Big Shoulders:

They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I
have seen your painted women under the gas lamps
luring the farm boys.
And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: Yes, it
is true I have seen the gunman kill and go free to
kill again.
And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On the
faces of women and children I have seen the marks
of wanton hunger.
And having answered so I turn once more to those who
sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer
and say to them:
Come and show me another city with lifted head singing
so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.
Flinging magnetic curses amid the toil of piling job on
job, here is a tall bold slugger set vivid against the
little soft cities;

Fierce as a dog with tongue lapping for action, cunning
as a savage pitted against the wilderness,

Bareheaded,

Shoveling,

Wrecking,

Planning,

Building, breaking, rebuilding,
Under the smoke, dust all over his mouth, laughing with
white teeth,
Under the terrible burden of destiny laughing as a young
man laughs,
Laughing even as an ignorant fighter laughs who has
never lost a battle,
Bragging and laughing that under his wrist is the pulse.
and under his ribs the heart of the people,
Laughing!
Laughing the stormy, husky, brawling laughter of
Youth, half-naked, sweating, proud to be Hog
Butcher, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with
Railroads and Freight Handler to the Nation.

One Week in Rome

The week we were in Rome, each morning we walked up to the hotel's rooftop deck, where we sat and ate croissants. I drank a cappuccino each morning and E drank orange juice. The sun beat down, hot, but I didn’t mind at all.

Afterward, we’d circle down the steps, and head out to the street.

Everything was ahead of us.

I don't remember the name of the hotel. But I remember that rooftop, and swirling my sugar into my foamy cappuccino each morning, and the way crumbs from the croissants flaked all over the table.

I’d look over E’s shoulder, and at the city, and think, Remember this.

The most wonderful part of it all is that I do.

I thought about this today as I stared out the window during a work department meeting. I could barely hear anything that was being said; I wanted nothing more than to be far away. I thought about this one week in Rome, now six years ago, and how so often, the things we expect to happen, that we might even plan to happen, don’t.

Today, instead of looking at Rome from the top of a hotel whose name I don’t remember, I looked out at the Chicago River, Navy Pier, and the shadows each beautiful building cast over the next. From the 27th floor, the traffic crossing Michigan Avenue seemed to be moving in slow motion. I could see the tops of heads in the boats on the river, and people crossing the bridge. Lake Michigan stretched out in the distance. It wasn't Italy. But it was something, and suddenly I didn't mind being exactly where I was: sitting perched uncomfortably on a windowsill in a meeting where I could barely hear anything.

Six years from now, I won’t remember a word that was said in this meeting, and it won’t matter at all. But it's a safe bet I might remember looking out the window, and thinking, and day dreaming, and the way a city can be so beautiful when you really look at it.

It’s good to remember, but it’s even more wonderful to be present.

Monday Mix Tapes: Fiona! Feist! (And More!)

I'm coming off a pretty big week, music-wise. And by "pretty big" I actually mean FUCKING EPIC.

It started on Tuesday with Fiona Apple at The Chicago Theatre, and ended Friday night at Pitchfork with Leslie Feist.

There's so much to say about all the feelings I felt during the Fiona show that, for now anyway, I'm actually not going to say anything at all. (Gasp!) This doesn't nearly capture it, but here's a glimpse of some of my favorite moments at the bestconcertevvver:





As for Feist, it was a great time. My friends and I staked out spots close to the stage, while also still in great view of the Dirty Projectors, so we also caught their kickass set before Feist's. (Swing Lo Magellan! Have you heard it yet?!)

Prior to all that Feist and Dirty Projectors goodness, Willis Earl Beal blew me away with his gravelly, goddamn beautiful voice (and a lot of pelvic thrusting and mic swinging). He also took off his belt, verrry slowly, and then started beating it against the stage. Talk about a one-man show:





Meanwhile, amid all the concert-going, Frank Ocean released Channel Orange, and I've had it pretty much on repeat ever since. He performed "Bad Religion" on Jimmy Fallon recently... Frank Ocean backed by The Roots? Yes please. Check it out.

Tilt Your Head Back and Laugh

It was the best kind of Sunday in Chicago. Sunny, clear skies, and for the first time all year, warm enough to step outside without a coat.

The people-watching on Sundays in Logan Square is almost never a disappointment, but it's even better on an almost-spring day like this one. Today, on my way to the coffee shop, I watched a young couple cross the street, his arm across her shoulders, and her hand reaching up, their fingers intertwined. He leaned in and whispered something in her ear, and she tilted her head back and laughed. He grinned.

It was a tilt your head back and laugh kind of day. It was a good day to take a walk.

From the Red Line at Rush Hour

This evening as I left the office, it was still light outside. I noticed this first on Monday, with a bit of shock—the sun is shining! Holy crap. Along with the sun, it’s been so windy I feel at times during my walk that I’m actually getting carried across the street, but it’s not a cold wind, so I’ll take it. When the wind is whipping my hair all over my face, the sun is glistening off the river and the buildings, and this song is playing on my iPod, it all feels quite romantic and wonderful, my little walk to the train. That is, until I catch a glimpse of myself in a window’s reflection and see the state of my bangs. Yeesh. But, whatever: All in the sake of my love affair with the city.

It’s amazing the way a little sunlight at the end of the day changes everything—from the look of the buildings to the people walking on the streets. Although at this point in the winter I just feel fed up and long for spring with such fierceness it’s as if spring was something I experienced in another lifetime, I do love the way Chicagoans hustle up and down the streets when it’s bitterly cold and windy out—it’s like we’re all fighting the same war. And then, the sun shines again, the temperatures rise, and it’s like everyone just lost his or her virginity. We abstained all winter, and damn it, now we are getting LAID. (Yeah! The weather as a metaphor for sex! It happened. Deal with it.)

I was feeling this general warmth for my city as I crossed over to State Street and passed the news station and the beautiful Chicago Theatre. Protesters were outside, holding up signs. One woman held up a sign: “End the WAR ON WOMEN!” I beamed at her. She stared back at me, expressionless.

I was still smiling as I started bouncing down the stairs to the Red line. I must not have had Youth Lagoon playing too loudly, though, because I could hear the man hobbling down the stairs next to me muttering under his breath: “All you motherfuckers. You never fucking listen to me! I’m talking. All you motherfuckers.”

When I made it safely down the platform, I could hear a woman singing. She had quite possibly, and I swear I do not exaggerate, the most beautiful voice I have ever heard singing live. Live, from the Red line at rush hour.

I didn’t even pause my iPod. I just pulled the earbuds out and listened. I stopped directly across from her to watch as she sang. She was singing some gospel song, what, I don’t know, but she was certainly taking us all to church. Except for the fact that no one seemed to be paying attention.

For a moment, I considered digging through my bag to see if I had a couple bucks. But that didn’t seem good enough. So I just watched and listened. The woman looked back at me, and even though she had on heavy fake eyelashes, I could see her eyes smiling back at me. I grinned at her, and she kept on singing. She finished right as I could hear my train barreling through the tunnel. “Thank you,” she said, to no one in particular. I clapped. It was a sad little sound. But she smiled back at me, and I felt like she'd given me a gift—it was as good as the feeling I get on the way to work, when I say “Morning” to the man on the milk crate and he returns my greeting.

I placed my earbuds back in my ears and stepped on the train. The person in front of me started to head left toward some empty seats, then said, “Ugh!” and turned back around. One of the seats was covered in vomit. I found a vomit-free seat and pulled my book out of my bag. When I looked up a few minutes later, a woman had sat down on the seat closest to the mess. I saw her look over at it for only a second, and then without skipping a beat, went right back to writing her text.

At rush hour in Chicago, we only really see the things we want to notice.

Monday Mix Tapes: Lana Del Rey No Longer Fire of Interwebs' Loins; I Remember Other Music Still Exists

So, I was planning on talking about Lana Del Rey's SNL performance for this week's mix tapes, but then I remembered THE ENTIRE INTERNET ALREADY IS.

So nervous! So..out of breath? But pretty!

Jezebel hilariously called my GF a "Valley of the Dolls cosplayer" and rather harshly described how "she mumble-moaned her way through both performances with the dead eyes and quaalude-slacked limbs of an American Apparel model." ("That was way harsh, Tai.")

Pretty Much Amazing summed it up with: "It was… pretty painful to watch. We aren’t sure why she tries to hit odd notes that leave her too breathless to keep up with her lyrics. It just doesn’t work."

Valley of the Dolls? LANA? IS THAT YOU?

Vulture backed off my darling a bit, with a rather spot-on commentary. This is my favorite (emphasis is mine):

It didn't go too well. Granted, the sound at SNL is famously bad, and Del Rey was visibly nervous, but still — the timid falsetto, shaky jumps between registers, that lip snarl. It was not her best work. And the fact that a Lana Del Rey performance can really only consist of Lana Del Rey standing dead center, preening, does not help her cause. How many moody pirouettes can one woman do, over the course of four minutes? (Like two and a half, by our count, during "Video Games.")

Things had been quiet in LDR land — the "Born to Die" tigers and general yelling fatigue had seemed to briefly calm the waters. But with the rocky SNL performance, we've now arrived at "backlash to the backlash to the backlash" on LDR's Undulating Curve of Shifting Expectations (or does it just switch back to Overhyped? Are we in the Backlash phase of the Backlash curve?). Meanwhile, Born to Die is not due until January 30. How many more times can we cycle through this thing in two weeks? Will everyone start feeling guilty for making fun of an obviously terrified 25-year-old on her first live TV performance? Or will the non-Internet-faithful, who just met Lana on Saturday, shame the rest of us for ever caring in the first place? Will Lana Del Rey run for president? Really, anything could happen at this point.

And who would have thought that BRIAN WILLIAMS would be such a hater? HA! (Also, why haven't I ever brought my love of Brian Williams to the attention of the Interwebs? Cause he's awesome.)

I guess now should be the time where I follow up with videos of the SNL performances, but I can't and I won't, dammit. Go watch it EVERYWHERE ELSE ON THE INTERNET. And then watch this performance instead:



So her stage presence isn't the greatest here either. What is the greatest is that dress. And when she sings "let me fuck you hard in the pouring rain (you like your girls insane)" — now, can we all take a time out from LDR now? I'm worn out.

Therefore, in other music news:

When I wasn't annoyed that the Interwebs was exploding over my sweetie pie's SNL performance, I was getting increasingly excited that I'll be seeing The Lemonheads this Friday night. That's right! The Lemonheads! No one I've told seems to share my excitement. Whatever.

Today also happened to be one of those days where I was smiling to myself like a lunatic during my commute to and from work, because what I was listening to seemed to match perfectly with the day, and probably more accurately, my mood. (In case you're confused, no, I did not get MLK day off from work. Major boo. I didn't realize Ron Paul was running the joint! Gross. I just mentioned RP on my blog.)

On the way in this morning, it was Charlotte Gainsbourg. The sun was shining brightly enough to start melting the snow, and the water was coming down from the El tracks, on to the street, as I walked on Lake Street toward the office. Listening to this:



After work, the streets still seemed more deserted than usual, and the air felt oddly warm and slightly eerie as I stepped out the door. While I waited to cross the street, I put on Four Tet. "Love Cry" carried me nearly the entire walk to the train, and the repetitive beat turned hypnotic as I walked along, noticing how the street lamps bounced off the water glistening on the near-empty sidewalks. To be a total geek, I'll just say my mundane daily walk felt kinda magical due to the combination of all of it. That's right: kinda magical.



Well, that's it, guys. I promise not to talk about LDR for at least a week now. Off to the races...

It Was, And Is, Indian Summer.

At this time last year, I had just moved back to Chicago. Everything was different then. Everything is the same. I am different now. I am the same.

It was beautiful Indian summer weather that week, just as it's been this week in Chicago. The Sunday afternoon after we had moved in, I sat on the back deck and wrote for hours. And since everything is the same, but completely different now, I thought I'd share a poem I wrote that day.

INDIAN SUMMER

It is maybe the 10th of October. 

It is possibly my new sister-in-law's 

birthday. If it is, in fact, the 10th of October

and my memory serves me right.

I am definitely sitting on my new porch,

drinking the last Stella, with my dirty feet

propped on Patricia. My bike,

that is. I am listening to this Regina Spektor

song and wondering what to write.

It is Indian summer.

I told everyone and no one 

about my return to Chicago.

Because I am in love and terrified

of everything, it is hard to explain.

I am never quite sure what is right.

It is the most impossibly beautiful weather

you might possibly imagine in Chicago.

Nowadays I will see a friend every time 

I step out my door.

But what is there to write!

It is Indian summer.

It is now this Dirty Projectors song

I'm listening to. She sings about

geranium kisses and failure.

I'm not sure if I understand,

but it feels right.

I know I am often a difficult and 

infuriating friend. It is too 

difficult pleasing everyone all 

the time. This I write.

It is Indian summer. 

I think that it is possibly 

the 10th of October. It is definitely

a beautiful day in Logan Square,

and the planes cross the nearly

cloudless sky. This is right!

Farewell, Old Friend: My Tribute to Borders

The last two Fridays, I’ve attempted to go to Borders. Both times, I’ve walked in, walked in one, big circle, and walked right out. Each time, as I’ve stepped out the door and back onto State Street, I’ve felt vaguely guilty, like I’ve shoplifted without getting caught. (I’ve also gone to the Jamba Juice next door both times, but that’s probably irrelevant.)

Borders is closing. Large signs are everywhere:

“EVERYTHING MUST GO!” “80% Off Mysteries!” “90% Off Science Fiction!” “ENTIRE STORE UP TO 90% OFF”

At the Chicago State Street Borders, the one I’ve attempted to visit the last two Fridays, the checkout line weaved all the way to the back of the store on the first floor. Where I once navigated the tables stacked with new fiction, bestsellers, and my personal favorite, the one piled with books marked, “buy one, get the second half off,” I now was mumbling “excuse me’” and navigating around bored-looking customers clutching handfuls of books.

It was too hot in there. All the beautiful books, once in orderly, organized sections, were now in chaos. There was Manga in the African American section! MANGA! Things weren’t alphabetized! SAT guide books were in the mystery section!

I couldn’t even bear to see what was happening in the poetry section.

90% off? I’m a sucker for a book on sale, but forgetaboutit.

The thing is, I’m devastated. Bookstores (and Borders in particular, and in particular this Borders) have always been my “happy” place. Let me put it this way: You know when you see those little kids trailing behind their mom at the mall, dragging their feet and looking like someone just killed their puppy, and then all of a sudden she exclaims, “We’re going to the TOY STORE next!” and BAM! They have now just won a golden fucking ticket! They are the chosen ones! They’re going to see Willy Wonka!

Yeah. I was not one of those kids. My “toy store” was … the bookstore. It didn’t matter how long mom had made us follow her around the borrrrrrring department stores all afternoon. Nothing mattered, because we had now stepped into the happy place. The bookstore. Mom would leave me alone while I perused the magical worlds of Roald Dahl, or sometimes Sweet Valley, or the Green Gables, wherever. Usually, she’d return with her own stack of books in her hand, and if there was ever a perfect time to con her into buying something, it’d be talking her into letting me get one more book than she had originally said.

I’d take the books out of the bag immediately once we got to the car. Nothing, and I mean nothing, felt more glorious than holding a new book in my hands.

This is probably the part where you call me out on being a huge geek. That’s fine. I am a huge geek.

No One Can Get to You Here

Hey Rainbow Groupies! It's a beautiful, sunny Sunday in Chi city, and seeing as how it's Labor Day weekend, and Obama's talking to us about jobs (or the lack thereof), I thought it was a good time to take another blast from the past.

I wrote this essay a little more than a year ago, right after moving back home to my dad's house. Nothing will kill a lady's self-esteem (and bank account) like not being able to find a job, and at the time when I wrote this, I was feeling pretty damn defeated. But at the same time, I was still clutching the last strings of hope. Barely, just barely. I also laid awake at night in my childhood bedroom, heart racing, worrying that I'd still be there when I was 40.

Maybe I'm still struggling to really be a "grownup," but I made it back to Chicago, and drove a new car here. I felt like total, complete shit when I got rejected from that job (and countless others). But the thing is, if I had gotten that job, I'd never have made it back to Chicago. Who knows what might have happened?

It's tough out there. But if I can do it, YOU can do it. uggh, that was cheesy, but whatever. I meant it from the bottom of my little heart.

So! Read this essay! (After the jump.)

A Change is Gonna Come

Winters in Chicago are long, and they’re rough. By the time spring finally starts to roll around, it’s like Chicago explodes. Where the hell did all these people come from, I ask myself each year. Were they hibernating for the last five months? Even if it’s just a tease, like today, when the sun is shining and bars start opening their patios—although really it’s only 54 degrees and not warm, exactly—I feel my spirits start to lift.

The sun is shining. Warm weather is coming! Longer days and music festivals and flip flops and sundresses and vodka lemonades!

These are the kind of wild ideas that torment and tease us all until it really warms up for good. You know, in June. But there’s something about that anticipation, that wait for spring and summer, that I think makes Chicago summers feel, well, just fucking magical. Believe me, I know. Last summer was during my brief stint back in Indiana, and having to stick out a winter in Chi without the gift of summer was akin to getting grounded the week before spring break, and sitting at your grandmother’s house while all your friends went to the beach and partied without you.

I was thinking about this as I sat in my favorite coffee shop working today. The door was propped open and the sun shone bright into the doorway, the breeze blowing in almost warmly, but not quite. It felt like spring. It almost looked like spring. But across the street, the trees and plants were still bare and brown.

Sometimes it feels like winter is never going to come to an end. Every year, I have to question: Okay, when exactly will there be green leaves on the trees again? When can I finally not be bundled up every time I step out of my apartment? But then, like magic, one day I walk outside and they’ve just appeared. And suddenly, it’s spring.

It’s hard to keep faith that change is coming sometimes. Last year at this time, I was about to start packing up my apartment to move back in with my dad. I’d been waiting tables, interning, and job searching for two years, and nothing had happened. I felt like I was driving repeatedly into a brick wall, then getting out of the car, and banging my head into the wall for good measure. I felt defeated. I was broke, and knew I had to go home. While I tried to put up a brave face, and I reminded myself over and over that not all people were fortunate enough to have a parent who would invite them to move back in, rent free, at the age of 26, I still felt like a big, fat, fucking failure. The first week back in my childhood bedroom, I laid awake in bed each night, my heart racing, wondering if I’d still be sleeping there in a year. In five years? IN TEN?

One Last Song ("I'm Too Young to Feel This Old")

A friend of mine has died.

When I got the news yesterday, I was getting ready for The Black Keys/Kings of Leon concert, running a little behind because I was looking up Black Keys’ videos on YouTube. Right as I found the ideal one to post on my Facebook profile, my friend Natalie messaged me on Facebook, asking if I’d heard the news about Nicole.

I had not. Of course, this now meant she was forced to tell me the news, whatever it was, via Facebook chat.

All I could do was stare at my computer screen and think how absurd the whole thing was. Here I was, about to post a video and some stupid comment about wearing a Goonies shirt and going to the show, and this girl, Nikki, my friend, my former co-worker, was dead.

I couldn’t believe it.

I had to leave for Indianapolis. I had to fix my hair. What was there to do? Believe it or not, I couldn’t cry. So I walked away from my MacBook and tried to get ready, but I couldn’t do that, either. I wrapped a scarf around my head, and that made me feel better for a second. I texted my friend Lauren. I talked to my friend Rachel. Suddenly it all seemed real.

On the drive to Indianapolis, I blared The Black Keys and wondered why I didn’t feel like crying. But my arms were covered in goose bumps and I kept alternating between sweating and having cold chills. I rolled the windows down. I rolled the windows up. I turned up the volume.

I thought about Nikki. I hadn’t seen her in months, not since before I moved back home. We weren’t close friends. We weren’t even the kind of friends who texted or met up for coffee or anything like that. The last time I had actually hung out with her was months and months ago, when a group of girls from work all went out together.

I remember that night, a few of us stayed out later and went to another bar. We’d had too much to drink, but it was one of those nights when you don’t want the fun to end. So you stay out, even when you probably shouldn’t.

Nikki sat next to me at the bar. Out of nowhere, she kind of spilled her guts to me about something. I remember feeling a little shocked that she was telling me all this—these things, these feelings that were clearly weighing heavy on her at the time. Because, like I said, we weren’t particularly close. Mostly, we just chatted while at work together, and when I’d get off of work and ask for a beer, she’d always wink at me and say, “Stella, right?”

The Art of Timing

The other day, for what might have been the first time in my life, I ran out of shampoo and conditioner at the exact same time. After I used the last of my shampoo, I grabbed the bottle of conditioner, expecting that, like usual, I would still have at least a fourth of the bottle left.

I held out my hand and squeezed the bottle. As the dollop of conditioner shot onto my palm, it made the kind of squirting noise that only happens when you’re squeezing something that’s almost empty—you know, that squirt! that tends to make people uncomfortable for some reason when you’re out to eat and the ketchup bottle does it. (I mean, is it really necessary to always make fart jokes when this happens? It makes me feel like I’m permanently in a high school cafeteria.)

I couldn’t believe it. I had used the last of my shampoo and conditioner at the exact same time. Do other people run out of these things at the same time, I wonder? Am I some kind of freak that this is an event? For me, it’s even more unlikely than it was to find a parking spot directly in front of my old apartment building in Chicago. Think about it: does anyone actually use the same amount of shampoo and conditioner each shower? I, for one, don’t keep measuring spoons in my shower. Because that would be weird.

Plus, sometimes maybe I don’t feel like conditioning. Or shampooing. Or maybe I want to use my deep conditioner that day. I don’t know. It just never happens. I stood in my shower and felt like something monumental had just occurred in my life.

After my shower, as I threw my empty Pantene bottles in the recycling bin, I felt so damn pleased with myself I wanted to celebrate. I had accomplished something. For once, I wouldn’t end up with two half-empty bottles of the same conditioner in my shower! When I normally run out of only shampoo, I still buy a bottle of shampoo and conditioner. I can’t stand to buy only the shampoo. They are a pair. A couple. Shampoo plus conditioner. You can’t just buy shampoo! It would be wrong. Who does that?

It’s amazing how rare it is to time anything perfectly in life. Even when it’s something ridiculous, like using the last of your shampoo and conditioner at the same time. I tend to find that my timing in life never makes any sense. Like right now, for example. I’m 26, and I recently moved back in with my dad. Most of my friends from college moved back in with their parents right after graduation. Now, they’re out on their own, making money and being grownups. I, on the other hand, landed a job right after college and didn’t have to do that. My timing was great right then, I had thought. I remember thinking how lucky I was that I didn’t have to move back home. I never imagined that only two years after landing the job I had agonized over for months, I would quit, move to Chicago and, slowly but surely, run completely out of money as I waited tables, interned, and hoped and waited for the full-time job that never came.

The timing of my move to Chicago was ridiculous. It was July 2008, and there really weren’t any jobs to be had. So why, why, would any reasonable adult in her right mind quit a good job with fantastic benefits? WHY? Why not at least wait until she found a job in said city before quitting the good job?