"Vacation" Pictures

So, instead of going on a real, far away family vacation, my parents had to buy a new furnace for their house, so we've just been doing things in and around Chicago. Here are some pictures from yesterday's North Side tour.

Yuki at Loyola Beach. Having never been to abeach before, she'd never experienced sand. Not only that, but she'd obviously never experienced land that met up with water--this theory was proven when, after chasing birds to the waterfront, she just bounded in to the lake, surprising herself and the rest of us.


Me, administering water to get the sand out of her mouth, which you can see in picture one.


Three generations of Solems, on the Loyola campus.

"BTW"

So, I officially live in the ghetto--both in the traditional sense of a community strung together by a common social category, and in the contemporary sense of a community riddled with crime and other ickiness. Besides the brutal murders that have occured within the past year (three and counting), the suicide that happened yesterday right next to my old apartment building, now my own building has been uncovered as a drug house. My downstairs-across-the-hall neighbor was arrested a few weeks ago for (what I gather from the patchwork of gossip) selling crystal meth out of his apartment.

Theo came home, dog in tow, to find a swarm of "police cops" in our stairwell, in front of to battered-down door of our otherwise-reclusive neighbor Eddie. He was carted away to jail (and promptly evicted because of the insistence of my upstairs neightbor, the prude hypocrite), and we've been surveyed not-so-subtlely ever since, by burly "undercover" officers wearing oh-so-discreet Sox jerseys. (Note: I live a stone's throw away from Wrigley Field; Sox jerseys are ritually burned here, with or without their person still inside.)

Then, tonight, yet ANOTHER alleged bust took place, hearladed by police cars, man-looking women, and two skinny young guys oddly handcuffed to each other. I'm getting tired of feeling like I live in...well, Chicago. I suppose it goes with the terrain, though.

Difference/Indifference

I received a substantial raise today. I mean, like a really really substantial raise. Like, I could live semi-comfortably on this pay now in Chicago if I worked full time at Gap. Not that I'm going to do that, but it's big enough to make my checking account sublimely happy.

It's Market Days weekend again--and I'm feeling really indifferent about it. After last year's debacle, when the actual setup of the streetfest kept me up all night long, and I ate breakfast with a violent homeless man the morning after, I'm wishing I was just out of town for the whole thing. Basically, Market Days is just another weekend for my fellow gays to get drunk and shirtless and obnoxious, and buy things like rainbow boas and earthy lesbian jewelry. Oh well--hopefully Allison et.al. will spice it up.

Do you want the code for this weekend's Friends and Family days? If so, contact me.

Straight Music

In high school, when somehow I was even more insecure than I am now, I would actually create CD playlists to further purport my veil of heterosexuality. I used what I'll call "straight music" to reassure myself and others that I held "normal" music tastes. Back then, a burned of mine CD might have started off with 311, Blink-182, or some other popular, mainstream rock band who targeted the 18-29 male population. I didn't dislike these songs, per se, but I certainly didn't listen to them when I was alone in my car. For some reason, I've recently become reattached to some "straight" songs. Really mainstream songs that would probably be considered "overplayed" or "soooo last month," but new to me because I don't listen to popular radio or watch MTV.

Does this suggest something? Am I subconsciously slipping into my old ways--creating a character for me to play, so that I don't have to deal with what's really going on with the actor behind it? I don't know.

I've also proven just how cynical I am. Apparently, some guy I work with (who's always been really really really creepy with me, in that touching-me-saying-awkward-complementary-things-to-me way) has some mad gastro-intestinal issues, which prevent him from controlling his gas. Well, he's apparently also working at Gap while on disability (illegal?), and has recently been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and kidney troubles. I didn't even believe it for a minute when someone was telling me, and had no real interest in even supposing it might be ue. Do you normal humans have another reaction when issues of this nature are presented to you? I'm assuming so.

I've started reading Cyndi's journal again, after losing the link to her journal when my computer crashed. Her writing has become a bit of an indulgence for me--it just enthralls me and makes me feel weird inside.

And I feel really guilty about everyone I abandon and pick up again as friends. Why do I do this? I mean, this relationship pattern is an obvious alternative for some people for whom I care less about. But Erin? I just don't get it. Nothing at all. Joe? And let's not even get started on how much of an asshole I've been to Zoe. But, I suppose, unless you are one of these people, this means nothing to you, which means it means nothing to me, since me and my "straight songs" exist to serve everyone but me.

Showered and Shaved Before Noon?

I'm deeply involved in season two of Six Feet Under, now out on DVD. That's what I've been spending my free time watching.

My poor, ugly car is broken again. As I drove into the city for the unpteenth time this week, all electrical functions in my car flickered and stopped working. Then, my battery's meter slipped into uncharted territories, and soon after, my car would not move forward. Luckily, I pulled off of heavily-trafficked Lawrence into a residential area. My alternator, it seems, decided to go on strike. THEN...after receiving a rediculous estimate of $600 for the replacement job--apparently, an alternator's average price is only $120, while the fucks at Midas wanted to charge me $300--my father decided that he and I coudl fix it ourselves. SO...I drove out to the suburbs once again, and after taking apart my engine, he and I realized that we had no idea what we were doing. The last time my father had fixed an alternator was thirty years ago. So, now it has to be towed to Sears.

As the previous anecdote reveals, my life is really quite boring right now. I just spent two minutes of my life typing about an ALTERNATOR. What is wrong with me?

Hitchin' Pics

Lauren, gazing off into her future, while Noah watches


Shannon, Shannon's luscious breasts, Brian, and Brian's profile-unfriendly nose


The other happy couple


My parents and I

Wedding Prettiness and Related Atrocity
 
Lauren and Noah's wedding was a success.  The bride looked stunning.  I will post pictures eventually.  Perhaps.
 
In related news, a certain character in the Wedding Play has a sour case of homophobia that inappropriately revealed itself to my mother and a hotel room full of Rs.  I've thought about it, cried about it, and it's over.  Nothing to be done.
 
Shannno and I didn't go to sleep until 6AM this morning, and woke up not long thereafter for Lauren's post-wedding brunch, so I am ready to pass out.

The Bell Doesn't Toll For Thee

How depressing--to be the groomsman in one of my best friend's wedding just as the Senate begins debating the Federal Marriage Amendment. This week, depending on what happens in DC, could be very awkward.

I went to Lauren's bachelorette party last night, which featured the most powerful Cosmos in the cosmos, a "sex toy" Tupperware-style party segment, where a woman came and sold us "erotic supplies" (Anal Eze = lidocaine for one's ass...nasty), and a barrage of BFF-ing. I'm quite excited about next weekend, but will miss Laurne McLaurne when she moves to New York (temporarily) with Noah.

In other news, the successes of the summer include mending my finances, the Pink Party, and my summer class, while the failures include my job, the second summer session class that I'm not taking but am still registered for, a fraudulent seller on eBay who has my money, and being a god friend unilaterally.

Yawn. Work on a Sunday. A hungover Sunday.

The Pink Party

Theo and I are co-hosting a Pink Party along with Allison (who must be credited with the idea of having a party in the first place). To celebrate the illustrious Pride weekend, we insist that you wear some sort of pink, so that you can match the food and mood of the party. We'll be serving hors d'oeuvres and cocktails from 8:00 on, until you pass out or get bored. It'll be on Friday, June 25. Who's invited?

1. You, if I like you/know you.
2. Your friends, if you like/know them.

Call my cell phone or E-mail me (Boyinbrownshirt@aol.com) if you'd like to come and want directions.

A more thorough update will ensue once I don't have an obnoxious test to study for.

King David

Theo, Allison, and I saw David Sedaris read tonight at my favorite bookstore, Unabridged. Well...we didn't actually see him read. We got there too late due in large part to a fight Theo and I had this morning, but we heard him and it was mostly alright. He read one of my least favorite stories from his new collection, Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim, "Blood Work," and a few entries from his journal. Between two of his entires, he practically flipped out due to people taking his picture. It wasn't very pleasant. He later apologized, and I still was left with an unpleasant feeling in my stomach.

I then waited in line for two hours to have the Mr. Sedaris sign my copy of the aforementioned book. After spending the two long hours of waiting trying to figure out something interesting to say or an insightful question to ask him, I came up with a whole bunch of nothing. Finally, when it was my turn to address him, I asked, "So, is Hugh with you on this tour?" He lowered his voice, and sullenly said, "Um...Hugh and I broke up a few months ago...Yeah..."

Of course, I felt absolutely horrible. I didn't feel horrible about the fact that they broke up, like a NORMAL person would. Rather, I felt bad because I felt like I should have known that, like there was a story in his book that I skipped over or something. Instead of feeling like a bad human, I felt like a failed fanatic.

Then, he laughed, and said, "Oh, I'm just kidding. Hugh just doesn't like these book tours, because there's nothing for him to do. He'll be coming with me on a tour in Germany, though." Fooled by the great man himself. How perfect--and what a great payoff for waiting two hours to see him.

David Sedaris's book, however, is not so great. It's pretty much hit-and-miss. There are a few selections--"The Girl Next Door," "Nuit of the Living Dead," "Forgive Me," and the two stories about his brother--that I absolutely adore and am about to reread, but everything elase lacks direction and purpose. Sometimes, as Allison accurately pointed out, he tacks on these didactic, moralistic endings to otherwise alright stories that ruin the piece. I still think that Me Talk Pretty... is my favorite, but a few selections in his latest will remain in my mind for quite some time.

Movie of the Week

Saved! is just brilliant. Criticism of Christianity--especially in America--is commonly something that filmmakers (and large media corporations) shy away from, but this film accurately and successfully parodized both the Willow Creek-style belief-less attitude many churches have, and the inane right-wing fundamentalist virus that has crept into politics. And it was cuuuute too! I like Patrick Fugit. But I LOVE Jena Malone.

IKEA fieldtrip tomorrow!

How do we feel about these?

Clueless

I just returned from a brief sojourn in suburbia to see my high school's production of "Clue." What's that, you say? There's a stage version of that film I fell in love with so long ago? Nay, nay. They simply ILLEGALLY printed the film script off some internet source and staged it. Hm.

Now, knowing full well that some Jacobs people read this, I'll be nice. And truly, the brunt of my issues with the show stem from the fact that I COULDN'T HEAR IT. I think (and had I been elected drama club pres. my senior year, this was my main goal...but, who wanted to elect a fag to be president of drama club? that's positively unheard of.) that some sort of parentally-run booster club MUST be erected, so that the theater program can succumb to a much-needed rehabilitation. If there were a booster club on the level of Vocal-Strings or whatnot, a new sound system (A MUST) could be purchased, more money could be spent on costuming, sets, PUBLICITY (I could have spat on the entire audience in one fell loogie, it was so minute) and lighting, and perhaps the school could put on a play that they'd BOUGHT THE RIGHTS TO. Otherwise, the show was alright. Just a poor show to pick, I think. But talent-wise, it was alright.

Another blah weekend. I work all day and all night tomorrow, and I have an 8AM meeting on Sunday. Rumor has it Zoe's in town, which is frustrating because I have no time to spend with her. Luckily, i have several events to look forward to in June: David Sedaris on the 4th, Rufus sometime in the middle of the month, and pride at the end. And my superexciting Af-Am history and politics class.

'Tis all.

Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

So, I leave the Blogging world for one month, and the setup is completely different. Ah, life.

The fact that my computer decided to finally stop working altogether IN THE MIDDLE OF FINALS WEEK not only hindered me while writing my seminar papers, but prevented me from applying to, and eventually getting--I have connections--a meeting planning internship with the American Library Association. As it violently shuts down every time I try to reformat it, my computer has prevented me from a multitude of things that I would normally be able to access through Theo's computer...except that he's a computer Nazi.

I didn't do as well as I would have liked this semester. And that's all about that. Looking forward to summer/fall classes.

I painted my room a wretched color of lavenderpurple today. It's hideous and fit to be a tween girl's room.

I've already run out of negative adjectives, I think.

I've been reading a lot--catching up on books I wanted to read all semester but didn't have time to.

- Yann Martel's Life of Pi: Brilliant; fun theological things woven into a delightful "adventure" story.
- Augusten Burroughs's Running With Scissors and Dry: I don't think he should be an author. His latter title epitomizes his writing--dry like a week-old piece of bread.
- Lynne Truss's Eats, Shoots, and Leaves: Love the topic, hate her writing. I wanted to scratch my eyeballs out at times. British punctuation is sometimes queer.

Theo and I, after inevetable rollercoaster weeks, are fine as of all day after this morning. Mornings are not good for us--I like sleeping in, and he gets upset when I don't wake up. Then, I usually say something really insulting that I forget about when I fall back asleep five minutes later. Then, I officially wake up and he isn't speaking to me.

Yuki is wonderful; a bit hot, because I haven't had time to have her shorn, but otherwise great. A disgusting, soaking wet Bassett Hound tried mounting/humping her at the dog park on Monday. She would have none of it.

I chauffered my sister around for her pre-prom appointments a week or two ago. She looked lovely in a strapless mint green gown. I think she had a good time with her boyfriend, WHO IS GOING TO THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO IN THE FALL--ahhhhh. So jealous.

I think that is all. Oh! As usual, I have a laundry list of people to call, and I get to see Erin tomorrow. Hopefully.

The Stupid One/Smart One Relationship

In all group/partner exercises, there's inevetably one or more people who act as "the smart ones": those who provide the interesting ideas and keep the group on-track. Consequently, there are also "the stupid ones": those who have nothing worthwhile to contribute, and end up completing all the banal things, like writing things "the smart ones" say and making posters and whatnot.

My whole life, I have been "the smart one"; I have always been frustrated with group activities because my ideas were generally better and more complete than those I worked with. I've always wanted to do everything my way, and ended up just doing the whole project by myself, voluntarily. But, now I know how it feels to be "the stupid one." I'm working on a presentation for my Feminist Theory and Gender Studies class with a brilliant girl I've befriended this semester, and invariably, if she's more brilliant than me, I must adopt the "stupid one" role. I know how it feels to be told, "oh, I can just write that," and have the entire project exist without hardly any of my input. And the thing that sucks about it, is that she's totally right in doing so, because I'm completely clueless about the article on which we're presenting. And, moreover, she isn't trying to be mean about it--the presentation will simply be better if she mans the "thought" part of it.

I can't stand not being the best--and even though I know that I'm not the best at everything (or anything, undoubtably), I hate that I now have to know it, and have proof of it. How did this happen?

On another note, this week, I'm going to put to an end the passive-agressive discourse I've had with a certain person. I'm just fed up.

You know me...


Why am I offering this delightful link to you all, when I should be writing two papers, reading half of The Piano Tuner, and/or preparing my Feminist Theory presentation?

http://www.RightWingEye.com

Just Prattling on About God Stuff

Today was a bad "faith" day. IN that, I mean to say, the day has left me with an ill feeling in my stomach (or is that from the BBQ potato chips I just inhaled?) concerning my faith.

I talked with my Hinduism professor today (who I have grown to like greatly) about how, even though there's no idea of "conversion" in the Hindu faith, whether or not a non-South Asian person can freely enter a "congregation" of Hindus. She responded by saying that Hinduism is really more about blood than belief, and that mose South Asians wouldn't accept an Anglo as a spiritual peer simply because of their ethnicity. that really disturbs me, in part because it unfounded my own Christian belief system, which dictates that religion is based on beliefs, tenets, and most crucially, faith.

I don't have a yen to commit myself to Hinduism--while I find it fascinating, and see a great sense of universality in their teachings that would allow me to effortlessly "convert" to their faith, I'm still wrestling with my own heretically-received God (thank you Gerard Manley Hopkins for the analogy). While on the back porch this evening, I, for the first time, admitted to myself that my faith isn't as strong as I'd like to think. This is a very hard admission to myself, because faith has always been an integral factor in my life, and even though I'm sure I've said these words before to people, I don't think I ever really believed them.

Perhaps, then, no faith is really about beliefs. Christianity, Judaism, Islam, Hinduism--these are all human-constructed ideas of morality that civilizations were constructed upon, and are passed on from parent to child. (Christianity, of course, doesn't fit this description so perfectly, since the main goal of the Christian church has always been prosletyzing to "unbelievers.") Where does biology stop and faith begin?

Damn you, Tracy.

The Gods are Making Me Crazy

If the weather weren't so amazing, I might actually be doing something I NEED to do. But, instead of writing my two papers and reading the 1,000+ pages of material I need to have completed for Tuesday, I've been playing with the dog outdoors for the past hour.

My car was struck Friday night. MY ENTIRE FAMILY came down to celebrate my mother's birthday that night, and I was about to pull out of a parallel spot (WITH ALL OF THEM IN THE CAR) when I was struck by an SUV. Instead of hitting me and stopping, he decided to continue dragging his car through my car ("I thought it was a bump in the road," he later said) until the entire right side of his car had been horribly damaged. All while going less than four miles an hour, might I add. It's not as if he couldn't have stopped immediately upon ramming into my car. So, everything is fucked, and I owe even MORE money. Cars and me were not meant to be. Esp. in Chicago.

I went on a "field trip" to the Hindu Temple of Greater Chicago this morning, for my Hindu class. It was so incredibly beautiful, and everything--from the offerings to the icons to the millions of flower arrangements everywhere to the icons' outfits to the buildings themselves--seemed so much more expensive than in Christian churches. For an incredibly impovershed country (it's like this in all temples, in India and abroad--the level of ornateness), India sure does love its religion. I took some pictures of the exterior of the building (I don't think I was supposed to, but...oh well) and will TRY to post them sometime this week.

In addition to the thousands of dollars I owe on my car (I got booted a few weeks ago; I don't think that was mentioned here) and the horrible stress school is giving me, my very best friend is angry with me. How does this happen?

I'm going to go wash off the yellow stuff on my forehead, and...yeah, probably play with the dog some more. Dammit.

Cooking With Chestnuts

The beginning of finals season has taken its toll on me, sendingme into a period of passivity, frustration, lethargy, and the like. I've fallen behind on the readings in almost all of my classes--and I've been so good about that this semester!--and this weekend will not allow me the time needed to catch up. Not only has the temptress of spring weather made designs on my weekend, but I'm traveling to Lemont on Sunday to visit the Hindu Temple of Greater Chicago for my Hinduism class. I have papers, at least 1,000 words to write, and a teensy shift at Gap.

I'm shopping for a new job right now (aren't I always?). I'm thinking about Borders--while I'd rather not support their monopoly on the bookselling business, all the "ma-and-pa" bookstores in the area are run by one or two people, or are highly coveted positions that are full-time (a la Unabridged). Oh, or "bookstore" means "porn shop," in which case, I morally object to it.

Good things, good things...I saw the first movie in the theaters since December this week--Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. I'm really not a fan of Kaufman's previous two films, but I fell in love with the concept of this film even before I screened it. Now, after seeing this beautiful, smart film, I no longer HATE Jim Carrey and Kate Winslet. I just have no feeling for them whatsoever. Which is an improvement. (Improvment?) (Why can't I spell.)

Oh, and I finally had a chance to listen to "David Sedaris Live at Carnegie Hall" this week--a gift from Tim for my birthday--and have re-fallen in love with the man. When I first bulleted through his three books a few years ago, I set my heart on one day becoming a prose essayist like him. (I've since abandoned the aspiration, chalking it up to another literary trend that will surely fade in time. Have you seen all of the bourgeois collections of women shopping-and-men stories out there?) Strangely enough, one of his pieces from his upcoming collection discusses the morality of writing about personal experiences, and how his family and friends react to him writing about their intimate anecdotes. I'd just like to add that, from now on, if anyone's going to add my personal experiences into a Souffle of Trite Tripe, asking permission or something would be greatly appreciated. I thought there was an understanding within the writing community that a level of professionalism and courtesy was to be upheld at all times. If you don't know what I'm taking about...don't ask, because I'm still stewing about it.

Otherwise, I've got nothing.

I just want to make sure everyone understands that my away messages are generally not autobiographical. Theo and I have not broken up; Ani is not singing about the "bubble" that is Theo and I. Ok?

I am just in a shit shit shitty mood. My father is so angry with me right now, and I have to go take care of some expensive fucking things.