Music, that's all I know.

Seriously, I can talk about hours at work or Grandmothers or badass New York City photographers who gave me fake names (all of which I have fallen deeply, deeply in love with) or a dude who did sound for Tom Jones in Vegas and went to Columbia in Chicago (holla, Hansen) or LOVING weddings or missing you but doing okay or my fricken camera being broken (along with my heart) or the Batman comics that I've been reading a lot..................

But really, all I can say is that there is a shitload of awesome music floating around on my new hard drive. "Care to share?" you say? Why, of course I do.

Let's talk about Icky Thump again. Check "Rag & Bone." And then buy the album. For real, buy it, it's awesome.

Next up: the two coolest Men of the Dark team up for a sweet-ass song called "The Black Widow" - Alice Cooper and Vincent Price from the album Welcome To My Nightmare. Fucking fantastic album, babies.

Third: Perry Farrell's Satellite Party. "Hard Life Easy." Finally, a Perry Farrell-related project that doesn't seem masochistic. Right on.

Fourth: "Fight the Good Fight" by Triumph. I know absolutely nothing about this.

Fifth: "Bust A Move" by Young MC. This is my jam. Seriously, I'm all about this song.

And finally: Tom Waits. "Alice." It's amazing. It's one of those songs that I want to listen to over and over and over and over for the rest of my life.

Oh yeah, one more thing I can say is that Hilary Rhoda is my favorite American model since... well, probably Christy Turlington. Observe:


From Numero 82, shot by Greg Kadel.
Fierce.

Tell me something good, kids.

Panic.

What am I doing? Can I handle it? Was this too hasty? Can I do this, oh my god, can I?

Manic.

I can. I can. I can. I can. I want this, I want this bad, I want this badly, I want this so badly, I want this so badly that I did everything it took to got it, and I got it. And now I've got it. And I can do it.

Ecstatic.

OH GOD is it September yet? I am still excited, out of my mind excited, to move on with my life, be independent again. I'm excited to study my passion, and I'm excited to start something new. Oh Christ, am I excited.

Erratic.

I have an enormous amount to do before Minneapolis, and it's coming so fast. Am I going to be ready? Maybe. Did I make the wrong choice to start in the fall... should I have waited for winter, or even spring? Maybe. What if I find out part way through that really, I hate this, and I have to halt it all again? It's not a possibility I like to entertain. JESUS.

Pragmatic.

I've been moving non-stop since mid-last week. No, for real. Between working long hours, family reunions, commitments I made long ago, doctor appointments, and a well-deserved night out with my new friends, I literally have not stopped moving since mid-Wednesday. One thing at a time, motherfucker, slow down. Slow down. One thing at a time. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Slow logical steps.

Dramatic.

My camera's broken. I mean, beyond fixable. I cried.

Fanatic.

Inspiration comes from weird places. Sasha Pivovarova and Karen Elson, Seth Rogan and Jason Segal, Boston and Rush, the breeze and the sunshine, the light and the dark, the sharp and the soft, the monotony and the race.

Systematic.

Let's proceed.

I think it's about time for another round of: Let's Talk About Things I Like.

First: Oh, I am so going back to school in the fall. Yes, kids, everything is official. After collapsing into a bawling mess on 9th street smack-dab in the middle of Minneapolis, it all became real. God. I am thrilled, to say the very least. Also, I'm super excited about moving into my new... pad? crib? digs? whatever... in Uptown with my lovely new roomies. Minneapolis, here I come.

Second: Homegirl is loving summer. This sunshine business is really quite excellent. Yesterday's thunderstorm was great. Ahhhh summer food is great too. Sunday we had veggie burgers, pasta salad, and chocolate milkshakes. And have I ever mentioned that I love the song "Surfer Girl" by the Beach Boys? Man, summer rocks in all kinds of ways.

Third: All the bartenders at SCI have one-syllable names. Anne. Ben. Tim. Pat. I love it. Actually, come to think of it, a lot of people I love have one-syllable names. So number three: people with one-syllable names.

Four:
a) Jamiroquai. Can they groove or what? Damn.
b) Icky Thump. Two thumbs way up. Thank god. Jack's back.
c) Wilco at Bayfront? See you Duluth bitches there.

Five: "Bobby" is really good. Seriously good. I didn't hate Lindsay Lohan, Sharon Stone, or Demi Moore. And that's saying a lot. (Plus, my one true love Joshua Jackson is in it. High five!)

Six: Dude, Will Smith is everywhere. Seriously, I'm not kidding. Every time I turn on the tv, I either find "Fresh Prince," "Hitch," "Men In Black," "Men In Black II," or "I, Robot." And I don't really have time to watch much TV anymore. I can't get enough of Will Smith, so keep it up, Ted Turner.

Seven: Life is about nineteen different kinds of good right now. Thank you to those who are continuously contributing.

Guess who doesn't know how to flirt?

Surprise, surprise. Miss Awkward.

Oh sure, I can do it with older guys who come into for a few Bud Lites and a good time. Psh, I am the QUEEN of Flirting With Older Gentlemen Customers. I could teach classes on that. Shit, I made a lot of money tonight (and even got a room key -- ha!!!) doing just that. They love me, and most times, I love them.

So things were going well, shitting around with Insurance Salesmen 1-4... self-depricating humor, giving them shit, pretending that I care how they differ from Aflac (aside from the duck), joking, laughing, blah blah blah, having a genuinely great time.

These two Hot Hot Hot Southern Boys entered the bar and ordered their Sam Adams and their Spotted Cows... and Hot Hot Hot Southern Boy who was picking up the tab started flirting with me. Like, blatantly flirting with me. Unmistakably.

I froze up. I smiled and made an excuse that I had to go in the back cooler and get more Miller Lite. I walked into the cooler, put my hands on my hips, and hung my head. I can flirt effortlessly with four 40-year-old Insurance Salesmen, but Hot Hot Hot Southern Boy, who is initiating the flirting? God. Of course not. Maybe I am just destined to flirt with and lust after older men. They apparently are easier to talk to than sweet Hot Hot Hot Southern Boys named Jason who speak softly with cute accents and leave great tips and wink and smile.

It's amazing that I've ever had sex. Or a date. Or gotten a guy's phone number. Or talked to a guy. Or anything. Jesus.

Team Elizabeth. I have no knowledge of her outside of this event, but she's outstanding.

    They're at a bar, sitting at a table. The waitress comes over to take their order. She orders a dry martini, he orders a cup of coffee. Shortly after, the waitress comes back with the drinks. She says:
    "I'm confused, who is who?"
    The lady says, "I'm the martini."
    The gentleman says, "I'm the coffee."
    The waitress puts the drinks down and leaves.
    She is the gin. Cold, intoxicating. Gives you a rush, makes you warm inside, makes you lose your head. Take too much, it makes you sick and shuts you down.
    He is the coffee, hot, steaming, filtered. You have to add stuff to it to make it taste good. Grinds your stomach, makes you jittery, wired, and tense. Bad trip, keeps you up, burns you out.
    Coffee and gin don't mix, never do, everybody keeps trying and trying to make it taste good.
-Henry Rollins, "High Adventure in the Great Outdoors."



Also, here is my cousin's beautiful song called "Rose."

I'll have an entry of consequence sometime this week, including Falafel in a Block-l and the Swerving of the Honda. (Megan Koegel, I promise you....)

And I just want Carissa Bombard to know that there are exactly twenty-four uses of & nbsp; in this post.