The Madness of Crowds / Alogical Feelings

Saturday night at Subterranean. Ezra Furman's CD release show for his latest album, Day of the Dog. Two thirds into Take Off Your Sunglasses, and we're getting to the best part, fully prepared to join Ezra in his manically crescendoing refusal to think about things we don't want to think about in the middle of the night. Instead, our evening's protagonist steps out onto the edge of the stage and calls our attention back from anticipation, into the very moment itself:

"Do you feel that? That is musical tension and the madness of crowds."

We laugh, we cheer, we revel in the showmanship and bravado of this Evanston-bred musician whose talent for lyricism is surpassed only by his raw and sometimes terrifying vulnerability on stage. I've never seen him so confident, though he's always been the most courageous performer I've ever been privileged to watch. There is something contagiously joyful in his stage banter, which isn't so much banter as it is an insistence on connecting, on drawing us in to what he himself experiences and desires from music. He's sincere, and he's playful, and most of all, he's a goddamn rock and roll star who's doing exactly what he's meant to be doing.

And it brings me happiness to the point of embarrassment. But it also makes me ache. I cannot watch good art without feeling this longing, which verges on pain even while it contains profound ecstasy. It's the realization that this - good art - is the most important thing. Because when you find yourself in the presence of true beauty, which is also called love, and also called god, nothing else matters. Walls crumble and inhibitions melt, the world becomes clear and sharp, and we understand that life is our shared struggle, that none of us is an island, and that the best we can do to help ourselves is to help one another see our truth, the way we perceive it.

I don't know if any of that is true. But I'm starting to believe their is no such thing as objective truth. And if there is, I'm not interested in it. I'm not interested in the facts, so much as the feelings. And the feelings at an Ezra Furman show are always intense. If you don't have an Ezra, I urge you to find one. Someone who's art makes you feel alive, expands your perspective, inspires you to embrace those "alogical feelings" and abandon reason for just a little while, in order to experience the divine inebriation of a soul set free and moved to dance. It's the most important thing.

Confessions of a Happily Single Lady

I'm having one of those rare days in which I actually sort-of-secretly think it might not be so bad to have a partner in life. I know, I know, I'm an independent lady, unfettered by conventions, laughing with defiance in the face of society's expectations for me to settle down, get married, have kids, buy a house and be a grown-up. I love being single and selfish and wild and free to do whatever I goddamn please. 98% of the time. But it's been a 2% kind of week. Let me explain.

I just took my 14-year-old(?) cat, Tilly, to the vet for the first time ever. The 4-1/2 mile drive took us 45 minutes, and when we got there a mean man honked at us for jaywalking and I yelled bad words back at him, which is not what Buddhas do, but I have a cold and I'm cranky from traffic and the guilt of irresponsible pet ownership, and secretly I'm afraid Tilly is dying and it's my fault and she's my little tiny friend since forever.

Inside, the animal hospital reeked of ammonia and betrayal, which is probably what Tilly felt as she lay splayed on the aluminum exam table while a strange man - who looked a little bit like Abed from Community but with less humor - stuck a cold metal stick up her butt and stripped her of all remaining dignity. She took it like a champ, old girl, which broke my heart even more. Because she was just defeated. Then the doctor asked me questions and told me some stuff that I didn't fully understand because of his accent and my ignorance, but then he came back in and showed me the bill, and I understood that I was being punished for my poor cat-parenting. But I said, okay, do what you need to do, doctor. And he took her x-rays and some of her blood and gave her shots and I sat in the waiting room, worrying about money and vowing not to spend any for the next two to three months.

Then the doctor took my money, gave me my cat and some medicine, and I drove Tilly home to rest while I went to the store to get her the food she likes, because she been so brave. But I got distracted by products, because shopping makes me feel better about life for a minute, and I ended up spending $50 on cleaning supplies, snacks, a hair mask, bath salts, lip gloss, and cilantro, then I felt even more guilty and vowed to return the cosmetics and hair mask, and as I was walking to my car with my plastic bags of shame, I realized I just wanted a hug. I just wanted to not have to confront every life crisis alone. Because it's not just the big stuff, like my sick cat. It's the big load of laundry and sink full of dishes and dining room strewn with clothing and unpacked boxes (because where else do such things go?). It's not knowing how to hang pictures or clean anything properly. It's the stupid color I dyed my hair, and the responsibilities that are really benefits but often look like eventual disappointment on faces I've let down. It's the constant goddamn struggle to stay afloat in recovery and love and hope, when the weight of depression, anxiety, addiction and a million little nagging voices are clawing to bring me low.

And listen, I know I don't need to be in a committed relationship in order to not be alone. I have amazing friends who would be more than willing to lend me their wisdom, their sympathy, their support, their arms, or their empty flattery, depending on the demands of the crisis at hand. So don't get me wrong, this isn't a plea for sympathy or a cry for help or a white flag surrendering my independent ladydom. It's just an honest observation that sometimes being single is tough. And a clear indication that I need to work on asking for help. Because no matter how much time I spend on Buzzfeed DIY, I just can't seem to create the perfectly organized, cleverly-decorated, Pinterest-worthy apartment that the internet has led me to believe I need.

A Very Touching Mother and Daughter Moment

Over the weekend, I went over the my parents' house. My mom asked me how my cats were doing. I told her I'd been training them to sit in boxes. Then, like a proud parent, I showed her this picture:

She was very impressed. But I wasn't satisfied. So today, on g-chat, I sent her this gif in order to illustrate the full extent of my ambitions:

 

She replied: "I understand!!!"

But I wasn't sure that she did, so I sent her this:

But she didn't respond right away. So I followed up with a little:

Finally, I got the validation I was seeking all along.

That's when I knew, she really gets it. She really, really gets it.

#OBSOLETE

3D printing, like using a mobile phone for anything other than communicating, is one of those things that will only catch my interest begrudgingly, long after it's already mainstream. And even then, my interest will be motivated by an instinctive fear that the apocalypse will come, and the only thing that will separate survivors from zombie food will be the ability to use cutting-edge technology. You know, like the flashlight app I just discovered last week. Or hashtags, or planning my I-don't-even-have-a-boyfriend-but-I-love-fancy-parties wedding on Pinterest, or podcasts. Which I listen to on a second-generation iPod nano.

Sidenote: I just did some research (which is something I prefer to do AFTER writing an article, because I'm very avant-garde), and it turns out 3D printing can be used for a lot of fun things, not just guns that might backfire. Like creating your very own dinosaur skull to hang on your wall. Make it a dragon skull that really breathes fire, and I'm sold.

Maybe this means I should look into Vine. Probably I'll just focus on mastering my new Instagram app before it goes out of style, replaced by a younger, sexier site...like Vine. Shit.

I'm never going to survive the end of the world.

The Suggestion Box

Years ago, while microwaving a delicious frozen meal at the office, I happened to glance up and see a suggestion box. An actual box, for suggestions, with slips of paper and tiny pencils ready to capture my visionary plans for the future! Here is an incomplete list of some of my favorite contributions:

1. Puppy room. Every office should have a room filled with tiny, fluffy, adorable puppies and kittens, as an incentive. Finished that project ahead of schedule? Boom, 20 minute session with this guy in the puppy room: 

2. Scream room. I'm talking padded walls, sound-proofing, and a closed-circuit screening of the room's patrons. So it serves the dual purpose of allowing disgruntled employees a safe, practical, healthy outlet for their barely-suppressed rage and existential frustration, while providing ample free entertainment for the rest of the company. The alternative? This: 

3. Nap room. Do I even need to explain this one? The most feasible of all my room ideas, this would only require some low lighting, a relaxing new age soundtrack, or maybe a harpist, and a few of these bad boys: 

4. Heat lamps. This one was inspired by a coworker who said she'd bring her "beardie" in to work if it didn't need heat lamps to survive. After googling beardie and ruling out bearded collies, I confirmed she was talking about a bearded dragon. And I realized I need to have one of those in the office. I mean, look: 

5. Read suggestion-box suggestions. This idea sprang from my gnawing suspicion that my ideas weren't being forwarded to the powers in charge. Frankly, I'm starting to think none of my ideas have even been read, as I've yet to see even a single one implemented. Do you know how that makes me feel? 

The Big Guy's Big Day: A Tribute

He once ate a bowl of soup that was hot enough to leave third-degree burns on a normal man, but insisted it was freezing cold.

He can beat up your dad, even if your dad is Chuck Norris. He's very, very confident about this.

    

When his daughter asked for a pony, he bought her two ponies. And by ponies he meant dangly unicorn earrings.

When he eats at a restaurant, he never brings his reading glasses. In fact, the menu needs reading glasses to understand him.

His stories about winning fights/hockey games/battles of the wits/golf tournaments are so good, he has to tell them multiple times for you to really comprehend his greatness. 

When he plays Barbies with his granddaughters, he always wins.

He doesn't always drink chocolate milkshakes, but when he does, he INSISTS they be made with vanilla ice cream.

He's...The Most Interesting Dad in the World.

Happy Birthday, Big Guy!

From Your Biggest Fan Club

What DOVE Wrappers Should Really Say: Submit Your Ideas!

This afternoon, I opened a miniature DOVE bar (which I may or may not have yanked from a department that isn't my own) and discovered, printed on the wrapper, a piece of advice so mind-blowing it completely transformed my life. Here's what it said:

Do What You Love.

You can imagine how upsetting this was to me. I mean, here I've been this whole time, doing things I don't even like that much, let alone love!!  When I think of the years I've wasted - being at work when I could have been petting puppies, or getting my teeth cleaned instead of sticking Q-tips in my ears, or doing anything other than getting massages, eating tea sandwiches and buying pretty dresses - it makes me feel disgusted, angry, and downright horrified.

Where were you all those times I was scooping cat poop, DOVE?!?

Anyway, I shared these troubling thoughts with a dear friend of mine, who had the brilliant idea of writing our own messages for chocolate wrappers. Except ours would be less trite and more honest. For example:

"I saw you steal this chocolate from Accounting, and I'm reporting you to HR."
"If you eat less chocolate, maybe people will stop asking you if you're pregnant."
"9 followers does not a successful blogger make."   

Dear reader, I need your help compiling a list of such slogans to send to DOVE corporate headquarters for their consideration. Please SUBMIT YOUR SUGGESTIONS, IMMEDIATELY AND PROFUSELY, in the comments section.

Thanks. And remember, I love you.

Good Art, For Example This Poem by 22-Year Old Desiree Dallagiacomo

Much like ladies, poems are meant to be heard, not seen. Or heard and seen, rather. And as a poetry writer and performer with aspirations of combining the two, I was looking for inspiration when I discovered Indie Feed's Performance Poetry podcast. And that is how I discovered Desiree Dallagiacomo's poem "One Side of an Ongoing Dialogue with Sharon, My Therapist." I wanted to share it with you, because much like sushi, good art is meant to be shared, not hoarded.   

You can listen and download it for free here.

Did you? Did it move you? She's 22 years old, and she writes with the wisdom of a world-weary woman, speaking of pain as only someone who's lived so long with pain that it no longer feels like an enemy can. Not in a self-indulgent, self-pitying way, but with defiance and conviction. Owning her story, her words, her pain. Masterfully tempering white hot anger with unexpected moments of honest vulnerability. Embracing every aspect of her experience, without apologizing or justifying, as I often find myself doing whenever I try to explain my pain. Desiree's poem is a remonstration to that urge, a reminder that poetry ought not strive to explain.

What is a poem's purpose then? To enlighten, provoke, empower, unburden, let go?

For the poet, it is freedom from the claustrophobic realm of the torturing ego-driven mind, and a refusal to be quiet and fall in line, to put suffering aside like it could never be anything more than an inconvenience. An unburdening of the soul, a reaching out.

For the listener, it is an awakening of the soul. A summons to engage with our hearts as well as our minds. It elucidates truths, which distance and technology and rational thinking have rendered powerless, by infusing the facts with the warm, visceral breath of humanity.

Poetry keeps us connected. You dig? 

Signs of Maturity (I'm being petulant)

Today, I experienced rejection. It wasn't the first time, and it won't be the last. You'll say it means I'm doing something right. You'll say they're morons for not choosing me. You'll tell me something better is waiting for me. And you're right. But I still feel stung. And I'd much rather add this experience to my prized collection of excuses not to keep trying than summon the courage and motivation to believe you.

I'd also rather write something scathing and sarcastic on the social media sites of the people who were selected instead of me, and a lengthy and strongly worded letter to the one who rejected me, outlining in vivid detail precisely how moronic, how misguided, how tragic that decision was.

Luckily, I'm a mature adult. Meaning I've embarrassed myself enough times to know that what I perceive as righteous indignation is actually just hurt feelings. And I should probably calm down, nurse my pride, and try again tomorrow. But not before I publish this passive-aggressive post.

Vanity Charity

Do you ever feel like the secret to happiness is enough money for a new haircut, a new wardrobe, a personal trainer, and a tan?

If so, I'm accepting donations.

Hopeless Romance, continued

I'm not planning on getting married. Because it sounds like a trick. But if I were to get married, I would really like our first dance to be to this:

Love in the Time of Emo

I Love You But I've Chosen Darkness is the name of a band. They haven't released any new music since their first and only full length album in 2006, but they will forever be known as the group that inspired the thing I say to my cats when I lock them out of my room, or shove them off of my lap because I just want to watch American Horror Story without getting cat hair all over my sweatshirt.

I love you, but I've chosen darkness.

Is there any expression more magnificently emo, more self-indulgent and melodramatic, more utterly satisfying in its embittered absurdity?

As if love requires sunlight. As if sullen apathy and self-centered preoccupation weren't the very foundations of love itself. As if Romeo and Juliet were just a couple of short-sighted teenagers too young to understand the difference between true love and obsessive hormone-driven infatuation.

What is love if not the hood pulled over our faces, the dark-as-night trunk of a stolen car being driven by the kidnappers of our hearts? If not the door that separates you from the human you adore with all of your tiny kitty brain.

Love is darkness. Just ask my cats.  EMO <3 4EVR

How to Get Over the Flu in 72 Hours

On Wednesday, I woke up with a "weird feeling" in my throat. By Thursday morning, my throat felt fine, but my skin hurt. Also, I couldn't stop sweating and having fever dreams about goo-guns and other surprisingly effective methods of inflicting violence upon my enemies.

It was all very terrible and gross and pathetic. But I managed to recover almost completely 72 hours. Many others have not been so fortunate. So I feel it is my duty to say this:

Other people who have the flu, listen to me! I have found the cure!

Drink 8 oz of Gatorade every hour for the first 48 hours. That's 384 fl oz. Don't question me.
Sleep at least 16 hours per day/night.

Spend the remaining 8 hours watching Freaks and Geeks, sitting in the shower, heating up Campbell's condensed soup, groaning, shivering, sweating, laying down in the hallway to rest on your way from the kitchen to the couch, imploring your cats to call an ambulance/avenge you, watching Eternal Sunshine and weeping because love is so hard, calling your boyfriend and tricking him into bringing you more Gatorade then peeing a little when you sneeze and then laughing maniacally while he looks away politely, and thinking mediocre Thai food is a good idea*.

After 48 hours, the sweating and shaking should be subsiding, and you will be ready to add frozen pizza** to your diet. And also, stand-up showering! Just don't lather too vigorously. Reduce Gatorade intake slightly. Incorporate water and hot tea. Continue groaning. It's important to always be dramatic when you are alone and sick.

At 60 hours, you're home free. Just sleep it off, homes. Take some Advil for the lingering sinus pain, and wait another 24 hours at least before operating heavy machinery. The fever has probably made you real dumb. Hopefully it won't last.

Godspeed. You're welcome.

*Don't actually order the Thai food. I'm telling you from experience, it's a bad choice. Even if the grub hub guy is super nice when you call to change your order without knowing what's on the menu. You're in no state to appreciate flavor. Stick to condensed soup and Gatorade. You know, American stuff.
**Cook first.