Happy St. Patrick's Day

Okay, I know I previously blogged about how I "just don't understand" St. Patrick's Day.

What I'd been annoyed by was the mindless drinking, guzzling of Shamrock Shakes, and meat market Mardi Gras-esque street festivals related to the holiday. There is no confusion about Irish folklore, which is pretty cool, as are the Irish people I know, and musical groups like The Clancy Brothers, whom I'm listening to as I type this, though technically I need to be job-seeking, and I will do that in exactly seven minutes. Resume powers, activate! Blogging addiction, die!!

Today is the *actual* day of St. Patrick, vs getting ye pint or two or three of Guiness on days in advance of SPD, so overall I am feeling festive in my green shirt. The breeze coming through the open windows feels great, too.

The album pictured here was purchased at an estate sale that kind of had an unhappy ending. I brought home some sort of bug infestation that most likely stemmed from some of the "treasures," which had been in an Irish American family's basement for decades.

This family, whom have a very Irish actual name, and whom for privacy reasons I've renamed "The Neckhams," had an unfortunate history, and I wonder why the luck o' the Irish was not upon them.

All three Neckham children died before their parents. The son, at age 31 or 32, died of a heart attack. He'd been a music teacher in Madison, and his flowy, airy, somewhat feminine signature had been scrawled onto opera, and classical sheet music in the basement. The daughter, middle child, was married in a Lutheran church (her wedding program was tucked into another book on the bookshelf), moved to California, and came back to the Chicago suburbs after her divorce. Her ex-husband had sued her for mental cruelty, per the man that ran the estate sale, and whom I heard the Neckham story from. Shortly after moving back home, the daughter died at age 32 or 33 of cervical cancer.

The youngest Neckham child, the one whose name was scrawled onto the Disney records, and other children's music (the family seemed to have loved music, and books, judging by the amount of both that they had), committed suicide at age 18.

The Neckham mother died about 10 years ago. She owned a lot of "men, can't live with em, or without him" type of knick-knacks, and had an extremely practical wardrobe. The kind of woman that preferred loafers to pumps. Mr. Neckham, the patriarch whom died in his 80s, alone, in a cluttered, dusty house full of an impressive amount of "stuff," had a closet full of hats in mint condition, blazers of sorts of fabrics, wing-tips, and fancy walking canes.

I attempted- poorly- to write fiction about the family based on what I knew from the man that ran the sale, though at some point I might revisit it. Right now, though, I'm just about to turn the Clancy Brothers over, and eat a traditional Irish lunch of fish, minus the chips. Guiness might be in my future, too. Hopefully no itching, and bugs, though. I'm itching just thinking about that bad luck from what would have otherwise been a good thrifting experience.

Apron Porn

Just having fun with lighting, and my reversible galaxy/nature apron, which Aster made. It came in the mail today, along with a children's apron that I'm going to show to area shops. If anyone needs an apron- adult, or child-sized, please get in touch with me, or Aster. Sew local!

Monday in Pictures

On the way to J's place I witnessed what appeared to be a deaf/hearing-impaired couple fighting. They were standing at a bus stop, and their body language was enough to indicate something was amuck. Hands, and fingers moved at a rapid pace. Frustration was visible on both sides.

I didn't take a photo of it. Fights require privacy, though this one was very public. I don't think they were signing the language of love, but maybe why are you such an asshole? over, and over and over.

Off to meet a friend, but I will post more pics later, including some "apron porn." Aster's reversible apron came in the mail today, along with a $50 rebate from a Sprint phone I bought months ago, so it was a very good mail day, as well as a decent hair day, as I got two inches of my brown, and graying roots dyed in J's kitchen. J's fridge has more magnets on it each time I visit. J. told me that her mother looked at the fridge, and asked if she is okay, because it looks like a child's room. J. just likes magnets. I can relate.

R.I.P. Chicago Journal & Hello iCream

The West Town/Wicker Park/Bucktown version of the Chicago Journal is no longer.

It was a weekly, hyper-local newspaper that I enjoyed reading, and had contributed a few articles to, though like most of my journalism stories "that was a long time ago."

Today I walked by the Chicago Journal dispenser en route to the park, and knew it would be empty, as I had read about the paper folding earlier this week.

I will miss its columns, features on local people, and shops, as well as the addictive police blotter, which always had glib headlines that sometimes made too much light of the crimes, but were still fun to read, as were the property transfers. Though I'm in no position to purchase neighborhood property, it's always interesting to see what it's going for, and who's buying it.

Chicago Journal announcement:
http://chicagojournal.com/main.asp?SectionID=25&SubSectionID=55&ArticleID=7230&TM=73910.51

That was real news. Sad news. R.I.P.

Near non-news, though kind of news, is the fact that i Cream finally opened. I think it's some kind of space age, new age make your own ice cream out of some weird stuff that doesn't usually go into ice cream franchise. For months it looked abandoned, with a note in the window about it being closed until some sort of special equipment would be installed.

I guess they found their special equipment. When one thing dies, another is born, though I wish Chicago Journal were around to cover the story, and tell me what iCream is. :(

It was never mine to lose

It didn't take long for the kids at the park to understand how to play h-o-r-s-e, with my patient explaining, and re-explaining, and hidden desire to win at something.

It was a tough game, with lots of drama, and matched shots near the end, but I ended up beating the leader of the pack, a painfully skinny guy in green pants who is probably just as young as the kids at the show last night.

"What would you do? "I asked him.

"I am not sure," he replied in his broken English.

We were discussing the abandoned basketball that had been sitting in the grass, which didn't appear to belong to anyone. I had asked the kid if anyone was using the ball. He had said no, and then I shot by myself at the opposite court for about 20 minutes using the "found ball," as that kid, and two of his friends played.

More kids arrived, and the Polish kids migrated to my court, where I asked them if they knew how to play h-o-r-s-e.

At the end of the long game it was starting to get colder, and darker, yet nobody had claimed the basketball.

"I think I'll leave it here," I said.

"You could bring it back tomorrow," the kid said.

"Yeah, but what if the person who owns it comes back tonight?" I asked.

I ended up leaving the ball there. I have two basketballs already. Do I really need a third?

Daft Punk, You Be Inspiring Me

Hopefully the enclosure link will work, but if you click on the headline it should take you to Daft Punk's "One More Time."

I fell asleep to The Pitchfork 500, a collection of 500 songs over the past few decades that have made an impact on music, according to the pretentious but oft spot-on snobs at Pitchfork.

This morning, the 500 was still going, and I was in bed, and trying to ignore my cat who was making a too-early plea for food by biting my feet. Not the kind of bite that draws blood, just the typical hey-I'm-an-obese-spoiled-house-pet-that-got-this- way-because-you-made-me-this-way kind of reminder, which came at the ungodly hour of 9:30 a.m.

Finally, around 9:32 a.m., I fed the monster. He's on a wet food holiday because wet food contains more magnesium, and is much better for cats with bladder issues. What this means is that it requires me to actually leave my bed to feed him.

After eating, he returned to bed, where I was trying to go back to sleep. He began licking my forehead, perhaps in thanks, or because I seem like I need a good cleaning. Have you ever kissed a relative at a bat mitzvah that had a mouthful of lox, and bagel? It was like that, except this was with tongue, post a "whitefish, and tuna feast" that was enjoyed inside a mouth whose teeth haven't been brushed in maybe a decade.

So, it was a combination of my cat trying to lick my forehead, and Daft Punk's "One More Time" playing, which got me out of bed a solid 90 minutes before Noon on a Sunday.

"One More Time" is extremely inspiring. It is the perfect cleaning music: peppy, fun, and it will be playing in the background as I call my mother back, Her first born son on Seattle time, and two hours earlier, she reached out to the next best thing, around 11 am CST, but it went to voicemail. The message said (as if I don't know), "Hi, it's your mother. I'll try your landline." Let the communication gates flood open! Happy Sunday to all, and thanks, Daft Punk, Cat, and my mother for all unknowingly tag teaming me out of bed in your own sweet, special ways.


Link, so you can celebrate, too:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lH-0s0pRleg

The Old in America, Part II

A hot tip for feeling old in America is to go to an all ages music show with a mosh pit on a Saturday night. Though results vary, I was having flashbacks to 17 years ago, when I came into the city from the far suburbs, usually via the hatchback of somebody's parent's car, or the train, and tried to find Medusa's.

In contrast to those electric youth memories, tonight I felt kind of old, creepy, and tired, though it was nice to see S.

I had been excited to put on a skirt, and boots, as it had been a while, but as I stood there with S. in the Logan Square auditorium, her with her quirky goat cheese t-shirt, and puffy vest, also being over the age of 30, though closer in age to the teens than I was, I longed for my sweats, slipper socks, and a bit of the wrist-slitting, uber melancholic Bonnie Prince Billy we could have seen tonight, but decided it would be too depressing.

The Black Lips sounded like they must be Geminis, the sign of the twin, because their music was much noisier than the clips on their MySpace page, and unlike the polished few songs I'd heard I could barely hear the lyrics as they were sung on stage, or rather mumbled into the microphone. The 16-year-olds near the front didn't seem to mind, and there were lots of fists waving, and feet up in the air, or maybe it was the same girl that kept diving into the pit, which seemed to not ever stop moving.

I knew when I wondered about how diving into a mosh pit would feel for a person with lower back problems that it was my cue to go home. Almost at the same time I was thinking this, S., in her polite way, told me we can leave at anytime, she's ready when I am.

We left before the end of the show, and on the way out a guy overheard us talking about how old we felt, as well as disappointed by the show, and he expressed a similar sentiment, though I doubt he was anywhere close to age 30. He told us he'd interviewed the bassist for the Black Lips for a zine called Pop Matters earlier in the week. I'll have to check out the article.

Peace out.**

** pics of my friend Jeff doing karaoke in a Black Flag shirt. I don't take photos at shows, and this Black Flag shirt reminded me of the Black Lips.