a brief and revealing list of things i currently love

aural: Ironhorse's A Bluegrass Tribute to Modest Mouse Honestly, my favorite band covered by a bunch of Scots with banjos and moustaches. And far better diction than Issac Brock, God love his marble-mouthed soul. More Bob Dylan, Blonde on Blonde in particular, The Pixies, and OMG The Roots. Spring is coming and I want to dance.

mental: Just finished Time's Arrow by Martin Amiss, reading The Fabric of the Cosmos: Space, Time and the Texture of Reality by Brian Greene, working on a paper about Hindu, gender, goddess worship and Kali. So, a lot of destruction and junk about the universe. Right now, I'm watching Wordplay and its awesome.

gastronomical: yerba tea. It's amazing.

sartorial: still tights, plus thrift store sweaters, and wearing my hair shaggy like Nico. I also gave myself some blunt-cut bangs. They're all the rage right now.

extracurricular: live music, good friends and conversation. I've been sick all week, which has limited my enjoyment of the pleasures of life, but I'm getting better.

damn dirty hippies

Hey dudes. Turn off your lights from 8-9 p.m. tonight, for Earth Hour.

Mostly, you should be turning shit off every day, but do it today especially.

Even Google blacked out — which is pretty cool.

september '75, i was 47 inches high

nostalgia videos presents!

one angry dwarf and 100 solemn faces-ben folds




it's funny how even when it's long dead, you can't stop being reminded of how it was or how it felt.

what a mess

Proving once again that it's one of the best sources for innovative political and social thought, Slate asked several of its best hawks the same question which plagues anyone who bothers to give the land of Ur more than a passing thought: How did I get Iraq wrong?

Consider in particular, Christopher Hitchens's strident declaration that he, in fact, did not get Iraq wrong. He is not claiming some holier-than-thou stance of being always opposed to the Iraq War [one which the author of this blog takes, with some pride, having endured being called "un-American" and "a Communist" for three months in high school], but rather considers the relevancy of this "anniversary" marking aggression in a region that has not been without outside influence, puppetry and gross cruelty for most of the past 20 years.

And that is what I call the Bishop Berkeley theory of Iraq, whereby if a country collapses and succumbs to trauma, and it's not our immediate fault or direct responsibility, then it doesn't count, and we are not involved. Nonetheless, the very thing that most repels people when they contemplate Iraq, which is the chaos and misery and fragmentation (and the deliberate intensification and augmentation of all this by the jihadists), invites the inescapable question: What would post-Saddam Iraq have looked like without a coalition presence?

The dearth of critical, stridently self-analytical, rational thought like this is what got us into this mess in the first place. Hitchens asks the questions, and cleverly provides no answers. At this juncture, perhaps this is the best tactic, as I or anyone else has been hard-pressed to produce a solution for Iraq that is both politically viable and resembles anything close fairness and justice.

[Another nail in the coffin for the idea of the military industrial complex and warfare in general, but I digress. My recently developed opinions of the structure of war and nuclear weapons merits a post of its own.]

For more traditionally journalistic content, The New York Times does a fair job, with excellent photography as usual. Bear in mind that most of the reporting coming out of Iraq is done by undercover Iraqis in constant fear, however.

the fabric of the cosmos

bwahahahaha. this may be the nerdiest thing I've ever laughed at [at which I have ever laughed? God that sucks]. By the way, Fenyman is the man, and Mythbusters is extra cool. But as neat as it is, I have a lot of problems with string theory.

Namely that no one can tell me why it's a good idea. That, and I don't like the concept that someday, theoretical physicists will derive an equation to explain all of what we currently hold unexplainable. I like the mystery of unanswerable questions.

Because it allows me to posit my own outrageous explanations of things. If you [whoever gets to be the authority about the nature of the universe] don't know what the real answer is, you can't discard my personal hypothesis that the Theory of Everything is based on Pure Poetry and Icelandic Rocks.

a brief and revealing list of things i currently love

What I'm feeding my brain:

aural: Vampire Weekend, [you know I'd love any band with a song about the Oxford Comma] rediscovering Okkervil River, Sufjan's Illinois in preparation for the big chi-town move. The Clash's first two albums, selected Bob Dylan tracks

mental: finishing up The Best American Non-Required Reading of 2007, considering giving Dave Eggers A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius a second go. Starting Time's Arrow by Martin Amiss this week. Post modern, temporal displacing goodness. Still haven't finished A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man I will consider myself a vast failure if I don't conquer Joyce.

gastronomical: miracle foods — black beans, polenta, granny smith apples, spinach. don't have the cash to be eating out, but when i do, i'll let you know if i experience anything wonderful.

sartorial: all tights, all the time. thick, knit, warm tights with skirts and dresses, and boots. headbands. jackets. I love spring.

extracurricular: running, oddly enough. my ankle is a bitch, but i am enjoying pounding the pavement. St. Patty's this weekend, and generally spending time with friends who are challenging my mind.

This week's words to live by: "Employing as much distortion as possible" from an English class discussion about post-modernism as it relates to quantum mechanics. God bless a liberal arts degree.

c'mon feel the illinoise!

sup fools.

Since we last talked, I was rejected from NYU (what I deserve for arrogantly stating I've never been denied admission to a university), making Northwestern my default choice for graduate school. It's still the city, it's still an amazing program, and it has the benefit of being chock full of familiar faces, and close to this stupid little college campus I've grown to love.

but it's not new york, and every year I don't move there feels more like a failure. The goal is 25 though, so let's just keep aiming for that. it's not going anywhere.

In other news, I am 100% confident that for the rest of my life, I will fall into deep, hopeless, irreconcilable lust with incredibly tall, extremely mysterious men. It's a blessing and a curse. Unfortunately, being in the throes of wild, lustful interest just leaves me with incredibly vivid dreams that I wish were true when I wake up. Because I am nothing if not a little girl about things like this (and the majority of other matters, to be honest.)

I just realized that I am moving around the country in the same order as Sufjan Stevens albums. Let's hope life doesn't take me to Minnesota after grad school. (unless I'm working for the Utne Reader, in which case, yes please.)

Tomorrow: a list of things i'm onto lately, then no more updates for the rest of the weekend, unless St. Patty's prove to be epically interesting in some way that doesn't involve me drinking to excess.

here be anthropomorphic dragons

what's funny about this is it's only a year old, and already lacking. No cat macros and I'm pretty sure something awful and 4chan never even made the map in the first place. still high-larious.

More awesome at xkcd.com

like, no big, or anything

Dear Sarah:

Congratulations! The Admissions Committee has approved your application to Medill’s Master of Science in Journalism program. Your program of studies will begin in the Summer 2008 quarter.Orienation is tentatively scheduled for Monday, June 23, 2008. We will be holding our Open House for Admitted Students on Thursday and Friday, April 10 and 11, and you should be receiving an invitation to this event via email and postal mail soon.

So, you know, there's that. Their sports teams suck, and their colors are stupid, but it's a definite upgrade. Also, I have yet to be rejected from an institution of higher learning to which I've applied.

I fucking rule.

this is what blogs are for right?

chowder/soulja boy



i love the internet.

my muse is a precocious little girl

I feel like I always jabber about being a writer, and writing, and blah blah blah so I should just stop being a pansy and post some writing. Don't worry — you'll never come here and find full drafts of short stories. Just some snippets I've written here and there.

So, in that spirit, today while writing with some friends, I was challenging myself to be brief. Here are two short-short stories, in less than 100 words.

Eloise sat in the basement room and began to unravel the rug again. She had woven and unraveled the same red, black and white fibers more times than there are spines on a cactus. If she had woven the same pattern twice, she didn't know. Diamonds, mandalas, chevrons, paisley swirls all emerged from the same beaten, fuzzy threads. The futility of her task may be cause for concern — but probably not.

I have never been any good at spelling. Inappropriate and unwelcome letters crop up in the middle of words where they are uninvited, like the static shock of a doorknob early in the morning. But I can spell onomatopoeia perfectly; strange vowel clusters snared by the siren song of the flypaper in my synapses. That pesky third "n" in begining, or the extravagent "e" in withe, however, manage to escape.

###

for those playing along at home

Now you too, can be a pundit, with Slate's delegate counter! You may not have a fancy touch-screen to monkey around with primary results, but you can figure out exactly how much trickery and subterfuge HRC would need to win the nomination.


(PS. If only real newspapers and magazines could do this)

The Voice of an entire city

Sadly, Myron Cope, the man who coined a thousand catchphrases, passed away yesterday at the age of 79. He is survived by the Terrible Towel, "Yoi" "Double Yoi" "Okel Dokel" and a million nicknames and utterly batshit insane game-time utterances. The Voice was responsible for a lot of what any native Pittsburgher considers their identity, even after we all peace out of Western PA.

All I can hope is you continue to mock the Brownies and the Bungles from whatever Afterlife there may be.

it ain't me babe

Penn State's Thon promo video. I don't know, I find it kind of terrifying, with the dramatic strings, and coordinated movement, and the screaming and crying.

make art! make art!

mazeltov glen and marketa.And good move John Stewart for letting poor little Marketa back on stage to give a speech. She's nineteen and she barely speaks English. "Fair play to those who dare to dream."

Everything about this was amazing and inspiring.

These are Dark, Evil Times

I woke up this morning with whiskey on my tongue, tired, confused, angry, restless. The way you always were. In the middle of the eternal shortest month, in the midst of my own body's mental and physical breakdown, you decided you'd had enough. Your brains were all over the typewriter, counselor. The snow was thick on the ground, and for you, the winter would never end. I got the call, I heard a recorded voice tell me you were gone. Three years later, I no longer speak to that person's recorded voice and you are still not with us.

No one could tell me if it was true or not. Some people said they didn't believe for days, thought you were pulling another fast one. Another decompression chamber. I knew from the first second that you'd finally given up the ghost. It was the only way. Your best prank. Six months later, you were shot into the sky, like the beautiful, weird, twisted mutant you were.

We need you now more than ever, but chances are a time will never come when that won't be true. I lust after the words you will never write, about Mike Huckabee's speed freak for Jesus bug-eyed, bass-playing antics, about the sheer ridiculousness of the slow crumble of the Bush administration. If we'd had a different president, would things have seemed less bleak, Raoul? If the Patriots we're the opposite of competition, pure sport and surprise, would you have felt more satisfied?

Football Season is Over, but who do I turn to now, for inspiration, for courage, for irreverence, for everything?

You, Doctor. Too weird to live, too rare to die.

Mahalo.

i need a lawyer

Listen, if I had my way, I would just go through this day pretending it's like every other Thursday where I go to work, waste some time, go to yoga, talk about postmodernism, then go get drunk.

Unfortunately, even the cartoons on Nickelodeon this morning won't let that happen. And I am in a particularly black and foul mood today, so you can all take your candy hearts, and shove them.

Or maybe this is all pure gibberish — a product of the demented imagination of a lazy drunken hillbilly with a heart full of hate who has found a way to live out where the real winds blow — to sleep late, have fun, get wild, drink whisky, and drive fast on empty streets with nothing in mind except falling in love and not getting arrested...
Res ipsa loquitur. Let the good times roll.

goodnight, sweet prince

Oh, baby. The results of Heath Ledger's autopsy show that he died from an "accidental drug overdose," if you consider swallowing Viocdin, Oxy, Xanax, Valium and two different kinds of sleeping pills an accident.

At least we know you weren't trying to off yourself, but something was hurting you awful bad.

Now, off to drink myself silly and watch you woo Julia Stiles with Frankie Valli songs.

correlation is not causation

Last night, Alabama and most of the rest of the American South picked Mike Huckabee as their candidate of choice in the 2008 presidential election.

Today, a mass of tornadoes devastated the same area.

A scientist would say that correlation is not causation...but evangelicals don't believe that science proves anything. So I guess the only other available option is that they're being punished for designating a wild-eyed, bible-humping fear monger out of his head on Speed and Scripture as a rational human being, let alone a person capable of running this country.

YEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAWWWWWWWWWW

photo NY Times

Remind me why we beat Howard Dean off the political scene with a baseball bat studded with railroad spikes for his post-Iowa crazy again?

Super Tuesday is one of the darkest days of the year for the myth of unbiased jounalism.

Get it girl.