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.