Slim Is the Boss

This is Slim, the oldest and smartest cat. If at some point in the future she starts speaking English, we won't be all that surprised. She's in charge around here. Sometimes the other cats get out of line—often, their mere existence is enough to set her off—and she has to beat them up to remind them of their place, which is away from her. Once in a while she has to put us humans in our place as well, like if we are asleep and she is hungry. Do not be misled, however: she's a sweetie who loves nothing more than to be on you and on your stuff while you're working, your pillow while you're sleeping, and your bathmat while you're showering. (She waits on the bathmat so that when you get out, she can lick your wet ankles, which is only sort of as weird as it sounds.)

Birdie Has a Cold

This is Birdie, the middle cat. She might look apprehensive because right after I snapped this, I picked her up and stuffed her into her cat carrier for a trip to the vet. She has a cold, you see, and it won't go away; one of its most charming symptoms is that she sneezes right in your face. This particular trip was more horrifying to her than most, because our car is at the shop and I had to walk the seven blocks to the vet, her carrier bumping against my leg. To add to the fun, she was late on her vaccines, so the doctor gave her two shots; I also learned that she has to go in for some serious teeth cleaning as soon as her upper respiratory infection is cleared up. That will be great fun for all of us.

Now Is the Time for All Good People to Hobble to the Aid of Their Party

For my first foray outside since I got back from the hospital, I hobbled, ducklike, down the street to the Mormon church to vote—not for a new Mormon leader; they have a system for that. No, it was Democratic primaries that had me braving the cold and snow and puddles I can't jump over at the moment. As my favorite art historian remarked, they let us have our cake and eat it too: I could vote for Kucinich in the primary, but all the available delegates were for either Obama or Clinton.

Six Things That Hurt the Most Right Now

1. Sneezing.
2. Coughing.
3. Getting out of bed.
4. Getting back into bed.
5. The thought of how bad I must smell after not showering since Tuesday. (Finally climbed that mountain.)
6. They forgot to nominate Angelina Jolie for Best Actress for her excellent work in A Mighty Heart, which I liked on first viewing, and which vaulted into my top ten list on second viewing. Will she win my Goatie for Best Actress? I'll get back to you on that.

(With apologies to par3182.)

Out, damned appendix!

Those who know me well know that I'm scornful of the appendix. I can't pass up telling the latest appendix jokes, and just last week I dubbed something "more useless than an extra appendix," which had the gents at the club tittering.

Well, my appendix got wind of this and said, "Oh yeah?" with a sneer. A sneer and a narrowing of its tiny, tiny eyes. On Monday it puffed itself up mightily, from the size of your little finger to the size of a ripe gherkin. Random shooting pains in my abdomen resulted. I ignored its threats, of course: what is the appendix but a notorious bluffer?

By Tuesday morning, though, it had switched from threats to violence: I could barely walk, and I had to do something about that appendix. Our car had broken down over the weekend, likely in cahoots with my appendix, so my friendly neighborhood rock star drove me to the emergency room. After a very brief stay among the fifty or so other people in the waiting room (abdominal pain is apparently a "get out of jail free" card), I went to wait among fewer people in a series of little curtained-off rooms. I believe I witnessed domestic violence, but things were starting to get a little fuzzy, so I'm not sure what exactly I saw.

Except sudden flashes of white light obscuring my vision! Was it a visit from the lord? No, it was phase three of my appendix's attack on my person. The worst betrayal is the one that comes from inside, dear readers. I got incredibly nauseous, I started to sweat like a Viking in a sauna, and apparently I started to moan loudly and rock back and forth. I know this because later, while I was being prepped for surgery, someone said "he started to moan loudly and rock back and forth." It was at that point that I discovered that sweating buckets, moaning loudly, and rocking back and forth is like a "get out of jail free" card in the room that's just past the waiting room.

Much of the rest of Tuesday is blurry. A thousand people approached me, asking me the same questions, and I wondered (aloud?) why the first person didn't just write my answers down someplace where the other people could consult it. Perhaps they were trying to catch me in a lie? Perhaps I looked like the kind of guy who would fake his way into an appendectomy? Does Crash touch on the subject at all? (Not that Crash.)

So at some point a handsome guy who might have been on E.R. at some point (the surgeons really do look like that, apparently) introduced himself

(More later. I need to go back to bed. I just got home from the hospital a few hours ago, and the Vicodin has me a little off-kilter.)

as the surgeon. His name was Dr. Angelus, which I took to be either a good sign or a bad sign. Are we talking Angelus, as in Season Two of Buffy's Angelus? Yikes. Or are we talking angelic, but in a "we're here to help you, my son" kind of way, instead of in a "we're your escort to the next plane of existence" kind of way? Before I could figure this out, I woke up in a standard-issue hospital room.

Things that are alleged to have happened in the interim: I told the anesthesiologist that she was pretty, I had surgery to remove my appendix, I called for my favorite art historian from the recovery room, she came and we had a chat during which I told her about the pretty anesthesiologist and the sweating/moaning episode in the inner emergency room, and they moved me to the regular hospital bed that was to be my home for the next couple of days. I'm reasonably certain that these things happened, but because I wasn't there to witness them, I can admit them only as hearsay.

The room was nice, as far as hospital rooms go. The bed was too short for me, so my feet were always jammed against the end. Because vicious thugs stabbed me in the gut, it hurt to sit up or lie down or exist, but kindly nurses kept adding things to my IV that made things not so bad. The worst part was the nights: they wake you up every two hours to take your blood pressure, which I found extremely annoying. Aren't you in the hospital to recover? And isn't sufficient rest necessary for recovery? When I complained to the nurse who insisted on calling me "baby" about the constant wakeups, she told me the story of a woman who insisted on being left alone from 9 pm to 9 am, who then died of a heart attack that might not have been fatal had she not insisted on being left alone.

This part of the story is boring, because being stuck in a hospital bed with one book and sixteen channels and a Vicodin haze is boring. On Wednesday I progressed rapidly from no food or liquid to clear liquids to solid food clear liquids to solid food, and I managed to stagger up and down the hall a few times while leaning on my IV cart. MFAH visited a couple times, and this morning I befriended my second roommate, who had had his prostate removed.

Then it was time to go home. I'll be stuck here, more or less in bed, for the next few days, so if you want to call and keep me company, please do. If I don't answer, I'm probably not out for a jog.

Progress Report

My own data, along with independent confirmations from researchers in the field, indicate that I am aging at the targeted rate. If all goes according to plan, I'm right on schedule to turn 100 exactly 67 years from today. Please consult the chart for details.

There Was Finally Some Joy in Mudville

My site works again. My blog works again.

I'm overwhelmed with happiness (and editing work that I have to finish in a week). More soon.

You Must Respect My Propertah

The move went OK, if "OK" can mean that (1) it took more than twice as long as it was supposed to, and (2) it was temporarily interrupted by the arrival of four police cars answering a report of a burglary in progress.

On Friday, our movers parked at a hydrant that is in front of the lot next-door to ours. They were carrying boxes and stacking them on the strip of grass between the sidewalk and the street, which, as we all know, belongs to the city even though homeowners have the responsibility of caring for it. Midway through the second load, a neighbor climbed out of his enormous, gas-guzzling, environment-screwing Hummer and demanded that they move everything off the grass immediately. When I came out to see what was going on, he accused me repeatedly of disrespecting his property and his house by stacking the boxes on the grass. I pointed out that, given the location of the truck, that strip of grass was the logical place to put the boxes, and also pointed out that it wasn't in fact his grass anyway. He looked at me like I was a bug—a crazy bug—and repeated that I had to move my stuff immediately. Not wanting a big confrontation, I said that we would move the stuff right away, and actually started moving it into the gutter behind the truck before he went into his house. I went back inside as soon as it was cleared off, thinking everything was fine.

Until the police cars started showing up and parking in the street. I went outside and found the neighbor talking to several policemen. When I asked what was wrong, they said that they'd received a report of a burglary in progress. They were quite unhappy when they learned that the neighbor had called in the "burglary" after talking to me and learning that I lived next door and was moving my own property out. Apparently seven cars were en route, but only four had arrived before the call was discovered to be a slight overreaction. They lectured my neighbor about making what amounted to a crank call to 911, pointing out that the seven cars that were sent might very well have been needed for an actual emergency call. One particularly grumpy-looking officer told the neighbor that he should probably go back into his house and stay there; then he turned to me and said I could go ahead and finish my move in peace.

I learned from another person in my building that this guy has a history of being a big doodoo-head. (This blog is rated PG-13. Parental guidance is suggested.). Her bike is her only mode of transportation, and sometimes when she has to fetch something from her apartment she'll lock it up to the railing on our porch for a few minutes. One day he approached her and said that she shouldn't do that because it lowered his property value.

Anyway, that was Friday around 4. By midnight, the exhausted movers were done, except for that "last minute" stuff that wasn't packed, which amounted to six or seven car loads over the rest of the weekend. Sunday was cleaning day; we were at the old apartment from 10 until midnight, painting a ceiling, cleaning, packing, and cleaning. Now it's done, except the approximately 4/7 of our stuff that is still in storage. After we get done painting the new place, we get to go through this again. And please forgive the South Park reference. It was too perfect to pass up.

Moving Day

Out of the old...

Nuptiated

Instead of doing the courthouse thing, we asked our neighbor, a minister, to officiate, and she was happy to comply (at 10:30 last night in her living room). It was nice, much more personal than the courthouse would have been. It sort of felt like a 1940s movie, where the bashful couple wakes up the justice of the peace in the middle of the night. He's bleary-eyed but seems used to this, and he sends Ma into the kitchen to make coffee while he ushers the couple into the study.

Almost There

In Cook County, you can get a marriage license and a business license in the same office. However, I don't think there's a waiting period before you can open your business.

Busy Summer

Things are going to be hectic around here for the next couple of months, so I might not post a heck of a lot. First, there's the big move, which will take up most of the first half of May, what with all the painting and floor refinishing and organizing. We close on the new place on May 1, and the sale of the old place is final on May 14. In between is craziness (and a short trip to NYC).

Then, probably in June, my favorite art historian and I will be submitting our relationship to the state for official registration. Perhaps you can tell from that description that we're not being very traditional about it: no lace, no church, no dance-till-dawn, no speeches, no annoying tapping of spoons on champagne glasses (which I discover is a mostly Midwestern thing anyway). MFAH's family is planning a series of events in Maine in August, and sometime before then we'll probably have a housewarming/celebrate our new tax status party at the new place. And my mother wants to plan something for the homestead, too.

Somewhere in there, I'm legally changing my name to Michael Justman-Phillips. Justman is my mother's maiden name, and growing up my Grandpa Justman was probably my favorite person in the world. I've always thought it's sad that there aren't any Justmans from his side of things wandering around, and since my teens I've wanted to do this, but laziness and poverty tended to get in the way. I'm still trying to figure out how exactly it works (do men get the same easy out that women do when they take their husband's name?), but it's gonna happen this summer.

Finally, I've decided that I don't want to be Goatdog anymore. I've been frustrated for a while by feeling embarrassed when I tell people what my review site is called; right or wrong, a lot of people think it's silly and don't take it seriously. Plus, I feel like it's time for a change. I might lose some traffic for a while, but I'm past obsessing about that. The problem now is trying to find a good name that isn't already taken. If you have any ideas, please share them.

I guess that's it. What are you doing this summer?

Caveat

Don't ever live in a self-managed condo building.

Home Sweet New Home

Three bedrooms, a sunroom, a big dining room with built-in cabinets, two claw-footed bathtubs, and lots of windows facing the southeast, which means lots of light. We get to move in on May 1. Now there's the problem of cleaning the current place out and selling it.

Vice and Violence! (And Birthdays!)

You're all invited to help me celebrate my 32nd birthday. (Did I just type "32nd birthday"? Great googly moogly.) On Saturday, January 6, at 8:00 pm, come see Sam Fuller's Underworld U.S.A. at the LaSalle Bank Cinema at 4901 W. Irving Park Rd., then join me across the street for Mexican food at Artemio's after the show. (No gifts, please, aside from your wonderful company.)

Four Things I Bought When I Finally Got Paid

I like getting a regular paycheck.

1. A box set of 50 action movies made between the 1920s and the 1970s. It includes such films as Submarine Alert (1943), Tarzan's Revenge (1938), My Boys Are Good Boys (1978), and Sword of Lancelot (1963). What's the theme? They're all in this box set. Which was on sale.

2. Five pairs of cool socks. I like to wear cool socks. The problem with them is that they are hard to find, and they tend to develop holes faster than non-cool socks. Ah, the hard life of a fashionista.

3. A black and white striped sweater. Not wide Frenchy stripes; it's mostly black, with white pinstripes.

4. A reel of Super-8 film. My favorite art historian and I are going to make a short film based on Winsor McKay's "A Pilgrim's Progress" comic strips for an art/activism show she's involved with. Although he doesn't know it yet, the Zombiemaster is going to play the main character. He's already carried a typewriter around for one of our unfinished films, so carrying a suitcase won't be much of a stretch.

I'm Employable!

I got a part-time job proofreading legal documents for a local printing company. The life of a freelancer is great, but it's also nice to know that I won't have to subsist on macaroni and cheese concoctions during the months when I can't find any freelance projects.

First Prize!

I had a dream that the comic book documentary won First Prize at the Berlin Film Festival. Not the Golden Bear—First Prize. The prize was $50,000, presented as one of those huge checks they give lottery winners. In the dream, Carmine and Ilko, the guys who run the studio, were holding it up with huge grins on their faces as random celebrities congratulated them.

OK Then

I learned how to make animated gifs today.

And another one:

New Year's Resolution Update

Instead of working (but I got a lot of work done today, honest), I thought I'd update my loyal readers on my elaborate New Year's Resolutions from January. Why now? Why not?

I want to go see more concerts.
Nope. So far, I've seen one (Guy Clark and Terry Allen at the Old Town School of Folk Music).

I want to volunteer at something.
Nope. The only thing that could possibly qualify is my work at the film studio, which I suppose is volunteer since I haven't been paid.

I want to see more obscure films next year.
Not really. I did well for a while: in the first two months, I saw a lot of foreign films. But since then, I've gone back to normal, which means pretty mainstream English-language stuff. I guess I've been renting more foreign films, but they've been mostly Asian and Italian horror films.

I want to take an acting class.
Nope. I looked some up, and even picked which one I'd take, but I haven't been able to afford it.

I want to make more friends, both in person and online, and see my existing ones more often.
Finally, success! I've become friends with some of the regulars from my theater, and my internet friend Nick has become my real-life friend Nick. There are some new friend prospects in my favorite art historian's department. Altogether, not a bad year for friends, except that one of my closest friends just moved away. The jerk.

I want to find a transcendent pizza experience in Chicago.
It depends. I haven't found any new pizza places, although MFAH has been telling me about one that's supposed to be great. However, I realized that a slice of pizza from Santullo's, big and thin (but not crackery), loaded with cheese and pepperoni and sliced tomatoes (my toppings of choice), is about as good as you can get.

I want to start learning a second language.
Define "start." I own two Spanish books, one of which is Spanish for Dummies and the other of which contains slang and curses. The fact that I haven't opened either of them doesn't mean I haven't taken baby steps. Right?

(Let's not talk about my specific movie-watching resolutions, of which I've seen only two, although I have five others on DVD.)

Goatdog Triumphs against Adversity

I was in traffic court this morning—a familiar situation for me, although a new location for it. When I was much younger, I used to get a lot of speeding tickets in my hometown, and I would go to court to fight each one of them on the off chance that the ticketing officer would fail to show up. They always showed up, but I did manage to get one ticket reduced, so I think it was a good strategy.

A month ago I got my first traffic ticket in over ten years. It was for rolling through a stop sign, and I got an additional ticket for not having proof of insurance in the car. Was I guilty? Of course not. I stopped. Honest. Came to a complete stop for a full second. I mean, come on. Who rolls through stop signs in Chicago?

So there I was this morning, prepared to plead guilty and retrieve my license, which they take away to ensure your appearance in court. I got there early, was first to sign in, and was called first. I approached the bench and the friendly-looking judge, who bore a strong resemblance to Carl Levin. I presented my proof of insurance, and then he started to ask how I wanted to plead. Right as I opened my mouth to admit my guilt, he held up his hand and looked around the room. The ticketing officer wasn't there. He handed me my license and said I was free to go. I stood there like an idiot for a moment until he called the next person, and then I walked—nay, ran—out of the room before he could change his mind.

And who did I see coming down the escalator as I emerged from the bowels of the Richard J. Daley Center? The guy who wrote me the ticket. Mwaa-ha-ha-ha!

More Nerdy Stamps

See, I have been working on something.

Lyrical Odes to Refulgent Nature

"Exhausted men do not write lyrical odes to refulgent nature," David Roberts writes in his introduction to Valerian Albanov's 1917 book In the Land of White Death, an account of his trek across Siberia in the dead of winter. While I haven't exactly been exhausted, I have been really busy, and I thought I'd drop by to explain my lengthy absence.

I blame the heat, mostly. During the recent heat wave, our apartment was too hot to exist in, except for the air-conditioned haven of the bedroom. Since my computer is not in the bedroom, I got no work done at home. I used to write most of my reviews and blog posts at the ad agency, but I haven't worked there much this summer. I've spent most weekdays at the film studio working on the artistamps documentary, but that's work I rather enjoy, so I do it instead of writing.

I've also been worried about money—it seems I'm always worried about money. For some reason, I can't write when I'm worried, although I discovered this summer that I can make art (I just finished my ninth artistamp). I hope that when it cools down I'll find the energy to post more, and to write reviews for some of my ever-increasing list of unreviewed films.

Fun with George

I got this game in my inbox today (thanks, Gaia!), and it's fitting, because I spent the morning protesting George Bush outside the Museum of Science and Industry (that's me squatting with the "LIAR" sign). Today is Georgie's birthday, and I guess he wanted to play with the children's installations. There weren't many of us there: at first just me and my favorite art historian, who made a bunch of signs. Eventually people started straggling in, and our merry band grew to around ten people. Yeah, I know, not many, but you have to do what you can. Lots more people were expected downtown for a rally later today.

It was actually fun. Dozens of cars beeped their horns in support as they drove by. The museum was closed while Bush took his tour, and the Chicago Police, as well as the secret service, were herding everyone who wanted to go to the museum into our little patch of grass across the street from the museum (I wish we had a sign that said "Free Speech Zone"). In the end, it looked like there were more people protesting than there actually were. Several families brought their kids, and the general feeling was one of support for our actions. One young African American man in a suit sat with us dejectedly; he had come because he wanted to meet his president, but they wouldn't let him in the museum. For a while, a little kid sawed away on his violin for us, playing the Star Spangled Banner at least twice. It was a nice touch.

A few minutes before Bush was scheduled to leave, a final protestor came to join us, which finally made us outnumber the police. Just before Bush and company drove away, the secret service started searching backpacks belonging to some of the onlookers. They didn't approach any of the protestors; they seemed to target parents with children, and Bush made at least one baby cry when they searched her carrier. Maybe she'll grow up to vote Democrat.

Six Bookmarks

In homage to par3182's addictive bite-sized blog Six Things, here are six things I'm using as bookmarks in current reads.

1. A strip of black film leader, to mark Clea, the final book in Lawrence Durrell's Alexandria Quartet.

2. A latex-free sterile adhesive bandage, complete with sterile packaging, to mark H.M.S. Surprise, the third book in Patrick O'Brian's Master and Commander series.

3. The lid from a cardboard box of bandages (possibly the same box #2 came from), to mark Semiotics: The Basics by Daniel Chandler.

4. A seven-frame chunk of the trailer for Alien: Resurrection, to mark Steve Niles and Elman Brown's graphic novelization of Richard Matheson's I Am Legend, which happens to be the greatest vampire novel ever written.

5. A receipt, dated December 12, 2005 (my older sister's birthday), for a breakfast sandwich from Au Bon Pain, to mark Movie Love in the Fifties by James Harvey. It's only on page 4, but I don't remember what he's said so far, so I think I'll have to restart this one.

6. The cardboard insert from a package of Schick Xtreme3 razors, to mark A Short Guide to Writing about Film by Timothy Corrigan (I figured I'd see how I was doing).

All Alone

My favorite art historian has gone to Europe for six weeks. For various reasons (all financial), I can't accompany her. I made her a CD for her trip, and this is the cover I designed for it.

The recent good news is that we're staying in town. She got a job offer from another university (which shall remain nameless), but we decided to stay here.

I've Been Blog-Memed!

There's a blog thing going around where you use your iPod on shuffle to answer a list of questions. It's the folded paper contraption with all the numbers and colors from grade school, only high-tech. I normally skip these, but I found some of my answers amusing in their bleakness.

1. How does the world see you? "Ndiaga Niaw" by Orchestra Baobab.
Do any of you speak Wolof?

2. Will I have a happy life? "Who Will Save Rock 'n' Roll" by the Dictators.
"My generation is not the salvation," wails Handsome Dick Manitoba. I guess that's a no.

3. What do my friends think of me? "Mystery" by Wipers.
Well, it's right there in the first verse: "You think I'm retrospective/Of someone you used to know/I think it's indecision/That leaves us such a long way to go." Now if I could just figure out what it means.

4. Do people secretly lust after me? "Fat City Strut" by Mandrill.
Hmm. An instrumental. Is that a yes or a no?

5. How can I make myself happy? "Drunken Hearted Man" by Robert Johnson.
He says I should avoid "no-good women." Or, drink my troubles away.

6. What should I do with my life? "Get Back" by Bright Eyes.
Oh no. "Keep those that you love the furthest from you." Sad advice.

7. Will I ever have children? "America Is" by the Violent Femmes.
Not really answering the question. "America is the home of the hypocrite/American dream so f-f-full of it/American dream is only a dream."

8. What is some good advice for me? "Death Opened a Boutique" by Future Bible Heroes.
I guess I should find an underserved niche. "It was de rigeur and chic/for the wicked and the weak."

9. How will I be remembered? "Another Sunny Day 12/25" by John Mellencamp.
I'll be remembered as a doomsayer. "To say that we're doomed is just an obvious remark/And it don't make you right, it just keeps you in the dark."

10. What's my signature dance song? "Harmony in My Head" by the Buzzcocks.
I'm dancing to my own tune, apparently, and it's a punk song only I can hear.

11. What's my current theme song? "Bewitched" by Luna.
What's that supposed to mean? "All of a sudden/The girl of my dreams/She never asks/She always screams."

12. What do others think my current theme song is? "What Do I Get?" by the Buzzcocks.
They think I'm a whiny British guy. "For you things seem to turn out right/I wish they'd only happen to me instead."

13. What shall they play at my funeral? "When My Little Girl Is Smiling" by the Drifters.
Is she smiling because I'm dead?

14. What type of women do I like? "BYOB" by System of a Down.
Uh, I like women who go to war for oil and send poor people off to do their fighting?

15. How's my love life? "Monty Got a Raw Deal" by REM.
My love life is like a tormented bisexual with a serious drug habit and paralyzing facial scars.

They Even Had a Panel on Porn Music

But I didn't go.

When the publishing company Routledge is in town for an academic conference, I work at their book exhibit. Last week was the Society of American Music/National Conference on Black Music Research joint conference. Other disciplines sleep in; their conferences don't expect me to be there until 9 or even 10. But the musicologists are early birds, and I had to be downtown and ready to work by 8, which meant that I had to get up at 6:30. As many of you probably know, I don't do 6:30, or even 8, for that matter. Throw in some insomnia, and I was a zombie all week.

One morning as I was staggering toward the entrance, I had to wind my way through a big crowd of people gathered at the door. I bumped into someone, apologized, and let him go through the revolving door first. Then I realized it was Michael Imperioli, who, in addition to playing Christopher (my favorite character) on The Sopranos, cowrote the screenplay to one of Spike Lee's best and most underrated films, Summer of Sam. However, in my addled state, the first thing that I thought was "You were great in My Baby's Daddy," which I have, in fact, never seen. Good thing I didn't say it out loud.

Zombie Haiku

It's been a while since my last post, and you're probably thinking, "Wow, that Mike guy must be working really hard!" Well, you're right: I've been working hard writing zombie haiku. My friend Brian, webmaster of Zombierama.com, has decided to solicit zombie haiku from his readers. Here are my efforts. Please feel free to add your own zombie haiku in the comments; if it's ok with you (please indicate if it's not), Brian will add them to his zombie haiku page as soon as he gets done making it.

I felt your lips, teeth
brush against my shoulderblade,
but it was not love.

Playing fetch with Spot
is dangerous when the bones
he brings back still move.

Wading, the fish nip
and nibble off my ankles.
Oh, God! Zombie fish!

Zombie Bruce Springsteen
was not "Born to Run"; no, he
was born to eat brains.

And a limerick:

There once was a ravenous zombie
who started chomping on me.
He caused me some pains
as he chewed on my brains
and got blood on my Abercrombie.

More New Year's Resolutions

I already made a list of specific movie-watching goals, but here are some general ones. You know, the kind nobody ever keeps.

» I want to go see more concerts. I say this every year. Next item.

» I want to volunteer at something. My friend Shane volunteers as an ESL (or do they call it ESOL down there? whatever) tutor, and it sounds like fun.

» I want to see more obscure films next year. Maybe I'll ditch my "Stinker of the Month" category for "Obscurity of the Month." I live in the third best movie-watching city in the United States, and I seldom take advantage of the opportunity to see anything that you couldn't eventually see in the middle of Iowa. We have several great venues for foreign and independent film, and I'm going to frequent them.

» I want to take an acting class. My dream is to make movies, and I feel like if I want to direct actors, I should know a bit about what it's like on their side of the lens. Also, I think it would help my reviewing, since I think I am weakest when I am attempting to describe a performance.

» I want to make more friends, both in person and online, and see my existing ones more often. I realize that there are only three or four people I see on a regular basis, and one of them is moving at the end of the summer. Also, in the past year I've cultivated a few friendships with fellow online movie reviewers, and I'd like to find more.

» I want to find a transcendent pizza experience in Chicago. Why is it so hard to find a really good slice here? Oh, right, because this city is laboring under the delusion that nasty cheese loaf deep dish pizza is better. It's good to be known for something culinary, but why did this city pick crappy pizza? It is possible to get really good pizza; both places are in Wicker Park. But there must be other options.

» I want to start learning a second language. Since this is the United States, I think it should probably be Spanish.

Happy Birthday to Me

You are all invited to join me in celebration of my 31st birthday. My birthday is Sunday the 8th, but we'll be celebrating on Saturday the 7th. First up is a screening of Josef von Sternberg's first sound film, Thunderbolt, at my theater (the LaSalle Bank Cinema, 4901 W. Irving Park Rd. in Chicago, at 8 pm). After the film, we will repair to Artemio's Tacos, a pretty decent Mexican place across the street. If you were around for my last birthday celebration, this will all sound familiar to you.

Art

I made art! It's been a while. MetaChat, an offshoot of a site I frequent, sometimes does exquisite corpses. You get the leftmost 15 pixels of the previous person's image, which becomes the rightmost 15 pixels of your image. My section, inspired by my friend Jeff's "automatic collages" and enabled by source advice from my favorite art historian, uses chunks of prints from Hendrick Goltzius, Wenceslas Hollar, Jacques Callot, and Bronzino, with additions from a Wisconsin plumber's website.

It's been a long time since I've done anything art-related (not counting filmmaking). A long time ago, I made a few collages, and I did a few logos for Shane's Interdenominational Hockey League. But this is the first time I've used Photoshop "properly": layers, the rectangle tool, light effects, etc. It was a lot of fun, and I think I'll be doing more of them.

Update: I did another one! (I should mention that the reason there's a naked person in the center of each composition is that the exquisite corpses have the theme "How naked go the sometimes nude," from a poem by Robert Burns.)

It's "I Hate Technology Day"!

I got a new iPod. Well, a used one, from ebay. My computer doesn't like it. I spent two hours last night trying to get them to communicate, but they didn't want to. Well, eventually they did, but not in a way that I wanted. It's a long, boring story, so I won't get into it. Let's leave it at this: my computer doesn't like new things, and thus it didn't like my new iPod.

Today at work, I find that over the weekend, all of my shit got erased from my work computer. Well, it might be erased, and it might just be in a user account that I can't access anymore, and that tech support can't seem to access either. All five days' worth of music I had saved on it. All my documents, including old time sheets and work-related stuff. All my fancy widdle programs that make my life easier, like Trillian and Firefox. All gone. I called tech support, and they can't figure out what happened. They're "working on it." We know what that means. All gone.

And they're painting today. Mmmm, paint fumes.

But it's not all bad news! Here! (Link stolen from mimi smartypants.)

Leaves of Grass Day

One hundred fifty years ago yesterday, Walt Whitman published Leaves of Grass, sounding his barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world and into high-school lit classes. How did you celebrate the big anniversary day? Here in Chicago, they had several parades, and lots of people shot off fireworks, which I think would have made Whitman happy.

I edited for most of the morning. I have a 200-page freelance project that I have to get done by Thursday. (I should probably be working on it right now.) Around 1:00, my favorite art historian and I climbed aboard a series of public transportation vehicles (her car being a $700 brake job from running safely) to get to Evanston, where we were to meet the Katherines, Nicole, and Brian for a 4:00 viewing of Howl's Moving Castle, the latest animated film by Hayao Miyazaki. It was really great to look at, but it didn't make a heck of a lot of sense. I really loved Turnip-Head the scarecrow.

After that, Brian and the art historian and I headed back down to Hyde Park. We ordered pizza, and then Brian and I watched Rabid Grannies, which is three things: Troma's best-made film, not a zombie movie, and almost watchable. Then Brian drove me over to the building where my bike was chained up, and I rode home in a mix of rain and fireworks that made me feel like the kid in Hope and Glory. Then I watched three-quarters of the silly dream episode in season five of The Sopranos (three-quarters because it started to skip), and then I went to bed.

Enough Whining about My Life...

...and I don't feel like whining about the government. Wait. What does that leave to talk about?

I know: crazy bus people. While I was waiting for the bus this morning in the bitter spring cold, there were two people waiting with me, one young black girl and one elderly white woman. The elderly white woman sat quietly on the bench, until one point when she doubled over with crazy-woman cackling. This surprised me, but I'm a jaded city boy, so I didn't even blink. But the young girl was a little shocked by it: she stared. Big mistake. The crazy lady started talking to her, alternating between low rumbling and high-pitched birdlike chirping. The young girl ran away. I laughed, but not so much that the crazy lady would notice. I didn't want her to turn on me.

---

Ever get to thinking about weird anniversaries? It was ten years ago tomorrow that I skipped my "graduation" from West Shore Community College. I was one class short of my associate's degree; I had dropped out of my statistics course earlier that semester. That semester, I was working full-time on the night crew at a local grocery store, as well as working part-time during the day at Radio Shack and going to school full-time. I used to sleep in my car in the parking lot, and there were some nice motherly types from some of my classes who would wake me up when I slept through my alarm. Ah, the good old days of sleep deprivation, overwork, and exhaustion.

---

My mom got downsized, sort of. She works for a government-funded agency that regulates day care centers. She's been there for 15 years, driving her series of little red cars across northern Michigan. She learned that at the end of May they're cutting all of the full-time field agents (of which she is one) down to part time, getting rid of their benefits, and scuttling any saved vacation time they may have had. This will mean major changes, I think: maybe they won't be able to spend all summer at their campground, and both she and my stepdad will have to get part-time jobs to supplant her reduced income. I'm really sad for her, but she says she still loves the job enough to stick with it. And she's good at that—sticking with things. Hell, she still talks to me.

---

And in the "news of the obvious" section, we have a study that links soft drink consumption to childhood obesity.

All That Stress for Nothing

I just got done spending three days being anxious about something that ended up not happening anyway. There's a jazz club here in Chicago called The Velvet Lounge, which is owned by a local legend named Fred Anderson, a 76-year-old saxophone player. He has to find a new home for his club because his landlord sold the property to developers, and he's trying to raise enough money to move. I, along with my friends Mike and Shawn, wanted to do a documentary about his efforts to find a new home, including the benefit concerts and whatever else comes up. So I stewed about it on Friday, but couldn't bring myself to call. The same thing happened Monday and Tuesday. Today I finally built up enough courage to call him, figuring that I would just leave a message on his answering machine. Well, he answered. I managed to explain what I wanted to do, and he (drum roll) said he was way too busy with everything to participate or to have a film crew underfoot.

Sigh. I wish I weren't so terrified of everything. I mean, it's just talking on the phone. It's not like he was going to yell at me or something. Even though I knew that, I still spent most of three days with a knot in my chest, worrying about making one stupid phone call. And to add to that, now I get to wonder what would have happened if I had called earlier and left a message instead of stammering my way through a conversation. I even had a script written out. Of course the result probably wouldn't have been any different, but that's not going to make me agonize over it any less.

Pronuncification

For my entire reading life until this very day, I thought that sylph was actually "slyph." I used to encounter it in fantasy novels, and I apparently got it mixed up in my head. I wonder how many times I've said it wrong and had someone think that I'm a moron. I'm glad I actually looked it up today and discovered my mistake before someone else pointed it out to me.

A few months back, I was reading a news article to someone, and I pronounced the word impugn incorrectly, as "im-punge" instead of "im-pyoon." That person pointed it out, and I felt like a big moron.

So here's the part where I solicit my dear readers to embarrass themselves by sharing amusing anecdotes of their own mispronunciations. I promise not to laugh at you, because my glass house is surrounded by plenty of loose stones.

The Goatdog Method

I recently had a method of heating up corn tortillas named after me.

Yes, my life is that boring.

Gray Hairs

I haven't posted in over a week, so I thought I'd write something, except that I have nothing to write about. I found my first gray hair yesterday! I was so excited. I think I'm going to grow it out to several feet long; perhaps I'll put a little bow on it. I have always gotten gray hairs among my sparse facial hair, but this is the first one atop my head.

Last week we took a crew from the film studio to interview the manager of a downtown comic book store for the comic book documentary. That was fun. I felt like I was actually doing something to contribute, instead of making phone calls and leaving messages that are never returned.

I'm still stuck in my funk over the whole money vs. fulfillment quandary. I need to make money, so I have to have a job, which keeps me from doing the things that make me feel less lost. I'm sure everyone is sick of my whining on this subject.

I Am Part of Your Education

This is odd. I was googling myself, and I noticed that my reviews have turned up on at least two course syllabi. The first was for a German cinema class at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology; the professor quoted my review of Stroszek. The second was my review of The Crowd, which was suggested as an online resource in a film history class at Centenary College of Louisiana. I've always wanted to influence young minds; who knew that my movie reviews would be my way in.

Mein Auto Ist Tot

So my car is finally dead. It started making this scary thumping sound on the way to a movie on Monday, and I abandoned it in a parking spot until Wednesday, when I drove it, very slowly, to a shop. They called today and told me the great news: the suspension is going, and it will cost $800 to fix it! And that's on top of the exhaust system, which is also going. Sigh. Join me for a memorial service for that car, which has served me well lo these many years.

Sorry I haven't been posting much lately. I haven't felt up to it. I could have written about the hockey game I attended last Wednesday with Kris, the gala opening on Thursday of the art show that my favorite art historian curated, or the shindig with the Chicago Academy for the Arts on Friday. But I didn't. You'll just have to fill in the details yourself.

A Day of Learning

I learned a whole lotta things yesterday. I feel 1.3% smarter. And taller.

1. I learned that Merriam-Webster has listed "nuke-you-ler" as an accepted pronunciation of "nuclear" since 1961. It's a variant, but such a widespread variant that they threw in the towel and listed it. They say that it has "been found in widespread use among educated speakers including scientists, lawyers, professors, congressmen, U.S. cabinet members, and at least one U.S. president and one vice president." When I sputtered about the degradation of the language, someone pointed out some things: Wednesday. February. Who says "Wed-nes-day" or "Feb-ru-ary"?

Huh. Well then. I still think a certain U.S. president is stupid.

2. Which leads to this: in the dictionary, when they include a little ÷ next to a pronunciation guide, it means that the pronunciation is a widespread variant "used in educated speech" that some experts find to be incorrect. As Michael Caine would say, "A lot of people don't know that."

3. I learned that saying "axe" for "ask" dates as far back as the 14th century. Chaucer said "I axe, why the fyfte man Was nought housband to the Samaritan?" Again, huh.

4. I learned how to play Go, the ancient Japanese board game. And I won! I kicked someone's ass the first game, 58-11! (And then he beat me three games in a row by a wide margin.) And then I won the last game, a hard-fought 35-32 victory!

Cold and Misc.

It was 5 degrees this morning when I left for work. The doors on my car were frozen shut, and it took me five minutes to pry them open. I drove to the bus stop (hey, it saved me frostbite on my nose), then stood waiting for the bus. It is 66 degrees in Chiang Mai right now. How's Florida, Shane? And why did I move from Michigan to Chicago?

To the guy on his cell phone this morning: a crowded bus is not the best place to discuss your STD history.

I've always thought Jennifer Garner, star of television's "Alias" and the new movie Electra, had a funny-shaped head. She's completely unappealing to me. My male friends look at me like I'm crazy, but now I have official support: David Edelstein, Slate.com's critic, agrees, sort of: "That face is really strange—long and fish-lipped, with different planes going at different angles. She's like a Picasso guppy." Of course, he prefaces it by saying that he "see[s] the allure." But he agrees: she has a funny-shaped head.

I've been working at the ad agency this week, and it looks like they'll continue to want me here on a regular basis. I could see it turning into an actual job. I'm torn. If I could work out something where I would not have to work a full week but still get benefits, that would be perfect, because I'm sick of feeling like a leech and sick of not having health insurance. I don't want to give up the filmmaking, but I don't want to be broke.

Happy Birthday to Me

I'm 30! I feel... different. I feel a new sense of purpose. I feel like I'm less of a risk to my automotive insurance company. I feel like my bones may have stopped adding mass. I feel...

Actually, I don't feel any different. Well, I feel happy that I'm having my first actual birthday party in god knows how long. I've invited everyone I know in town out to my theater, where we're showing one of my favorite movies, Out of the Past. Afterwards, we're all going across the street to a taqueria that has Spanish karaoke on Saturday nights. It should be fun. No, I'm not singing. No hablo español.

I ended up having 21 people come to my birthday movie party! I didn't even know that I knew that many people. Seventeen of us went to the taqueria for a late dinner and conversation. Sadly, there was no karaoke.

My birthday present seems to be having my opinion about movie critics published on Slate.com. You'll have to search for my name, but it's there.

Sigh

I'm not in Thailand. This is because they couldn't fit me on the plane, even though the ticket was purchased in October, I got there over two hours early, and I was fourth in line to check in for a boarding pass. They've bumped me to the same flight tomorrow, and they've changed all of my connections: from Tokyo to Bangkok, and then from Bangkok to Laos the next day. They couldn't do anything about the hotel in Bangkok, so I will likely get charged for an extra night, and maybe they'll get the amended reservation I emailed to them. (I tried calling, but I don't speak any Thai, and the woman who answered the phone didn't speak very much English. She kept asking, "you want make reservation?") It means one less day in Laos, and having to work my way through the Bangkok airport and then Laos's customs procedure without any idea what I'm doing. I did get an $800 travel voucher out of it, so maybe I'll use it to visit some of my friends who live outside of driving distance. At least my luggage probably made it to Bangkok. I hope it has a good time.

Update: I talked to Rebecca, who will meet me at the airport in Laos, assuming I make it that far. My hotel reservation has been changed. I'm sitting at home watching Wake Island, a war movie released in 1942. On the basis of the first 51 minutes, I highly recommend it to anyone who likes war movies, or needs something to watch with their father (it's a perfect dad movie). I'll see you after Christmas.

Leaving/Buffy

This will be my last post until I return from Thailand after Christmas. I hope everybody has fun over the holidays. My back is a little better, but not perfect. I'll probably need another week in bed when I get back to heal, because I don't intend to spend my two weeks in southeast Asia lying around hotel rooms.

I finished the last season of Buffy. Overall, it was pretty good. The blend of humor and seriousness was a little iffy at times, but it's not the worst season (that would be season 4), and it included the best cultural reference in the entire series. Without giving too much away, there's an important character named Robin Wood. Robin Wood is also the name of a film theorist who wrote what is probably the most important text on the study of horror films, an essay called "The Return of the Repressed," which was published in Film Comment in 1978 and expanded for a book of essays called The American Nightmare in 1979 (it's out of print, which is criminal). The essay looked at the genre through the dual lenses of Freudian and Marxist theory. It's essential reading to any fan of horror films; I wish that people who dismiss the genre as garbage would read it too. Anyway, it can't be an accident that the name cropped up.

See you in just over two weeks!

The Sorrow and the Buffy

They said Thursday. They promised. They lied.

Let me backtrack a little. Saturday afternoon I hurt my back. I have a long history of back problems, of two varieties. There's the upper back ailment, which I can have fixed by visiting my chiropractor and getting jerked around. Then there's the lower back ailment. I used to get it a lot in high school and college, and it would make me miss a week of work at a time, prevent me from playing street hockey in the parking lot behind Wightman Hall, and sometimes make me cry pitifully. I went to several doctors, and none of them really knew what was causing the problem. The only fix that ever worked was bed rest. My injury on Saturday was this variety of injury, so I've been spending this week in bed or on the couch.

It gets pretty boring, lying around the house all day. Monday I had to work at the ad agency, which was miserable, but at least it kept me occupied. Monday night I watched Sergeant York, and Brian came over to learn how to gas Rebecca's cat (Mini is asthmatic, and someone has to administer her inhaler while we're away). Tuesday during the day, Gaia came over, and we watched the documentary I helped make. After she left, I watched Johnny Belinda, and then I received the all-important email from Netflix telling me that the second half of season seven of Buffy the Vampire Slayer was due to arrive on Thursday. I am happy to report that season seven is better than I expected it to be.

To kill time yesterday, I rented the first two discs of season three of 24, which, I am happy to report, is better than season two was. Last night I went to Kris's cabaret concert, which, I am happy to report, was a lot of fun. I finished off the 24 discs and went to bed, content to know that by the time I dragged my injured ass out of bed, the mail would be here and I would have my Buffy fix.

They weren't there. Netflix has never failed me before. Usually, things show up a day before I am told to expect them. Why, when I need them most, did they fail to come through for me?!?! Why are they going to make me put on some clothes and drive to the video store to rent something that isn't Buffy? The video stores down here don't have many TV shows available. When I'm in the state I'm currently in, I don't feel like watching feature-length movies because I don't have the attention span for them. I want 45-minute chunks of entertainment, punctuated by slow trips to the computer to check my email. I'll have to rent the rest of 24, which is a sad and pitiful replacement for Buffy, even if it's actually pretty good.

I'm done whining, at least for now. Have a good Thursday!

Forgot the Best Part

The most entertaining thing about Thanksgiving (listen to the sarcasm rolling off his keyboard) is that I got an update on my recently divorced sister Michelle. Apparently, she was in a "life group" at her church, where people get together to solve their life's problems with the help of scripture. Well, when she filed for divorce, they kicked her out of the group. A week or so ago, the elders of her church approached her because they had heard she was dating. They informed her that she didn't have the right to start dating until her ex-husband Steve started, at which point it would be acceptable for her to date. You know, he has to release her from her wifely bounds, even after divorce. Thankfully, she laid into them, told them that he was already seeing someone and asked exactly what right they had to tell her what to do. I wish she had left the church, but she thought giving them the business would be enough.

One of my ex-brother-in-law's biggest problems was that he was really domineering. He was a real "woman's place is in the home" kind of Promise Keeping guy, the kind of person who didn't want to buy the fresh vegetables she needed for her diabetic diet because it would mean they couldn't afford to tithe, the kind of guy who would inform her that they were selling the TV because she didn't spend enough time reading the bible. I wonder where he learned such behavior from?

Happy Damn Thanksgiving

I hope everyone had a happy damn Thanksgiving. I had a pretty darned good weekend, full of overeating, movies, football, and overeating.

It started Wednesday, when Rebecca's mom came into town. I had to preview the movie out at my theater, so they came out to watch it. Debbie came bearing gifts: some stuff for the apartment, a book (see below), and a gift card that I shall use to purchase a messenger bag to replace the one that Rebecca wants back, the one that I took from her after her cat Mini vomited into my backpack lo these many months ago. It's too bad that the movie, Fallen Angel, wasn't very good, and it's too bad that the Mexican restaurant screwed up the food order so I had to eat a burrito with too many onions, but it was a good evening anyway.

Actually, it started earlier on Wednesday when I discovered that I'm on the Internet Movie Database. I'm fricking famous! Line up over here for autographs.

Thursday morning, bright and too early, I left for Michigan in my creaky car. Since I got it "fixed," it's been making a funny creaking sound when I hit bumps or shift. I called the mechanic on Tuesday and told him that I'd be bringing it in on Friday, and he said that I should go ahead and bring it in. The roads were clear, which was a nice surprise after the crappy rain and sleet from the night before. I got to my family's house in Muskegon just before dinner at 2:00. My oldest friend in the world, Moosie, and his girlfriend Erin came for the day, which was nice. I don't see enough of them. They're getting married next summer, and I'm supposed to be the best man. Any suggestions on speeches?

Anyway, dinner was really good. The turkey was perfect, the rolls weren't burnt (long story), and nobody was in a bitchy mood. After dinner, we draped ourselves over the furniture and watched the Lions getting their asses kicked. Moosie and I had a spirited discussion about whether the tryptophan in turkey was enough to make people drowsy; I argued that it is an urban legend that it makes you sleepy, and I am right. Moosie, Erin, and I had a pillow fight that turned into a wrestling match, while my mother poo-pooed that we had never grown up. What's wrong with that?

My dad and I continued our tradition of going to see the local minor league team, the Muskegon Fury, play that night. They won, as they do quite often: they won the Colonial Cup of the United Hockey League last year, and they've only lost once in the past 25 or so games. I'm sure you're glad to know that. It was nice to see live hockey again, and it's always nice to go to games with Bob.

Friday morning I drove my car out to the garage, to find that the bastard who runs it lied to me about being there. He was out of town for the weekend. Now I'm really pissed at him, and I'm going to sue him for whatever it costs to fix my car. I went back home and watched the Michigan high school football state championships with Bob. Muskegon had two teams in two different divisions playing at the Silverdome, and both teams won. Wahoo!

Friday afternoon my ex Jennifer arrived from her family gathering in Kalamazoo. We went book shopping, then went to see Finding Neverland, which was pretty darned good, but not great. Johnny Depp was really good, as was Kate Winslet, but the movie could have used a more fantasy-oriented director like Tim Burton. My mom made her famous macaroni and cheese, and my sister made her famous rice krispie treats. All was good with the world.

Along the way I started reading the book that Debbie got me, Tepper Isn't Going Out by Calvin Trillin of the New Yorker. It's a really funny story of a guy named Tepper who likes to sit in his car and read the newspaper. Drivers honk at him, asking for his parking spot, but Tepper isn't going out. After some newspaper coverage, people start to flock to him: some think he's an oracle who can help them with their problems, some think he's a rebel fighting for whatever cause they support, and the by-the-rules mayor of New York City, called Il Duce (but modeled on Guliani), thinks he's the first attack of the forces of disorder. The book is delightful, even though I hate using that word. Go buy a copy and read it.

Saturday I drove home in crappy, vision-obstructing rain, and I made it home in time for a nap before going out to my theater to show Fallen Angel. We had a really big crowd, which is always nice. I was there late because I screwed up yet again taking the film apart after the show. Some things never change.

Today I slept in and spent the rest of the day researching and watching Twilight's Last Gleaming, which we were thinking about showing next season out at the theater. I decided that it was a little too much for our mostly senior citizen crowd: too much violence, too much language, and too much radical leftist politics. We don't want to alienate our regulars, so we're showing Two for the Road instead. Then I got takeout from Boston Market and watched a couple of episodes of Angel. I'm going to watch a couple more before I go to bed.

I hope everybody had a good weekend.

Shameless Begging

As the happy holidy shopping time approaches, remember that I get cold, hard cash if you buy your Amazon stuff through the little box located at the bottom right corner of this page. It doesn't cost you a dime, so pretend I'm the Salvation Army Santa ringing his bell and make Amazon drop me some change.

Any frequent readers who attempt to advertise their own scams—er, programs—in my comments will be terminated. Get your own blog! :)

If It's Not One Thing...

I recently put $800 into my car. It needed a new clutch, the valve cover gasket was leaking, it needed a tune-up, the horn was broken, the washer pump was broken, and it wouldn't start most of the time. I finally got it home yesterday and was happily driving around when I noticed a popping sound coming from the area of the right front tire. The mechanic had said that at some point in the future it would need a new axle because of some age-related wear on some schmoo or another. Some point in the future is today; the new axle will cost me another $200.

I had considered just getting rid of the damn thing, but since I live in Hyde Park, being without a car would mean being basically stuck in purgatory. It takes at least an hour to get out of here by bus or train, and late at night it can take me over two hours to get home from the north side, including a .66 mile, poorly lit walk from the bus stop.

One of Those Days

I'm having one of those days. You know, the paranoid, anxious, obsessive, depressive, pitiful, empty, meaningless days. It's the kind of day where I obsessively check my email in the hopes that someone will email me, but I don't write any email myself. I obsessively reload the stats page on my site, and I wonder about the identity of the person or thing who is in the process of visiting each one of my review pages, in alphabetical order. (What do they want with me? Are they going to send a hurtful email that will upset me into obsessing over it for a week? Or is it just a web crawler?) I worry about making enough money, which is a side-effect of depending on freelance employment to pay the bills, but I want to spend money because it's among the only things that I know will relieve my mood. I fret about the art history monograph that I am supposed to index, a task up to which I do not feel. What if I don't get it done? What if I don't do a good job? I think about writing reviews for some of the movies I've seen in the past couple of weeks, but I'm too distracted to write. I worry that the director of the documentary I worked on is annoyed with me. What if he changes his mind about wanting me to work on the next project? Plus, there's nothing on the internet today, because I'm too stressed to read about politics and I'm too distracted to think of anything else I want to read about. I'm worried that I won't have enough time to do the things I want to do, but at the same time I'm bored because I have nothing to do. As my good friend Gaia said, I'm "moody." This is a moody day.

Credit

I need advice about how my name should be listed in the credits for this documentary I've been working on. Curse my parents for giving me such a common name! There are countless Mike Phillipses, a bunch of Michael Phillips Jrs., and even a Michael W. Phillips.

I usually use Michael W. Phillips Jr. on legal-type things, and it's the name I use on my site. But it's so awkward. What do you guys think? What about Michael Walt Phillips? What about Siegfried von Himmelbutz? I need to make up my mind sometime tomorrow.

Leo's

One of my favorite restaurants, Leo's, is under new management. Doom had been impending all summer, and when Brian and I stopped by for brunch on Sunday, it was clear that it had struck. I am pleased to say that the food has not suffered a whit. What suffered is the ambience.

From the outside, little change is noticeable: there's a new, freshly painted sign underneath the front window. But inside is different in subtle and saddening ways. The first thing I noticed was that the staff had changed over completely. Brian pointed out that there was a marked decrease in the number of piercings among the new staff. They were no longer the tattooed, pierced, mismatched clothes wearing artistic types who had worked there for the entire two years I've been going to Leo's. Now they are the Gap crowd, the new Wicker Park residents who moved to the neighborhood because of the artistic types they've driven out. They looked like sorority girls playing dress-up.

The second and third things I noticed had to do with the restaurant's comfortably shabby look: it had been cleaned up. The eclectic mix of mismatched chairs was gone, replaced by identical, boring wooden ones; also, the wall behind the counter, which used to be plastered with postcards, was cleaned off. Many of the postcards are still there in other areas of the restaurant, but there's a glaring gap that suggests future removal efforts.

Again, it's not like the place is completely different. But I now understand the feeling that Rebecca has described to me upon driving through her old neighborhood and noting subtle and not-so-subtle changes that mean gentrification. I'm not sure if it's a good thing or not that I've lived in Chicago long enough now to have a favorite place ruined (at least partly) by gentrification.

Lost Baby

I've had a bad afternoon. As the cleaning people were leaving, I realized that I hadn't seen my cat, Birdie, for a while. I started looking around for her, but still couldn't find her. I looked in every single place in the apartment that a cat could possibly fit. I figured that she had gotten out, so I spent a half-hour looking in the basement, wandering around and calling her name. She didn't come out. Then I went door to door in the complex, knocking and getting no answer from anyone. This is likely because most people are still at work at 4 in the afternoon.

I called Rebecca, near tears, because I didn't know how to get ahold of anyone from the complex. I could barely string a sentence together, because Birdie is my baby and I couldn't bear the thought of losing her.

As Rebecca comforted me and tried to find everyone's email address, I noticed one small spot that I hadn't looked, on top of some boxes shoved on top of a trunk underneath a table. I ran over and looked in, and there she was. As I cooed happily that I had found her, she stared at me in that superior cat way, annoyed that I had interrupted her nap. Stupid cat.

Things I Hate Today

...Cab drivers who beep at you while you're walking down the street. Sure, they want to get your attention, but don't they realize that people who want cabs usually attempt to flag them? Yet another reason to support my severe restrictions on cabs in the city, which I will outline in a later post.

...People who preface mean-spirited statements with "I'm sorry, but..." or end those statements with "But that's just my opinion." Are you really sorry? I doubt it. And we know it's your opinion; you don't need to use these passive-agressive mannerisms to alert us to that fact.

...The fucking guy who enters an almost empty bus, sits right behind you, and starts yelling into his cell phone.

I'm sure there are more, because I'm in a bad mood, but that's enough complaining for now.

Etc. stuff

Funny for geeks.
Top ten science fiction movies of all time (thanks Travis). Of course, there are twelve movies on the list. But hey, they're scientists.

Documenting

I had a surreal experience yesterday at BulletProof Film. Carmine, the guy who's in charge of the documentary I've been helping with, asked if I wanted to come back to the editing room and "look at some stuff." We watched a rough cut of the film, and he asked me to note down any problems I saw with it. I did this for a while, and then we got into a conversation about the main themes talked about by the interviewees.

The item in queston was one of the interviewees talking about how his father was killed in World War II. Carmine and I figured out a "storyline" that would start with his story, go to others who talk about the war, and end up with a section that talked about the beginning of the Cold War, using some of the public domain footage we found.

The crazy, surreal thing was that Carmine was listening to me. I'd suggest something, and we'd discuss it, or he'd just do it. Here was a professional filmmaker, with several films under his belt, asking my advice and acting on it. It was a great feeling, something I don't think I've ever felt before: the feeling of being competent among professionals.

Graduation and Filmmaking

So I'm graduated now. I'm Master Michael W. Phillips Jr. The ceremony was interminable and horribly hot. The commencement speaker was the president of Dow Chemical. Why don't we get former presidents and Supreme Court judges? Oh yeah, because the most famous person to graduate from Central was Dan Majerle, who used to play in the NBA. Our most famous former student, Jeff Daniels, dropped out.

The best part about the ceremony was that I looked up in the stands and saw my oldest friend sitting with my family. We weren't sure Moosie would be able to make it, but he surprised all of us.

I initially neglected to mention that I graduated sitting next to my friend and former girlfriend Jennifer. It was really nice to be there with her. We started the damned graduate school thing together, and it was fitting that we should end it together, although she cheated and actually graduated in May, so she will forever be able to say that she finished first. She waited to walk so I wouldn't be there alone. Jennifer, I'm sorry I didn't mention you in the first draft of this.

I should feel proud, or happy, or something, about graduating, but I really don't. It feels a bit like a letdown. Perhaps because it means absolutely nothing to me professionally—it's the capstone of a career I abandoned before it even started.

The good news is that I'm working as a volunteer for Bulletproof Film on a documentary prompted by Bush's "Axis of Evil" speech. Various scholars and activists talk about what evil they've encountered in their lives. My job is to track down visual representations of what the speakers are talking about. I've been downloading a lot of footage from Archive.org, which is an incredible storehouse of footage from films, newsreels, and other sources, all free for the taking and in the public domain, which means we don't have to pay for the right to use it, which is a godsend for a cash-strapped independent production company.

I've worked there two days so far, and I'm going back next week. I wish I didn't have to eat or pay bills, because then I would be able to work there more often. It's a great bunch of people who welcome my input; Carmine, the guy in charge, told me yesterday that I'm "officially part of the project."

Random thing: Nixon's speechwriter wrote this speech for him, in the event that he decided not to resign. (Thanks to Travis for the link.)

One More Before I Move

A few things before I unplug the computer...

Go to Turner Classic Movies and vote in their DVD Decision. They've got a list of 20 movies that have never been on DVD, and they're going to put five of them on DVD in January.

I worked my second day at the ad agency today. I really like it there. My boss is cool, although she thinks too highly of Yo La Tengo, and there is a lot of variety in the editing. Since I'm just a "freelancer," I don't know how long it is going to last, but I hope it lasts a while.

This Saturday, we're showing The Edge of the World at the LaSalle Bank Cinema, where I'm the projectionist. If you're not busy, come see this gripping drama of tragedy in the Scottish Highlands. Or at least that's what it seemed to be from the two reels I watched out of order. But that's another story. Showtime is at 8:00.

To those of you who won't be joining in the filmmaking fun on Sunday, have a good weekend!

Updates

For all of you who have been hiding from me for fear that I'd ask you to help me move, you can come out now. I hired some movers, two college kids who will have the privilege of carrying my stuff down the precipitous back stairs of my building.

I still haven't heard anything definite on the proofreading job. Hopefully, I will be able to start going in on a regular basis next week. I have to call and find out what's going on.

I have written 17 pages of my paper. I'm having a really hard time working in the secondary research, basically because I haven't done very much of it. I have until next Friday to get it done.

I'm now the main projectionist at the LaSalle Bank Cinema, which shows old movies on Saturday nights. There was someone with whom I was supposed to share the duties, but the departing projectionist doesn't have faith that this other guy can do it.

Rebecca and I are shooting our short film on Sunday, August 1. If you haven't been approached about a starring role (none of which are speaking parts anyway, since it will be silent) but are interested in a cameo, please contact the producers (me or Rebecca).

I guess that's about all. Have a nice weekend!

Boston Wedding

I took my first trip to Boston this past weekend, as Rebecca's escort to the wedding of her longtime friends George and Pat. She had often spoken of George and Pat, but I didn't know until I saw the invitation that they were both men. It actually made me excited and happy to be going, and I usually avoid weddings. It was a chance to spend a weekend seeing historic Boston and witnessing a little history-making ourselves.

Miscellaneous

In addition to sightseeing and the wedding, we did the following, mostly in order: went to a nice cocktail party given by the grooms-to-be; had a nice dinner with Rebecca's mother; rode with a crazy cabbie who didn't know where he was going but wanted to get there as fast as he could; stayed in a Quaker-run sort-of bed and breakfast; and attended a brunch that included the editor of the "Ideas" section of the Boston Globe (Jenny), a film critic who also works for the Globe (Wes), an English professor at Harvard (Leah), an art history professor at the University of Chicago (Rebecca), and my unemployed ass.

The Ceremony

The ceremony was at the Four Seasons Hotel, in the heart of curvy and confusing downtown Boston. It's a swanky joint, and the ceremony was held in a huge, beautiful room lavishly but tastefully decorated. The ceremony was officiated by a theologian friend of the grooms', and it consisted of friends and family either giving speeches, reciting poems and fragments of plays, or performing songs. It was very casual and fun. One man even led us in a singalong of "Let Your Love Flow," which wasn't quite as corny as it sounds. The best part, though, the most emotional and beautiful part, came when the justice of the peace said two little words that gave everybody chills and brought me the closest to tears I've ever been at a wedding:

"legally married."

I don't know the grooms; I'd just met them both the day before. But they've been together for seventeen years, and in my opinion, nobody deserved the right to be married more than they did. Now, thanks to a ray from heaven or some kind of cosmic karma, in the state of Massachusetts, they were able to. I felt like I was witnessing something historic; maybe I was, because who knows how long this will last. I hope it spreads; I hope all people hopelessly in love with each other, no matter what their sexual inclination, get to experience that someday. It was the greatest wedding I've ever attended.

The Reception

The reception that followed the service, in the main ballroom of the Four Seasons, was equally great. Tuxedoed waiters diligently made sure our glasses remained full, and unobtrusively brought out some damn fine salad, chicken or salmon, and chocolatey-heaven dessert. There were speeches, some funny, some moving, most of them both. One woman began by saying "This is my first time addressing the Democratic National Convention," and Pat ended his speech by saying "We've decided to take each others' names: I'll be George and he'll be Pat."

Also at the reception was dancing. Those of you who know me know that I don't dance. I believe that only one regular reader of this blog has ever seen me dance: Shane was present the last time, at my mother's wedding in 1996. But this time it was different. The wedding was so memorable, the reception so marvelous, that, although we had been thinking of making an early exit, when Rebecca's mother came to ask us if we would dance, I had to say yes. I'd like to say I was the second coming of Kevin Bacon, that I put Jennifer Beals to shame—but that would be a big stinking lie. I did the white boy shuffle: shuffle the feet, wave the arms at about waist level or below, roll the shoulders, and bob the head. Don't try anything too fancy, because the top half and the bottom half of the body can't do radically different things or they'll separate and fly across the room.

Sightseeing in Boston

We spent Monday wandering around Boston, getting a sunburn and looking at history. It's a pretty amazing place. You can't spit without hitting a historical landmark, and they're pretty formidable landmarks. We saw the cemetery where Ben Franklin was buried, the one where John Hancock was buried, the one where the Mather clan (Cotton, Increase, etc.) was buried. We saw Paul Revere's house, and the "one if by land, two if by sea" church. I've lost track of the other wonders of American history we plodded past, on increasingly sore feet. Boston is proof of the old saying: if you stick around long enough, something's bound to happen.

The Trip Home

The trip home was uneventful, except for one of the most terrifying things I've ever experienced on a plane. We were exhausted from a busy weekend and a day of marching around Boston in the hot sun. We just wanted to relax on the plane, with the five extra inches of leg room you get if your girlfriend is a United Premier customer and buys your ticket for you. Rebecca was feeling a little sick, and I was engrossed by Gabriel Garcia Marquez's Love in the Time of Cholera, when this cute little kid sitting near us started saying something in a gleeful, sing-song voice as the plane started its takeoff:

We're going down! We're going down! We're going down!

Little kids creep me out, especially when they're making predictions. Filmmakers have known this for some time. The Shining. The Sixth Sense. Even The Ring. "We all float down here!" Etc. When this kid started yelling that we were going down, I knew we were finished. I wanted to smother it with a pillow, and I doubt I was the only person on the plane to feel that way. Thankfully, this kid's precognitive powers were on the fritz, because we made it back safely.

More Famous People

I always see famous people when I'm out with Rebecca. Last night we went to see Fahrenheit 9/11, which I highly recommend. On the way out of the theater, we saw Jesse Jackson standing in the lobby, talking to a bunch of tall people. Rebecca and I walked slowly down the stairs looking at each other, and then we stopped at the bottom. When Jackson came down, we approached him and shook his hand. Rebecca said that she had voted for him in the 1988 primaries, and he said, "Thank you, sir." I guess he was preoccupied.

While I haven't had the nerve to approach famous actors and rock stars, I have no problem bugging politicians. It's their job to glad-hand.

Paper

I started it! I have three paragraphs! After years of waiting, the final paper of my Master's degree, about film censorship in Chicago, is underway! I started it in my usual place: at the end. "What was groundbreaking in 1907 was hopelessly behind the times by the late 1950s and early 1960s." I have less than a month to finish it.

Actually, I have documentary evidence that I already graduated. Since I thought I was going to finish last semester, I applied for graduation in May. They didn't know until afterward that I didn't actually finish, so they printed my name in the commencement bulletin.

Employment

Wahoo!

I had an interview as a proofreader at an ad agency. It's for "freelance or permanent" work, and I still am not quite sure what "freelance" means when you're in the office 35 hours a week with your own office with a door. Anyway, I called today to thank the interviewer for having me in, and she said that I aced the proofreading test. She's not sure when she'll need me, because of the nature of the workload, but she is giving my name to a friend of hers at another agency. Folks, I'm employable!

Wahoo! I think I'll take the day off to celebrate.

Lesson #1: Don't Talk to Flunkies

I finally got to talk to a management-type person at my landlords', instead of the usual phone-answering nitwits, and they were (gasp) completely reasonable. They're not going to show the apartment unless I tell them that I've decided to move out. Of course, it took multiple messages from me before they deigned to call me back, but I'm not in the mood to complain right now (check back tomorrow—I'm sure something will come up). I have an ad running in the Reader next week (I missed the deadline for tomorrow), and hopefully no psychopaths will call.

Quiet on the Set

I woke Monday morning with arms and legs that felt so heavy that I could barely move them. My face felt tight and uncomfortable from a fresh sunburn, and I wanted to go back to bed instead of going to work. I worked on a film set this weekend, and it was one of the best experiences of my life. I wish I didn't have to go to work; I wish I could go help out again before next weekend, when I'm scheduled to help out again.

The film is called Quietly on by, and it's directed by Frank Ross, a kid from the suburbs who, in 2002, sent me a copy of his second film, Oh! My Dear Desire, to review. It was good, and I wrote a positive review of it. I interviewed him, and we became casual friends. I call him a kid only because he is younger than me and looks it. But he's an incredibly professional guy, more organized than I will ever be. He writes with an understanding of human interactions that is surprising in someone so young. I put Desire on the Internet Movie Database, and when Frank asked me how he could repay me, I said that he had to let me work on his next movie. He complied.

The film is about Aaron, a guy who has a breakdown after his girlfriend leaves him. We meet him two months later; he's completely self-absorbed and seems to be manic-depressive. The crew consisted of Frank, his producer/assistant director/friend Joe, Tammy, Day-Day, Drew, and me. The "talent" consisted of Tony, Frank's Robert De Niro, a talented, funny, and kind person who starred in Desire and is playing Aaron here; Danielle, who was also in Desire and who plays Sara, the girl Aaron loves but who finds him a little bit creepy; Lonnie, a quiet guy with a wry sense of humor who has to endure multiple daily hairstyle modifications, who plays Erik, Aaron's best friend; and Jenni, who is new to Frank's orbit (she got her role through an open casting call), who plays Erin, Aaron's troubled sister. There are other cast members, but I haven't seen them yet.

I was part of what Frank is calling the "production team." My job is to do whatever Frank or Joe tells me to do. They all refer to me as Goatdog, because of the review and because Frank is too busy to remember names. I hung up sheets of plastic gel (used for changing the color or quality of light coming through windows) all over the house, including some scary moments atop a ladder attempting to tape them down in a high wind. I fetched Cokes for the actors. I fetched tripods and alligator clips and sandbags. I set up lights, taped various items to various surfaces, and moved equipment out of the way. I concealed microphones and clapped the slate in front of the camera. And I operated the boom mike.

Operating a boom mike is one of the most physically demanding tasks on a film set. A boom mike is a long microphone on a long, thin, retractable pole. It's directional, meaning you have to point it at the person who is talking. It weighs about as much as two pool cues. It doesn't seem so hard at first: you hold the pole over your head with the mike pointing down at the person doing the talking. But then your arms start shaking, your hands cramp up, your shoulders start to ache, you feel pressure on your lower back, the sweat trickles down your forehead and into your eyes, and your nose itches. You struggle to keep the mike high enough so that it's not in the frame, and low enough so that you can pick up the quiet actor you're supposed to be recording. Finally, the director yells "cut," and you can drop your arms. That is, until the next take, and the take after that, and the take after that. Since we were shooting on digital on battery-powered cameras, and since the actors were encouraged to improvise, some of the takes went on and on. The best scene we shot all weekend went on for around nine minutes. Poor Drew, the other crew member who actually did most of the boom-holding, had to hold that thing steady through the whole take. Thank God Frank didn't want to do a retake. (Incidentally, Drew and I are making plans for a backpack-mount for the boom mike, with a support and pivot that extends above the head. We are going to invent it and grow rich selling it to production companies.)

During that scene, I got a really powerful feeling that this, making movies, is what I want to do. I've thought for a long time that I might want to do at it, but never with the conviction I felt at that moment. I wasn't even involved—my job was to hold onto the other boom mike so it didn't fall over, and stay out of the shot. As Tony and Lonnie finished their scene—a little talk next to the tire swing they've just put up—they were on a roll, so Frank let them go with it. It was like they stopped being actors and started being the characters; they were completely natural with each other, as if they had really been friends forever. They added things to the scene that, as Frank told us later, would completely redefine where the movie was going. While I sat there, I got this wonderful feeling in my chest, akin to the feeling you get during a first kiss. It was perfect; I was helping to create a work of art, and we all knew right at that moment, when Frank finally yelled "cut," that it was going to be something special.

A lot of the time was spent waiting, and that was fun too, hanging out with a bunch of people with similar interests. Drew and I talked movie reviewing (he wrote an initial review of Frank's second movie for the Loyola Phoenix) and favorite movies. Jenni and I talked hockey, since game six of the Stanley Cup finals was on Saturday night, when we were sitting around waiting for it to get dark enough to shoot one last scene. I complimented Tony embarrassingly, because he's a really great actor. And we all picked on Frank, who took it with a blush and a smile. They are a great bunch of people, and I hope I don't lose contact with them after filming is done.

Well, I Asked for It

I finally got a call about my ad in the Reader. He was a complete psycho.

He chattered at me for twenty minutes about what he thinks about one-year leases and living with "young people" and how downstate they don't have long leases and how hard it would be for him to find a subleasor if he decided he wanted to move out before the end of the year and how he doesn't want to live on the south side because he values his life and how he's got all these women who want him to move in with them and how he thinks credit checks are unfair because what if you have a few "boo-boos" and how he doesn't know what would happen if he lost his job and had to leave the city to avoid being sued and...

And when he paused to take a breath, I said "I guess I'll keep looking" and hung up on him.

The Apartment Saga Continues

Today is Flitting Day, the day when Scottish families traditionally moved from one house to another, usually for a period of one year. It is fitting that today I realized that I am almost definitely going to have to move yet again come August. I didn't get a single call in response to the ad I put in the Chicago Reader. I've had no luck finding a new roomie through the roommate-finding service I used to find Han and The Doug. Han tells me that he is probably moving in with a friend. I am utterly defeated.

Do I move in with someone who has a room available, becoming a resented interloper hiding in my room all the time because the common areas have already been claimed? Do I try living on my own once again, in the hopes that my miserable experience that ended a year ago was a fluke? Do I give up and live under a highway overpass? I welcome any advice.

More Crazy Train People

Today's Crazy Train Person was a 50-something black man in a heavy leather jacket. He stood in the aisle a row ahead of me, arm extended, staring at his wrist where one might wear a watch, although his wrist was bare. He mumbled softly, his lips moving rhythmically, and I could hear snippets of what sounded like "mimimimimimimimimi." At regular intervals, he unleashed coughs of epic volume, coughs that shook my copy of White Teeth and sent spittle flying. Then he went back to studying his wrist and murmuring. After the second cough, the people in the seats below him moved to other parts of the car, but he didn't sit down. He stood there, studying and chanting and coughing on some cue that only he could understand.

Fucking Landlords

I didn't want to move again this year. I broke my poor roommate's heart when I told him that I was going to stay in our current apartment (he said, "oh, ok"). Sure, the landlords never call you back, and sure, the repair guy never comes. But I just don't want to move, and I can't really afford to move. I don't want to make my friends help me move again, and I can't afford to hire movers.

Well, it turns out that my goddamned motherfucking evil cocksucking miserly officious asshole landlords might force me to move anyway. I called them when I received my lease renewal form to find out what I should do about the fact that I don't know who my roommate will be yet. Two days later, they called me back to say that if I didn't have a new roommate picked out in two weeks, they are going to force me to apply for my own apartment by myself, and if I don't pass their financial and credit checks, I will have to move out. They refuse to let me wait a while until I find a new roommate. It seemed amazing to them that I would ask for a few more weeks to find someone. Despite the fact that the lease isn't up until the end of July, they want to know now now NOW!

If I do pass their rigorous tests, I can sign the lease by myself, and when I find someone, they will have him or her sign on as a roommate, but he or she won't be on the actual lease. Meaning, if he or she decides to bail out without notice or stops paying rent, I would be screwed.

If I end up having to move, I'm going to make a big sign to hang on the wall for when they bring in people to show the apartment. The sign is going to detail all the problems we've had with the landlords, as well as my phone number and email address, so prospective tenants can call me for the whole story on the apartment. I'll head it with "DO NOT RENT THIS PLACE" in letters a foot high.

On the Train Today

Five people reading The Da Vinci Code. All in the same car. I'm torn. Part of me wants to yell out the ending. Part of me wants to run through the car, grabbing them all before jumping out the doors just before they close, the hapless readers' faces filled with shock and dismay that I have interrupted yet another two-page cliffhanger chapter.

Two people from my former place of employment. One of them looked at me as she might a cockroach. The other gave me that sheepish yes, I recognize you, but please don't talk to me smile-and-drop-the-head. There's nothing that can spoil my mood like seeing someone from there. It brings back all the embarrassment and anger and helplessness I felt on my last day.

And one guy listening to loud, bad rap music on a portable tape recorder. Not a walkman, not a radio, not a big silver boombox. A tape recorder, like I used to sell at Radio Shack to college students with oral history assignments. On the buses and trains, they warn you that "smoking, littering, and playing radios or loud devices is prohibited." This is the first time I've encountered a loud device that didn't double as a cell phone. It sounded terrible, all tinny and flat, like listening to top 40 on an answering machine. Thankfully, he got off after two or three stops.

My TV Is Broken

My television is at the repair shop. The screen bounces, making anything I haven't already seen completely unwatchable. I took it in to get it fixed on Saturday, but I have felt the effects of my broken television since early last week. I'm not always very good at entertaining myself. If I'm by myself and I haven't settled on an activity by around 7:00, I get antsy. When I'm antsy, I can't read or work on my paper. I need passive entertainment. I usually throw a movie on and sit happily in the near-dark. This was how I got through the hard times toward the end of grad school, when I had decided that I didn't really want to be there anymore. Coincidentally, that was when I started my movie review site. But that option was tragically taken away by the vagaries of electronics.

I play a lot of darts now. I go to movies when I find convenient showtimes. I bother people on the telephone. I fidget. And I think about how dependent I am on that stupid box for my sanity. If you tell me that I could find a hobby, or go out and get involved, or whatever other good advice you probably have for me, I'll nod in agreement, because you're probably right, but I still won't be content until I get my idiot box back.

I'm a Moron

I had 31 days after my date of hire to fill out my insurance forms. Of course I waited until the last minute. Of course I didn't read the instructions, which said "Use capital letters only." Of course I went back over the stupid forms, trying to make my lowercase chickenscratch letters look like capitals. Of course I rendered the forms unreadable, and I have to go get new forms tomorrow, which is when they're due. Sigh. Some people shouldn't be left in charge of their own lives.

Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now

"I was looking for a job and then I found a job/and heaven knows I'm miserable now."
--The Smiths

I wanted to keep my widdle blog free of the usual online journal minutia (I ate a peanut butter sandwich today, I missed the train this morning, my mom is a bitch, etc.). However, I've been reading Mimi Smartypants, and I realize that it's ok to whine if you do it in an interesting manner (whether this counts is arguable).

I slept in this morning because it was supposed to be beautiful and sunny, which means that my car is likely to start (long story). I had a leisurely shower, ate my warmed-up omelette leftovers from brunch yesterday, and strolled out the door at around 8:15. It's a maximum of 45 minutes to work when I drive, so I wasn't worried about being late. That is, until I forgot where I had parked the last time I drove my car. I wandered around the neighborhood, looking in all the usual hiding places, but with no luck. You see, I had driven home late the last time I drove it, which meant that parking pickings were slim, and I ended up parking several blocks away. When I finally found the car, it was 8:35.

It didn't start. My entire worldview was shaken. Since my car started acting up, bright and sunny = car starts. Invariably. Well not today. Was it because the bright sunshine had not yet warmed its delicate hood? Was it finally dead? Who knows. I sat there trying to start it until 9, then I had to run to the train.

I started reading Faulkner's As I Lay Dying a few nights ago. You cannot read Faulkner on the train. At least, I can't. He requires a level of concentration that I cannot give him when surrounded by the myriad distractions on the train. I rode without reading, staring out the window.

I got off the train downtown and waited for the bus. When it came, I climbed aboard at the head of a long line of people. Turns out my transit card was expired. I didn't notice when I got on the train because all of the turnstiles at my stop were broken, so they were just letting everybody walk through. I had to dig through my wallet and pockets looking for enough money to pay the fare. I had no change, and I had only a single dollar bill. The people waiting behind me started shoving, and the driver sighed and told me to "sit [my] ass down." I complied.

At work, when I finally got there, the guy who is "training" me was waiting for me. He gave me 16 articles that needed to be cleaned up (a process combining repetitive actions with utter boredom). I hate cleaning up manuscripts. I've been doing it since I started. I want training. I get clean-up. Maybe tomorrow will be better.

Cubicle Hell

So it's 11:30 on Sunday night, and I was going to go to bed until I remembered that I had forgotten to switch my laundry from the washer to the dryer four hours ago. I need those clothes, because it's too late to go buy new underwear, so I guess I'll stay up until they're done.

All of which is unrelated to my new cubicle at work, my new home, until god knows when. They want to hire another new editor, but they don't have any more empty cubicles. They'll have to go on the offensive, stage a late-night cubicle-grabbing raid on the computer people on the other side of the office. All I know is that the new person's cube must be in a shittier spot than mine. If it is not, I might go on a hunger strike. But is this possible? Is there a worse place than where I sit? Let's examine it geographically.

I have an attractive corner cubicle, on the corner of two busy aisles. To the southeast is the kitchenette, where people stand and chat loudly while waiting for their smelly bad-fish sandwiches to heat up in the microwave (or so it smelled last Friday). To the south is the stairwell. The stairwell is closed, with a heavy metal door doing its best to block sound (and probably flames, if they were to crop up). However, people like to run up or down stairs, and I get to hear them coming and going, hear their heavily booted feet ringing on the metal stairs: ap tap tap tap bang bang baNG bANG BANG!!! BANG!!! BANg BAng bang bang tap tap ta...

I can't concentrate on my editing when there's noise, but I also can't concentrate on my editing when I'm listening to most music. What to do? What, that is, except curse everyone who walks by with their prehistoric pounding feet and their stinky exotic food and their chatting and their laughing.

Role Playing

I just returned from six hours of role playing. We're playing a game created by Travis that is set in a Buffy/X-Files/Fortean Times type of world. I'm the neurotic author, Brian is the mysterious rare book dealer, Shawn is the hardboiled detective, Dee is the kung fu chick, Blake is the weatherman (really), and Carrie is the theology professor. We were all embroiled in mysterious goings-on at a casino. It was a lot of fun, and I can't wait until we get together to play again.

My character is a sniveling know-it-all, paranoid but desperately in need of approval from someone, anyone. In short, it's who I sometimes fear that I am. At least, my character embodies the parts of myself that I hate to own up to. The petty jealousies, the constant fear that my friends merely tolerate me, the perfectionist streak... they're all there, but amplified. It's the part of me that prompts lengthy email exchanges with people I've known a long time, verifying that, in fact, one of us didn't actually mean what the other thought we meant—like that, but cranked up to 11. It's a cleansing experience, being able to act on all of it within the safety of make-believe.

It's a far cry from sitting in my mom's pop-up camper for hours into the night, playing Dungeons and Dragons with a bunch of wired teenagers. Wired twenty- and thirtysomethings are more interesting.

Last Day of Freedom

I got up late, at around 10. I had stayed at Rebecca's because I was in Hyde Park after volunteering for the Documentary Film Festival at Doc (the source of endless confusion as I tried to explain why tickets for the doc were more expensive than the regular tickets for Doc). Rebecca was off being busy somewhere, so I lounged around, petting Slim and Mini, reading, and scrounging for breakfast, before I finally left at 11.

I was supposed to meet my friend Scott from my old job for lunch at 12:30, and I was early. I spent a half-hour reading in the huge lobby at Union Station. I had a good lunch with him; he filled me in a little on goings-on at the old job. We talked about books and movie adaptations and real estate. To him, and to my other remaining friends at the ADA, "where I used to work," I say thank you and I miss you.

I meandered north toward my apartment, stopping at a comic book shop and a used CD store. I'm home now, and I might just take a nap. I have to volunteer again at the film festival tonight. They're showing a film about an East German detention camp, a film about where down comes from (like in down pillows), and one about America's first serial killer, H.H. Holmes, whose exploits were immortalized in the recent bestseller The Devil in the White City. Too bad it's showing so late; I'll stay to see it anyway.

It feels odd to be going back to work tomorrow. When I was unemployed with no prospects, the days were endless alternating episodes of panic and boredom. I couldn't fill my time with anything constructive, but mindless things didn't keep my attention either. Now that I have a job, I resent not being able to lounge in bed until 10 and spend the afternoon buying comic books and CDs. Oh well. I'll get reaccustomed to it soon enough.

New Job II

I have a new job. I start next Wednesday as a manuscript editor on the Journal of Infectious Diseases back at the good old University of Chicago Press. I'll be editing manuscripts about Epstein-Barr syndrome, HIV, and infant vaccinations, among other topics. This journal is pretty tame; the other one published by the same division of the press, Clinical Infectious Diseases, has gory pictures that made my stomach turn when I looked at a sample issue. They even have a popular "Guess the Disease" photo quiz. Yuck. This one has graphs and charts instead.

The funny thing about going back is how I feel about it. When I was in the office yesterday for my interview, I felt an incredible homesickness. I missed working near my friends; I missed going out to lunch with them. I'm happy to be going back.

Finishing My Degree

For those of you who don't know already, I am finishing my MA in History this semester. I started back in 1998, and I sort of dropped out—that's too strong a phrase. I stopped going in 2001 when I moved to Chicago. I have a pretty decent excuse: I thought I was finished at the end of that summer. Turns out that a series of misunderstandings, mostly my fault, meant that I was not in fact done. This semester, I figured it was about time for me to finish. I mean, it's just one class. How hard could that be?

Pretty goddamned hard. I'm finding it nearly impossible to get back into the grad student work ethic that got me through when I was a full-time student. You have to read a certain way, at a certain pace, to get through as much secondary material as you need to get through. I'm having a really hard time doing it.

In fact, I've been hiding from it. Instead of reading about movie censorship (my general topic), I watch movies obsessively. Way back in 2000, I started my movie review site because I was watching movies obsessively in an attempt to keep from thinking about my complete lack of direction. Here I am, three years later, with the same problem. When I think of sitting down with a book for some hard-core skimming, I panic. I find myself frantically looking for something, anything else to do. Like write an entry for my blog about my troubles.

I'll get it done though. I just need to find a focus. It will mean going to the library and slaving over a microfilm reader for hours on end, but I will find my topic. I have to—they already cashed my tuition check.

Valentine's Day

On Saturday, February 14, my girlfriend and I spent the afternoon together. We went shopping, where I watched her buy shoes and a backpack. We came back to my apartment, where she worked on her syllabus and I read. We went out to dinner at Alice & Friends', one of our favorite restaurants. We went to Evanston to see The Dreamers, a sort of romantic movie that was pretty ok. We went back to her apartment and went to bed.

This was no different than any other Saturday, except that she wasn't working. Neither of us really care about Valentine's Day. We both think it's crass and commercial (we discussed it last year). I have no problem with people who choose to celebrate it. I think it's cute when people get all swoony. For some people who might have really busy schedules, it's a special day to drop everything and be romantic.

What I hate is getting shit from people who do celebrate it. I have gotten a hard time from four people so far. They imply that there's something wrong with me or my relationship because I don't celebrate it. They argue that it's romantic. I don't think it's any more romantic than doing something spontaneous—less so, in my opinion. They say Christmas is just as crass and commercial. It certainly is, but if someone doesn't want to celebrate Christmas because it is crass and commercial, I won't give them shit about it. Same goes for birthdays. If you don't want to celebrate them, don't. If you love Valentine's Day for whatever reason, by all means go out and celebrate it. Please don't give me a hard time if I don't.

Kings 2, Blackhawks 1

I took my stepfather to his first NHL game this past Sunday. My friend Shawn came with us. It was the most godawful boring NHL game I have ever been to. There was absolutely no flow, only three goals scored, little hitting, and little speed. Chicago managed 35 shots, but none of them were memorable. It was just completely blah. It was worse than watching minor league teams go at it. The game was an illustration of everything that people say is wrong with hockey. There weren't any obnoxious people in the stands near us, which is nice, but that is a small consolation.

Victory!

I got into a minor fender-bender on Sunday. I was in a left turn lane, and I had my blinker on to turn left into a gas station parking lot. I decided suddenly to pull ahead closer to the corner and use a different entrance to the gas station. I hit the gas, heard a loud beep to my right, and got bumped by a car that was attempting to change lanes in front of me, or what was going to be in front of me until I decided to pull ahead.

The very nice Chinese man in the car and I pulled into the parking lot. I was positive it was my fault. I apologized profusely, and he was very nice about everything. I wrote down my insurance and contact info, and he politely verified everything against the original forms. We shook hands and parted ways. I was pretty calm about it. I was in the wrong, but there was very little damage—just some paint scraped off—which my insurance company would pay for.

Then, the phone calls started. My mom, all upset because she heard about the accident from the insurance company instead of from me. I hadn't expected Mr. Chinese Guy to call in a claim right away, so I wasn't going to call her until later that night. The insurance company, recording my statement and questioning me about it vigorously. I started to get stressed about it because it wouldn't go away. For three days, the calls continued. Where was his car exactly? Who was moving where, and who was in what lane? I even paced off the distances and drew an elaborate map of the accident site. I was getting nuts about it by now, again because it just wouldn't go away.

Today, victory. I got a letter from the insurance company, who said that they had determined that Mr. Chinese Guy was the majority party at fault. Illinois state law says that he is barred from any recovery. Accordingly, they denied his claim. Wahoo! Now my rates will go up anyway.

Rejected!

I sent my review of Gothika, with its daring sestina form, to McSweeney's, which has started publishing sestinas. After more than a month, they emailed me back. Here is the text of the email:

Mike --
Thank you so much for interest in the McSweeney’s Internet Tendency Sestinas section and for your submission. Your sestina is definitely skilled and uses the form well. Unfortunately, it’s not right for us. Please do send again, and revisit the Sestinas section to see how we’re doing.

Sincerely,
Daniel Nester
Assistant Web Editor for Sestinas

What a nice rejection letter! It's the best one I've ever received. It compliments me and lets me down easy—it's not right for us, but you have talent, so hey, why don't you send us another? Most rejection letters make me feel bad. This one didn't. I think I'll write another sestina, about something other than the latest Halle Berry flick, and send it to them.

Commuting

There are wonderful things about taking the train to work instead of driving. The main thing is that I get to read a lot more than I used to. In fact, I've been reading at such a workmanlike pace since I started my new job that I simply took all the books I own but have not read and put them on the top shelf of my bookcase. I started on one end, and I'm reading them all. I should be done by 2014.

There are also... interesting... things about riding public transportation. You see a lot of crazy stuff, and sometimes crazy stuff happens to you. A drooling drunk man fell on me once. That was bad. That was about the worst. However, I would never have witnessed a guy in a gorilla suit videotaping a nutso homeless preacher, or a man painted silver arguing with drunken Cubs fan about whether they were allowed to touch his silver barrel. They weren't.

This morning, a guy was attempting to pick fights with people on the train. When they would ignore him, he said "Well, have a nice day... in spite of your attitude," while making elaborate hand gestures that were a cross between signals from a third-base coach and Madonna's "Vogue." I was going to make a joke about stealing home when I got off the train, but... I guess I just did.

More Famous People

While I was in New York City with Rebecca this past weekend, I saw Timothy Hutton on the train. Oscar-winner Timothy Hutton, who I admired in Taps, Iceman, Turk 182!, Beautiful Girls, and most recently Sunshine State. He was talking to a young woman. At first I didn't know if it was really him, but then I overheard him talking to her about appearances on talk shows, working on "sets," and producers. I had a great opportunity to approach him and say hello, because his companion left the train and he was sitting right across the aisle from Rebecca. But I didn't. He got off several stops later, and I immediately regretted not saying something. Of course, if he had gotten off on our stop and followed us around, I probably wouldn't have said anything then either.

I wonder, though, whether it is the same with a character actor as it is with a big star. I'm sure Tom Cruise gets sick of people freaking out and pointing at him, but would a "working actor" like Hutton mind if I approached him politely and said that Taps was one of my favorite movies when I was growing up, and he was the best part of it? I wonder.

Maybe next time I see someone famous, I'll be as brave as I was when I was 11 and saw Brett "The Hitman" Hart in the Detroit airport, eating granola. I stared at him until he motioned for me to approach. He was polite, asked me not to make a "ruckus," and signed my boarding pass... the part they keep when you get on the plane.

Welcome to My Nightmare

I had a horrible dream recently. I don't normally remember my dreams, but this one was so vivid that I woke up in a panic, and I still remember how it felt. In my dream, the Orwellian government had decreed that it was illegal to express yourself in more than one-word utterances. If you put two words back to back, you were likely to get arrested. People had conversations that were necessarily stunted. "Going?" "Vacation." "Oh?" "Florida."

In my dream, I gave an angry speech about the state of affairs, and the government forces were after me, Minority Report style. I don't think I got away, either. Imagine trying to negotiate with the fake-ID guy about rates. The cops would show up before you got past hello.

For a repressive government, there would be few better methods of censorship than prohibiting clarity and restricting communication to single words. Abstract expression would be impossible under such a system. Imagine protest signs that just said "Corrupt" or "Evil" but were prohibited from having context. Rallies and speeches would be nonexistent.

Even everyday communication is nearly impossible under such a system. Shawn, Brian, and I attempted it while waiting for a movie; Shawn and I couldn't remember if Brian had been with us when we went to see comedian Uncle Lar on Shawn's birthday. We gave up after several frustrating minutes of "Birthday?" "When?" "September." "Where?" "Here." "Huh?" "Him." "With?" "Huh?"

I think the reason it upset me so much is that I make a living with words. One of my greatest pleasures is reading. Another is movies: imagine what the screenplays would be like. Also, I'm half-afraid that the current administration would love it if my nightmare came true.

Happy Friday

I needed to share this with the world. This is from an email from my friend Shane, a regular in the comments on this blog. It says it all:

"I hate Fridays. Fridays used to be a good thing, but now they suck. You still have to go to work, but the day just drags like a dying camel because you can't wait to leave. And no one ever writes emails or anything on a Friday. And the people who call are always desperate and needy, resulting in extra work. And the sun is always hidden in the valley. And the tears of the samurai flow like a river. And mice scream the last cries of the dying. And the hobo cannot find his tin cup. And the picket fence is yellowed like stained teeth. And the monkeys never play with the baboon anymore.

On the bright side, at least it is not Monday!"

Happy Thanksgiving

I had a really nice day. I drove up to Muskegon for dinner with my family (I'm typing this there). The drive went really fast, and my right front tire didn't fall off (they're going to fix the alignment today). I got to meet my little sister's new boyfriend Jim and his son Chris. Chris is six. He has the most energy of any kid I've ever seen. After he tired out my mom's hyperactive Schnauzer, he actually spent about ten minutes just running around in a circle. Then he did jumping jacks. I got tired just watching him.

Part of Thanksgiving tradition is watching football. I don't watch much football, although I'm in a fantasy league where I was in first place until recently. The Lions beating the Packers senseless (tee hee, Shawn) might help me get back into first place.

Present at dinner were my sister, my stepdad, my mom, Jim, Chris, me, and my mom's friend Frenchie. Her real name is Claudine, I think, but everyone calls her Frenchie. She's French, you know. She was raised in Vietnam and I believe her husband owned a plantation of a sort over there until the Vietnam War forced them to flee. I'm sure she would be interesting to talk to about that, but the Lions were on.

After dinner we went bowling (I won) and played pool (I won, mostly). Accompanying us was my friend Moosie, who I haven't seen in a while. Since he probably doesn't read this blog, I can tell you that six-year-old Chris nearly beat him at bowling. It was good seeing him. The entire day was good, which is a happy surprise, because holidays usually end in screaming with my family. There was no screaming at all, except while we were bowling, and that was technically cheering anyway.

The only bad thing was that I left my pie in Chicago. Our office had a charity thing where chefs from fancy restaurants downtown baked pies, and the proceeds went to charity. I bought a pumpkin pie that I am just positive was baked by Emeril himself. It looked good, it smelled good, and so I left it in the refrigerator at work because I was so eager to leave early.

I hope my loyal readers had a good Thanksgiving too. Feel free to fill my comments with amusing or heart-warming anecdotes.

Blackhawks 3, Mighty Ducks 1

Another Sunday night, another hockey game. This one was much better attended than the last one, probably because of Anaheim's trip to the Stanley Cup Finals last season. One of Anaheim's best defensemen is Sandis Ozolinsh, who is more of a forward than a defenseman; I don't think he can actually skate backwards. Anyway, he is Latvian, and we had the pleasure of sitting near a small but very vocal and very enthusiastic group of Latvian hockey fans, there to cheer on their countryman. They were a riot. They had two cheers: San-di (I think that's a diminutive of Sandis, although it's possible they wouldn't pronounce the S in Latvian), and "Let's go, O-zo-linsh!" They alternated these cheers at top volume, interrupted by dancing and high-fives. It didn't seem to matter whether Ozolinsh was on the ice or not. They just loved him.

However, the Ugly Americans were out in full force. One drunk Chicago fan stood in front of them screaming "Let's go Blackhawks!" until the veins popped out in his forehead, and when they would respond by shouting "Let's go Ozolinsh!" even louder, he would shake his head exaggeratedly and scream again. This was funny until he apparently pushed one of them, and then he started flipping them off individually and screaming "Fuck you!" at them, also until his veins popped out. The Latvians took this goodnaturedly: they were just having fun, being positive about their countryman, and they weren't in the mood to argue. The Chicago fan went back to his seat for a while, but he and his friends were shouting xenophobic and abusive taunts at them the rest of the game. It didn't stop with them, either. When the Latvians got really drunk, they started cheering in Latvian. A group of college kids sitting near us took issue with this, screaming nonsense words that they thought sounded Latvian, or something. They also shouted abusive taunts and demands that the Latvians shut up. They screamed themselves hoarse. They behaved like complete idiots.

Latvia is a country about the size of West Virginia, and it has a population a little smaller than Chicago. Imagine moving halfway across the world, from a tiny country to one of the largest in the world. You go to a hockey game with your friends to cheer on one of your countrymen who excels at the highest level of competition, and your reward is threats from drunken Americans who have probably never been out of the Midwest. The Latvians weren't even Anaheim fans per se: some of them were wearing Blackhawks shirts. They were just cheering their favorite player. I hope they realize that not everybody feels the way the xenophobic idiots do. I was really ashamed to be a Blackhawks fan, and a little ashamed that those loudmouths might represent majority opinion in the US.

Bumper Taxis

I was riding the bus yesterday morning down Adams from State Street to Union Station (it's only five blocks, but I'm lazy). I was the only person on the bus. Canal Street, which is where the buses turn past Union Station, is one-way going north, but there is a single lane where only buses can turn south. Despite this, a cab driver screeched across two lanes of traffic to cut us off, and then he parked his cab right in the middle of the bus-only lane, blocking the bus from leaving the intersection.

I was feeling brave, and I asked the driver whether he ever wanted to run cabs down. He got a wistful look in his eyes and said, "All the damn time. I want to hit 'em like those bumper cars. I'd crush those things flat, like an accordian. I could shove them onto the sidewalk out of the way." Then he laughed, a long, crazy laugh. He was still laughing when I got out of the bus. I think I made his day.

Blackhawks 3, Predators 1

I went to see my hometown heroes the Chicago Blackhawks face off against the Nashville Predators last Sunday night, the night before my first day at my new job. It was me, my friend Steve, and his friend, whose name I can never remember. Several of my friends couldn't make it, and I forgot to call Shawn and invite him. He was probably busy anyway.

They have a cool program at the United Center where if you buy your tickets less than two hours before the game starts and you have a student ID, you can get a $15 cheap seat for $8. I still have mine from college, so I use it.

The Blackhawks don't have much of a team. They have one good defensemen (Jon Klemm), one decent center (Alexei Zhamnov, who never lives up to his potential), a good right wing (Steve Sullivan), and a big guy who is hurt all the time (Eric Daze). They also have one of the most overworked and underappreciated goalies in the league, Jocelyn Thibault. They have some talented younger players (Tyler Arnason, Kyle Calder, and rookie Tuomo Ruutu). That's about it.

The United Center is cavernous, and it is really obvious when not many people show up. The place was about half empty. It's a feeling not unlike the three survivors defending the shopping mall against zombies and bikers in Dawn of the Dead.

The emptiness of the arena made it possible for just about everyone there to hear the loud and drunken bellowing of the fans in our section, who hated defenseman Alexander Karpotsev with a consuming passion. Every time he touched the puck, they would boo (this was really funny when he didn't keep it very long: "Bo-"). During breaks in play, if he was on the ice, this one guy would scream "I hate you Karpotsev!!!" I asked why they hated him so much, and they replied that he was the worst player on the ice.

At least they were having a good time, and they made enough noise to compensate for some of the missing fans. However, I think it's going to be a long season, for fans and for the Hawks.

Dress Code

I was talking to my friend Brian at work about the new job, and he asked me if I would have to "dress up." I started to say no, it was just business casual... Then I looked down at myself. I was wearing a purple t-shirt with a big cartoon cow on it, jeans with a hole in the knee, and no shoes. "Yeah, I'll have to dress up," I said.

I don't know what "business casual" means. Are polo shirts ok? Are short-sleeve button-up shirts ok? Can I wear a Hawaiian shirt, as long as it's tucked in? When I worked at Radio Shack, business casual meant we could take off our ties, except at our store we didn't because we wanted to look nicer than the mismatched geeks at the other stores. I'll do what I have done for every job I've ever had: go in on the first day wearing exactly what I wore to my interview.

I do know that business casual means no more jeans, except on Fridays. It's funny how we fiercely independent Americans get so jazzed up because our autocratic bosses deign to let us wear jeans one day of the week. I guess we get to feel rebellious that day, like we just climbed off our Harleys. I'm making fun of the practice, but I bet in a month I'll be longing for Fridays.

New Job

Sorry I haven't been writing much lately on either this blog or my movie review site. I've been a little stressed out trying to prepare for...

My New Job!!!

Yes, that's right. Goatdog is employable. I got a really great job at the American Dietetic Association editing their journal. I get an office and a big fat raise, and I get to work downtown, and, most importantly, I get to NEVER EDIT ASTROPHYSICS AGAIN!!!

I'll be working in a building right on the canal in downtown Chicago, right next to Union Station. I don't have to drive to Hyde Park anymore. Have I mentioned that I don't have to edit astrophysics anymore? I want to make that clear. I will miss my friends at the press (you know who you are), but I won't have to edit astrophysics anymore.

Hit the Ice

Hockey starts tonight!!! I have meaning in my life again! I have something to keep me busy at work, and something to watch other than movies. This may be the last season in a while, since the players' union and the league are miles apart on a new collective bargaining agreement to replace the one that expires next September.

The season starts under another ill omen, too: rising star Dany Heatley of the Atlanta Thrashers faces vehicular homicide charges after causing a car accident that killed his teammate Dan Snyder. Even if Heatley recovers from knee surgery and escapes jail time, will he ever be the same player again?

Things look bad for my hometown Blackhawks, too. They have made no real effort to fill the scoring drought caused when Tony Amonte exited a couple of years ago. The debacle of last season, which went to hell after a much-publicized incident at a strip club in Columbus effectively put recovering substance abuser Theo Fleury back off the wagon, is fresh in the minds of fans. I'll still go to games, but I will choose them according to which opposing teams I want to see. The Hawks have little more to offer.

Recently, Dan Snyder's parents said that they forgive Heatley and that they don't see how putting him in jail will do anyone any good. I think they're right.

Winter Coat Pockets

I wore my winter coat for the first time since last winter. It's always nice to dig in your pockets to see what you left in them. Sometimes you find money. Sometimes you find moldy candy. I found neither. This is what I found.

December 19: Depressing statement from my student loans

January 23: Chicago Blackhawks ticket vs. St. Louis Blues (they won)
January 31: Receipt from Pockets, Hyde Park

February 2: Receipt from some gas station in Sawyer, MI
February 15: Receipt from Mellow Yellow, Hyde Park
February 17: Receipt from Einstein Bros., Andersonville
February 23: Receipt from Middle East Bakery on Foster in Andersonville
February 23: Ad for "Interfaith Public Witness for the Casualties of War" at Holy Name Cathedral on State (I didn't go)
February 25: Receipt for unidentified movie ticket at Century in Evanston
February 28: Ticket stub from Cradle 2 The Grave (Evanston)

March 1: Einstein Bros. receipt
March 4: Pockets receipt
March 9: Einstein Bros. again
March 14: Myopic Books (I wonder if I have read any of the books I bought?)
March 14: Flower Bucket receipt (flowers for Rebecca congratulating her on her job?)
March 18: Facets Videotheque receipt. I wonder what I rented?
March 22: Receipt from Shell station at Hollywood and Broadway
March 29: Specialty Video receipt (Sherlock Jr.)
March 30: Specialty Video again (Femme Fatale)

Unidentified:
Subway Sub Club card, empty
List of 12 Best Picture nominees. I wonder which one I rented? Crossfire, I Am a Fugitive from a Chain Gang, In Which We Serve, The Ox-Bow Incident, Pride of the Yankees? I ended up seeing them all.
Ad for protest the day the attacks on Iraq begin (I didn't go, but I went to one the next weekend)

What does this tell you about me? I was taking my filmmaking class in Andersonville a block away from Einstein Bros. Bagels. We used to go to Pockets a lot for lunch at work. I get in ruts. This year I'll be sure to do more interesting things so my pockets make better treasure troves next October.

Steven Tyler

My girlfriend and I were walking down the street in Chicago near the corner of Oak and Michigan last Saturday night when we saw Steven Tyler, the lead singer from Aerosmith, hanging out in front of one of those bars they probably wouldn't let us in because we're not cool enough. He was just standing there in a leather jacket and jeans, talking to Julie. I know her name is Julie because she said, "Hi, I'm Julie!" to him as we walked past.

This was the first time I had ever seen a really famous person out on the street. When I was 11, I ran into the wrestler Brett "The Hitman" Hart in the Detroit airport. He autographed my boarding pass, the part they keep when you get onto the plane. Sigh. I had always wondered how I would react if I saw someone else famous on the street. I would like to think that I would just leave them alone, or at most say hello, because I feel that they deserve their privacy as much as I do.

We discussed what we would say to him if we felt like going up and introducing ourselves. I thought I could tell him that he hasn't made a good album since Pump. Rebecca thought she would say that she went to the same high school as his daughter Liv, although not at the same time. But we walked past without saying anything.