In Which This Is Not Love

Here.

On Media

So maybe I'm slightly floundering. When I told my Dad about my excellent HDL level(93 BETCHES!) his first response was, "Well if you're gonna live so long you should probably get a real career or a rich husband." I mean, c'mon Dad! I'm working on some shit and stuff, but there's a distracting mouse in the apartment, and I accidentally watched too much Sarah Connor Chronicles today. Also I have this idea for a tee shirt. It's going to read "I Have Socialist Leanings....toward Blow Jobs." Which is kinda funny, and even more funny to a certain crowd of folks who like what the Internet apparel industry calls "Attitude" tee shirts and hate the political concept of Socialism. Once I get rich from this, I'm going to ban the word floundering from my vocabulary and the vocabulary of those I surround myself with. But I will still eat cooked food and retain the same friends, save for a few, namely the ones who use the word floundering. I mean, god damn this industry, right guys? And god bless attitude tee shirts and the chokehold of hope they have on my heart.

I think Chicago and I got off to a bad start. I visited my sister there earlier this Spring-- my first time back in 10 years-- and asked her to take me "somewhere cool." We ended up at the cafe in Nordstrom's on Michigan Ave. They did have really good chili, but still.

This time I was further uptown, near Wicker Park, for Pitchfork. I had been told two things about Pitchfork before I went: 1.) That it's extremely smelly and 2.) That the Chicagoan attendees are cherubic hipsters. Neither turned out to be true. It was 60 degrees the entire time so there was no sweating, and everyone seemed hot and svelte. The boys had a certain bearded lumberjack look. A few crazypants teenagers had seizures and at least one aging hippie fainted during the Flaming Lips. I drank Sparks from 2 until 10, my teeth turned orange, one night I got my first lap dance from a stripper named Alicia who had just graduated culinary school, and I didn't poop for three days. It was pretty frakking fantastic.

I like this. I only wish there were more fireworks in trash cans.

That Other Dood Who Died That Day

A post about Seeds' singer Sky Saxon.

teh baseball

Behind homeplate spitting-distance seats.



Two of Mauer's foul balls caught. (Heh: Two Foul Balls)