Since I found it so insipidly comical, I was telling everyone my story of the mysterious CD last night. One guy just didn't get it. He kept prodding me for details about this mystery band I'm in. "So in your dreams, is this band any good?" he'd ask. I tried to explain that I wasn't actually in a band, everything was just a guess, and the whole point of my story was that I didn't know. Two minutes later he'd ask, "So what instrument do you play?"

Finally, when he asked me if my band needed a drummer, I decided to go with it and asked him if he was looking to join too. Maybe we could start our own band up, you know? Of course today I find out I don't need a drummer, because according to Fuzzy I am the drummer.

listening to: The Ponys, playing tonight @ the Metro. woo.
in my sink: A bowl, a spoon, a cup.

While cleaning off my dining table, I found this CD under a pile of papers, bills, flyers and mail. It contains one thirty second instrumental track, and written on it is

|<-
->|
       intro
       trak

Just let it stop 4 a
sec, then start in
that wood b easiest

I have no idea where it came from or whose music it is. No one left it here, because no one has been here. It reminded me of two emails I recently received from someone to the other members of his band, an inside email most obviously not meant for me.

The reason for the emails and the CD is obvious. I've secretly joined a band in my sleep.

Seriously, I'm not drinking any more alcohol, at all, ever.

Oh, and bands, if you recognize this CD, or if I've recently joined your band, could you uh, let me know? Thanks.

listening to: the Detholz!, Sybris
in my sink: Air.

Lately there've been a lot of cops in my neighborhood. After one of these cops witnessed my car being hit while parked, I don't mind such a huge presence so much. I'll even welcome them the next time they set up a roadblock on my block.

However, this is getting weird.

The other night, I left my apartment and started walking down the street, on my way to the Division Street Blue Line stop. I didn't get more than a block when I noticed a police car behind me which proceeds to follow me slowly for half a block more. Just about when I start to freak out, it pulls up next to me, the officer calls me over, and asks me where I live. When I point to the building and tell her I live on the next street over, she says okay and tells me I can go on my way.

Gee, thanks, officer. Really, I mean, what the heck? Now they're stopping people on foot?

listening to: run lola run
in my sink: the awful doom of a thousand dead tortured souls. no, really, just a pan, 2 cups, a fork and spoon.

Someone who I thought I could consider my friend unceremoniously put me in my place while I was drooling over who was arguably the hottest girl in Ukrainian Village at the time.

"Friend:" "She only likes Asian punk guys."
Me: "Well two out of three ain't bad."
"Friend:" (looking me up and down) "You're a guy. What's the other one?"

What? You mean to tell me I'M NOT ASIAN?

Look, "friend," I wore khakis and combed my hair because we went to a horrendously expensive uppity restaurant beforehand, that YOU CHOSE.

Oh, man, wait. I own khakis.

Dammit.

listening to: bob marley
in my sink: 1 bowl, 1 spoon, 1 cup.

This is Skippy.
Skippy likes to hang out in karaoke bars, get drunk and act obnoxious. Hey, who doesn't? (Well, except for the karaoke part. In my defense, it was a friend's birthday party.) He must be a regular, because he can start knock-down furniture-toppling fights and still be allowed to stay while the other guy's kicked out. His name is also a popular brand of peanut butter and a character from the popular 80's sitcom Family Ties.

Skippy's favorite pastime is blocking camera shots of your friends and yelling "TAKE THE PICTURE! TAKE THE PICTURE!"

In related news, I recently discovered a camera view can be easily cleared by physically shoving the offending drunkard to one side. Often, the person's too drunk to even notice. This should be covered in the camera's manual.

Do I need to mention Skippy is a dork?

listening to: trail of dead, arcade fire
in my sink: still a lot.

my anticipated spring break vacation was cut short by a hit-and-run driver smashing into the side of my parked car. i was interrupted from watching some dull television show thursday night by a police officer letting me know i no longer had a side mirror, but at least the police were there and witnessed everything. how often does that happen?

after the other guy's insurance company started giving me the runaround and making things more difficult, i called my insurance company and had them go to bat for me. have i ever mentioned how awesome state farm is? i knew i paid them for something.

i was now looking forward to a spring break full of frustrations and trips to repair shops and whatnot, which is hardly what i consider a vacation. although my recent dilemmas are hardly resolved, i at least have a clearer picture of which direction i want to move and the goals i want to have. if i'm not going to be allowed to rest, then i may as well start moving in that direction. there was never any crisis, and i never did use the word crisis, though other misled people did. what there was, as i stated at the outset, were several changes that required i stop and take inventory. maybe i'm not done with the re-assessment, but i've got a handle on it and i think it can be finished on the go.

one of the many reasons i took down my picture gallery was that i thought it was becoming too egotistical. it originally started as a place to post a few pictures to show to close friends. i named the directory some weird name (w00) that had little chance of being guessed, but somewhere along the line i threw caution to the wind and published a link to it in my main menu. the pictures were boring shots of either oreo, friends, or ducks. occasionally i'd go to a detholz! show, and naturally i'd bring my camera. then, i moved to chicago and started going to a lot more shows. a lot.

being the band groupie that i am, i always meet and talk to the bands. hey, they're usually the most interesting people in the room and the only people i really want to know. they usually ask if i can send them the pictures, and i found it easier just to give them the address to this site. today, i can't go anywhere without someone telling me "all of chicago is upset your photos are gone." okay, that may be a bit of an exaggeration, but it was said. i was becoming a bit overwhelmed with all the attention and afraid it was going to my head. i started questioning the purpose of the pictures and of the website as a whole. i mean, who has their own name for a domain name?

having my vacation wrenched from me so unceremoniously, i figured, screw it. i was already becoming overly bored and looking at my forbidden laptop longingly. so log on i did, and blogging i am. as i scrawled in my notebook, probably while drunk, "ego be damned. be the ego." money be damned, my awesome apartment be damned, health be damned. i refuse to let any of it get in the way of choosing my own life.

look for south of north on a billboard near you. in, say, um, a year or twenty.

in other news, i can't seem to find my capitals.

listening to: bauhaus, polyphonic spree.
in my sink: too much. again.

It's been over a week since my self-imposed hiatus, but I feel like everything's just moving backward.

I was becoming used to the idea of freelance writing. I was growing used to the idea of not making truckloads of money, and just scraping by. I thought I pretty much discovered what I want, which is, you know, some good nighttime entertainment and a couch to sit on in a warm room when I'm tired.

Then, there's those sudden curveballs life likes to throw. The doctor decided I need to go on Lipitor for my high cholesterol, which is all very well and fine, except without insurance this means an $83 per month medicine bill for life. I was nervous about losing health insurance before, but now it's certain doom. It's no longer just a question of whether or not I'm going to make enough money to keep my apartment; now I must make enough money to support my new drug habit.

And I walk down the street on the phone listening to my mom tell me I have nothing to worry about as long as I'm applying for nice full-time jobs with hefty insurance benefits. Just as I was trying to take back control over my life and declare my freedom from any soul-crushing bureaucratic corporate world, the fates must have felt the need to show me exactly how much control I really have over any of that.

Just when I thought I was out, they PULL ME BACK IN.

I feel like the street in front of my apartment, which was gushing water through a rupture this morning, and now has city trucks digging up its guts through a new car-sized hole. I imagine the road saying no, this isn't good, this isn't good at all, I'm all wet, and what is this, what are you doing? I just want to be pavement, I just want to be a road again, and now I'm all messed up, can we please stop? Just stop a minute, I need some time, I need to digest this, please, stop the digging, and for the love of God, STOP DRIVING ON ME!

As the cars continue to drive down my poor street, life continues to ram its lifelike momentum down my throat, and I still feel the need to STOP. I need a full vacation, not just this mini blog-and-photography haitus. It's a good thing next week is spring break, however, it won't be much of a vacation if I just keep on doing what I'm doing, even if I've already stopped all the photography and blogging. I need to turn off the computer for an entire week or more and stay away from the internet while I try to sort all this out.

It's not personal. Just don't expect much from me for about a week. If you need to get in touch with me, then I hope you have my phone number.

listening to: the cars, M83
in my sink: 2 bowls, 2 spoons, some knives, a plate, a fork, i dunno, i'm too lazy to get up and check.

I've noticed the changes in my thinking, lifestyle and habits. They may have happened gradually and gone unnoticed, but when I look at who I was two years ago, the changes are drastic. And here's the thing: I'm not sure if I'm moving forward, taking steps backward, or merely coming full circle. I mean, a lot of what I see in me right now reminds me of myself in high school.

As I'm walking/riding the el home from Abbey Pub last night I was thinking about my college days. I did a lot of walking then, sometimes without a destination, and forgot how much I liked it. A small drizzle started falling, large enough to be felt but small enough not to be annoying, an almost comforting spray across my cheeks. The Cure's Disintegration came on my ipod, and instantly I was transported back in time. It was 1989 all over again.

Then I got to thinking, it really could be 1989 again. Everything since then, or maybe more accurately since my graduation in 1992, I've thrown away. My affiliation with the Baptist religion, my stay in Haiti, my master's in education, my career (or lack of) in education, and other things I'm sure, have all ended without leaving so much as a lasting impact on my life. Sure, I've gained the experiences and memories from everything in that time frame which will be forever valuable to me, but what has really become of it all? What good was the direction and focus I had in 1993, which led me to do humanitarian work in a foreign country, if I find myself now without direction or so much as a plan? (A good plan.) What good has the past 15 years been if I find myself right back at the same point I was then?

Thinking of all this makes me reconsider any and every project I'm starting or want to start right now. This city, this Chicago, has awoken something in me, but what? And am I sure I want to disturb it? I don't want to start anything if it's not going to go anywhere in the next five years. And it's not going to go anywhere if I'm not interested enough in continuing it.

Here's the thing. I'm happy right now, I really am, or at least satisfied, despite everything I've written above. However, this world becomes more turbulent with each passing sound bite and Bushism. I look out my window at the rain (geeze, now it's snow...) and think how I may be looking out the same window at the same scene fifty years from now, and that scares me. I think about how that window may be gone next year, or I may be looking at a completely different scene from a completely different window, and that scares me too.

There are several things I want to do right now which could all make a living, but I can't do them all. I can't have hobbies, because my obsessive and addictive personality turn them into something more or they become something more all on their own, often oppressive, and end up consuming entire days and weeks. I need to pick one thing and do just that, but that means giving up other things I really love. Writing, photography, promotions, music, reading everyone else's blogs (yes, I've spent entire days just reading blogs) - most of them have to go.

In the meantime, I'm pretty much stopping everything until I can figure out which one it is.

Everything, that is, except this story which I'll do on Sunday afternoons or thereabout. Ha, worked it in again.

p.s. 1989 was not a good year for me. Some have told me they think the Cure's Disintegration album is upbeat, but almost every track on it seems depressing to me. Listening to it will always bring back bad memories, but I'll always enjoy it in a nostalgic "look how much better I am today" sort of way. Plus, I don't think I'll ever be comfortable with happiness. Melancholy is like an old coat, you know, the one with the bare patches... you have that new one, but you still wear this one from time to time.

listening to: the police, inxs, john lennon, flaming lips, radiohead, ted leo, david bowie.
in my sink: the same thing as earlier.

An Open Letter to the Guy on Ecstacy Playing With My Hair While I'm Trying to Take Pictures Last Night:

Stop.

Plus, while I appreciate and love slam dancing, you do it obnoxiously. Everyone was annoyed. You are lucky you left before I put away my camera to um, "join" you.

Because in the world of moshing and slam dancing, if you can't beat 'em, then join 'em and beat the living snot out of them anyway.

An Open Letter to Every Stranger Who Asks Me to Send My Pictures to Them Later:

No.

I have some dishware at home, would you like that too? Oh, and WHO THE HECK ARE YOU?

Do you know what I do with the email addresses I collect when I'm out? No, seriously, do you, because I don't have a clue. Sometimes I find one on the floor, but I have no idea who it is or what they wanted.

Alisa (did I get the name right?) from Saturday night, this doesn't mean you. You're cool. You came with good references. Since I took the pictures down, I'll have to actually email you something.

listening to: crystal method, call me lightning, the tyrades.
in my sink: a bowl, a spoon, a cup

I decided to empty out some pockets of my life. Major changes have been necessary for some time now, and I've just been putting it off. I need to stop obsessing over things that consume every waking moment without really promoting any personal development or growth. Or maybe I'm just overtired, not thinking clearly, and need a decent night's sleep. Of course, since it's three in the morning, I guess that's not going to happen this week.

On a very related note, I moved the entire photo directory offline until I can figure out what its purpose is supposed to be. Deal with it.

The only project that will continue is my story.

Ha. Worked it in again.

listening to: The Cure. Rain. Thunder.
in my sink: Nothing.

I've been out every night for seven days straight. I think I did it just to see if I could. Regardless of why, as I waited for the Dials to start their set at Subterranean (yes, SubT's cool again) last night, the fatigue started washing over me like a damp curtain, and I realized I was heading for an old-fashioned college-style up-all-night paper-due-in-the-morning crash and burn. The thing is, I've been seeing the same people most of those nights, and I have to wonder, how are they doing it? Some of them have had way more beer than me, too. WAY more.

Thank goodness I didn't have a paper due in the morning, or anything to do for that matter.

A (maybe not-so-full) night's sleep and some caffeine later, I still don't feel recovered. The fuzz is still there. I could have just stayed in bed but I wanted to write some of my story.

Alcohol consumption probably hasn't been helping matters.

Notice how cleverly I drop mentions of my story into my posts now? Damn, I'm good, even when comatose.

listening to: Bauhaus.
in my sink: The Memory and Scum of Dishes Past.