After Six Months of Empty Promises...

Delivery- and no one cares anymore. But alas, this proves that I'm not crazy. Back in...what, November? The Meat Puppets played at the Varsity Theater and the entire time, all I could think about was how much Cris Kirkwood looked like Eddie Van Halen. I'm not saying that anyone questioned this, seeing as how everyone was a LOSER and decided to go see Styx or stay home and play Guitar Hero (which is even more inexcusable considering the standard of cool set by todays "Rock Band" game, or whatever its called...I played it once...I love gin and can't recall anything but Garbage, literally...but that is an entirely different blog yet to be created). Either way, I've been consciously waiting for them to come back ever sense. Actually, I'd take Elmo Kirkwood- Kurt Kirkwood's son any day. He and Kurt played at least two years ago at the 400 Bar opening for Handsome Family and it was incredible, INCREDIBLE!! That was the night I met Kevin and his wife Michelle, unofficially for the third or fourth time. I happened to be working at the Co-op and they came in before I left for the day, and I made them some sandwiches. That night, I recognized them at the show so I tapped them on the shoulders and said, "Hey- didn't I make your dinner tonight??" Probably freaked them out a bit, but since that job happened I've seen Kevin all over the place, namely the coffee shop I work at now and the Heliotrope Fests, Turf Club, probably other places...anyway....there you have it. Cris Kirkwood and Eddie Van Halen- brothers from different mothers, or perhaps the same, as I've never studied eithers family tree. I'll leave that to my mother, that batty ol' genealogy nut.

We'll Start With This Past Saturday...

My attempts at posting regularly are futile.
I have 20 minutes to kill before I go meet up for lunch, which means I'm regrettably stuffing myself with leftover pastry I salvaged from work last night, and eating raspberries by the handfuls. No self control.
I agreed to work on Saturday at the flower shop for part of the day. I figured since I'd most likely be leaving my car at the station next door so they could first rape it, then rape me, I might as well walk next door and punch in so all of this raping could be done on the clock. Time spent at work went fine, I picked up my car around 5ish, expecting the worst, which I got. "Dave" tells me I'm going to need a new computer installed. It'd better be covered since its a job that'll cost thousands and thousands, and so far everything thats happened to it hasn't been. So much for that extended warranty. ( is that a hint of lemon in this filling?) I figure I have no choice but to take care of it, since I'm taking my unborn children to college in this car. Things tend to lead to other things, like telling some guy at the car place that I used to have dreds and listened to metal led him to give me a post-it note with his name and phone number on it. "You call me if you ever wanna get stoned." Umm, thank you?
So I get home from work, grab the mail, let the dog out, and sit down at the computer. I'm going through the missing children post cards, Bed Bath and Beyond discount post cards, and Wal-Mart (I thought this was Target country...) savings post cards. I find two letters from St. Kate's; the first one I opened was the acceptance letter. I kind of assumed that I'd get in since the admissions lady told me they accept 80-some percent of people who apply. What I didn't expect was the second letter telling me they'd awarded me a Dean's Scholarship for $3000 and an Academic Achievement Scholarship for $3500. I was psyched at first, but assuming that this Tuition Exchange waiver thing goes through, I won't see a penny of it. RIT will get it, which is fine I suppose, I mean, I'm waling away from this whole thing without any debt so how can I be bitter at all?
But what I really wanted to write about was the Meat Puppets show. I was right in front of the stage, and I couldn't get over the fact that Cris Kirkwood looks EXACTLY like Eddie Van Halen does now. Lunch time though, so I'll be putting up analytical pictures in the near future.

Bathtub Gin...Haha

Good Lord Phish references seem so dated. I'm only 23, was following them on tour 3 years ago, and yet it seems almost sour now. I cannot deny that I had an immense amount of fun, and at the time felt something so silly inside about the whole thing. In a good way. Calling myself a hippie now would almost seem as wrong as Ted Haggard still referring to himself as a Born Again. I guess I'm in a phase where I can't listen to them at all without cringing every time Trey says the word "brain", which happens every few lines, which Tom Marshall wrote anyway. I'm more in a Cramps/Patti Smith/Husker Du/Dinosaur Jr./Buck Owens phase right now. And there's always a little bit of Dire Straights and/or Elvis Costello in there too. But anyway, what I MEANT to say when I started writing this whole thing was

I'm going to take a bath everyday for the rest of my life. Or at least several times a week. Once a week if I can. Or maybe sometime again soon. I'll aim for that. I was in there thinking about coffee cans, coat hangers, and that random letter from someone in Japan I found under the radiator in the kitchen while sweeping when I first moved in here. The letter had been dated several years ago, which leads me to believe that the previous occupants (however many there were between the ones who received that letter and me) weren't very thorough with their cleaning. I'm sitting naked in a bathtub that suddenly became very slimy. "AND I USED BON AMI!!" If you're reading this and you get that reference, we're meant to be best friends forever.
None the less, I fell asleep in there tonight, and I wish I'd crawled into bed while my hair was still wet in the back; instead I made tea and went to the computer like a homeless person approaches a smoker. "I really don't want to talk to you, but lets be honest. I do. You need me as much as I need you. You'll feel better about yourself, and I'll be in check. Snap. <-- I can't even use that word anymore. My boss took it from me. It's too damn appropriate sometimes. Using that word is taking the easy way out of coming up with a situational adjective. That didn't make any sense whatsoever.
I'm cutting myself off now.
I just ate an orange. It was probably only the third one I've ever eaten, but I was disappointed. I will try again.
And I will try ice fishing sometime within the next 3 years.
fin. done.

Make Nothing Out of Something.

So this just needs to happen. It's needed to happen for a while. Friends have saved e-mails from me before and printed them out so I could read them eventually because they're either "crazy", "hilarious", or "made no sense whatsoever". In the last 30 seconds I've thought about saying "I'm going to use this space as a sort of 'e-mail to myself' kind of outlet", but thats just stupid. I could easily just send an e-mail to myself, literally, and forget this whole morning ever happened. But I'm sure, deep down, I want more than that. Hopefully this will become more than some kind of daily self serving expression napkin I can spit into whenever I need to get whatever "it" is out of my lungs. Good God- I can see already that this is going to help me work on my metaphors, my spelling (I've already started a game, myself vs. red underline...what percentage of the time can I get it right the first time- and how many tries before I look for options?), and hopefully this'll eventually become a portfolio of sorts when I attempt to find work in either writing or editing, or making copies, answering phones, and sorting mail in a place where writing and editing happens.
Everyday, I decide I've figured out exactly what I want to do. I was really excited about advertising last February. I even started applying to MCAD, thinking I'd be able to get a Bachelors from there in only 2 years since I've already gotten three and a half years of art school out of the way. One pencil drawing to complete my portfolio away and I decided that "advertising would probably be the most painful career I could ever force myself into trying to be passionate about." So a few months ago I started buying nutrition books on Amazon and convinced myself that I'd make a bitchen dietitian. I went to St. Kate's and talked to some people there, walked around the bookstore, then found the CHEMISTRY LABS where the majority of my classes would be held. F that in the A. I booked and decided that I'd never get my Bachelors in anything, let alone finish my P.H.d. by the time I'm 26. Working as a janitor at the school across the street would be convenient though...I'm sick of feeling like I've got something to give. I can't decide whether or not I'm scared, lazy, or I lack talent and am completely conscious of it.
Nothing more attractive than letting a spoonful of oatmeal with chocolate chips fall out of your mouth back into the dish because its too hot...
Enough of this self exploration bullshit for now. Moving on...
So I don't want to be a music journalist necessarily, and I definitely don't want to be a rock critic. I also don't want to admit that I really started not working on Saturdays so I could listen to Sound Opinions on MPR from 9-10am. I know those two guys have other full time jobs (both rock journalist and pop music critics in Chicago respectively) but I would love to do what they do on Saturday mornings. Just talk music. Maybe it is being a music critic, but I hate that title. What right would I have to criticize anything that I don't in fact create myself? I have no idea what I'm getting at. All I know is that I'm going to start carrying around planner calender thing so at some point every day I don't get pissed off because I realized I missed a show I really wanted to go see the night before because I sat at home on Youtube for 6 straight hours with a bottle of wine and didn't think anything of it.
I still can't believe I missed Birthday Suits two weeks ago and was just sitting on the couch watching the History Channel (or more than likely Design to Sell). Idiot.

I'm going to google some recipes and make a grocery list. I'm sure I'll start writing a few times a day, then slowly stop completely. No, no I won't. Po-ta-tos.