Back in the saddle

Oh I try and I try to keep up with this blog. I feel a sense of responsibility to this project because I have no real responsibility to it. By choice I share all the useless but awesome stories I hear and see. So I'M BACK (again and again). I was watching Jon Stewart last night. After a sorrowful moment in memorium of all the material Bush has given Jon over the years and the realization that this show will have to actually start working for satire once Bush retires, Arianna Huffington was the guest. She is the creator and editor of the Huffington Post. The website pulls links from all news sources and blogs into this tidy site, like a "best of" of the day's headlines and features. After there is caffiene running through my veins in the morning, I log onto the site to get my fill of headlines instead of having to click from CNN to NY Times to the Tribune to Jezebel. So there is my plug. The editors and bloggers on the site just published a book about blogging. Arianna and her sexy Greek accent made blogging seem like the most passionate hobby a person can have. "Blogging is not about perfectionism. Blogging is about intimacy, transparency, and sharing your thoughts the way you share them with a friend." My first thought: I want one! Thought #2: Oh yea....I have one! That line reminded me why I have this blog. Primarily so I can pass on all the pop culture nuances to my friends without wasting their anytime minutes, and also with the slight hope in the back of my heart that I can turn a career out of my mining for absured realizations about this cultural haven we live in.

So to begin again I have one word. Obama. It is amazing to really understand and feel what it means to be proud to be an American. It is a term I used to be too young to understand, followed by too ashamed to feel. But being meer miles away from Grant Park the night Obama was declared our 44th president, being able to hear the eruption of cheers from my window, seeing people smile when they talk about a politican, scrolling through my friends' facebook statuses reminding people to vote, to change. Finally it feels like there is a person to symbolize our country that actually encompasses the values and ideas that Americans want projected onto the world. Change is good.

Next, a topic I would be stupid not to write about. On Tuesday I heard Annie Leibovitz speak at the Chicago Public Library downtown about her new book Annie Leibovitz at Work. Photography is an art that can steal my attention for hours. It's almost meditative for me to follow the clean focused lines, calming to see the monocrom black and white, reassuring that the world can still appear so beautiful. To me, the quality of Annie's photos that sets her appart from other photographers is the surrealism that glitters through the realistic nature of her photos. When I met Annie at the book signing after her talk, I told her that her photos make Hollywood still look glamorous. The lighting, the sharp quality, the glow. Her Vanity Fair portraits makes me believe that somewhere there are ladies and gentlemen that still walk around in diamond incrusted gowns and drap themselves in family jewels. That there are still sassy and sophisticated pin up girls in martini bars somewhere. That rock stars are still invincible. That fairy tales can come true. At the same time, her photos of average Americans show natural beauty in their eyes, their wrinkles, their shape, their stature, their clothes, their story.

Every one of her photos have a story that adds another layer to the photo and the subject. She talked about countless backstories to her photos, about different subjects and genres. She is not a good public speaker. She would try to start talking about a photo then relieve herself back into the pages of the book, reading passages about the photos. I found that very comforting, knowing that she was not at easy in front of the crowd. I think people that thrive being on stage, in the spotlight, eyes burning into them to be very unnatural, very forced. Words that you type out and write down, think about, plan, compare, can be easier to trust than split seconds words that come out of your mouth, that you can't delete. It is a more thoughtful and confident form of communicating your voice. Actually, Annie as a photographer has an even better form of communicating her voice through her art. Visual art can evoke emotions within the viewer that go beyond words, written or spoken. On some level I am jealous that I'm not talented enough to bring forth those emotions in my audience. Yet.

McYoga

Now that I am back in the embracing arms of hatha yoga again, in a room with a view, I can reflect back on the sweaty regiment of bikram yoga.

The stellar reviews on Yelp.com were my only motivation for returning to the studio each week for 90 minutes of perspiring hell. Every time I came home swearing under my breath at the state of my body and mind after class, I wondered what it is that the other hot yogis experience that I don’t. Everyone raved about how energized they felt, how they lost weight, didn't want to each junk food anymore, how it healed old injuries. I felt nothing but dizzy and strung out when I left. The only major difference I noticed was that when I rode my bike home after class my legs were stronger and I could increase the tension on the gears. But when I was expecting a body-altering experience, the bike ride seemed insignificant. I can understand the method to their madness, to sweat out toxins and unclog dirty pores; which is probably more healthy and active that the comparative spa treatment of an $80 facial. But asside from the rebirth of my skin, I didn't feel like the practice knocked my core into an altered state of living.

It’s also disheartening to experience how vastly different the energy of the bikram class is compared to a classic vinyasa or hatha yoga class. One of the building blocks of yoga, as I have learned it, is acceptance. Acceptance of your body’s limitations. Acceptance of your, and others, skill level. Acceptance of an empty mind. Acceptance of calm and quiet running through your body. The bikram yoga classes bring out a person's limits, challenges the body's commitment, brings a competative mindset to the forfront of your practice. The harsh clap that signals a change in pose doesn't allow you to fall into a flow between poses. The monotone, scripted instructions of the instructor doesn't allow for creativity or change from practice to practice. Having attention drawn to you in a negative way when you stop to take a drink of water to prevent yourself from passing out because you did not wait until the point in the class when you are allowed to drink. The demand to push your body past its natural point of resistance, which seems strengthening in theory, is very defeating in actuality when you cannot hold a pose long enough. In traditional yoga classes you are supposed to stay in tune with your body’s needs and pains, to listen and obey your body; not the instructor. There is a stronger feeling of pulling the body into a pose in bikram yoga, as opposed to the feeling of gentle pushing the body into a stronger pose in hatha or vinyasa yoga. The lack of force put on the body and mind of hatha yoga is what lets my mind relax and absorb the practice. I suppose the conclusion of this would be that if you are looking for a different way to push you body physically, a new challenge to face, then bikram yoga is something worth trying, but if you perform yoga for the spirituality of the experience, then bikram is going to be a blast of cold water on your peaceful body. Or hot air.

A brief histroy of bikram shows the conceptual differences between the practice and traditional yoga. Bikram was developed by Bikram Choudhury in LA. It is an exercise of 26 posturses performed in a room heated to 105 degrees guided by a specific dialouge of the bikram certified instructors. The sequence of the 26 postures is copyrighted and the studios are franchised by Bikram. There is intense controversy around the term "yoga" used within the Bikram yoga practice. The acient history of yoga poses, which predated by centuries, the ideas of copyright, franchisment, and capitalist nature of today's society, seems to tarnish the sacred act dedicated to inner growth and awareness, not profit or national acclaim. The documentary "Yoga, Inc." gives more examples and details on how bikram yoga does not follow so many of the teaches and nature of traditional yoga. I have been to my fair share of yoga studios in the last 2 years. I have always admired their low maintenance decor and operation. I envy the teachers that come to class, not because it is their job or because of the money they are making to be there, but because of their love and dedication to the practice, the desire to help other experience what they do in their practice. They are always friendly and happy, calm and open. I would hate to think that if more "McYogas" pop up around the US, the appeal of the profits, of cashing in on people's love for yoga, will overhaul the pure, simple joy that traditional yoga brings.

Ladies No Longer in Waiting

Try as I might, I cannot avoid the inevitable topic that, every 4 years, becomes the dictator of the media, water cooler conversations, magazine covers, and pillow talk all across the USA! USA! USA! Presidential election season is upon us again. But you can take comfort in the fact that I will try to keep this as objective as an election conversation can be. I’m not here to force my un-groomed and less-than-educated political views upon you; I’ll leave that to the professionals. I couldn’t help but write about the topic because how can I possibly analyze the state of our 9/8/08 culture and ignore the baby-kissing presidential beast that has taken over our culture right now? So I’m going to take a lighter, more superficial, approach to the race. Someone has to. Sometimes we need a distraction from the exhausting debates over baby’s mama’s drama, sexism, patriotism, and the population of Alaska. So I am here to discuss the ladies.

When Michelle Obama burst onto the political field a few months ago, she was an outspoken, successful, frank woman first. She was Barak’s wife second. I knew about her Harvard degree and career progression before I knew that she was the mother of two (beautiful and microphone-loving) daughters. Some people that still believe in the sanctity of politicians were dumbfounded by her forthrightness in discussing Barak’s trail of dirty socks (How can he allow her to reveal such behavior! A presidential nominee would NEVER divulge such character flaws!). But the rest of us could relate to the playful banter with our significant others. I’m no worshipper of the house of Doc when talking about him. I’ll joke with my friends about his scruffy nomad beard for the sake of relatability. The outspoken woman is sexy. The outspoken woman is not a woman to be dismissed as a simple pillow-fluffer at the end of the day. The outspoken woman is the backbone and down to earth character that a politician needs to keep things real and fist-tap for support.

But that was then. Months on the campaign trail. Months of criticism over her “anti-American” style. Months of worried campaign managers hoping to avoid another Hillary, pulling Bill’s puppet strings from inside the White House. Who was really in control here? We don’t want a submissive president. So now, watching her speech at the DNC, I see her subsiding into her Jackie O dresses and supportive smiles. Talks of her daughters, family, and her husband. The candid banter of “Barak – He’s just like us!” gone. So where did she go?

I will be honest in saying that I know less about Cindy McCain, partly because my interest leans towards the Obama’s and partly because the woman is so severe looking I have trouble getting past the tight librarian bun and paycheck. She looks so tightly wound and pursed-lipped that I had trouble see her lack of personality as a threat to the White House. But seeing her at the RNC the night of McCain speech, with her hair down, a small smile on her face, even I saw some semblance of pride in how her life brought her to that moment. But that moment of awareness was gone as soon as it came, blinded by talks of her $300,000 getup and private plane. But where did the librarian bun go?

And now there is Sarah Palin. I can’t seem to stop reading about her background and family. I am drawn to her story and I cannot figure out why. My question for her fresh face is where did she come from?

The trend here is the entrance of the woman into the political playing field. Three women are under the torturous microscope of the media and America (mostly because of the media). Hillary, the trailblazer, was the first sign that it is time Washington gave some attention to the political woman. The importance of the first lady has become almost comparable to the importance of the president himself. Hillary showed that the first lady cannot be overlooked, because she may someday be the one you are voting for. It is a new frontier for women in politics and there must be an appealing image to wrangle in the votes, because lets not forget that this is still a political race and it’s all about the votes. Men have had hundreds of years to evolve their persona into what they know Americans can look up to and are comfortable with and are generally willing to let lose on the world as the face of our nation. Navy blue suit, red tie, good orator, uses words like “change” and “hope”, wears an American flag pin. Now the women are at the beginning of their evolution into what America will trust. Michelle came out of the gate a little too strong, Cindy came out with her bun a little too tight. Both are working towards a middle ground. Because who knows which one of them could be next.

So now the transformation from hockey mom to vice presidential nominee for Sarah Palin will begin. What middle ground will she have to conform to? Only time and debates and Karl Roves growling monologues will tell.

I'm a Mac. I'm a desperate PC

There are so many things that seem so extraordinary in theory, but the grandeur falls apart at the seams after execution. Like bottled water or Sarah Palin. Like a collaboration between Jerry Seinfeld and Bill Gates.

Microsoft kicked off their new ad campaign this week. Bringing out the big guns/dollars with their first commercial featuring the sneaker-wearing Seinfeld and the cheapest richest man Gates at a Payless-esque discount shoe store sharing insight on pleather footwear and the future of edible hardware. First thought: ????? Second thought: Thank Lord Elton John for DVR.  It took a few viewings to piece together what Microsoft was trying to accomplish with this "commercial about nothing".  There were so many levels and angles Microsoft was trying to play in this ad that the end result was a mess of mug shots and wedgies. They are countering the "I'm a mac" commercials with Seinfeld; a cross-generational icon. But Jerry eating a chutto has a tough time proving its hip status up against the oh so cute mac guy, not to mention the "I'm a mac" commercials have been well established for 2 years now. Why start trying now? Trying to a desperate level no less; $300 million on a campaign starring two of the most visible and highest paid members of their industries is no understatement. The approach of the campaign is to show these two moguls as everyday Americans that shop in malls and sign up for retail discount memberships. But two globally discernible faces being normal, like the "Stars; They're Just Like Us!" section of Us Weekly, has a depressing way of making a bike ride seem more fashionable than ordinary.

The official explanation from Microsoft is that this is only a "teaser" for future commercials meant to "engage customers in a conversation and dialogue in a humorous and intriguing way".  I believe that exact quote was used on the set of Seinfeld. Other then a flash of the Microsoft logo at the end of the commercial and the presence of Bill Gates, there is no mention of the company, products, or performance. I got a hold of the second commercial (Is there anything Youtube can't give me?) This one gives us a future of fish with blogs, a small explanation of the duet's adventure, and a pretty witty one liner ("You live in a moon house hoovering over Seattle and I have so many cars I get stuck in my own traffic jams") , it still left me wondering when they were going to sell me something. 

Remember when commercials used to be for products? 

It's Just a Year

This has become the mantra of Gen Y. It's just a year, it's just a year, it’s just a year. As we map and re map the path of our life, we dip our feet into different jobs and places and experiences, crossing off the bad and starring the good. But the uncertainty of how you will handle a new experience can make the task of stepping into a new pool of responsibility unnerving yet necessary. And there are the entry-level tasks and "resume building" keys we all need to have to open doors down the line. Doors that you don't even know address to yet. But you don’t want to miss any of the necessary grunt work that might lead to your American (or International) Dream. So you bite the bullet. For a year.

It’s all I can say when talking to my friends about their I-don’t-get-no-satisfaction entry level jobs and when they get pink eye for the third time from their students. It’s just a year. Then something else, something better. Grin and bare it and make friends with the local bartender and you will survive. If you have something that you want in your future bad enough, I think patient is a virtue. Kate has been talk and dreaming about moving to Europe for a while now. She talked to her boss and they are situating her in the company in a place that could really make that come true. But before she jets off to Italy, she has to work in the agency’s corporate headquarters, a culture far different from the small boutique agency branch she loves and works in now. But it’s just a year. A year in the conservative ivory tower of corporate life that could lead to her dream job working in an international advertising agency, painting the Paris skyline from a bridge across the Seine, and having passionate and forbidden love affairs with tall, dark, and handsome European soccer players. It’s just a year.

Laura has the same relationship with teaching that I have with accounting. Don’t love it, sometimes hate it, but not ready to throw that bachelor’s degree in the trash just yet. She suffered through one year of student teaching and three bouts of pink eye, because, even though she was uninspired by her years of education courses, because she knows she needs to be a real teacher for at least one year, with her own classroom and her own kids and her own rules for one year, before really thinking about throwing in the towel. It's just a year. Then she can reevaluate where she is and where she wants to be.

Even where we live in our 20's is a hop scotch game from city to city, trying out all different lifestyles before making a commitment to settle down somewhere. Big city, small town, East Coast, West Coast, US or abroad. The possibilities are endless. For as long as I can remember I have known that I wanted to live in a big city. And I'm here and I love it. Living the dream now is making room for another dream to reach for once I've soaked up enough of the city to satisfy. I still take comfort in the fact that the only thing tying me down is my apartment lease.

They call this time in a Gen Yers life the "quarter-life crisis". Where the proverbial midlife crisis is based on regrets of paths not taken in the past, the quarter-life crisis is stress over having too many options and paths to take and fear of taking the wrong path or missing one that could lead to a fulfilled and happy life. I don't think anyone in our position is whining about how many choices we have, but the choices we face are decided by our character, who we are and who we will become. Too bad not enough of us have been out of the structure of academia to really know who we are or who we will become. I think part of the fuel behind the quarter-life crisis, a relatively newly coined phrase in 2001, is the commonality of the term midlife crisis. We've been hearing that term and the negative emotions surrounding it, our whole life (the term was first published in 1965). Instead of accepting our fate of regret when we are 50 years old, we are trying our hardest to leave no regrets in our past, to take every challenge we can, not to miss any passing opportunities, to do what we love every day. But its tough to do what we love every day when we don't know what that is yet. So we want to try it all, we don't want to miss a chance to catch our dreams and live what we love every day. It's just a year, a year closer to that dream.

Hipster Paradise

It’s been a busy week as I gather back together all the parts of my life that exploded last weekend with the culmination of so many months of planning and anticipating and mix taping. Lollapalooza ’08. It was yet another weekend of living inside my iPod, body surrounded by music at every corner of Grant Park.

The overwhelming feeling that comes with trying to see 130 bands over 3 days was curbed by the accompaniment of my two rock and roll tour guides; Boutit (for a complete band-by-band run down of who we saw, please enjoy Boutit’s blog.) and my alter ego/sister Andrea. Between the three of us, we had a full schedule to tackle over the 3 days. An added challenge was staying cool. Because Mother Nature has a sense of humor, Aug 1-3 happened to be the 3 hottest days of the summer. The sun and sweat was relentless. Hours under the cloudless sky and weaving in and out of the largest crowd to ever hit the park (225,000 people total for the weekend) made for a very uncomfortable few days. Unfortunately, this personally put a damper on the weekend. Constantly whipping the sweat off my face and making sure I always had some cold water to drink, trying to stick together as we made our way from one end of the park to the other along with a hurricane of people moving in all directions and reading the schedule at the same time took away from some of the magic of the festival.

But I’m no Debbie Downer when it comes to music so aside from being a baby wah wah about the weather and crowd conditions it was a weekend of discovering new bands, people watching, and jump jump jumping around jump around. The crowds were the most entertaining part of the weekend for me. The shear number of people that swarmed the city for the music was enough to give me chills even in the heatwave. The carpet of people that covered the mile long park was a picture of a culture of escapism, getting lost in the wave of the music, wanting for even just a weekend to forget the everyday life of responsiblity and boredom. Everyone filled their days with music from every corner of the world and every genre, simple tasks of bathing, eating, and dressing back burnered in exchange for squirt guns and hula hoops. It was hipster mecca with robes of skinny jeans and crowns of sweat bands, neon green and pink sunglasses protecting from the glare of the desert sun over Lake Michigan. The one image that formed in my mind that, even though I never got to fly overhead and see, will always sum up the spectrum of music that was played was an aerial view of the park at 8:30 Sunday night when Kanye West was putting on a flashing lights show at the south end of the park while Nine Inch Nails got closer to god at the north end.

Other high points in the weekend included:

-CSS and their neon costumes

-The crowd cheering during Black Keys when the sun went behind the only cloud in the sky

-Lupe Fiasco’s Rocky-esque entrance, including a back flip on stage.

-Discovering 3 new bands to download and love: Mates of State, Margot & the Nuclear So & So’s, and What Made Milwaukee Famous

-Seeing a star being born when MGMT introduced themselves as Radiohead, and believing them by the size of the turnout for their show.

-Living a fantasy watching DJ Momjeans (more commonly known as Hyde from That 70’s Show). Learning that in order to be in his entourage you must wear a fedora.

-Placing bets on when the lead singer of Steel Train would fall off the stage during his schizophrenic guitar solos.

-Trying not to look away when confronted with the hairy chested P-Thugg of Chromeo

-Turning the stage into an irish pub when Flogging Molly took the stage.

-Seeing Girl Talk for the 3^rd time (one, two, three) this year. GT having to stop the party to let everyone know they had to get off the stage because they were bending it. Seeing my sister crowd surf over my head. GT rafting across the audience at the end of his set.

-Missing the memo that Lollapalooza was a memorial concert for Jounrey. Girl Talk, Gnarls Barkley, and Kayne all paid homage to the band.

-Tearing up when Kanye sang "Homecoming" to the city we all love.

There were a lot of stark contrasts between this festival and Rothbury (the audience, the pace, the heat, the groove, the Sherwood forest), but both left me satisfied and smiling (that’s what she said)

Hot Yogi in the City

There are such an outstanding number of facets to yoga and the idea of trying to submerge myself in the practice has become increasingly daunting the more I read and learn about it. Laura seconds my stress when she said that when she reads Yoga Journal she feels like she needs flash cards to remember all the new terms that are stuffed into one issue (always thinking like a teacher!). I have come to terms with the fact that there is no crash course in and am taking small steps in understanding the bigger picture of the stretches and poses. I’m confident in my beginner practice and flexibility, so I decided this week to take it to a different level. I took my first bikram yoga class.

Bikram yoga is a specific yoga practice that is done is a room that is headed to 105 degrees. I did it originally because it’s the closest yoga studio to my apartment and the reviews of it rave about when it does to your body and how you sweat out toxins and stretch deeper, etc. Cut to my first class the other night. Sweet baby Shiva, this was like a 90 min tour of the 6th circle of hell (I say hell only because this type of yoga is actually very anti-yoga and goes against a lot of the core principles of the practice. More on that later) I walked in prepared for the heat and sweating but this was no normal sweating. I have run 10 miles in the middle of August through Hell, MI (literally) and I know sweating. But this, this was not normal humane sweating. This was water coming out of every pore in my body. Within 15 min I had stripped off my tank top and my sports bra was soaked through. I actually think the only thought in my brain that got me through the first half of the class was being completely enthralled with the amount of “toxin” coming out of my skin. Unfortunately, after the phenomenon of my secretions had subside, I realized with shock, that I was actually in yoga boot camp. The poses forced you to freeze your muscles for up to a minute, it was fast paced with the instructor clapping every time you had to come out of your position, always changing directions and bending at the waist. Anyone that has woken up hungover on a hot summer day knows that the last thing your body wants to do jerk up and down and side to side. After 60 min of freezing and twisting and stretching, my eyes gave up on focusing and my head went into a fog. I pride myself in all I’ve learned and am able to do in my normal yoga classes after a year of practice, but I couldn’t get through this without stopping for water after every pose and towards the end I had to skip a few, something I am never proud to do. At the end I was ready for Savasana when I can lay flat on my back and let my body unscramble and take in everything it just went through. But no, class was over abruptly. I opened my eyes and looked around as everyone was rolling up their mats and talking to their friends. Nothing like a normal class when it take you 10 min to get up and you want to stay inside your head as long as possible without talking to people. You also don’t normally look drunk as you struggle to stand, roll your mat, and make it across the room into the air conditioned lobby. I felt like I had taken a wrong turn on my way to my happyland afterwards. I wasn’t calm, I hated my body, I was a mess of sweat, I was walking down Clark St in a sports bra, all social norms out the window, and convinced I was going to have my chance run in with Johnny Depp at that moment (It’s inevitably going to happen. Someday.) I was, above all, pissed off. It shock me that something related to yoga, my release, my relaxer, my core, could mess with my emotions and my body so much. Never again, I said.

The unfortunate lesson behind this story is never buy a month-long pass to a yoga class you have never tried before. I spent $30 for an unlimited first month of classes. I had never seen such a deal for yoga classes before so I jumped at it! HA. But I had to make some good come of this experience. Asside from a newly formed try-before-you-buy philosophy, I am now determined to see where all these rave reviews of the class come from, why people are addicted to it. So I am going to continue to go to the class once or twice a week for the next month and see where my experience goes. But I am also going to get myself back into my safe haven asana yoga classes to calm my mind from this military style bikram yoga.

A spoonful of comedy

After a long weekend of tasting Chicago and dancing to Stevie Wonder and practicing my beach volleyball skills, this rainy Sunday turned into a couch-sitting marathon. And coincidentally an “I Love the New Millennium” marathon. The VH1 “I Love….” series is as addicting as Sudoku, and even more so when the commenters are talking ABOUT Sudoku. Initially I thought it was obviously too soon to roll out this series; the signs are pretty clear when you can’t even make it a clean 10 part series because the new millennium isn’t coming to a close yet! But two hours into the marathon, Kate, Doc, and I had failed to move or attempt to change the channel yet. Four hours into it and we were committed. At the Sixth hour we could predict the next event before the clip even started, yet still we couldn’t fathom changing the channel until the bitter end.

Where “I Love the 70s” was a history class for Gen Yers and hippie wannabes (myself included), and the 80s series was a challenge to see how far back into your toddler years you remember, and the 90s was an embarrassing parade of all the bedazzled memorabilia of our childhood, the 21^st century series is an “in case you forgot” play by play of current events. So what was it that drew us into the pop culture explosion of products and events that we had already lived to see? Not nostalgia, not history. For me it was the underlying truth to the outlandish statements of the commenters. This goes back to my profession of love to John Stewart. The only way to survive this over stimulated, opinionated, babies-laughing-are-controversial 21st century is humor. It may be an avoidance tactic to buy more time before having to think about real issues like an economy slipping silently into a recession or being on the brink of make-or-break-the-state-of-the-union election in a few months, but why is that so bad? I watch and listen to enough vh1 clip shows and stand up and comedy central and last comic standing to see the humor in pop culture and newsmakers today. I don't think it makes the nature of things lose importance, but gives things a spoonful of sugar twist of Mary Poppins, helps it go down easier, puts things in perspective. News is not so end-of-the-world scary and LA starlet aren't so this-is-the-state-of-our-youth when you can laugh at them and be happy that your life does not involve paparazzi or Ann Coulter. If you listen to right comedians, they actually have great brush-your-shoulders-off views of America. Ellen has taught the world that sometimes all you can do is dance. And THAT is the greatest message of all.

Woodstock 08

I spent the last 5 days trying to wrap my mind around the lack of red, white, and blue of my 4th of July and readjusting to civilized life after getting back from Rothbury, MI for the 1st annual Rothbury music festival. Finally the music gods opened their ears and their hearts to Boutit and my pleas for a Michigan music festival. The only glitch in my almost flawless weekend was that Doc and I spent so much of our time trying to figure out how to put this experience into words when we got back (mostly for that sake of helping Boutit visualize and embrace the hippie music and lifestylez.)

Me and this whole festival thing didn't get off on the right foot Friday morning. After a thunderstorm Thursday, I drove our rented Honda Element right into a deep mud puddle in the middle of the camp grounds Friday. This initial glitch turned out to be my first encounter of the other kind. Hippies. Out of the tents and canopies around the car came 10 or 15 people ready to push and pull the car out of the muck. Refusing to give up and make us pay $60 for a tow truck, they would not give up. Someone drove up with their 4 wheel drive SUV, another took the heavy duty rope from his hammock, and yet another guy brought a shovel over from his fire pit. They pulled us out of the mud and onto the grass hours before the tow truck arrived. We all sat down for a celebratory beer in the hammock. I was in awe of the stereotypes that were destroyed in that one hour before I even had time to put on my tie dye skirt.

Another stereotype that you can throw out with yesterdays cat litter. They aren't lazy. See aforementioned Element of mud tale, as well as the plethora of washboard stomaches of the shirtless dudes (NOT that I was looking Doc. Nope.), and the fact that these people waste no time sleeping in or lying around where there is music and dancing to be had. When the sun shines in the tent at 9am and the car next to you turns up Umphrey's McGee at 9:30 you really have no choice but to escape the sauna that your tent has become and venture out for some clean drinking water. There is yoga every morning at 9 and 11 and the turn out was always larger than any class I've been to. The whole scene was so normal and inspiring that I actually got Doc to join me for a class on Sunday (but I had to promise not to take any photographic evidence of his practice). After a morning of walking the 2,000 acre grounds, swimming in the dangerously murky lake, and shopping amongst the tie dyed vendors, its time for the music to begin and the crowds don't seem to cease or even thin until well into sunrise the next morning. With this schedule, a person has got to be in top physical condition to dance for 12 hours straight. No slacker hippies here. Here's a shot of one of the yoga classes at 9am:


The crowds are broken into a few general groups. There are the people like me and Doc and the boys that will go back to Chicago/Detroit at the end of the weekend to our 9 to 5 jobs and wish the rest of the world could be as carefree and happy as this little commune of music. Then there are the hippies for life, the original Deadheads here to see Phil Lesh at Sunday's headliner show. They are distinguishable by their knee length dreads showing years of care and bees wax and the baby carrier on their backs. They are getting older, starting another generation of flower babies and music lovers as they tot their tots around the grounds. As awesome as it is that they are educating their kids to timeless revolutionary music, it was still a little weird to be drunk dancing around a 4 year old and knowing the kinds of drugs most of the crowds were on. Then there are the groupies that spend the summer festival hopping. You can pick these people out by their cardboard signs looking for a ride to the All Good festival and wearing their Bonnaroo 08 shirt. These are the ones that perplexed me to no end. Their looks fall somewhere between the dread locked hippies and the weekend warriors like myself. But what do they do for a living? What do they do that they can take the summer off and can afford the $200-300 tickets and gas and food money. My best best is temp jobs in the winter and Doc was probably close by saying they make their money working at ski shops at resorts in the Rockies and snowboarding contests. Must be nice. Here is a picture of a next generation Dead head at the Phil Lesh show and a true Deadhead with his Grateful Dead tattoos.
















After getting over the lack of showers and required strong stomach to use the pot-o-potties, I started to embrace the camping and generally dirtiness of the experience. When 45% of the population has knots for hair and its acceptable for people to walk around with nothing but body paint on, I stopped putting any effort into what I looked like. Letting myself go like that without a care made me realize just how much of my regular day is dedicated to personal maintenance. I was ready to throw my razor and lotions away when I got back to Chicago until I realized just HOW dirty I was, or more so, how clean everyone else was. I had dirt still caked on my feet from trying to get the car unstuck 3 days ago and Doc's sweat was actually starting to smell like herb...

I actually forgot it was even the 4th of July until the fireworks started going off at the end of the Widespread Panic show Friday night. Other then the odd red, white, and blue bandanna, there was no American Pride. And it was refreshing. Instead of making sure everyone knows your pride by the color of your star spangled shorts, we got together to celebrate our country for the peace, the love, the music. No need for outlandish confederate flags or singing of the national anthem. We not only celebrated America, but also the music from all over the world that shaped the rock revolution of our time and of times before us.

The Roth Lineup

I didn't want to overwhelm you with one huge post, so I split it between the music and the culture of the festival. Here is my play by play of who I saw over 4 days.

Thursday - After an excruciating 8 hour drive from Chicago, stuck in Indiana traffic for 3 hours, we finally arrived around 8pm. Checked out Disco Biscuits and Railroad Earth after we set up camp in the open 750 acre field of cars and tents.

Friday - After a late start on Friday after the stuck car incident, we checked out the last half of Snoop, who was both totally out of place and at the same time right at home with the pot smoking, life loving people of Rothbury. Snoop was followed by Keller Williams who proudly announced between songs "HAPPY BIRTHDAY JULY!", 311, and Modest Mouse who closed their set with "Float On". The Friday night headliner was Widespread Panic, a jam band who's jamming status is only surpassed by the legacy of Phish. We weaved in an out of the crowd to get as close as possible for the show. This was the reason Doc was here, his favorite band that he had yet to see live. We made 2nd row. Another sign of the great positive vibe of the crowd was the lack of pushing and jumping as people push towards the front. We made friends with everyone around us and even the security guy guarding the stage. The band was accompanied by an incredible violist Ann Marie Calhoun. She couldn't have been much older than 30 and was a great contrast to the old rockers of Panic.

Saturday - Saturday was MY day, the day of all the bands I know and love. The day started with a solid set by State Radio, Chad from Dispatch's new band. He's got a great sound, intertwining reggae and rock without losing the tribal bongos sound of Dispatch. We made friends with some fellow frisbee players and threw the disc around in the massive field while Chad played. Good chill start to the day. We needed the relax before the next line of shows. State Radio was followed by Gomez. Anyone that knows me knows that I love this band more than most. They don't have a huge US following and are a slightly older band but none the less they had a great time on stage for their small yet supportive crowd. I swear Ben looked right at me and smiled. I also learned that they are in Chicago for the summer recording their new album. My next mission will be to get into the studio!! Citizen Cope was after Gomez, followed by the much anticipated Black Keys show. Next was Derek Trucks and his wife Susan Tedesechi, who played an awesome version of Hey Jude for us. I fell in love with her voice forever and ever during this song. The Saturday headliner was Dave Matthews. Despite the preppy connotation with the band in Oakland County, I was psyched to see him for the first time. And he does not disappoint. He played classics like Jimi Thing, Gravedigger, and Satellite. He had dance moves to die for. And one of the best encore songs ever. Sly and the Family Stone's "Thank You" with more sick dance moves.

After heading back to the camp site to rest and pull myself back together, we headed back into the festival for the late night shows. Little did I know the place transforms into a psychedelic glow in the dark night tripper party after the headliner is done. It was like Girl Talk meets Radiohead on ecstacy. At first I was ready to turn right around and climb into my sleeping bag away from all the crazy drugged out people of the night. But Doc assured me these were all the same people I was dancing with at the Dave show, just more pink and green lights illuminating them. I trusted his word and took his hand into the crowds of the STS9 show. But as I got used to the pulse and skat beats of the music I started to realize these people really were not on a bad trip and going to start licking my hair or anything, they were just still on a high from the music of the day and aren't ready for it to end. My tiredness slipped away as I watch people let the music take over where their bodies left off. We walked through the trees (which went on a trip of their own after dark. Nothing will ever really describe the Sherwood forest, and I don't plan on attempting) to see Crystal Method as well. We walked and sat and listened and watched until 4am when tired finally caught up to me and we called it a night. But the party continued for an uncountable number of hours after.

Sunday - Sunday morning brought bright new shiny things. The first was a new yogi when I took Doc to his first yoga class. The other new was something I was really hoping to take away from this week, a new band! We started our last day in paradise by checking out JJ Grey & Mofro. I fell in love with their head boppin soul tinglin swamp funk rock. You can feel the New Orleans roots and the smoky vocals remind me of The Wood Brothers. I cannot wait for July 26th when they play again block from my apartment at the Taste of Lincoln. God don't you love that feeling when you find a new sound?! ANYways, after JJ and Mofro we stopped by to see a few minutes of Beth Orton, then headed over to see Trey Anastasio on stage for the first time in 2 years, after taking some time to get through rehab after the finale of Phish. With just him and his guitar, you could see a calm in his sound and presence after the epic run of Phish. I left Doc and the boys with Gov't Mule (I sadly missed one of my favorite songs "Soulshine") and headed over for some girlie time with John Mayer and Jennifer Aniston. In between radio acoustic lullabies he played some of his blues jams. I love that John Mayer keeps his blues side a secret even though he was born to play at Kingston Mines with the best of them. After John was the headliner for the night, Phil Lesh from the Grateful Dead. I wish I had more insightful comments about Phil Lesh, but I don't know much about the Grateful Dead. But I do know I danced and moved with the music into the end of the weekend.

The whole experience was like living inside your iPod on shuffle. It's amazing the giddy feeling you get when you realize you are part of something so centered around music. Knowing that 45,000 people traveled to this small town in Michigan for the same goal of soaking themselves in music for 4 days, and seeing that nothing could bring us down off this musical high, makes the butterflies in my stomach start dancing. I now know what music feels like.

Running down a Dream

After months of enough darkness and snow and ice to make any person turn into a couch potato, I needed something to inspire me to put my running shoes back on and lose the winter blubber that is building around my waist. If running down Lake Shore Dr on the beach towards that beautiful skyline isn’t enough to get me back on the exercising wagon, than this story inspired me to, not only start running again, but to never stop so I can be this amazing and strong at 61 years old. Rosie Swale-Pope just finished her run around the world, which lasted almost 4 years. Induced by the death and grief of her husband’s death, she ran across Europe into Russia, spent two mind freezing winters in Siberia, made it across the Northern Pacific to Alaska, through Canada eh? Across the US, Greenland, Iceland, and back to the Motherland of England.

If that isn’t enough to get you into your running shoes, then maybe some rockin new music will. When I was in middle school we used to warm up for our volleyball and basketball games to the Jock Jams megamix. What better way to get ready to rumble! And ride that train into a victory than with 80s and 90s one hit wonders?! Safe to say the beats and songs that get me into a good workout mindset has improved since 7th grade. My running playlist has grown over the years, but keeps to the same path. Danger Mouse, Jay Z, Gnarls Barkley, Girl Talk, and an assortment of other mixes and mash ups by the Hood Internet thanks to DJ Boutit JL. Well this list has become so overworked and unpaid that it was losing it’s magically ability to make me run 5 miles. But without fail, Girl Talk stepped in to brighten my day and fill my head with new beats and samples. His new album, Feed the Animals, was just what I needed to put some new blood into my ol’ faithful playlist.

Always the innovator, Girl Talk used the same name-your-price pricing as Radiohead for their In Rainbows album. And since Bono says its “courageous and innovative” then it MUST be! But in all seriousness I have mixed feelings about this. The business side of my brain wonders about the economics of the pricing but then again perhaps it shows how little $$ the artist makes off album sales in the first place, if they can let their fans buy the album for free without forcing RIAA intervention. And the music-is-food-for-the-soul-and-the-fans-are-the-meat side of my brain thinks it is awesome to allow the fans to be involved in the process of the success of the band. It seems like a way to show the band allegiance or view of them, through how much money one is will to part with for the sake of the bands music. I paid the $10 partly out of guilt and partly out of the hope that my $10 will go towards Girl Talk’s tour to Chicago again. Where I will still inevitably pay up to $50 for a ticket. Circle of life baby.

Extreme Room Makeover

In the extreme highs and lows of moving into a new apartment (see “Apartment Search in three parts”) there is always that glimmer of success at the end of the grueling search and move; decorating.

I moved into my apartment almost 2 months ago and still I stare at blank walls at night. Although, thanks to my roommate’s creative talent (you will see her work showcased at the Lincoln Park art fair in September!) our kitchen and living room look put together and cozy with her painting on the wall and color coordinating rugs and furniture. But my room has become somewhat of a burden with its eggshell bare walls and exposed holes in the plaster from the last resident. The task of decorating my room has become so daunting that my brain hurts if I look at paint samples on the Sherwin-Williams website too long and have had to stop myself from surfing the pages and pages of decorating ideas on HGTV.com.

In the past 5 years I have changed rooms so many times, it always seemed like more work then it was worth to paint it any color other then the off white it came with. I found various ways to cover it, with magazine cut outs and posters, but never a permanent stamp of life. After I moved out of my home in RO, one tearful trip home showed me that my bedroom had become a guest room with a splash of my childhood in the pictures and MSU decals scattered around. I have accepted that that will forever be my room and my home, but it was finally time to create my own safe haven. I have loved the fact that my life in the past 5 years has taken me to so many different places that I haven’t had time to settle down with a bedroom long enough to call it my own. I would have it no other way. But now that I am starting to settle my life (as settled as a 23 year old who isn’t ready to settle can be.) I am ready to start this next step in the confines of a room that mirrors myself and my potential.

So with all that said, you can understand the stress of trying to plan a room around such lofty expectations and desires. I want something bright and colorful, I want lots of art and pictures on the walls, I want lamps and pillows. Lamps and pillows are easy when you are a constant fixture in the clearance apartment section of Urban Outfitters. Art.com and the gift shop of the Chicago Museum of Art will be perfect for my Andy Warhol prints and Beatles posters. But the color of the room has become the biggest decision. My favorite color is purple and I would love to finally have that color coat all the walls around me. But unfortunately the confines of practicality limit my limitless dream of the perfect room. What about when I DO have to move in 2 years, how many hundreds of coats of paint is it going to take to cover that lovely deep velvet purple? I have to run my paint choice by my landlord as well. And, although she is a great 30 year old that I know would embrace the boldness, I am still hesitant to ask. My biggest problem with color choices is that I have no idea what I am going to get until the room is done. I might pick some dramatic eggplant purple that I would love if I saw on a dress, but then after I see 6 gallons of it on my wall, might lose myself in the Harlequin brothel of it all (which is debatable whether that is a good or bad thing…..)

I found this handy little application on Behr.com to help people like me that need a visual before I will commit to anything. Its called Color Smart and for $4.95/year (which I will promptly cancel after using) you can upload a picture of your room and preview what colors will look like against your funiture and bedspread. I haven't had a chance to use it yet, but when I inevitably do, I will let you know how it goes. It could be just what I need to help me commit to a colorful future. (I should be getting a commission from Behr for this!)

Hot fun, Summer in the City

This hot fun, summer in the city has become the greatest writer’s block. I moved into a new apartment in a new neighborhood with a new roommate in May. Since then I have been bar crawling to all the new watering holes around my corner, getting the cultural taste of the city with the Rib fest, Blues fest, Belmont Fest, (attempting to) play beach volleyball with the rest of the Chicago Sports and Socialites, settling into the patios of restaurants all over the city, and generally enjoying the lack of wintery freeze coating Chicago. I don’t find much time to relax with my glossy magazines and blogs like I used to. But after catching up with Boutit’s all-things-music blog and a little life changing decision of my own, I’m back (yet again).

Vinyl Revival Revising (Say that 5 times fast)

As part of the writing workshop I am in right now, I decided to dive a little deeper into a topic I touched on last year.

Its all just a little bit of history repeating.

I fell upon an incense-filled, Marley-shirt stocked, dusty, musty record shop in Wicker Park the other day. I went in and perused the colorful glass-blown display case ornaments, smelled the Lavender Dreams incense, and wondered what my hypothetical child would look like in a Janis Joplin onezie. I ogled over old Beatles live albums. I filed through rows and rows of The Wailers, Floyd, Zeppelin, Clapton, The Stones, and all variations of 1960s nostalgia. Then I came upon The Shins, Radiohead, The White Stripes, and an array of current indie rock bands. After initially pinching myself to ensure that I was not lost in a space/time continuum, I learned from the store owner that many bands today are recording onto vinyl. According to John Sepulvado from NPR, sales of new vinyl records are closing in on $1 million and there has been a spike in used vinyl sales as well. Where is this increased distribution coming from? I initially just thought this was a Wicker Park trend to buy records because retro and hippie chic is so hot right now. But there are a slew of reasons for the sales insurgence in today’s culture, each one varies with music lovers varying lifestyles and passions.

The sale of 7” vinyl singles has gone up in the last few years, due in part to the growing popularity of DJ mixing. The singles are the perfect size and length to mix hip hop beats with indie pop and techno songs. Why not modern up Sly and the Family Stone with Beck and his two turntables and a microphone? There are no anti-piracy laws to stop mix enthusiasts from tweaking a song to create their own sound with the help of Otis Redding. The pops and hisses of the vinyl on the turntable give the sound more character as well.

Another reason for the vinyl revival is the physicality of the product; there are still people out there that want a hard copy of albums. As the media industry becomes increasing digital, people are still looking for something they can hold in they hands, something to show off at a dinner party. Even the act of scratching a record on a turntable can be more fulfilling than sitting in front of your Mac digitally creating a sound. Plus, digital downloads of songs and albums have taken away from the importance of album cover art. The 1”x1” pixels on the iTunes Store screen doesn’t evoke the same emotions that a 12”x12” cardboard canvas does. In the past, the cover art was part of the feel of the album, meant to evoke certain emotions and supplement the story that the music told. The story behind the iconic Abbey Road cover, the Fab Four walking away from the Abbey Road Studio, is symbolic of the end of the Beatles’ pop culture reign. The memories of that era go hand in hand with the album cover.

If the industry continues to support the vinyl medium, and as digital continues to change the future of the industry, the need for CDs may become extinct. Most people download CDs to their computer and lose the CD in piles of old software discs and user manuals. Vinyl records may push CDs into extinction. Records give the user a better sense of the music it holds with the grooves in the vinyl. CDs, with the sterile indestructible material, are less connected to the listener. Even the wear and tear of the vinyl record can bring back memories that CDs can’t. How often do you hear Sympathy for the Devil on 97.9 and sing along, sounding like a broken record because your old album always used to skip at “pleased to meet you meet you meet you”?

New indie bands today are expanding their fan base and distribution by recording their albums on vinyl and selling to specialty record shops. As a classic rock junkie sift through the records, looking for a lost copy of Kansas’ Leftoverture that, last he remembers, was spinning in Chazz’s turntable in 1975. As he looks he comes across Kings of Leon Because of the Times. He had heard the band toured with Dylan once and decides that if Dylan can vouch for them, they must be worth a listen. By sticking current albums in amongst these music legends, new bands are increasing their credibility among the rock gods true critics; their loyal fans.

But how has vinyl kept from falling to the same fate as CDs to digital music? It’s about more than the surface of the material or the industry. It’s the sound, the time, the story, the scene, the act. Its about sitting down in your room after standing in front of your shelves of records trying to decide the perfect one to fit the mood you are in, or the mood you want to be in, because you know the perfect key to your inner self is tucked somewhere amongst these pillars of albums. It’s about sitting down in your overstuffed La-Z-Boy that has made every move with you since college. It’s about pulling the lid off your old turntable. It’s about hearing the pop and spin as needle hits vinyl and the record takes off. It’s about not leaving the room, consciously allowing the music to take over your time and thoughts. You may read, you may write, you may smoke, you make drink while listening. But every action is changed because you are sharing the room with the sound. You can’t leave it. You don’t want to leave it. It’s about the need that the turntable has for you, the help it elicits from you when it needs the record to be flip before it can go on. Neither of you will be satisfied until the music starts again. It’s about not just putting your 10,000 song MP3 player on shuffle and going about your day with a subconscious buzz as songs wiz past you. It’s about not missing a beat. It’s about the experience the artist intended you to have while listening to the sound they created just for you, just for your mood, just for your moment in your room.

Part 3: The Battle

Now that you have your platform for your search, its time to start looking. Its important to go to war with a battle plan. Determine what you must have in your apartment and what you don’t mind living without. Location, closet space, a spot for the liter box, room sizes, view, patio, elevator, street noise. Roommate and I decided to weigh some parts more heavily than others. We knew we wanted to live in Lincoln Park. It would cut my commute to work in half and you can’t ignore the bar scene. I wanted something close to DePaul as I wrestle with the idea of going back to school in the fall. We avoided the word “vintage” for fear that it would bring us back to those unbuffed floors. We looked for places with some exposed brick or fireplaces to give the place some character. We both like have people over so wanted to have room for all our overstuffed couches so visitors don’t have to sit side by side or on the floor. We decided we could sacrifice bedroom size for living room size. Roommate loves to cook so we needed more than a hot plate and microwave for the kitchen. And for the sanity of my cat, I wanted to have a place where she could look out the window to the street or some trees, not a brick wall. So now we had our stratego.

The actual viewing of potential apartments is a roller coaster ride. Ups and downs as you walk into every apartment. You walk down the street in the perfect location into an apartment the size of your freshman year dorm room and smelling similarly of a certain herbal essence; and nobody wants to go back to that a second time, no matter how close to North Ave Beach it is. Others reel you in with the rustic charm of a fireplace and wood rafters, but when you open the blinds to find you’re sharing in an intimate moment with the couple in the building across from you. My impressionable cat does not need to sit at the window all day long and learn the more complicated Karma Sutra positions. But when you find that place that you can picture yourself cuddle up on your couch in or cooking dinner, pounce. The Chicago rental market is a place comparable to the wilds of the jungle. Only the strong survive. I was thrust into a situation for which I was not prepared when I moved here. I went to see my very first Chicago apartment and it was perfect. Yet at the time I though that since this first place is so awesome, they must all be like this. I sat on the application for a day and looked at other places, which was mistake number one. If you have even a small feeling that you may like the place, splurge on the $25 application fee and fill one out. My second mistake was sending in my application through snail mail. Always take it directly to the management office; whichever application gets into their hands first, wins. This is a sprint, not a marathon.

A closing tale: Roommate and I walked into a building on Clark at Fullerton, followed close by two other interested parties. I can see it now;. The landlord triple booked us and is going to force a “last man standing” cage fight in the apartment. Winner gets the lease. I curse myself for not coming prepared with my brass knuckles. Thank God for pepper spray. We walked through the decrepit halls of the building with a landlord that looked oddly like Crazy Eyes from Mr. Deeds. The dark hall smells like someone made a ramen noodle-and-beer stew and poured it into the carpet fibers. We are both almost ready to bail before even reaching the apartment when Crazy Eyes opens the door into a clean, sunny, open living room with freshly stained wood floors. A kitchen with a dishwasher, two carpeted bedrooms, two marbled bathrooms, two walk in closets, rooftop access with a view of downtown, a fireplace, a goddamn dishwasher! I had to touch the white washed walls to ensure this wasn’t a mirage. Roommate and I gave one knowing look at each other. We had to have it. Who cares that it was a 20 min walk to the El? Who cares that the bar Neo’s was in the basement of the building? Who cares about the pub stew soiled halls? Who cared about Crazy Eyes’ weird eye that’s hovering over us as we excitedly whispered in the corner? The stark contrast from the ramshackled halls to the perfectly manicured apartment made us forget about all the elements we had previously discussed in detail and ranked in importance. In a situation when the other competitors are standing face to face with you in the ring, it’s important to plan surprise attacks. We couldn’t let the other people looking at the place know that we wanted it for fear they may snag the place from under our nose, believing that we saw something they had overlooked. It was a delicate situation. I am no good at delicate situations. In my frenzied excitement I blurted out that we wanted to put in an application as soon as possible. The others quickly followed. The first to have their application in and accepted would get the apartment. It was out of our hands now.

Serendipity hit us on the head when went to see another place while wait to hear back from Crazy Eyes. Emotionally exhausted and determined to sign a lease that day, we went to see one last place. A privately owned condo by a woman that moved to Arizona and has been unable to sell her place with the unspoken recession brimming. We were still delirious over the last apartment and, in a haze, did not realize our ideal location at the intersection of Fullerton, Halsted, and Lincoln. As proud Michigan State alumni, we were only steps from John Barleycorn and O’Malley’s. 2 block from DePaul, my future alma mater, and a quick walk to the Fullerton El stop. We walked into the apartment. Newly remodeled kitchen with marble counters and a breakfast bar, the holy dishwasher, and counter space for Roommate’s next culinary creation. An open living room with a brick fireplace and view out to the street, with room for all our couches. Two bedrooms and two bathrooms with no need to share a bathroom. The largest closets I have ever seen. It was perfect. Location and all. Thoughts of Crazy Eyes drifted from our heads as we heard the rent was cheaper and included utilities. And a bonus we didn’t even know existed in the city. A free parking spot. We proposed a two year lease to seal the deal and we were home.

Some final words of wisdom when you’re losing hope and your eyes hurt from scrolling through Craig’s List posting for 3 hours, from the almighty Steve Perry, don’t stop believe.

Part 2: A Map

There are two ways to approach the enormous task of narrowing down the bulging real estate market to what you are looking for: 1) Craig’s List 2) Apartment Finders. Here is my evaluation of each:

1) www.chicago.craigslist.org is the cornerstone of free classified ads. I used it when I was trying to find someone to sublease my apartment in Cleveland when I moved. It’s free and well known among the grad students at John Carroll, so after diligently showing my place for about 2 months, I found someone to take over my lease so I could move forward with my glamorous accountant life in Chicago. Subleasing is usually more beneficial for the subleasee. I was so desperate to find someone so I could start my new job in Chicago that I lowered the rent and paid the difference. I got the better end of the deal when I looked on Craig’s List in Chicago and found someone looking to sublease for far less than the going rate a mere hop, skip, and jump away from Wrigley Field.

Craig’s List search filters let you narrow down the hundreds of listing into what you are looking for. How many bedrooms? What neighborhood? Got pets? What’s your price range? And the all important picture included. I never give ads a second look if they don’t have a picture of the place posted. Red flags should go up when a blank screen is more appealing that the apartment itself.

I look to Craig’s List to avoid realtors. I feel better working with condo owners or individuals that own one or two buildings. More flexible, less paperwork. I learned to go through the lease with a fine tooth comb when signing a lease with an individual to watch for loopholes. It can be much smoother and convenient when you and the owner can agree on terms and conditions. Plus you don’t have to listen to realtor’s song of selling.

2) There is a great market for apartment finding services in Chicago. With the abundance of real estate in every shape and size, it’s always less stressful to have a professional on your side, and for free! That what I thought when I walked into the Chicago Apartment Finders and Apartment People offices. But when the agent was the same age as me, I knew I wasn’t going to get much more than an entry-level realtor. I used these companies when I was looking for an apartment for myself and cat only. I told them what I was looking for and saw 10 apartments (5 with each company). Behind all these doors were the same small square rooms with floors that looked they had never seen a buffer. When I said I wanted vintage, something with character, I thought I was eliminating the modern dorm-style high rises; instead I got the city’s equivalent of Annie Wilkes’s cottage in Misery. I felt counter productive when I found myself walking into the same building twice. Once with Apartment Finders and again with Apartment People. Most management companies and landlords will try to rent their apartments through a realtor or themselves (on Craig’s List) and the small apartments that are left, the ones with the view of someone’s bathroom window, they hand off to these apartment finding services to try to sell. It’s the garage sale of the real estate market; one person’s trash is another person’s treasure. I love a good estate sale, but I don’t want to spend 4 hours of my day in a car with a stranger driving around to bottom of the barrel apartments. Again I stress that I know my apartment search could be easy if I settle for practical and livable. But again, I don’t know want livable, I want a lifestyle. So when the roommate and I began our search again, we vowed not to look at 20 bad apartments before we settled on one, which eliminated using the service at all

Part 1: to pack up or not to pack up

The first step is to weigh the burden of your current apartment. How bad is it? How loud are the neighbors? How often does your landlord ignore your voicemails about the suspiciously large mouse hole in the bathroom? How much longer can you risk waiting to see if the squeaky floorboards in the apartment above you are going to give out under the weight of your neighbors’ waterbed and come falling through your ceiling? Now estimate the manpower required to pack up your stuff (including that couch that you’re not really sure how you got into your apartment in the first place). If the effort of the search and move is worth it to escape your current living situation (or if your just looking for a different view out your window), then its time to start looking. For some, this decision is forced upon them when your roommate and her boyfriend decide to legalize what they’ve been doing under your roof for a year and get married, leaving you with the decision to either pay $2000/month on your own, or find another place to live. For me, the decision came when I got my first winter gas bill. I live alone right now (unless you count my cat) and there was no way I was going to go another winter paying $200 bills on my own. So I reeled in a friend to live with me and now we begin the search.

A real estate adventure in 3 parts

Apartment rental season is in the air. You can almost smell the U-Haul exhaust; hear the realtors’ Blackberries constant buzzing; see the daily growth of Craig’s List postings.

I have become a self-deemed expert at apartment searching. In the past 12 months I have moved to 3 different cities in 3 different states, rented 2 apartments, have been a subleaser and a subleasee. I have seen every type of apartment and meet every type of realtor and landlord in the Midwest. I am burnt out on the apartment search. This time around, it’s for good. After the lease is up on my Wrigleyville 1 bedroom apartment with its view of the Lakeview post office truck lot and curry-smelling stairwells, I am going to find the perfect apartment and settle in for the long haul. At this point in my life, with everything going for me, the world as my playing field, endless possibilities for the future, reaching for the stars; my only true dream is to renew a lease for another year and never go through this Satanic game of cat and mouse with realtors again.

So let me lead you on this adventure through the Chicago rental real estate labyrinth.

I will preface my lesson by saying that I may get slightly more emotionally involved with my apartment search than is necessary. The eternal optimist that I am, a genetic curse from my overly supportive father, believes that true love is out there, true housing love. As I keep up the string of complaints with the rest of the rental community over having to walk through 15 seedy apartments before finding an acceptable abode and having to pack up all my worldly belongings yet again, I still get a small adrenaline rush over the prospect of what I could find behind each apartment door I come to during this year’s apartment search. Could this be the door that holds my downtown view? My spiral staircase? My fireplace? My exposed brick? My 10 minute commute to work? My 2 block walk to both the beach and the el? My gut-rehab warehouse loft with vaulted ceilings and floor to ceiling windows? My dishwasher?? Anything is possible in the real estate world. I realize that the whole process would be less emotionally draining if I settle for a moderate size and price and neighborhood. But I have trouble accepting defeat against my dream home.

3 for the price of 1!

Today is a "3-topics-for-the-price-of-one" day.

The best $2.99 I have spent in the last month was to add Tetris to my phone. Because my brain is not awake during the morning commute to read my book and I don't have the hand-eye coordination to wrangling the Red Eye paper into a readable origami shape without giving 4 people around me paper cuts and because during the evening commute my brain is hungover from staring at spreadsheets on the computer all day, I play Tetris to and from work. I thought I was a genius for reintroducing this game back into my life to pass the time on the train. Until one day, as I was ogling over the junior analyst broker next to me's new LG voyager phone, I noticed that he was playing Tetris too! And the advertising chick a row over was playing Pacman. And..... is that Frogger?? We are bringing sexy back into these games. Because of the popular obsession with everything at the palm of our hands, it has created a gateway back into the early 80's when these games ruled the fledging gaming industry. They are convenient to play on the go, easy to win during the half hour commute, and with simple programming they don't take up much space, leaving ample room to fill up our iPhones and Blackberry's with the new

I'm all about small talk. It gets me through many long afternoons at my boss's desk, and sitting at the bar at Jake Melnick's before the happy hour rush. But I always knew that when a conversation was veering towards the weather, you were getting dangerously close to the awkward silence before you start talking about American Idol, which you don't even watch. But lately, the weather has been as exciting as the primaries, and just as yo-yo-esque as well. It has become a serious topic of discussion as we all turn into meteorologists with our theories on why the 10 inches of snow melted before we woke up the next morning and lament a simpler time when winter was distinguishable from spring, when there were no 50 degree days at the beginning of the new year to tease you into believe that global warming had kicked mother earth into early menopause.

And I have to do this just because I have to. My Super Bowl ad picks:

Bridgestone Tire Super Bowl Commercial: Squirrel vs Car




eTrade Super Bowl Commercial: Talking Baby Rents a Clown




Coca Cola Super BOwl Commercial: Parade Balloon




Tide-to-Go Superbowl Commercial, My Talking Stain Ad




Pepsi Stuff Super Bowl Commercial: Justin Timberlake

I was there

I couldn't help but share this.

Surely They are Witches

I have a very unhealthy relationship with Jon Stewart, according to any credible news source, because I take everything he says to heart as my own and none of it with a grain of salt. I giggle like a school girl when he laughs at his own jokes and mirror his dumbfounded looks as Bush tells us that Kazakhstan is a threat to world peace. At this new job I have actual work to do (not pleasant, not my first choice, not worth it - I don't want to come across as pretentious.) so I don't have as much time to peruse the NY Times headlines as I used to in OH-IO. I still need to have some idea of current events if I wish to continue to bash them. So I need it quick and I need it to maintain my attention away from Friends reruns and Janice Dickerson's Modeling Agency. So I have become completely obsessed with The Daily Show (A Daily Show until the writers strike ends). I've always tried to catch a bit here and there but now I have to get home by 7pm everyday to see Jon scribbling all over his note cards. This has also made it hard to keep my mad crush on him under wraps when I have a smile slapped on my face for the whole half hour. (I have watched this clip ten times already and still laugh at the idea of CNN broadcasting from Circuit City)

I know in the back of my head that there is controversy around reckless Gen Yers like me getting our news from a self proclaimed "nightly half-hour series unburdened by objectivity, journalistic integrity or even accuracy." But I can't pull myself away from the brutally honest humor in it.

I just started reading The Emperor's Children (Ok that was the first time I've read that review and it pretty much gave away half the book. Awesome.) and within the first 50 pages it mentions a character doing a documentary on "the current wave of satirical press and its role in shaping opinion...the blurring of left and right politics in contrarianism. People who aren't for anything, just against everything."

So I looked deep inside my cynical self to understand why I see Jon Stewart as my generation's Tom Brokaw. Due to the fact that Jon bashes both conservatives and liberals, I see this as a subjective view on the news. And why can't my news have some humor? Doesn't it make fact that we can no longer say we are the "greatest nation in the world" without some ignorance just a little bit more bearable? It does for me. I'm not using any type of official statistics here but it seem that as things spiral downward for G.Bush, the popularity of shows like the Daily Show and the Colbert Report seem to rise. People are looking for the silver lining in the political turmoil that we are becoming accustomed to. The most literal reason I watch his show is because politics are, in reality, one big joke. I can't help but feel more fulfilled by my own life when I listen to politicians rambling on about nonsense world peace and "change". When Jon Stewart is running a spoof on Lobbyist reforms, I feel like me and 1.4 million other viewers are in on a joke that Congress just can't go deep enough to see. Campaigns are more staged than a Britney headline. And more red ties and pant suits than a meeting of the Brooks Brothers board of directors. How can American's relate to whats going on on top of the hill, how The Suits are running things around here, when most politicians are starting to look like Pinocchio. Maybe Jon Stewart and Steven Colbert bring out the real boy in them...