Sometimes when people do and say insane things I often wonder what their real intention is. Call me naive, but in most cases, I don't believe people are just inexplicably "crazy" or behave like assholes for sport. They want something. Everyone wants something. When it comes to public figures, this desire for reason increases ten-fold.
Perhaps this is why I got such an unbelievable kick out of studying history in college. No matter what redundant war or what fantastically unenforceable treaty I had to read about, I always had good, clean, anti-social fun trying to find out why people did what they did, why others allowed it, and when everyone realized it had gotten out of hand. For the record, I haven't come across a PhD yet who has been able to really tell me what Hitler's deal was. I don't know what he really wanted, but I think I know how he rose to power.
Anyway, my sister told me yesterday that Conservative commentator and all-around destructive blowhard Glenn Beck casually threw out a sidenote while commenting on the tragic attack at a Labor Party-sponsored youth camp in Norway. Beck said, "There was a shooting at a political camp, which sounds a little like, you know, the Hitler Youth or whatever. I mean, who does a camp for kids that's all about politics? Disturbing."
Note this guy's subliminal style. he just slipped that right in there. Doesn't matter if it's true, he got you to think about it. I think trial lawyers use this kind of crap on juries they wish to confuse: "Say there, where were you on the night of your brother's murder? Oh, the movies? Oh, you have a ticket stub? Oh, well technically those can be faked, right?" Just like that, the friggin' mistress is off the hook. I digress.
If I may be so bold, I am actually going to compare Beck himself to Hitler for a moment. Do I think Beck has a realistic desire to conquer Europe/Earth, exterminate a population the size of Manhattan, and enforce his own ideologies? No, no I don't. He lacks the focus. But I do believe this guy is going to influence alot of people who do. There was a political group awhile back called the Aufbau Vereinigung (Reconstruction Organization). They sought to overthrow Germany's post-WWI government and replace it with some FAR right-wing craziness (stay with me here). The name was derived from a newspaper that helped bring it out (you will be interested to note that it was not owned by Mr. Murdoch). These guys didn't do much, and sort of faded out after Hitler's unsuccessful attempt to overthrow the government in a beer hall (for which he was of course arrested, allowing him to chill out on the government's dime and scribble out Mein Kamph). What the Vereinigung can be credited with, however, is injecting a young Hitler's anti-semitism with angry steroids of the worst kind. They arguably pushed Hitler to The Final Solution.
Reverting back to earlier where I discuss a person's intent: I am of the opinion that the Glenn Becks of the world (along with the Malkins, Bachmanns, Coulters, Limbaughs, Palins etc.) feed off the energy, money, and fame thrown at them by their supporters. This is made evident by their tendancy to not fact-check and grow increasingly emotional and/or belligerent depending on audience response. Meanwhile, their bosses and advertisers care primarily about the money and thus allow the show to go on. Do I think Beck truly believes his own BS? Sometimes. Do I think he'll go for the far-reaching controversial splash rather than the more tame-but-accurate analysis? Everytime.
Hitler got a lot of followers after the Beer Hall Putsch trial, where he was allowed to speak for an unlimited amount of time in his own defense (I would like to applaud the Norwegians for denying Anders Behring Breivik this opportunity). He got even more after Mein Kamph, and it snowballed from there. He got alot of followers because Germany's was on the verge of complete and total economic collapse and the German people were humiliated by the Treaty of Versailles. This meth-head got on a soapbox at precisely the right time. He blamed the Jews for (among other things) instigating the arms industry strikes that weakened the German forces and supposedly lost them the war. German's were pissed, and this guy was on fire.
Conditions are no where near like that here. But they are still frightening. Conservative commentators "talk Christ but walk Corporate," if I may quote the brilliant historian Thomas Frank. These guys are big business. The media is big business. No matter how destructive and selfish big business is, it is the one thing that has always been immune to criticism from social conservatives because they know better than to bite the hand that feeds them.
Conservative commentators use "God-talk" to create an hysterical backlash: anger over abortion and gay marriage flows seamlessly into anger over welfare and the size of government (even though they're are totally unrelated). These people hijack Christian exuberence and use it to fear-monger their way into the minds of alot of suseptable people. Meanwhile people like Glenn Beck feed on the attention and wealth and will do anything to generate that continuously. Even if it means irrationally comparing a youth camp sponsored by the left-wing Labor Party to the far, holy-hell-thats-far, right-wing Hitler Youth.
Glenn Beck just wants attention, and he's getting it. Screw it, let him. What we cannot do is start nodding our heads because we feel pissed off one day. Or because we found God and Glenn Beck says he's a man of God so we have to follow whatever he says (Don't Christians fear the false prophet?). Glenn Beck is going to get someone killed. He wont pull the trigger, but he'll whisper in the ear of the guy that will.
For the record, the shooter in Norway was a radical conservative.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Monday, February 7, 2011
"It's Just a Movie!" - Toy Story Edition
As another 80-degree LA winter day comes to a close, I find myself, yet again, plopped in front of my computer in a desperate attempt to escape the snapping jaws of boredom. Alas, it is too late. So, I have decided to take these lemons, whip up some lemonade, and ride out the sugar high in the form of a totally unnecessary and absurdly in-depth view of yet another movie I don't totally get: Toy Story.
I wouldn't have nothin' if I didn't have you."
So I figure my attention span won't allow me to explore all three movies anymore than yours will allow you to read them even if I did. I've decided to stick to the Toy Story universe in general and see where that takes me. I don't know, whatever. Just go with it.
1) This one has been bugging me for a decade and a half: Why doesn't Woody have a gun?
"The word I'm searching for, I can't say, because there's preschool toys around."
I don't buy that its some sort of anti-violent thing, because Buzz was rocking karate-chop action and a scary laser. I also don't think that it had to do with kids choking on the small pieces because those of us who have seen the movie 786 times are well aware that Woody's hand-stitched poly-vinyl hat was perfectly removable, thank you very much. The guy was local law enforcement for crying out loud. He should have been assigned a gun (and subsequently shot Mr. Potato Head at point-blank range. More on that asswipe later).
2) Where was the father throughout all of this?
"What, is Andy's Mom losin' her marbles?"
Don't get me wrong, Im not complaining here. As someone who's likely to divorce a handful of times in my life, I get it. I'd just like to point out that at the beginning of the movie, the drooling baby sister is, like 7 months old (I don't know. I'm really bad at deciphering the approximate ages of other humans. I applaud the genius of those carnival guys that do it). Anyway, this means Andy's dad peace'd the hell out about 5 minutes after this lady punched out kid number two.
I will say that it is nice to see a single mom in a Disney movie for once. I swear, before Pixar came along I was fairly certain that DIsney writers had a basic template involving sociologically disconnected, motherless hotties with overactive imaginations and piss-poor love lives and just sort of worked from there. Seriously, the mothers were either non-existent, referenced as dead, or shot in the face shortly after the opening credits. Andy's mom made sure her daughter and gay son had birthday parties, Christmases, pizza nights, and plenty of toys to choke on. Get it, girl.
3) Why does Mr. Potato Head have to be such a dick?
"...and I packed your Angry Eyes, just in case."
I know that without this idiot's relentless misunderstanding of nearly every situation, the movie would not have a plot. Seriously though, this bastard is dangerous. He's out to get Woody from the start and none of the toys seem to notice or give a crap. Haven't these play things ever heard of a coup d'etat? (Don't answer that). Even worse, at the end of the first film he is rewarded with a friggin' wife. Sure, Mrs. Potato Head is annoying and a bit gossipy, but she loves her husband and he doesn't deserve love. He deserves Sid's operating room.
4) Am I the only one who think's SId is kind of awesome?
"Well, we have ways of making you talk."
Think about it. This kid wasn't torturing animals or lighting buildings on fire, he was just, you know, experimenting with his toys. Unlike Andy, this kid was totally independent (though probably neglected), and really knew how to spice up playtime. The doll's head on the erector-set spider legs? That's the work of a genius, my friends.
Ah! And here's a little tidbit for you. Check out this still from Toy Story 3. Sid makes an appearance as the trash man, looking suspiciously like more than a few guys I've dated in my years (insert issues here).
5) When a human leaves the room, the toys are allowed to scatter. What I don't get is how they've NEVER been caught. It seems every other scene involves one of the toys hearing someone noisily flailing up the stairs and hastily alerting the others before bashing into 15 other panicking toys on the way to their hiding place. Tell me, how would this scene play out if, say, Andy were watching a movie downstairs before becoming drowsy and wearily drifting off to his room. His socks, not making a sound in the hallway, would allow him to enter his own damn room unannounced to find the pig and the weird dinosaur with little arms playing battleship. The sight would cause any kid to go absolutely and indiscriminately crazy. Just sayin'.
6) Who in the HELL gave that pizza kid a driver's license? Better yet, who gave him a driving job? Its shit like this that causes insurance pukes like me to lose sleep at night.
"Look! A Spaceship! It's a Spaceship, Buzz!"
7) What are the rules that determine the mobility and general intelligence of the toys? Some of the stuffed animals could talk, while it seemed others weren't even alive. Those weird Dutch egg things could hop into each other, which was weird because I considered them to be objects.Sid's little sister Hannah's toys couldn't talk at all (and this was before Sid mutilated them). Same goes for Bo's sheep, the troll doll, the barrel monkeys, and the racecar Just curious.
8) Okay this is the big one. This one really frosts my cookies.
"This isn't flying! This is falling...with style!"
How do Buzz and Woody fly at the end?! Everytime I raise this issue with someone I get the same response (other than a general eyebrow raising as to why I am discussing the inconsistencies of Toy Story in general). People say it was the rocket. Ahh, but no. If you remember, they cut the rocket loose and proceed to fly - actually fly - to the minivan. Buzz maintains, and even briefly increases, altitude.
I remember being pissed the very first time I saw it. Remember, one of the rules of good, established storytelling is defining your universe and determining what your characters cannot do. Although these toys were alive, the rest of the world still functioned as normal. Last time I checked, gravity was still workin' just fine. Again, not a big deal, but they could have finished it off a little differently.
Okay, in conclusion of this nonsense, I shall once again give a shout out to the character I thought made the most sense. This one goes out to the vastly under-appreciated Mr. Spell, who selflessly sought to educate the other toys in both loss prevention and self preservation through his informative seminars on "Plastic Corrosion Awareness" and "What to Do if You or Part of You is Swallowed." Thank you Mr. Spell!
So I figure my attention span won't allow me to explore all three movies anymore than yours will allow you to read them even if I did. I've decided to stick to the Toy Story universe in general and see where that takes me. I don't know, whatever. Just go with it.
1) This one has been bugging me for a decade and a half: Why doesn't Woody have a gun?
I don't buy that its some sort of anti-violent thing, because Buzz was rocking karate-chop action and a scary laser. I also don't think that it had to do with kids choking on the small pieces because those of us who have seen the movie 786 times are well aware that Woody's hand-stitched poly-vinyl hat was perfectly removable, thank you very much. The guy was local law enforcement for crying out loud. He should have been assigned a gun (and subsequently shot Mr. Potato Head at point-blank range. More on that asswipe later).
2) Where was the father throughout all of this?
Don't get me wrong, Im not complaining here. As someone who's likely to divorce a handful of times in my life, I get it. I'd just like to point out that at the beginning of the movie, the drooling baby sister is, like 7 months old (I don't know. I'm really bad at deciphering the approximate ages of other humans. I applaud the genius of those carnival guys that do it). Anyway, this means Andy's dad peace'd the hell out about 5 minutes after this lady punched out kid number two.
I will say that it is nice to see a single mom in a Disney movie for once. I swear, before Pixar came along I was fairly certain that DIsney writers had a basic template involving sociologically disconnected, motherless hotties with overactive imaginations and piss-poor love lives and just sort of worked from there. Seriously, the mothers were either non-existent, referenced as dead, or shot in the face shortly after the opening credits. Andy's mom made sure her daughter and gay son had birthday parties, Christmases, pizza nights, and plenty of toys to choke on. Get it, girl.
3) Why does Mr. Potato Head have to be such a dick?
I know that without this idiot's relentless misunderstanding of nearly every situation, the movie would not have a plot. Seriously though, this bastard is dangerous. He's out to get Woody from the start and none of the toys seem to notice or give a crap. Haven't these play things ever heard of a coup d'etat? (Don't answer that). Even worse, at the end of the first film he is rewarded with a friggin' wife. Sure, Mrs. Potato Head is annoying and a bit gossipy, but she loves her husband and he doesn't deserve love. He deserves Sid's operating room.
4) Am I the only one who think's SId is kind of awesome?
Think about it. This kid wasn't torturing animals or lighting buildings on fire, he was just, you know, experimenting with his toys. Unlike Andy, this kid was totally independent (though probably neglected), and really knew how to spice up playtime. The doll's head on the erector-set spider legs? That's the work of a genius, my friends.
Ah! And here's a little tidbit for you. Check out this still from Toy Story 3. Sid makes an appearance as the trash man, looking suspiciously like more than a few guys I've dated in my years (insert issues here).
5) When a human leaves the room, the toys are allowed to scatter. What I don't get is how they've NEVER been caught. It seems every other scene involves one of the toys hearing someone noisily flailing up the stairs and hastily alerting the others before bashing into 15 other panicking toys on the way to their hiding place. Tell me, how would this scene play out if, say, Andy were watching a movie downstairs before becoming drowsy and wearily drifting off to his room. His socks, not making a sound in the hallway, would allow him to enter his own damn room unannounced to find the pig and the weird dinosaur with little arms playing battleship. The sight would cause any kid to go absolutely and indiscriminately crazy. Just sayin'.
6) Who in the HELL gave that pizza kid a driver's license? Better yet, who gave him a driving job? Its shit like this that causes insurance pukes like me to lose sleep at night.
7) What are the rules that determine the mobility and general intelligence of the toys? Some of the stuffed animals could talk, while it seemed others weren't even alive. Those weird Dutch egg things could hop into each other, which was weird because I considered them to be objects.Sid's little sister Hannah's toys couldn't talk at all (and this was before Sid mutilated them). Same goes for Bo's sheep, the troll doll, the barrel monkeys, and the racecar Just curious.
8) Okay this is the big one. This one really frosts my cookies.
How do Buzz and Woody fly at the end?! Everytime I raise this issue with someone I get the same response (other than a general eyebrow raising as to why I am discussing the inconsistencies of Toy Story in general). People say it was the rocket. Ahh, but no. If you remember, they cut the rocket loose and proceed to fly - actually fly - to the minivan. Buzz maintains, and even briefly increases, altitude.
I remember being pissed the very first time I saw it. Remember, one of the rules of good, established storytelling is defining your universe and determining what your characters cannot do. Although these toys were alive, the rest of the world still functioned as normal. Last time I checked, gravity was still workin' just fine. Again, not a big deal, but they could have finished it off a little differently.
Okay, in conclusion of this nonsense, I shall once again give a shout out to the character I thought made the most sense. This one goes out to the vastly under-appreciated Mr. Spell, who selflessly sought to educate the other toys in both loss prevention and self preservation through his informative seminars on "Plastic Corrosion Awareness" and "What to Do if You or Part of You is Swallowed." Thank you Mr. Spell!
Saturday, November 13, 2010
See the Bandages? They're Mummies...
(not ghosts!)
Alas, I understand the confusion.
So, my Ma tought me how to make these Halloween Mummies. They're really fun to make and taste good enough to make an anorexic fall off the wagon ('cause she'd, like, wanna eat em! Get it? She hates eating but theyre so good!)
I find my posting this quick how-to to be wildly inappropiate for two reasons (not counting my previous attempt to make light of eating disorders): One, it's November 13th and therefore you'll look like an idiot (should have gone with the stupid cookies decorated to look like fat turkeys/the NBC logo) and Two, Mummies are disgusting.
According to Wikipedia, Mummies are "corpses whose skin and organs have been preserved by exposure to chemicals, extreme coldness (ice mummies), very low humidity, or lack of air when bodies are submerged in bogs" (Bogs?)
Who wants to eat a caricature of that? Why, you and your friends of course! Don't worry about these little fuckers reminding you of charred bodies wrapped in soggy bandages. They sorta look like ghosts anyway.
Here we go:
-Get Nutter butters
-and a basting brush (or, uh, a clean paintbrust. CLEAN!)
-White Chocolate chips
-Mini Semi Sweet Chocolate chips. If they don't have them, get black icing. My ma thinks red-hots would work, but that freaks me out. Don't get the full size chocolate chips or they'll look like crazy-mummies (unless you want to use one and go for a cyclops-mummy. I digress).
Melt the white chocolate over low heat until its all smooth. If you can't keep your chocolate covered mitts our of your mouth, pop in a piece of gum and save yourself the sugar rush.
Paint one side of the nutter-butters with the white chocolate. Don't paint the back or it'll stick. Paint the sides. After you finish 'em all, drag a fork across their little bodies to create the look of bandages (mmmm...preserved flesh!).
After you finish all that, place the eyes and stick them in the fridge overnight (or at least 2 hours) so everything sets.
I also recommend making a place card or something clarifying that they are MUMMIES...and not ghosts. (Seriously, ghosts are not peanut shaped!)
Enjoy!
Alas, I understand the confusion.
So, my Ma tought me how to make these Halloween Mummies. They're really fun to make and taste good enough to make an anorexic fall off the wagon ('cause she'd, like, wanna eat em! Get it? She hates eating but theyre so good!)
I find my posting this quick how-to to be wildly inappropiate for two reasons (not counting my previous attempt to make light of eating disorders): One, it's November 13th and therefore you'll look like an idiot (should have gone with the stupid cookies decorated to look like fat turkeys/the NBC logo) and Two, Mummies are disgusting.
According to Wikipedia, Mummies are "corpses whose skin and organs have been preserved by exposure to chemicals, extreme coldness (ice mummies), very low humidity, or lack of air when bodies are submerged in bogs" (Bogs?)
Who wants to eat a caricature of that? Why, you and your friends of course! Don't worry about these little fuckers reminding you of charred bodies wrapped in soggy bandages. They sorta look like ghosts anyway.
Here we go:
-Get Nutter butters
-and a basting brush (or, uh, a clean paintbrust. CLEAN!)
-White Chocolate chips
-Mini Semi Sweet Chocolate chips. If they don't have them, get black icing. My ma thinks red-hots would work, but that freaks me out. Don't get the full size chocolate chips or they'll look like crazy-mummies (unless you want to use one and go for a cyclops-mummy. I digress).
Melt the white chocolate over low heat until its all smooth. If you can't keep your chocolate covered mitts our of your mouth, pop in a piece of gum and save yourself the sugar rush.
Paint one side of the nutter-butters with the white chocolate. Don't paint the back or it'll stick. Paint the sides. After you finish 'em all, drag a fork across their little bodies to create the look of bandages (mmmm...preserved flesh!).
After you finish all that, place the eyes and stick them in the fridge overnight (or at least 2 hours) so everything sets.
I also recommend making a place card or something clarifying that they are MUMMIES...and not ghosts. (Seriously, ghosts are not peanut shaped!)
Enjoy!
The Little Things...
Yeah, how about a round of applause for the seating outside my gate in Kansas City! I haven't appreciated this kind of intuition since I discovered those hooks under the bar where you hang your purse. Let the phone/laptop/ipod/soul charging commence...
Related: This guy next to me just sneezed so loud I thought I was going to have a heart attack. I didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or slug him in the neck.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
A Verbal Thrashing to Judgy McJudgerson in the Elevator This Morning
You know, one of my favorite episodes of Sex and the City features a pissed off Carrie Bradshaw marching through Manhattan to the Upper East side apartment of friend Charlotte York. She's pissed at Charlotte and has showed up at her door, exasperated, ready to let her have it. Charlotte can't believe she walked all the way over in her new shoes.
"These shoes pinch my feet...but I love them." - Carrie sobs, thus delivering one of the greatest lines in the whole damn series.
"I'm in a financial cul-de-sac!"
I love my high heel shoes more than human babies. Some leave my toes looking like strangled, purple sausages by the end of the night. Others are, to me, more comfortable than a pair of flip-flops anyday. I don't care how many old trolls roll their eyes in the elevator and mumble something about how when you are as busy as they are, shoes must be selected on comfort, I'm rocking my heels until they have to pry them off my dead, lifeless limbs. After which I sincerely hope rigor mortis causes me to kick that shoe thief right in the eyeball.
I'm happy that lady's Dr. Scholl's Squeegie-Sols make it even easier for her to pick up her 19 kids from soccer practice before stomping off to the airport to pick up her mother-in-law. You know what? My "stripper shoes" make every single day of my painful quarter-life crisis damn near bearable. They pinch the living daylights out of my feet, but I love the hell out of them.
On that note, its time to return to the land of functioning adults.
"These shoes pinch my feet...but I love them." - Carrie sobs, thus delivering one of the greatest lines in the whole damn series.
I love my high heel shoes more than human babies. Some leave my toes looking like strangled, purple sausages by the end of the night. Others are, to me, more comfortable than a pair of flip-flops anyday. I don't care how many old trolls roll their eyes in the elevator and mumble something about how when you are as busy as they are, shoes must be selected on comfort, I'm rocking my heels until they have to pry them off my dead, lifeless limbs. After which I sincerely hope rigor mortis causes me to kick that shoe thief right in the eyeball.
I'm happy that lady's Dr. Scholl's Squeegie-Sols make it even easier for her to pick up her 19 kids from soccer practice before stomping off to the airport to pick up her mother-in-law. You know what? My "stripper shoes" make every single day of my painful quarter-life crisis damn near bearable. They pinch the living daylights out of my feet, but I love the hell out of them.
On that note, its time to return to the land of functioning adults.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Apparently they also call it, "The City of Big Shoulders"
Aside from child-like curiosity and general love of being out of the office, there were about 37 reasons I was excited to go to Chicago this September. Could be a certain nostalgia with the Midwest (the peaceful remains of an otherwise disastrous phase in my post-college existence), or perhaps a romantic idealization with Prohibition/Organized Crime (I still can’t get my hair to do that 1920s wave thing). Either way, Chicago certainly did not fail to deliver.
Let me just say first that Los Angeles was in the middle of a Holy-Shitballs Heat Wave when I departed on Monday afternoon. 113 degrees of smoggy, skin cancer goodness beat down on me as I awaited my flyaway bus to Union Station (read: do your friends a solid and take them all the way to the damn airport). When I landed, it was 49 degrees in Chicago.
You know how they say lazy people who suddenly over-exercise run the risk of dropping dead of a massive heart attack? I am sure a 60 degree change in temperature, along with humidity, jet lag, and a Xanax hangover isn’t so good on the ol’ bones either.
25 bucks later, my cab driver dropped me off at the Congress Plaza Hotel on Michigan Ave. (I was supposed to stay at The W, but I discovered this place shortly before I left).
The Congress Plaza was built in 1893 and is apparently one of the most haunted places in Chicago. It features the Gatsby-esque “Gold Ball Room,” along with creepy old elevators, huge chandeliers, and a night check in guy/caretaker that I am not entirely certain was alive.
I swam past the pools of blood pouring out of the elevator, got to my floor, side-stepped the creepy twin girls, and entered my room shortly thereafter. It had a fantastic view of Lake Michigan (at which point I would like to comment on the weirdness of seeing a body of water that big without waves).
Most of the next day was spent in the office, doing office-like things.
I did, however, use the long working day as an opportunity to make some interesting and perhaps inappropriate generalizations about Chicago and its people. Huzzah!
1) They get to work friggin’ early. Like 6am early.
2) Every person I passed on the street was either white, or black. Ponder that for a moment.
3) Chicagoians are used to the kind of cold that would keep a wooly mammoth preserved for an entire geologic age. This being said, they dress as though it is about 20 degrees colder than it actually is. 60 degrees ain’t that bad, but everyone around me was in light coats and scarves.
4) New York makes you want to yell in a bad accent. In Los Angeles you wear tight clothes and talk about who you know. DC makes you want to go back to school and get 17 advanced degrees (or at least up the ADD meds). Chicago? Chicago makes you romanticize the early 20th century. Although crammed with newer, and unnecessarily tall buildings, Chicago is full of very old structures that remind you of a time when men carried Tommy-guns and ended sentences with, “see?” A time when rich décor and elaborate architecture was still classy. Most importantly, a time where all women could successfully construct finger waves.
5) People are noticeably more overweight than in other cities I have seen before. This being said, more than a few Chicagoians I spoke to directly expressed their concern with chemicals in food. They fear saccharin, aspartame, corn syrup, soy, fast food meat, and generally anything else with a long list of ingredients. Apparently it's either brain tumors or a fat ass (Too far?...too far).
6) They dye the Chicago river green on St Patty’s day.
7) Freeways are called “expressways.”
8) White women in Chicago (actually, the midwest in general) seem to be really serious about their hair. I see alot of big-fat highlights, A-line cuts, torture-by-flatiron, etc. Even women in shitty clothes had perfectly blow-dryed hair... highlighted within an inch of its life.
Later that evening I went to a neighborhood called Wicker Park to hang out with a friend I met about a year or so back. Kinda looked like Silverlake, Brooklyn, and San Fran all in one. Yet the little things (rust-colored subway track suspended over a section of a three way intersection, horizontal business signs shorting out) gave it its own Chicago twist.
I spent the entire evening at a place called the Violet Hour (http://www.theviolethour.com/). They had a menu of insane cocktails with the weirdest ingredients, but they certainly result in a fun buzz. My friend grew up on the south side of Chicago, but received a Dartmouth education before emerging himself in the wild world of Insurance. You know, philosophizing on politics with those who see eye-to-eye with you is always a fun way to spend an evening. However, hearing things from the point of view of a person with an entirely different background, not to mention a Chicago upbringing, was particularly enlightening and thus worth a mention here.
I woke up in the morning with a sugar-hangover-headache and, I swear to god, a feeling that there was a ghost in my freezing-cold room. I decided then was a good time to pack my shit, fumble with that damn remote-control express checkout TV thing, and get the hell out of there.
I still had one more day to spend in Chicago. Alas, it involved the kind of work that'll induce sleep better than Ambien...or even C-Span.
Oddly enough, the Chicago branch of my company happened to be moving offices during my visit, so I got a taste of the old and a glimpse of the new. Basically, everything looks exactly the same as our Los Angeles office except, you know, its Chicago outside.
After a productive day collaborating with my heavily-accented Midwestern colleagues, I headed to the airport and flew the hell home.
It wasn’t until I settled back into my apartment that I realized how different Chicago really is. Most cities have a certain characteristic, if not pop-culture familiarity, that makes them feasible to get your head around. Chicago is a classy kind of old, a different kind of quirky, and an interesting kind of diverse. The weather and the wind would make it difficult for me to imagine myself living there. Alas, it was certainly one of the more notable wanderings of my year.
That's all.
Monday, March 1, 2010
On having your mind blown...
You know how every now and then you learn something new that apparently everyone else already knows? It's like you missed that day of school or something. Bewildered, you sit with the feeling that the lights are on, but nobody's home.
My brilliant friend from high school, Megan, just passed the New York bar. Yet, it is only in the last few days that she learned that the phrase, "For all intents and purposes," was not said, "For all intensive purposes."
See what I mean? I love things like this. They don't speak to anyone's intelligence but rather, offer an honest glimpse at a person who just so happened to miss a random piece of information.
Now its my turn. Last night, I am plopped on my keister at my Aunt's house when this really old guy pops on the screen. He starts going off about the census report, making sarcastic remarks about the family politics involved in choosing "Person Number 1" and "Person Number 2." It was like he was promoting the importance of the Census, but also making fun of it. It was brilliant. I was perplexed.
Everyone else in the room was sort of watching with a familiar smirk that I could only recognize as the look of people enjoying something they had seen before. I knew my dunce moment was impending.
Alas, despite watching 60 Minutes for years (but apparently not finishing), it turns out I am the only human being in the Western Hemisphere who didn't know who Andy Rooney was.
We are going to excuse the fact that I showed up late to this party and just be glad I showed up at all.
My brilliant friend from high school, Megan, just passed the New York bar. Yet, it is only in the last few days that she learned that the phrase, "For all intents and purposes," was not said, "For all intensive purposes."
See what I mean? I love things like this. They don't speak to anyone's intelligence but rather, offer an honest glimpse at a person who just so happened to miss a random piece of information.
Now its my turn. Last night, I am plopped on my keister at my Aunt's house when this really old guy pops on the screen. He starts going off about the census report, making sarcastic remarks about the family politics involved in choosing "Person Number 1" and "Person Number 2." It was like he was promoting the importance of the Census, but also making fun of it. It was brilliant. I was perplexed.
Everyone else in the room was sort of watching with a familiar smirk that I could only recognize as the look of people enjoying something they had seen before. I knew my dunce moment was impending.
Alas, despite watching 60 Minutes for years (but apparently not finishing), it turns out I am the only human being in the Western Hemisphere who didn't know who Andy Rooney was.
We are going to excuse the fact that I showed up late to this party and just be glad I showed up at all.
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