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Below are the 25 most recent journal entries.

	2003.11.09  21.50 autumn and spring This is going to be a half-assed, overdue retrospective. Tomorrow I get up at 5:45, so I should already be in bed, but nonetheless I type for your pleasure and mine. Tomorrow I take the train into the city to start my first day of work. I took the same train a week ago for my interview, and rain was coming down while I looked out the window at the city. The windows on Metra trains are tainted a light and sickly shade of green, making the industrial not-yet-ruins that line the tracks even more achingly beautiful. I love when it's raining and everything around is covered with rust, and you can see skylights that are half sprayed-painted white and rusty pipes protruding from the roofs of warehouses. For me, that's the essence of cities like Chicago, Detroit, and Pittsburgh... though the heart and soul differ vastly, there's the same familiar skeleton of rust and forgotten wiring. All along the train tracks, there are patches of gnarled trees, cracked rubber tires, and fallen leaves that all seem to sprout from mounds of garbage. It looks as if the buildings and the ground itself are subject to seasons, just like the things that live in them. Like a tree sheds its foliage, grows darker when soaked, and bends in the wind, the brick and mortar buildings seem to hunker down, as if shielding themselves from the elements, and I could swear that all the paint peeled off at first frost, and that everything will grow back spick and span when the snow melts and life starts churning again. Mostly unrelated -- I was just cleaning out my bookbag and wondering what to put in it, like it's the first day of school again. With two fingers, I gingerly lifted out a couple of dirty pens, not knowing which one had burst. One of them said "New Trier 1999 Saving the Best for Last," and the other, "Elder Hall 2000-2001 'Respect Your Elder.'" I never gave any thought to these silly slogans until I actually had to wipe away the ink to remember them and throw them away, but they sure take me back. The first makes me think of senior year of high school, and of squirming in my chair during some endless talk about "the real world," and daydreaming about what college would be. None of these daydreams even hinted that the fact college would end, or even finish starting. All I ever thought of and expected was an endless blur of new: new knowledge, new experiences, and stuff that would no doubt need new words to be described. It never occured to me that, after a few years of it, I would seem all jaded and cynical, (subconsciously) looking down my nose at people who were taking steps that -- groan -- I had already taken. The other pen is the same sort of thing -- it brings me back to sitting in the dining hall freshman year, twirling the pen as I did some homework and looking at hot girls with "Respect Your Elder" T-shirts. I would daydream the same sorts of things as I had, of 2000-2001 as an endless blur of year, one that would never end and would keep exposing me to new things. And two years later, I would walk by Elder and half-jealously shake my head at all the kids filing in and out, talking loudly or drunkenly about who knows what. I hate knowing what something feels like, already. The hell of it is-- when I close my eyes and imagine the next two months, the next six, the next year, before I can go ahead and act, I'll sit idly and wonder, how am I going to do? How much money will I make? When will I buy a house? When will I get married? Where will I go on vacation? What will I accomplish? And it seems like there are tons of possibilities, all of which I can see and will get to choose from when the time comes. But then it'll end. Will I be sitting in a chair, tired by all I've seen, looking at people run by and do the same things I already did? I'm sure I will eventually, but the point, however poorly expressed, is: I don't want to think about anything other than the moment right now. I need to remember that there is such a thing as the unknown and embrace it. Mood: thoughtful Music: Bob Dylan - Tangled Up in Blue

	2003.11.05  22.39 the cheat is not dead Yeah, so actual news for a change -- the suspense is over; I'm finally starting work on Monday, after months of speculating, goofing around, teef-gnashing and the cetera. Though it would have been nice to start working two months ago, now is as good a time as any, and I'm certainly glad of this particular job. I'll be learning to be a trader at Jump Trading downtown; trading is certainly an exciting occupation, and it's a game I would very much like to be good at. This paragraph is a shout-out to Andy, who helped me get this job, and will be working with me. Whoever thought that high school scholastic bowl opponents, one from a straight-laced all-boys' catholic school and the other from a hip, quirky, high-flying public powerhouse, could grow up, become friends, and do something constructive? The truth is stranger than sitcoms. I'm definitely glad that I will be working soon; no longer does everything feel up in the air and tentative, and I can start making plans and building some kind of coherent life. Hah. Right now I'm living with my parents, and it looks like I'm going to stick around for a while. I'd like to move into the city around springtime, which gives me plenty of time to figure out exactly where. There's so much city, and only so much me. Lincoln Park? The Gold Coast? The dumpster behind the Golden Nugget? Maybe the balcony at the Metro or the Wrigley Field nosebleeds? SUSIE'S BEEF? I also started learning how to play guitar, which is a lot of fun... I now have a beautiful black Fender Strat, which for multiple reasons I have named Inverness. Mood: buoyant Music: Garbage - Stupid Girl (why not?)

	2003.11.04  18.31 I dreamt I was Bluto, and Karen O. was Olive Oyl. No, I didn't, but you can tell from the subject of this entry that I am indeed writing about one of those times when my amazing powers of intuition made an incredible projection. I'm not quite psychic, but... NEARLY A YEAR AGO, I was writing about "supergroups" rising from the ashes of great defunct alternative acts, using Zwan and Audioslave as examples of such mixed results. At the end, I guessed, "What's next? James Iha and Tool?" (Note to Dave: Santana and Michelle Branch were already working together). Well, the day has come. A Perfect Circle, which is James Maynard Keenan's bloated, "artsy," more mainstream-rock side project from Tool, added James Iha and Twiggy Ramirez to its membership rolls sometime during the summer, about half a year after I guessed as much. Feel free to tell me how much you love me. Mood: amused Music: Smashing Pumpkins - Mayonnaise

	2003.10.27  23.16 what's the deal with ovaltine? it comes in a round mug What's the problem recently with people writing books that mean more than they actually mean? It isn't turning out well, and I feel like bitching about it right now. Let's talk about two books I've read recently that were rather entertaining on the surface, but become rather disconcerting when faced with deeper scrutiny: "The Life of Pi" (Yann Martel, 2001) and "The Great American Novel" (Philip Roth, 1971). WARNING: SPOILERS. ( Read more... ) Mood: aggravated Music: Grandaddy - The Saddest Vacant Lot in All the World

	2003.10.26  22.11 sophisticated potty humor Gene and I went to Premier yesterday, and the seedy pool hall is worth commenting once again. This time, we spent over four hours, playing perhaps 40 games. The game was heavily mental, which means that Gene and I whispered terrible things to each other, designed to put the other off his game. The first ten or so were pretty evenly split, but Gene really started getting into his groove and was able to kick my ass consistently. On the plus side, I learned to rack it up like a badass. Of course, a major part of the entertainment was the constant parade of foreigners with slicked-back hair and often voluble gibberish; of course, Gene and I differed from the crowd mainly in terms of hairstyle. I have none, and he sports some kind of Qing dynasty queue. Before this entry gets any more stupid, I will get to the point. In one of my glances at the next table, I witnessed something marvelous. There was a group of 30-something men, and one of them was lining up for a shot -- behind the back, but still a gimme, as the ball was sitting right up next to the pocket. I made no secret of watching him, and after he missed, he turned and smiled at me, partly shrugging his shoulders. The smile was rapturous; it reminded me of nothing more than a baby's when he is about to shit himself, and is completely reconciled to that fact. He was reveling in the fact that he was about to shit himself. He was reveling in his lack of bowel control. Later, after grudgingly admitting to Gene that I had slopped one, I told him, "A man has only two things: his integrity, and the possibility he might lose all bowel control at any moment." Mood: sympathetic Music: Death Cab For Cutie - New Year

	2003.10.22  14.16 the cruelest cut You know, haircuts are an area of life that I'm not sure if I'll ever get used to; every time I go for a haircut, I get a little bit lazier, and the result is imperfect control over my destiny. This is because haircuts are hard to describe, especially for us men. Just as it's difficult to differentiate between vermillion, fuschia, maroon, and red #9, it's tough to tell the stylist/barber/pruner what I want, or even to know what I want. What are the options? In the past, I've often asked for "um, uh, the same way it is now, but shorter." I feel stupid every time I say that, because it tugs at my internal senses of propriety and consistency -- how can it be same, if it's different? Isn't a head of hair a marvelously complex system of interlocking components whose very nature changes when some of those components are altered? I feel guilty judging such an impenetrable mystery, especially if I am to turn around and ask it to do anything. So, really, the choice is between "1950's executive" and "deliciously insouciant movie star." Unsatisfactory. This is why women have a leg up. Not only do they generally care about their appearance more, it seems like there's a whole realm of choices available to them. On the most basic level, they can say, "a few inches off the end, and so and so with the bangs." As far as I'm concerned, a bang is something that happens in a porno movie, or with fireworks purchased in Wisconsin. More savvy ladies have more ideas at their finger-tips: "I'll have a February 1996 Jennifer Aniston, please." So, knowing it was about that time, I sashayed into the Hair Cuttery, thinking about how to keep it simple. Last time, I had just asked the lady to go over it with a clipper, and it didn't turn out too badly, so I figured I would be safe once again. This time, however, I was greeted by an old man at the entrance. His hair was not merely gray -- it had been gray, and then white, before finally acquiring a yellow patina like parchment. I had to repeat everything twice to him, and after I had initiated the idea of having short hair, he gently pressed me to consider ever smaller clipper sizes. I steadfastly asked for a "5," and he took my fragile head in his hands and started removing my beautiful brown hair. I left the establishment slightly embarrassed, but safe in the knowledge that it will grow back -- albeit haphazardly and not nearly as stylishly as it could. Alas, I am going to have to find a John Deere hat for my next public appearances. Mood: loopy Music: Broken Social Scene

	2003.10.19  22.34 rows of gas stations Gene and I went to Premier to shoot some pool, and we encountered plenty of Russians there. Among them was a huge bear of a man, wearing leather pants and talking loudly in Russian to his slightly (very?) Eurotrashy girlfriend. He asked us if we were Russian, and he told me "nice shot" at one point. It made me feel all warm inside, like a healthy dose of vodka during the coldest day in February on the shores of Lake Baikal. Gene's play steadily improved as he drank Guinness (and later a white Russian, in honor of our new friend). Damn, is it sexy how Eastern European women pronounce "Guinness." Next stop was the Zephyr Cafe, a healthy 45 minutes away. Gene had the savoury counterpart to the War of the Worlds, called the Great Zephyr. It didn't approach the epic size of a ten-scoop sundae, but it made up for volume with the sheer audacity of flavor: it involved English muffins, with ham and turkey under a sea of melted cheddar cheese. As if that weren't enough of a late-night diner feast, it included a side of various deep-deep-deep-fried (and no doubt battered in the blood of a thousand extinct species of animals) vegetables. Gene got loopier and loopier as the evening wore on, until this exchange was typical of the returning car ride. G: (out of the blue) WTF is this astronomy bullshit? J: What? G: (pointing to the White Castle sign) IO Cheeseburgers with drink fries $1032 J: $1032??? Is that Jupiter dollars or American dollars? Also, on a more serious note, I read an excellent book the last few days. It was Haruki Murakami's "Norwegian Wood," the story of a college student who, in 1969-70, deals with his relationship with society and two women. I really identified with the protagonist, who has a really detached viewpoint of the world and is struggling to find his place in it. It followed in the vein of several of the Japanese (and hell, F. Scott Fitzgerald) novels I've loved, with lots of alienation, death, and most importantly, raw and vulnerable humanity.

	2003.10.19  21.55 Instead of figures, I will make use of nouns and verbs, detailing two exciting events I attended earlier in the week. MONDAY: Mahvish and I went to go see a talk by Dave Eggers, best-selling author of "A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius" and "You Shall Know Our Velocity!" He talked about Mark Twain's "A Tramp Abroad," perhaps in an effort to make it sound bitchin' for a young audience. He -- and Twain -- were hilarious. He was 12 hours removed from having been in Iceland, and he had a bunch of things to say about Scandinavians' drinking habits, and he highlighted Twain's sense of humor quite nicely. The sidelight of the speech was his friend Dominic, one of the Lost Boys of Sudan, guys who at an early age were forced to march to escape from their native country. He, of course, got sidetracked and didn't arrive until the meet-and-greet/autograph session... his story was truly amazing and I won't recount it here, for fear of stealing the thunder of Mr. Egger's upcoming biography for him. I finally got to say hi to Dave after about an hour of standing, and he signed my book "JAN! AT LAST GODDAMMIT." Dominic signed my book as well. TUESDAY: I saw a Northwestern-wide speech given by Michael Moore, of "Bowling for Columbine" fame. It's hard to repeat what he said here, but it was a pretty decent speech. He was extremely pissed off at George W. Bush and the neo-cons, urging political action in getting him out of office. That's what I've been talking about since before he was elected President. Michael Moore touted the merits of Wesley Clark as a Democratic candidate, so my curiosity is piqued. Before the speech, we had the pleasure of being searched by a team of "WMD inspectors" who, oddly, did not find the nuclear warhead in my back pocket. I was given a nice certificate, specifying that I was WMD Free! Yippee! I also have a "Dude, Where's My Country?" bumper sticker now. Mood: accomplished Music: cure - pictures of you

	2003.10.15  22.53 It's gotten awful cold all of a sudden, now that the summer is over. "Nobody on the road Nobody on the beach I feel it in the air The summer's out of reach Empty lake, empty streets The sun goes down alone" -- Don Henley, The Boys of Summer

	2003.10.14  00.29 12-21 ZQV Here's another poem. This sort of poem I wouldn't be able to write without "Pulp Fiction" or "O Brother Where Art Thou." I really, really like this one, so maybe this will brighten someone's day. Our Blues I first met the devil On a former Indiana prairie. He wore an array of pocket watch chains And workmen's overalls, A toothsome grin with nothing underneath. He picked cotton in the fields And broke rocks with chain gangs, I guessed, just to watch them suffer. He waves his hand, no, that's not it, He tries to lift them up before they fall again. He gives himself familiar names, Is affable, and keeps collections Of unbelievable facts, Russian novels Of which he is the title character, And mounted insects. Told his hovel stinks of camphor, He shrugs it off; Their hovels smell uncultured. We ride together To the next town With encyclopedias to sell And stories to unload... You should see the way he holds his fork With Judas' soul at stake, Stray hash-brown bits dangling. Over easy, runny yolks could be the molten lake. He gets quiet sometimes When I ask about his home town, Who the King of Darkness is, Where he'd be if anywhere but here. He just stares down into the plate Or ahead, at the road. He says the radio never plays his blues, John Lee Hooker's woman Never done him wrong on air. At a dive, I dig my grimy fingers down And find a dime, surprising him With "Dusty Road," "No Shoes," and "Bundle Up and Go." His nose hovers just above the bottle - Dusty, he is Midas for dust - And his eyes meet themselves Somewhere inside the mirror Behind the bar. A foot of his taps, He peels the label off his Pabst. If the locals knew his names, They might note his lack of interest In parching their eternal souls, The near-water in his eyes As he turns his head and asks me Where we'll ride tomorrow.

	2003.10.14  00.11 spec 4F The content of my livejournal has been getting rather iffy... almost all concert reviews (you will get your damn culture in a subsequent entry), interrupted every once in a while by a bright and jaunty travelogue, be it across the Atlantic or the Mississippi. I would write about life and stuff, but I'm really confused right now. I feel like I'm not settled enough to start anything, meet any new people; I'll feel guilty doing anything until I have some kind of job and some kind of stable routine (and cash flow), and it's just going to take a while to find a good one. In the meantime, it's a lot of guessing and wondering and second-guessing. That's what we call a digression. What I really wanted to do was entertain and edify you with a poem... the fun part of this one was translating the polish speech to feel rhythmic. Solidarity Every madman or agent provocateur Who dares raise a hand against the people's rule Can be sure that very hand will be lopped off In the interest of the working class, the yeomen And intelligentsia, the interest of struggle For a higher living standard for the people, The interest of more democratic life In our great fatherland. -adapted from a speech given by Josef Cyrankiewicz, Soviet apparatchik Rain outside again, And honey curdles on the table. Hands work And mouths pretend to work Eyes can never pretend And mouths do not pretend to hunger. The people are supposed to stream And so they flock to bread lines Shortages and public projects And surrogates for church. Her stitching pushes on the clock And hastens husband's coming from the dock. Mood: anxious Music: Bjork - Bachelorette

	2003.10.07  23.13 we all love to fuck the cause (?) Last night, the scene was at the Abbey Pub, home of Irish food and, more importantly, great live music. The band was Broken Social Scene, the Canadian sensation, and Erin and I made the trip down to 3420 W. Grace not without incident (i.e. driving the wrong way down one-way streets). We went to Susie's beforehand, and really, introducing a new person to Susie's brings me so much joy. Some people evangelize, but for me, the best fries on Earth are all I need. The grease is icing on the cake. Opening bands: Jason Collett and Metric, who all ended up playing with Broken Social Scene and sort of belong to BSS. Jason Collett was wearing a blue sportscoat with golden stripes at the cuffs, so we called him the Admiral. By logical extension, the BSS members backing him up were the Seamen. You can't accuse me of having grown up. It's nice, though, when the band is part of the crowd to watch. Jason Collett started by working a solo acoustic schtick and slowly adding instruments and embellishments. Nothing exceptional; ran out of lyrics and just repeated the same lines over and over. Metric was a mad crazy electro-pop outfit, led by Emily Haines of BSS. She was like some kind of elfin robot on stage, trying out scary deep voices and a little-girl wail, all the while making spastic movements, half doing a military march and half seducing the mike stand. Her lyrics seemed to mix a lot of war and romance, but they were hard to understand (Canadian accent?). It made me wonder what would happen if she had a love (or hate) child with the guy from Hot Hot Heat. The bassist was equally awesome, with dreadlocks and funky dance moves, but the overall mix was so-so. There were some nice, long building numbers near the end, but meh. Broken Social Scene. Ahhh. They opened by talking about their tour and how they were still digesting Vegan soul food and how much they loved Chicago, moving into some long, languid jams and smooth transitions between songs, 8 people on stage at a time. There was a lot of new stuff, some of it leaving not much of an impression, some of it awesome, like "Song 333" (technically by KC Accidental, a band consisting of some members of BSS). Every song dripped with energy, however, from a sweet version of "Looks Just Like the Sun," which wasn't that great on the album, to the more rocking numbers, like "Stars and Sons" and "Cause = Time." The band bantered a little bit with the crowd, and I was amused by the talk about Canada. They said it's just getting better over there while the US regresses, but when the Democrats are back in power, we're still going to be whining. So true. At least we won't be sent to Gitmo Bay for whining. Then the second half of the set was on, with Emily Haines, and the band took it to new heights with a hypnotic "Anthems for a Seventeen-Year-Old Girl" and an incendiary "Almost Crimes." I was swaying, totally enveloped in the music. It was a great feeling, and it was great to see the band in the same state. They didn't look so much like monstrous alien gods, like Keith Richards or Johnny Greenwood. They looked like real people, loving what they were doing and doing what they love. Instead of an encore, they brought it home with a nice, long stop-start number with hints of grunge; still essential Broken Social Scene. It was the kind of show that made me admire every moment of a band's oeuvre even more than I did before. After the show, I chatted with the lead singer a bit, and he signed my copy of "You Forgot It In People." He seemed so happy to have people come and see him, which I guess is understandable from a man whose band was impossibly obscure just 8 months ago. Also, I got him to proposition Erin... really, I'm willing to do what it takes to hook my friends up with genial rock stars, but they have to take the final steps and seal the deal. I fully expect my friends to reciprocate (Erin, you're telling Liz Phair to proposition me, if we ever meet her). I guess, with her musical career in decline, Liz Phair is going to have to resort to a well-turned trick to keep living in the lap of luxury. After leaving the show, I was in a state of low, mellow bliss. Everything just seemed to glide by beautifully; I felt the same way after seeing "Lost in Translation." Which is why you have to see it. Because the way I feel is important, Live Journal Reader. Or else I wouldn't be writing this, and you wouldn't be reading it. Mood: ecstatic Music: Broken Social Scene - Cause = Time

	2003.10.03  17.22 happy songs for happy people I dream in post-rock. I believe I have this in common with the dolphins, who possess an intelligence superior to man's. That being said, I went to the Metro last night for a Mogwai concert with xoruglm. There were two opening acts in this one, one of them starting before the scheduled beginning of the show. Thus, with no fanfare or hullabaloo, with only the first twenty-five or so people there, the first act was Lights Out Asia, a guitarist with a CCCP sweatshirt, a laptop-keyboardist, and a bassist who looked like a stoner Heath Ledger. It was a nice, dreamy, exercise, with languid beats that seemed to be pulled from the Robert Miles playbook, bass that sounded like a heart thumping, and a distorted guitar that was way too soft in the mix. They assembled the package with not too much skill, but they were nice. Some guy in the front row fell down, and the guitarist helped him up. The next act, Boas, looked like a bunch of long haired hippy-freak rock stars, and didn't do much to impress me. They introduced themselves as "White with Power," and laid down a muddle of unfocused jams, blues influences, and God knows what else. The lead guitarist/singer was wearing a cap that looked like it was straight out of Dickens. Then Mogwai came on. I knew we would be in for something special, as the roadies brought out a bust of Jesus and took painstaking efforts to make sure it was well lit. Also, preparing drinks for the band, they brought out two cans of Guinness for the second guitarist. Of course, there were also the guitars with Scottish flags on them, and a frontman who didn't shy away from a funny banter. Imagine a short, sort of furry Scotsman talking about a show they played in a bowling alley last year, and saying, "There's some strange people here... all are welcome." It went ever uphill from there. No word would have described it better than "intense." Mogwai went for the sky, stuffing its setlist full of its long build-and-release instrumentals, and the only band I had ever seen that was remotely so loud was Queens of the Stone Age. What a contrast! Where QOTSA was a muddle of an indecipherable wall of sound, Mogwai's sound was clean and crisp. Here, the acoustics were fantastic; you could pick up every single chord and every little nuance, even when all four guitarists were going at full speed. Case in point was "Mogwai Fear Satan," a 15-minute-long piece that alternately lulled and threatened to burst the eardrums. It ranked up there with Sonic Youth's "Karen Revisited" and Radiohead's "True Love Waits" as one of my favorite songs performed live. Even during the moments where the lead guitarist's face was clenched in a kind of orgiastic fury, every detail came out perfectly. Any other band this loud would have left me clutching my aching head, but this was a high with no hangover. They also played two other songs I was most hoping to hear, "Ithaca" and "Helicon 1." Even if they hadn't, I would have been thoroughly satisfied. Mood: bored Music: Mogwai - Helicon 1

	2003.10.03  17.14 holla? I came across this in the New Yorker today. The picture is really big, so I'm going to LJ cut it. ( Read more... )

	2003.09.17  23.59 Came across an interesting post on Flax's website, about September 11th. Scroll down a bit on: http://www.bigflax.com/september03.htm I felt compelled to nod my head, and this is my answer to him: Hey Flax, I just read your post on Sept. 11th, and I'd like to throw in my 2 cents. Good stuff, but you tended to conflate "patriotism" with "support for the government." I like to consider myself as someone who is patriotic, and very distrustful of the government, so it would be wise to separate these terms. I would think patriotism is a kind of respect and love for the WHOLE country, which includes its people and its institutions. Unfortunately, one of our most important institutions is rotten to the core, and I'm not going to disagree with you that there are many who confuse the tumor for the limb. Though I thankfully didn't have any family members involved in Sept. 11th, I felt deeply affected, and thinking about it often gives me the white shivers. Partly because, as a new arrival to this country, I'm particularly sensitive to, and appreciative of, the institutions that make this country great. One thing that Sept. 11th made clear is that there are two kinds of people who contribute to history: there are people who create things and there are people who think destruction is a legitimate mode of human activity. It's infuriating, and nobody can point a finger at it, because the Profit Bias (go Franken) in the media will immediately say "you're saying there are white people and non-white people, so whitey good, others bad," which is obviously not the case. What Sept. 11th has brought about is that the people who run our government belong to the second class, of those who can't even imagine doing something positive and instead will tear people and things down. The neo-cons, if you think about it, are no better than thugs who drive-by shoot their classmates to settle a grudge, rather than working and accomplishing something. Their categories of "evil" and "good" often describe parts of the same thing. Meanwhile, the Republicans divert billions to the military, enough to substantially increase the quality of education for every student, something which might actually bring about the "equality of opportunity" which is lacking from American reality. Do they think killing is going to bring it about for every citizen of the world? Alas, it might be necessary, but some of the people in our government will not stop to ponder the next step, other than filling their pockets. This unfortunate section of the human condition spits in the face of the America I feel patriotism for. JZ Mood: angry Music: The Cure - Bloodflowers

	2003.08.29  09.13 I think the casting here is impeccable (Gene is probably going to bust a gut when he sees what star would be tabbed to play me). My LiveJournal Sitcom emperorjan's House (TNN, 11:00): emperorjan (Calista Flockhart) auditions for a movie starring opposite falola (Christina Ricci). Later, mathteacher (Dustin Hoffman) hits on queenvish (Tom Cruise)'s co-worker. Soon afterwards, nordicglow (Peter Fonda) keeps accidentally stepping on dinidan2 (Gene Wilder)'s foot. Then, xoruglm (Bridgette Wilson) oversleeps and misses lunch with eviljared (Kim Cattrall). That weekend, amilne (John Ritter) buys a wheelbarrow from shenkerian (Jon Favreau). Zany antics follow. What's Your LiveJournal Sitcom? (by rfreebern)

	2003.08.25  15.12 the gloaming I'm only finally getting around to writing about it now, since I've hardly been able to believe it the past few days. Saturday evening was the Radiohead concert at the Alpine Valley music theater, and the crew involved me, Gene, Moya, and Kasia. We left home shortly after 2 PM for the hour-and-a-half drive, to find that we were among the first cars there, ending up fairly close in the parking lot. This would prove to be fairly bad. By the time we lined up at the gate, it was 4:30 or so, and we found ourselves in decent position going in, half an hour later. As soon as it was opened, we ran on down to the lawn. With the hot sun above, Gene and I started looking at our tickets in dumbfounded appreciation, and we thought to ourselves: why do we have seat numbers??? We thought we were up on the lawn. After all, the guy who sold Gene the tickets said they were all out of pit seats. However, upon asking, we found out we were in the pit, and we ran down there as fast as we could. Before the dust settled, we were 10 feet from the stage, marvelling at the scads and scads of equipment. There was everything: the racks of guitars, the ondes martenet, and several square feet of paranoia. It took some work to survive the next two hours, but we whiled away the time by playing cards, taking turns walking around, and the suchlike. The opening act actually came on early - 6:45, and it was Stephen Malkmus and the Jicks. It was nice to see that he can still rock, and the drummer was Kenneth Branaugh on uppers. Though the music itself was pretty decent, the fun of the set concentrated around SM's smart mouth and audience banter. He congratulated the girl in front who was the first person there, telling her that she had walked right past Phil Selway without noticing. He happened to be sitting at the mixing board, and I waved - HE WAVED BACK (sort of sarcastically and melodramatically). SM also threw a dollar bill at the audience and foamed at the mouth. I yelled for him to play "Summer Babe" (an old Pavement song) and he was like, "Yeah, whatever." Then started the waiting for the main event, as all the guitar techs tuned them up. This was nice too, since we got to see the guitars. One of Thom Yorke's has a sticker with a panda that says, "I miss you," and his guitars have "Hello Kitty" stickers. The greatest, though, is Jonny Greenwood's guitar, which has a big HONDA motorcycle sticker on it: a big black wing with HONDA written underneath. As he tore music out of it, it became one of the most beautiful things I'd ever seen. And the show started, bathed with lights and fog, and it was odd from the very start: every member of Radiohead was smiling like a big idiot! It started with "2+2=5," and Colin Greenwood, bass slung across his back, was jumping up and down, smiling and waving his arms. Stepping back during a break from his guitar, Ed O'Brien would look down and the crowd with just this look of awe. Thom Yorke could only be described as a bouncing bundle of joy, and Jonny and Phil were rapt, eyes closed. It was incredible. And the music didn't disappoint either. After "Sit Down, Stand Up," the next song was "Kid A," a song I don't like that much, but the group played a stripped-down, clearer version. They went on to alternate new material (thank you for "Where I End and You Begin"!) with bigger, classic tracks such as "Lucky," "Paranoid Android," and "Fake Plastic Trees," (probably my 3 favorite songs) and they brought out one advantage of live Radiohead, which is that they really find common ground between seemingly disparate material. With an 8-year gap between "Fake Plastic Trees" and "Backdrifts" or "Go to Sleep," it's simply awe-inspiring to see Jonny Greenwood ascending to the same stratosphere on those black HONDA wings. One of the great moments of the concert was definitely seeing him cut loose on "Backdrifts." "There There" was also elevated to the level of the big rock songs from the Bends, with Jonny and Ed banging manically at their drum kits, shrouded in deep purple light and fog. There was something primal going on. Thom Yorke's schtick was beautiful, as well. He was doing the whitest possible dances all through the concert, making everything seem like some kind of magic act. Being so close to the stage, it was also interesting to see just how small and sprightly he was. He sounded almost like a child (or Gollum) introducing "Myxomatosis," a "dirty song for dirty people," and he got everyone's ass moving for "Idioteque." Nonetheless, these are just a fraction of the incredible moments that happened. There was "Karma Police," a beautiful "Everything in its Right Place," and even "Just" and "No Surprises." Unbelievable.

	2003.08.21  19.08 fear and loathing in glenview Consistent thematic material not required. This will probably be not so entertaining, as I am not allowed to divulge the purpose of my excursions about Glenview, cruising through craft stores. Or, it could be more entertaining. Needless to say, around dinnertime, Gene and I went out into the wide world to look for rubber stamps. Preferably, it would be a complete alphabet set, along with some bizarre symbol(s). Our first stop was a small arts and crafts store in the heavily commercial section of Morton Grove (you know, in a strip mall with endless square miles of parking and no tree cover whatsoever). After a little bit of searching, we found the stamp materials and paraphernalia, but it was all too amateurish. We were looking for something professional. Something industrial-grade. Unfortunately, it all looked like it was designed for Middle American schoolteachers with bad handwriting, and a little bit on the expensive side too. We went up to one of the cashiers to ask her where we might find more, and better, rubber stamps. By the check-out, there was an array of candy like we hadn't seen since high school, apparently to help stay-at-home moms assuage the rampant desires of the kids they might have in tow as they troll for Halloween table settings (it's less than eleven weeks away, after all). There were Airheads and Giant Pixie Sticks. Gene found some mints in a tin with a dragon on it, and decided after much deliberation not to get it (2.99 for a tin? no). We finally got around to asking the sixteen-year-old girl at the register, but I didn't have much hope that she would be able to tell us what we needed to know about something as obscure as rubber stamps. However, as the late-afternoon sunlight bled carelessly in through the window, we got to listen to a full lecture on the various craft stores in Glenview, culminating in the recommendation that the new Michaels in Glenview has a fully extravagant selection. If it were possible to find what we were looking for, we would find it there. I barely listened, as it was fully weird that we were two young men in a craft store, surrounded by white-haired ladies and asking a young girl about where to find rubber stamps. At that moment, I felt like everything was a decoy, and I found it hard not to break into a run on the way back to the car, leaving it all as far behind as possible. The selection of stamps at Michaels was stupendiferous, but they still didn't have what we needed. In unrelated(?) action, the next day, I learned that too much peanut butter isn't necessarily a good thing. Mike and I finally watched "A Guy Thing," by way of my ghetto pirated Polish copy, where, in order to turn on/off the Polish subtitles, you use the quizzically named "Espanol" option. The movie was pretty dark and bad for a screwball romantic comedy, but there were two things that stood out as genius. 1) Julia Stiles. oh yes. 2) one scne, where Paul (Jason Lee) is trying to explain to his fiance (Selma Blair) why he has (the irresistable Julia Stiles') panties in his apartment. At first, I though, "crap, he's going to feed her a dumb excuse and she's going to believe him in order to develop the character by demonstrating her naive trust." Fortunately, it turned out to be a little bit more complex than that. He feeds her the excuse that he bought her the panties once (from a bin at the SpendMart) and then decided to get her something else (of course that's why they were hidden in the toilet tank). When she notices they're dirty, he yells, "Those fuckers sold me dirty underwear!" and she urges him to call them and complain. He calls, and the sales representative at first furrows his brow at hearing about an underwear bin at his store. After thinking a bit, he apologizes profusely and offers an exchange. When a woman at the check-out counter overhears and asks him about the non-existent underwear bins, he says, "It's a guy thing." Pure genius. The downside of this movie-watching experience (of course, Julia Stiles and the aforementioned scene made up for its lack of quality) was that I decided eating peanut butter with a spoon would be a good accompaniment. By the time the movie was over, I had a wicked headache, and I ended up having vivid nightmares all night. Punishment from the peanut butter gods for my hubris: buying peanut butter for the explicit purpose of eating it with a spoon. Mood: squirrelly-looking Music: Radiohead - Climbing Up the Walls

	2003.08.14  09.15 LiveJournal Haiku! Your name: emperorjan Your haiku: just got back from the a o concert starring queens of the universe Username: Created by Grahame

	2003.08.11  23.19 the things I read During my trip(s), I spent in excess of a hundred hours on planes, trains, and automobiles, as well as a fair share of time lazing on couches... as a corollary to my travels, I'd like to share a synopsis of all the books I read, stopping at random bookstores all over Europe when I found myself without anything to read. If you'd like to borrow any of these books, and if you actually exist, please ask. In more-or-less chronological order: Positively Fifth Street by James McManus This is a true journalism potboiler about the seedy underworld of Vegas, coupled with the author's efforts at the 2000 World Series of Poker (a legitimate player, he finished 5th). If you're a poker nut like I am, it's an entertaining (but sordid) read, and really quick too. Lie Down in Darkness by William Styron This book came on a glowing recommendation (by a young Hunter S. Thompson), and it did not disappoint. This story, set in the waning days of the South, is the saga of a twisted family, written by the author in his mid twenties. Unbelievably psychologically profound and poetically written too. This is a pretty difficult book, but if you're looking on the morose side, I would recommend it highly. Bear v. Shark by Chris Bachelder This is a sort of a post-modern fable, based on a future America where the national consciousness is engrossed by a digitized form of entertainment that enacts the question "Who would win in a fight: a bear or a shark?" Though it's certainly a wonderful thought experiment, I'm not sure if the book is well developed enough to warrant a reading. Survivor by Chuck Palahniuk Another quick read, this time by the author of "Fight Club." This meditation on death, commercialism, and celebrity (just like his other books) is a very engrossing book, and the author's sense for detail is probably the most compelling element of the book. The end, though, left me wondering, "What's the point?" The World We're In by Will Hutton This is an 800-page political manifesto (hell, I spent 5 hours waiting for my train from Berlin to Warsaw), coming from a refreshing viewpoint outside of the United States. It's basically an argument for why the UK should follow Europe's model of government, rather than that of the US. It examines some of the problems a conservative resurgency might cause in the US (an idea I'm sympathetic to), while also highlighting some fundamental differences in the attitudes of US government and the European governments, on the subject of welfare, taxation, etc. It's going to be published in the US as A Declaration of Interdependence. Life of Pi by Yann Martel This amazing story of a young Indian boy's emigration to Canada (by way of a horrific shipwreck and 227 days on a life raft with a Bengal Tiger) is written to sound like it actually happened, and one of the things that makes the reader go on is incredulity: could it? Did it? The main theme of the story, which the author is not shy about repeating, is religion, and Pi Patel's story is a story "that will make you believe in God." I'm not sure about that, but it's an interesting read nonetheless. Sophie's Choice by William Styron This book, written by Styron in 1978, recounts a story from a 22-year-old first-person narrator's PoV in 1947 that is incredibly similar to Styron. Though he has a penchant for unnecessarily using big words, this story is so gripping -- not least because it is more or less true -- that I'm not surprised some people count it as a classic of American Literature. I don't think you could come upon a grittier and less-sugar-coated story of the Holocaust, all the more so because it contrasts the horror with a comfortable middle-class existence like any of ours. I was deeply affected from page one, and I almost bawled my eyes out at the end. I feel like a whole life has been invested in this book. The Crying of Lot 49 by Thomas Pynchon For the first 50 pages, I had no clue what I was reading. For the next 100 pages, I thought, this is amazing, even though I have no clue what I'm reading. At the end, I thought, "Is this it?" That's Pynchon for you. Pale Fire by Vladimir Nabokov This novel has a very clever structure -- it's disguised as a series of commentary notes to a long poem by one of the novel's main characters. Nabokov's style is really bloated and pedantic, though. Think 300 pages of Baby Stewie, but actually serious. To his credit, it helps fulfill the author's goal of making the reader dislike the fatuous and pitiful protagonist, but who cares? I could have read something else. Microcosm by Norman Davies Davies is a very thorough European historian, and this book, that I'm reading right now, is a history of Wroclaw/Breslau, a Polish city, that, due to its climate of changing political alliances and cultures, is a microcosm of all of Central Europe. Mood: sleepy Music: Mogwai - Mogwai Fear Satan

	2003.08.10  21.38 How I Spent My Summer Vacation During the time I spent in Europe, I didn't really have a good opportunity to post in my livejournal, but I did keep a substantial travel journal of the most interesting parts of my trip. Here's a timeline of my July: July 1st (Chicago): Went to the White Stripes concert, which was wonderful. I asked Meg White to marry me, and she smiled. She didn't say no. Watch out, ladies, you have some competition. July 3rd: traveled to Krakow, the traditional home of the Zasowski family, with my dad July 13th: saw my dad off, took the night train to Berlin July 16th: flew to London July 21st: traveled to Warsaw July 24rd: visited Prague with aunt and grandma July 27th: back to Krakow August 3rd: back to the USA August 5-9: St. Thomas (that's another story) I have to say, any time in Krakow is memorable and wonderful. As soon as I get a hold of Kasia, I will have a reprisal of the old, famous "Jezus jest super!" picture. Anything involving Maciek, my favorite cousin, is a trip. He is currently interning at a brewery, so the implication is pretty immediate: lots of beer. Also, there was an immense amount of family fun, which mostly centered around playing bridge. What I wouldn't give to have 4 people to a bridge game here! Krakow has quickly become my favorite Polish city because of the authentic historical district, the family connection, the nighttime ambiance, and the beautiful women. I want to go there again, soon. That being said, welcome to the entries having to do with my travel journal, which you will find by scrolling down. Music: Les Savy Fav - Disco Drive (of course)

	2003.08.08  22.02 London, Days III and IV The last two days of England. ( Read more... )

	2003.08.08  22.01 London, Day II, 7/18/03 Day II in London. ( Read more... )

	2003.08.08  21.59 London, Day I, 7/17/03 Day I in London. Sorry for the switching of tenses that starts to occur, but I guess I got excited writing this journal. ( Read more... )

	2003.08.08  21.57 Berlin, Day III, 7/16/03 Day III in Berlin. ( Read more... )