LESSONS I LEARNED IN THE EARLY MORNING HOURS OF JULY 11TH
Don't change anyone's birthday plans for them. This can only end in the world slapping you with an open faced karma sandwich across the face.
Don't brush off the fact that your phone is dead.
Even if you check for your keys in your purse, and you hear them, and you feel them, THEY MIGHT NOT BE THERE, IT MIGHT JUST BE BOBBY PINS AND DIMES.
Always memorize a few other phone numbers than simply the one belonging to your half-deaf roommate.
Fix your spastic, non-working doorbell in case a crisis arises, such as in the event of having no phone and no keys and no contacts at 3:30am.
Always check the backyard for the possibility that a roommate is spooning with a boy in the dewy grass at 3:30am.
Don't tell a cabbie, "Yeah, you can leave, it's under control! Someone is here at this other house to help me!" if you do not know if that's true.
Avoid loitering in short dresses near parks populated with shady characters at 3:30am.
Avoid crying in the above situation.
Avoid pounding on your neighbor's door in an emotional frenzy in the above situation.
Avoid attracting unnecessary attention to yourself in the above situation.
Try to befriend people in your neighborhood who have doorbells that work.
Try to at least befriend a few people in a few surrounding neighborhoods.
If you finally find a friend with a working doorbell, be sure to identify yourself with first and last name. Then be sure to say THIS IS AN EMERGENCY LET ME IN so that they know you aren't a crazy crackwhore.
When you leave in the morning, try to get ahold of one of your roommates. Don't just leave. Don't just think that daylight will fix everything. Use the resources of internet and telephone available to you. Don't just leave!
If you just leave, you are a dipshit.
In essence, YES. I locked myself out of my EFFING house at 3:30am and had no phone and had NOWHERE. TO. GO. I suffered from PTSD for a few days afterward, and I remain nervous about leaving the house for any reason at all, because now I just want to be here all the time, always. I encourage anyone who has had a similar experience to speak up and speak out and let people know that you survived and this experience happened to you but IT DOES NOT DEFINE YOU. I am working through it. But I survived being on the street of Chicago.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Monday, July 19, 2010
Lisa's Review of Pitchfork
So right now, my apostrophe key isn't working. I don't know how this will affect this post. It takes me about 7 jabs to make it work. Will my desire for correctly spelled contractions outpace the frenzied enthusiasm that always overtakes me on this blog? I DON'T KNOW. I don't know what is going to happen.
But anyway, I will now review Pitchfork! I am not in any way qualified for this endeavor. I didn't even go on Saturday, and also, I am clearly biased toward a few, simple things:
1. I like concerts where people are dancing all around me. Sometimes I just happen to be next to people on PCP. Sometimes everyone is dancing except the people around me who aren't on PCP or love and instead are on something like excessive alcohol, which is a depressant so maybe it inhibits dancing? Whatever, these things ruin or catapult a concert for me.
2. I like concerts where I can sing along with the words. Yeah, so sue me. I don't like new things. I like old things, comfortable things, like T-shirts I've had for years and popcorn. And I like being able to sing along, damnit.
3. I like when I can hear and understand poignant lyrics. If someone is trying to be poignant and I cannot understand them, boo. Boo. Boooooooo.
4. I like to be in one place at one time. I am not a genie! So sometimes, I may be unable to comment on what other "rock" "journalists" say were "the best shows ever." I may say that MY show was the best show ever. Maybe this is because my show WAS the best show ever. Maybe this is because I did not have a chance to see the ACTUAL best show ever. But WHATEVER these are my OPINIONS.
Okay, I think those are the important points. Onto the review/fun observations and events!
On Friday, I arrived, alone, as is typical for me at Pitchfork, 2 out 3 years. I immediately made a quiet friend wearing racing sunglasses who is in the Navy. We sat in the shade and listened, but did not look at, the Tallest Man on Earth, because, as every freaking music writer will remind you, he is not actually the tallest man on earth. I know. Spoiler alert! Whatever, height is about confidence. Or is it? But I thought his sounds were pretty great. I went and ate some free Clif Bar samples after that... BECAUSE A LIFE CHANGING EXPERIENCE WAS UPON ME.
My obsession with Robyn attacked me unpronounced. Our affair is only a few weeks old, but it is passionate, much like any new relationship. I tell everyone about her. I watch her videos constantly. I look to her for advice (hmm, I'm bored tonight, but no one wants to go out... what should I do, Swedish pop princess? GUESS I'LL JUST DANCE ON MY OWN! or hmm I think I was just sexually harassed, how do I feel about this, Robyn please help? YOU DON'T CALL ME SEXY UNLESS I SAY YOU CAN). I also try to dress like her. I didn't say it was a healthy relationship. But suffice to say, Robyn's set was the one I was most looking forward to.
And she did not disappoint! Backed by a band that looked strangely like ABBA with long hair, beards, and white suits, she danced the hell out of the heat and got most of the crowd dancing. I was especially impressed by her ability to inspire clearly straight teenage boys to dance. That, in my mind, is pop music success. Friday continued with a a set by Broken Social Scene that began as a tremor somewhere in the ocean and ended as a glorious tsunami, in a good magnificent way, and a set by Modest Mouse that reaffirmed my belief in their pretentiousness, which is a personal opinion that may have been exasperated by my escalating cold symptoms, but whatever, they pissed me off. And not just because they didn't play Float On, but partially. I just think at a festival you should play your big song for the half of the crowd who may not have been blessed with elite musical access during the 90s to familiarize themselves with your splendid other albums.
Anyway. On Saturday I was sick and slept all day, but I did catch the online live feed of Free Energy (good!), Jon Spencer Blues Explosion (sexy man in leather pants!), and Wolf Parade (nostalgia and happiness!). I also made a giant batch of cookies, so I felt good about that day.
But Sunday Sunday Sunday! The impending, the arrival! I arrived excited to see Girls and quickly turned mopey, because I did not like their set. I understand the whole idea that they lack potential live, but I had heard good things. These things were wrong. Their set was really mellow, more mellow than their album, but then, to pick things up, they just started playing all of their instruments at once to form a weird alien combat noise for like 5 minutes. I was standing in front of a little 7 month old baby, and the baby just screamed. Screamed and screamed and screamed. I was with my friend MK, and we were like, WHY DON'T THE PARENTS GET THE BABY OUT OF THERE! But I was also thinking, this baby is perceptive and my heart is screaming in the same way for this madness to end.
Next I saw Beach House, which was so incredibly lovely that I decided it was on par with Robyn's set. Plus, they had sparkly confetti party decorations (ALSO SOMETHING I LIKE THAT GIVES BONUS POINTS). I went to see part of Local Natives as well, and they were pretty good, I enjoyed it, but what made the biggest impression on me was how glaringly and obviously Texan the band was. Then MK told me they are actually from LA. Could've fooled me with those mustaches and flannel.
I gorged myself with curry and layed on the grass, listening to Surfer Blood and St. Vincent in the distance. I jammed out a little to Major Lazer at a dance party with some friends, but I spent much time out of the crowd. I am at a point in my life where I no longer feel the need to be at the forefront of every show! I can enjoy music from a distance, among friends. I can relax! I can be an adult.
Except when it comes to Sleigh Bells.
My decision to see Sleigh Bells over Big Boi was not one I took lightly. I pondered it, but eventually decided I wanted the Sleigh Bells EXPERIENCE. I wanted to the pulse and throb of a crowd. I wanted to see the crazy lady.
And did I, did I. Thanks to half of the Benz family, we were set up pretty near the stage. Everyone, I repeat, everyone in that crowd knew what was coming. Everyone knew Sleigh Bells was gonna get CRAZY, so everyone was pushing to the front of the stage from the beginning of Neon Indian, the preceding set. I was there.
And when Sleigh Bells started, I got even closer to the sweaty high smelly people around me. There was one huge push and WHAM! Of course, the purse that I've had for over two years, the purse that has survived Italy, Spain, France, Uganda, Club Fever, numerous Backer nights, and months of abuse immediately broke and tumbled into the mosh pit. Such is the power of Sleigh Bells. I frantically started pushing people out of the way and searching the ground for it, keenly aware that if I bent down for more than half a second, I would be trampled and killed instantly. Somehow, after 3 minutes of hell, I spotted the purse, and then used my elbows to escape the crowd. God gave us elbows for a reason. So that girls can wear big earrings in crowds and so that people can escape crowds. I made it out. I thought my adventure was over.
But lo and behold, for the third time in a row during my Pitchfork experience, I run into a completely random person at the Stage B moshpit! And my crazy friend of a friend Anton somehow convinces me to return to the moshpit for the last few Sleigh Bells songs... so in we go. And of course, I lose my shoes. And of course, people are stepping on my feet, elbowing me in the thigh, dislocating my shoulders.
And of course, at the end of the show, Alexis Krauss, aka the girl singer, decides to jump into the crowd, right on top of me.
I cannot hold her up. I'M NOT EVEN WEARING SHOES. Luckily, drunk teenage boys come to my rescue. When it's all over, I talk with them, and I'm like, "I can't believe I held her up!" And they say, "I can't believe I touched her tit!"
So, it don't get any more rock n roll than that. I don't care what anyone else says, Sleigh Bells wins. Thank you Pitchfork, and good night.
But anyway, I will now review Pitchfork! I am not in any way qualified for this endeavor. I didn't even go on Saturday, and also, I am clearly biased toward a few, simple things:
1. I like concerts where people are dancing all around me. Sometimes I just happen to be next to people on PCP. Sometimes everyone is dancing except the people around me who aren't on PCP or love and instead are on something like excessive alcohol, which is a depressant so maybe it inhibits dancing? Whatever, these things ruin or catapult a concert for me.
2. I like concerts where I can sing along with the words. Yeah, so sue me. I don't like new things. I like old things, comfortable things, like T-shirts I've had for years and popcorn. And I like being able to sing along, damnit.
3. I like when I can hear and understand poignant lyrics. If someone is trying to be poignant and I cannot understand them, boo. Boo. Boooooooo.
4. I like to be in one place at one time. I am not a genie! So sometimes, I may be unable to comment on what other "rock" "journalists" say were "the best shows ever." I may say that MY show was the best show ever. Maybe this is because my show WAS the best show ever. Maybe this is because I did not have a chance to see the ACTUAL best show ever. But WHATEVER these are my OPINIONS.
Okay, I think those are the important points. Onto the review/fun observations and events!
On Friday, I arrived, alone, as is typical for me at Pitchfork, 2 out 3 years. I immediately made a quiet friend wearing racing sunglasses who is in the Navy. We sat in the shade and listened, but did not look at, the Tallest Man on Earth, because, as every freaking music writer will remind you, he is not actually the tallest man on earth. I know. Spoiler alert! Whatever, height is about confidence. Or is it? But I thought his sounds were pretty great. I went and ate some free Clif Bar samples after that... BECAUSE A LIFE CHANGING EXPERIENCE WAS UPON ME.
My obsession with Robyn attacked me unpronounced. Our affair is only a few weeks old, but it is passionate, much like any new relationship. I tell everyone about her. I watch her videos constantly. I look to her for advice (hmm, I'm bored tonight, but no one wants to go out... what should I do, Swedish pop princess? GUESS I'LL JUST DANCE ON MY OWN! or hmm I think I was just sexually harassed, how do I feel about this, Robyn please help? YOU DON'T CALL ME SEXY UNLESS I SAY YOU CAN). I also try to dress like her. I didn't say it was a healthy relationship. But suffice to say, Robyn's set was the one I was most looking forward to.
And she did not disappoint! Backed by a band that looked strangely like ABBA with long hair, beards, and white suits, she danced the hell out of the heat and got most of the crowd dancing. I was especially impressed by her ability to inspire clearly straight teenage boys to dance. That, in my mind, is pop music success. Friday continued with a a set by Broken Social Scene that began as a tremor somewhere in the ocean and ended as a glorious tsunami, in a good magnificent way, and a set by Modest Mouse that reaffirmed my belief in their pretentiousness, which is a personal opinion that may have been exasperated by my escalating cold symptoms, but whatever, they pissed me off. And not just because they didn't play Float On, but partially. I just think at a festival you should play your big song for the half of the crowd who may not have been blessed with elite musical access during the 90s to familiarize themselves with your splendid other albums.
Anyway. On Saturday I was sick and slept all day, but I did catch the online live feed of Free Energy (good!), Jon Spencer Blues Explosion (sexy man in leather pants!), and Wolf Parade (nostalgia and happiness!). I also made a giant batch of cookies, so I felt good about that day.
But Sunday Sunday Sunday! The impending, the arrival! I arrived excited to see Girls and quickly turned mopey, because I did not like their set. I understand the whole idea that they lack potential live, but I had heard good things. These things were wrong. Their set was really mellow, more mellow than their album, but then, to pick things up, they just started playing all of their instruments at once to form a weird alien combat noise for like 5 minutes. I was standing in front of a little 7 month old baby, and the baby just screamed. Screamed and screamed and screamed. I was with my friend MK, and we were like, WHY DON'T THE PARENTS GET THE BABY OUT OF THERE! But I was also thinking, this baby is perceptive and my heart is screaming in the same way for this madness to end.
Next I saw Beach House, which was so incredibly lovely that I decided it was on par with Robyn's set. Plus, they had sparkly confetti party decorations (ALSO SOMETHING I LIKE THAT GIVES BONUS POINTS). I went to see part of Local Natives as well, and they were pretty good, I enjoyed it, but what made the biggest impression on me was how glaringly and obviously Texan the band was. Then MK told me they are actually from LA. Could've fooled me with those mustaches and flannel.
I gorged myself with curry and layed on the grass, listening to Surfer Blood and St. Vincent in the distance. I jammed out a little to Major Lazer at a dance party with some friends, but I spent much time out of the crowd. I am at a point in my life where I no longer feel the need to be at the forefront of every show! I can enjoy music from a distance, among friends. I can relax! I can be an adult.
Except when it comes to Sleigh Bells.
My decision to see Sleigh Bells over Big Boi was not one I took lightly. I pondered it, but eventually decided I wanted the Sleigh Bells EXPERIENCE. I wanted to the pulse and throb of a crowd. I wanted to see the crazy lady.
And did I, did I. Thanks to half of the Benz family, we were set up pretty near the stage. Everyone, I repeat, everyone in that crowd knew what was coming. Everyone knew Sleigh Bells was gonna get CRAZY, so everyone was pushing to the front of the stage from the beginning of Neon Indian, the preceding set. I was there.
And when Sleigh Bells started, I got even closer to the sweaty high smelly people around me. There was one huge push and WHAM! Of course, the purse that I've had for over two years, the purse that has survived Italy, Spain, France, Uganda, Club Fever, numerous Backer nights, and months of abuse immediately broke and tumbled into the mosh pit. Such is the power of Sleigh Bells. I frantically started pushing people out of the way and searching the ground for it, keenly aware that if I bent down for more than half a second, I would be trampled and killed instantly. Somehow, after 3 minutes of hell, I spotted the purse, and then used my elbows to escape the crowd. God gave us elbows for a reason. So that girls can wear big earrings in crowds and so that people can escape crowds. I made it out. I thought my adventure was over.
But lo and behold, for the third time in a row during my Pitchfork experience, I run into a completely random person at the Stage B moshpit! And my crazy friend of a friend Anton somehow convinces me to return to the moshpit for the last few Sleigh Bells songs... so in we go. And of course, I lose my shoes. And of course, people are stepping on my feet, elbowing me in the thigh, dislocating my shoulders.
And of course, at the end of the show, Alexis Krauss, aka the girl singer, decides to jump into the crowd, right on top of me.
I cannot hold her up. I'M NOT EVEN WEARING SHOES. Luckily, drunk teenage boys come to my rescue. When it's all over, I talk with them, and I'm like, "I can't believe I held her up!" And they say, "I can't believe I touched her tit!"
So, it don't get any more rock n roll than that. I don't care what anyone else says, Sleigh Bells wins. Thank you Pitchfork, and good night.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Lost, Confused, and Shunned
Let me tell you one thing I have learned about life, kiddos -- it goes on! You can quote me on that, that is an original quotation that came from my brain and has nothing to do with anyone's facebook profile or inspirational tote bags owned by mother.
No but let's get serious! Things be crazy up in here! I have had numerous nervous breakdowns as of late pertaining to my car, aka hell in a wheeled handbasket. The title seems appropriate because that is how slowly my car would go to hell. In a handbasket, carried by an old man. In fact, the other day, Brandy compared my car to an old, old man that I should perhaps let die. Instead, I have continued to drive my car in desperate situations.
The first desperate situation was the wedding of my dear friend and occasional blog reader JOSEPH MANCUSO! I decided to attend his surburban Chicago wedding at the last minute, necessitating the use of the highway and my POS car. I had visions of sweeping into the wedding 20 minutes early, not sweaty, not appearing as though I have an addiction to caffeine pills, with a lovely kept hairstyle, with a smile, and not feeling as though I almost died. This vision is the complete opposite of how I felt. Google maps... you do not tell someone a trip will take them 20 minutes when it will take 80. No. If google is on the bring of taking over the world, we are doomed. But I made it to the wedding! And after a series of events that we can all laugh about now that they are passed, Joseph and Elyse Mancuso are now married and I was there!
But for my car, the worst was yet to come. Also, the worst was yet to come for me, in terms of panic attacks. I set out next weekend for my friend and occasional blog-reader Chris's graduation party. I left with a feeling of hunger in my belly, but whatevs, the trip was supposed to take about 30 minutes. No. Again, abandon your stock in Google, company is doomed, because it took my 90 HUNGRY MINUTES in which BETH NEIMAN TEXTED ME TO SAY THE PARTY WAS OUT OF FOOD and then I got LOST and I could find no one to help me and then MY MUFFLER FELL OFF so I pulled into a church parking lot and cried.
Eventually I made it to the party and it turned out Beth was lying. The party was enjoyable and redeeming. But what was not redeeming was when I got lost on the way home and ended up driving my shitty car all around the Southwest Side of Chicago at night by myself. But I'm still standing!
I have also been a witness and victim of violence lately. One night, I was riding my bike home and about two blocks from my house, I was blessed with the chance to see the kind of catfight I thought only existed at an Indiana County Fair. But alas no! Women in tube tops stabbing each other with stilettos and slamming the each other's heads into the concrete also takes place on tree-lined boulevards in Chicago! My personal experience with violence happened on what one would think is one of the happiest, most welcoming events in Chicago: The Gay Pride Parade.
I know what you're thinking. Lisa, did you make a homophobic remark? Did you make fun of someone's outfit? Did you yell a profanity? Did you refuse a free condom? NO. No to all of those things. I was cheering for equal rights, wearing a gold-sequined flapper costume, being respectful to children, and taking free condoms when they were thrown in my face. What was my crime?
CROSSING THE PARADE ROUTE.
I had to get to my improv class. I had no idea that I'd boxed myself into the middle loop of the longest parade in history, still going strong after two hours. So even though I'd heard horror stories of friends crossing the parade route to jeers and condoms thrown with ANGER, I had to make a run for it. And when I did, no one was happy.
I made it across only to be refused help climbing the opposite barricade. Everyone was yelling at me! It was so scary! Then someone said they would help me climb if I "would give them something." In hindsight, this could have been a prostitution solicitation, but I gave them my Mardi Gras beads. So they helped me over, but not before I slammed and ripped my thigh against the steel corkscrew barricade. And thus, dripping with blood and a dollar-bill sized green welt, I made it to improv.
You see, all of these stories have happy endings.
Other than those semi-painful memories, I've been having fun letting the World Cup break my heart, helping baby Cooper learn about his environment by being patient as he hurls rocks at my head, continuing to wear my helmet, attending rave puppet shows, and trying to survive in a room without air conditioning. We went to a Cubs games to celebrate Mallory's birthday and were treated to a semi-streaker who I'm pretty sure got tased and an 8-run sixth inning by Cincinnati. Excitement! I continue to live in what my friend Lindsay has termed my "Peace Corps gestation period." I don't know how far along I am in this Peace Corps preganancy, but I'd guess I'd have a few months before it looks like a Peace Corps baby/future, and about 9 until I give birth to going anywhere.
Sorry, that metaphor was weird. But we all need to be more open and comfortable when it comes to talking about these things.
No but let's get serious! Things be crazy up in here! I have had numerous nervous breakdowns as of late pertaining to my car, aka hell in a wheeled handbasket. The title seems appropriate because that is how slowly my car would go to hell. In a handbasket, carried by an old man. In fact, the other day, Brandy compared my car to an old, old man that I should perhaps let die. Instead, I have continued to drive my car in desperate situations.
The first desperate situation was the wedding of my dear friend and occasional blog reader JOSEPH MANCUSO! I decided to attend his surburban Chicago wedding at the last minute, necessitating the use of the highway and my POS car. I had visions of sweeping into the wedding 20 minutes early, not sweaty, not appearing as though I have an addiction to caffeine pills, with a lovely kept hairstyle, with a smile, and not feeling as though I almost died. This vision is the complete opposite of how I felt. Google maps... you do not tell someone a trip will take them 20 minutes when it will take 80. No. If google is on the bring of taking over the world, we are doomed. But I made it to the wedding! And after a series of events that we can all laugh about now that they are passed, Joseph and Elyse Mancuso are now married and I was there!
But for my car, the worst was yet to come. Also, the worst was yet to come for me, in terms of panic attacks. I set out next weekend for my friend and occasional blog-reader Chris's graduation party. I left with a feeling of hunger in my belly, but whatevs, the trip was supposed to take about 30 minutes. No. Again, abandon your stock in Google, company is doomed, because it took my 90 HUNGRY MINUTES in which BETH NEIMAN TEXTED ME TO SAY THE PARTY WAS OUT OF FOOD and then I got LOST and I could find no one to help me and then MY MUFFLER FELL OFF so I pulled into a church parking lot and cried.
Eventually I made it to the party and it turned out Beth was lying. The party was enjoyable and redeeming. But what was not redeeming was when I got lost on the way home and ended up driving my shitty car all around the Southwest Side of Chicago at night by myself. But I'm still standing!
I have also been a witness and victim of violence lately. One night, I was riding my bike home and about two blocks from my house, I was blessed with the chance to see the kind of catfight I thought only existed at an Indiana County Fair. But alas no! Women in tube tops stabbing each other with stilettos and slamming the each other's heads into the concrete also takes place on tree-lined boulevards in Chicago! My personal experience with violence happened on what one would think is one of the happiest, most welcoming events in Chicago: The Gay Pride Parade.
I know what you're thinking. Lisa, did you make a homophobic remark? Did you make fun of someone's outfit? Did you yell a profanity? Did you refuse a free condom? NO. No to all of those things. I was cheering for equal rights, wearing a gold-sequined flapper costume, being respectful to children, and taking free condoms when they were thrown in my face. What was my crime?
CROSSING THE PARADE ROUTE.
I had to get to my improv class. I had no idea that I'd boxed myself into the middle loop of the longest parade in history, still going strong after two hours. So even though I'd heard horror stories of friends crossing the parade route to jeers and condoms thrown with ANGER, I had to make a run for it. And when I did, no one was happy.
I made it across only to be refused help climbing the opposite barricade. Everyone was yelling at me! It was so scary! Then someone said they would help me climb if I "would give them something." In hindsight, this could have been a prostitution solicitation, but I gave them my Mardi Gras beads. So they helped me over, but not before I slammed and ripped my thigh against the steel corkscrew barricade. And thus, dripping with blood and a dollar-bill sized green welt, I made it to improv.
You see, all of these stories have happy endings.
Other than those semi-painful memories, I've been having fun letting the World Cup break my heart, helping baby Cooper learn about his environment by being patient as he hurls rocks at my head, continuing to wear my helmet, attending rave puppet shows, and trying to survive in a room without air conditioning. We went to a Cubs games to celebrate Mallory's birthday and were treated to a semi-streaker who I'm pretty sure got tased and an 8-run sixth inning by Cincinnati. Excitement! I continue to live in what my friend Lindsay has termed my "Peace Corps gestation period." I don't know how far along I am in this Peace Corps preganancy, but I'd guess I'd have a few months before it looks like a Peace Corps baby/future, and about 9 until I give birth to going anywhere.
Sorry, that metaphor was weird. But we all need to be more open and comfortable when it comes to talking about these things.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)