Twilight

Source: redmudnessa.tumblr.com via Brittany on Pinterest

I would like, if you'll allow, to reclaim the word "twilight." While it was once a beautiful vision of dusk in summer, fireflies and green leaves, the sky tinged pink over the lake -- this once lovely word has been stolen by glittery vampires that enjoy teasing preteen girls. You can see why I'm upset.

I went for a run with my roommate tonight. We left at 7:30pm and ran to Lake Shore Drive, and the skyline came around a corner, and we ran in awe of Chicago, watching the lights glitter on Navy Pier, competing with the Hancock and Sears* Towers for attention. On the way back north we were treated to a sunset over the classy Lakeview architecture. The air felt clear, clean, accommodating. This is twilight.

When I was a kid I would visit my grandparents in the Iowa countryside on a weekly basis. They lived, still live, next to a man-made pond where a family of swans lived in the summertime. We'd play croquet, or go swimming in the pool, or wander around the weeds in between the pond and the corn fields. (Like I said: Iowa.) At night we'd eat dinner on the porch. Dinner included a meat, a potato, a corn on the cob with butter, some fruit, and a glass of milk. We'd eat delicious Midwest dinner and watch the sun set over the little pond with the swans. There were fireflies, and they flitted in the half-lit air. That was twilight.

I say we take it back from these teenage vampire books that have something to do with Mormonism or werewolves or not showing the juicy parts of sex scenes or what have you. We take it back from them and give it to dusk in the summer, to air heavy with sweet scents, to surviving on barbequed meat and watermelon, to playing hard and being lazy. Because that sounds much more likely to get you laid.

* I will never call it the Willis Tower. That's bullshit. It's the Sears Tower. Why do I feel so strongly about this?

The Blackberry Suicides

Let me tell you a story. It is one of loss, betrayal, and first-world hardship. This is a story that proves it may, in fact, be better never to have loved than to have loved and lost. This is the chronicle of my pathetic history with the Blackberry.

I bought my first Blackberry in the summer of 2009 as a personal reward for completing college and obtaining a real-person job. It felt appropriate: I was an adult, and people would thus require constant access to me. In turn, I would need constant access to Google maps, Facebook, and the TFLN mobile website. I even bought a gel skin to protect my investment. Life was grand.

The following Thanksgiving, I was helping my grandfather haul a Christmas tree over a porch railing, forgetting about my prize Blackberry encased in its feeble gel skin in my front pocket. I leaned hard, resulting in a broken screen. Goodbye, Blackberry #1.

Blackberry #2 fell victim to a friend's birthday bar night in Kenosha, Wisconsin, a few months later. It was left on a table, whereupon some douchebag picked it up, turned it off, and probably sold it on eBay, instead of replying to my frantic texts and phone calls. People are a-holes.

Blackberry #3 also fell victim to a broken screen, but I was particularly irked because I hadn't done anything to deserve it this time. It was just sitting in my bag, minding its own business, when it got the living shit kicked out of it by another member of my purse community. No one has stepped forward to claim responsibility. It was probably domestic terrorism.

Blackberry #4 was lost in epic fashion while vacationing in Las Vegas this past February. To protect the integrity of those involved, I'll just say that the last time I saw it, my fourth Blackberry was somewhere in Treasure Island. (Trust me, it's not the weirdest thing found there.) Needless to say, Vegas marketers don't fuck around.


At this point, my cell phone insurance provider dropped my coverage. I was officially on my own. But that didn't slow my irreverent momentum, as Blackberries were dropping like acid at a Flaming Lips concert. Blackberry #5 was in my hand during a softball team bar outing this spring. Fifteen minutes later, it was nowhere to be seen. Again, I suspect some douchebag picked it up and made an eBay profit. Seriously, people suck.

Blackberry #6 was obtained from the T-Mobile store in June, but within a couple days it was clear there was a defect that prevented certain necessary actions. I could not, for instance, upload photos to Facebook from my mobile device. Finding this injustice unacceptable, I took it back to the store and traded it for one that worked. This, I submit, was the most innocent and painless of the Blackberry deaths. At the very least, it was definitely not my fault.

But Blackberry #7 only lasted two weeks. It was lost this past Thursday, somewhere between a River North club and the cab ride home. I honest to God have no idea what happened.

The cosmic message is clear: I was not meant to be a smartphone owner. In an act of contrition, I've downgraded to the "Samsung :)" -- a slide phone designed for a 13-year-old girl with an emoticon fetish. If I can keep this flimsy not-smartphone alive for a year, I'm allowed to get another Blackberry. We'll see how it goes.

In the meantime, I urge you, dear Reader, to observe a moment of silence for the seven Blackberries that had to die to teach me this unpleasant lesson. What was meant to be a symbol of my triumphant entry into adulthood has turned into the insolent shitshow of my early twenties. Let their demise not be in vain. Learn from my tale. And don't bother with the gel skin.

Alas, if only I'd gone for real protection. At the very least,
thieves would have been deterred out of pure disgust.

I'm pissed

I spent a lot of time last Friday finishing up a blog post about memoir and narcissism, and then Blogger spazzed over the weekend and lost it and still hasn't restored it. Anyone else have this problem? Did it get fixed?

I suppose common sense would be to back up all these posts on Word docs...still, I feel wronged.

Nonsequitur: I started Bossypants by Tina Fey this morning on train. My. God. I was worried it'd been overhyped and wouldn't live up to my grandiose expectations for basically the funniest woman on the scene right now. I needn't have fretted. It's awesome: I'm 10 pages in but it's already jam-packed with humor and good writing and good humor writing. Pick it up immediately.

Proper Usage: The Lava Story

A few years ago my mom and my sister were walking over a lava field. (I really need to think of a joke for that opener.) They were picking their way toward a glowing river of magma when my sister ran ahead. Now if you’ve never walked on lava, imagine the surface of the moon, but made of the food remains that get stuck on cookware if you leave them out without soaking them and then it’s IMPOSSIBLE to get off and so you try to put it in the dishwasher but that doesn’t work so it ends up sitting on the counter until your roommate gets annoyed enough to just WASH IT ALREADY. That stuff: crumbly, rough, jagged, and a ruiner of civil relationships.

So my four-year-old sister was running in the dark, flashlight in hand, over this dried lava resembling food remains, when she suddenly stopped short. She looked back at my mom, then down in front of her, then back at mom, then down again. Then she bellowed, in a way only a four-year-old can bellow:

“That. Is a big fucking hole.”

My mom, in relaying this story to me via telephone, chuckled at this point. I asked whether she’d punished my sister for using a bad word.

“Well I started to scold,” my mom said. “But then I got up to where she was and I looked down and I'm telling you, this hole was the size of a house. I mean, she was right. It was a big fucking hole.”

Moral of the story: Proper usage justifies crude language by a preschooler.

I love my family.

Ode to Elvis

I took an informal poll this evening of my friends' first CDs. The answers, unsurprisingly, were scattered; we covered everything from the Red Hot Chili Peppers and Pearl Jam to the Beach Boys and boyband realm (B2K, *NSYNC and of course BSB) to, adorably, the soundtrack to the beloved family film Andre. (It's about a seal or something.)

Now 4 was also mentioned, which is a little depressing when you realize that as of this year we're on Now 37 and we've gone from Hanson and Blink 182 and Britney to Ke$ha and Rihanna and Mike Posner. Kids these days, I tell you.

(But seriously, Hanson's still got it.)

Anyway, my first CD was an Elvis Presley "Greatest Hits" compilation.

Yeah. So awesome.

The King made an impression on me. In fourth grade, we each had to pick a state and do a presentation about that state. I chose Mississippi because, you know, who wouldn't? Double vowels FTW. Early in my extensive research in the elementary school library, I learned that Elvis Presley was born in Mississippi before he moved to Tennessee and made a name for himself. He obviously shared my love for the double vowel states. I was smitten. In the end my state project focused exclusively on Elvis. I don't recall how my teacher felt about that but I graduated the fourth grade so I guess it was okay.

Other loves followed. Beach Boys, Spice Girls, Blues Traveler, Phish. (My parents were -- are -- hippies.) Eventually the King and I lost touch. I reached further beyond my years, to Aretha Franklin and Etta James and Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby. When I was 12, I was convinced that I had been born 30-60 years too late. My friends learned the words to "Baby Got Back" and I learned the words to "Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered."

I'm now older and wiser and realize that Sir Mix-a-Lot and Ella Fitzgerald are not mutually exclusive. There's room in my heart for both the Supremes and the Smashing Pumpkins. Weezer and BB King can coexist with Britney and Ke$ha.

But Elvis. Elvis was my first.

Friday Jams

Nom.

I got a lot from my parents. Shelter, food, love and support, an inexplicable love of Velveeta, a sense of humor that relies heavily on teasing. "We tease because we love," my mom would say when I was growing up. Apparently unaware of the tenuous social standing I held at age 13, she'd lean out of the car after dropping me off at my junior high: "Have a good day, Pookie Bear!! I looooove yoouuuuuuu!" Oh. Dear. God.

Beyond a thick skin, perhaps the most tangible thing I inherited from my parents was their insatiable love of music. I grew up listening to Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, the Doors, Pearl Jam, Jimi Hendrix. Primus and Blind Melon and Dave Matthews and James Brown and Jamiroquai and Smashing Pumpkins and Phish. It was an eclectic bag, but it was the music I knew. I'd walk around at age three singing "Bag it, tag, it takeitotheboerandohohohoh" -- much like this kid, actually. My first concert was Blues Traveler at age four, and my mom spent a good chunk of my toddlerhood following around the Grateful Dead on tour. That's where she met my stepdad, actually -- on a road trip to a show. Almost 20 years later, they're still together. (D'awwwww.)

Thanks for bringing them together, Jerry!

Eventually I rebelled, music-wise. I brought Spice Girls and boy bands into our home, and things got tense for awhile. I remember once, I was about 10, singing along to some Spice Girls lyrics in the backseat. My mother turned around to look at me, incredulous.

"What are you saying?"

"It's a song, Mom. It's called 'When Two Become One.' It's awesome, it's the Spice Girls!"

She stared at me, perplexed. Then she slowly and silently turned back around. Years later, I finally understood the lyrics, and her horror.

Not that her music was innocent. Curtis Mayfield and Jim Morrison and Patti Smith weren't exactly celibate, drug-free saints. But the thing I was missing in my youth was an appreciation of why my parents (particularly my mother) liked the music they did: It was well-done. Well-produced. Smart, or innovative, or completely original. But most of all, it sounded just as good or better live than it did on an album. Real music cred, real musicians. Most of what I listened to between the ages of 12 and 22 would not fit that criteria. (Sorry, Britney.)

I only get to visit my parents once or twice a year, so each time I go home, I load up on new music. On the most recent trip last month I acquired an immediate obsession with the defunct Chicago band Soul Coughing; before that, it was Keller Williams (who I'm seeing live for the second time next month at the Park West). The Spice Girls and BSB still have a place on my iPod, but now they're relegated to nostalgia.

I won't give up Kelly Clarkson though. She's for real.

Sing it, girl.

My parents, for their part, have continued to evolve in their musical tastes and endeavors. They persist in finding and re-finding bands from every decade; my mom has been on a Jack White binge lately, which I take credit for. (See? It goes both ways!) They probably wouldn't be crushed if most of the 1980's fell into a black hole, though.

A few years ago my parents got it into their heads that they'd be great a running a radio station because, well, they'd probably be great at running a radio station. Especially in Hilo, Hawaii, where most of the FM radio stations are absolute crap. (Sorry, 808 readers, but it's true.) They started organizing and editing their musical collection, digitizing the hundreds of hours of CD music and getting it ready for broadcast. For awhile they maintained an online streaming radio station called Gecko Rock, but that project fizzled after a some months of just a few (but devoted) listeners here and there.

Around the same time, the dreaded happened: My parents joined Facebook. I didn't really mind, but the constant barrage of my mom's Mafia Wars notifications and Dan's links to music videos on YouTube grew tiring, so I pretty much ignored them.

Then something weird happened. They created a new Facebook profile called "Friday Jams" and invited me to be its friend. It turns out there were so many friends posting videos on Dan's wall (in reaction to the 10 videos per hour he'd post himself) that they decided to move it to a separate account dedicated just to music videos. Now with around 100 friends, a solid fifth of whom post regularly, Friday Jams is buzzing almost 24 hours a day with music videos.

Screen shot.

My mom describes it as the best market research for a radio station in history. You post a song and then people post songs related to it; it's an "Oh you like that band? Try this!" method. And it works. Their library has grown exponentially, along with their dreams of running an actual FM station.

The original concept of Friday Jams was that a theme would be posted every Friday - colors, cities, "sticky stuff," jam videos, and the like -- and people could post their hearts out, "like" each others' music, and so forth. But soon people were grumbling that the theme was stale by Monday night, so a new mid-week theme has become a regular feature.

Bring some music and a sense of humor and you'll find a community that welcomes all music tastes with open arms. A favorite theme was "food fight," posted on Thanksgiving. After they ran out of food songs, people started throwing plates and knives and forks. In general, when people get sick of the theme, they'll start threatening to post videos of the Muppets.

What kills me about this whole thing is that my parents -- members of a generation that use Facebook completely differently than mine, and who came after us -- have managed to find a whole new purpose for the number one social networking site. A few individual souls have found their way to Friday Jams on their own, but for the most part my parents invited their friends, who invited their friends, who invited their friends. I friend-suggested John Popper, the front man of Blues Traveler, who accepted the invitation but has yet to post a video. (And I doubt he ever will, but isn't that cool?!)

I really love Blues Traveler.

Friday Jams is the next iteration, the interactive version, of Pandora. And you don't have to pay for it. Whether or not an FM station results, it's absolute genius, for users and founders alike.

And hey, it's Friday! Today's theme? Chicago! Don't worry, I've already covered the Blues Brothers and Kanye and OK Go. If you've got something to add, or if you want to glance in on the fun, check out the phenomenon here.

And don't feel obligated to accept if my mom Facebook friends you. Seriously, the Mafia Wars thing is really annoying.

---
UPDATE, 1:31 pm: My mom pointed out that there is a picture from the trip on which she and Dan met. Check it out:

Bunch of hippies. Mom's in the red dress, Dan is fourth from the right, and I'm...noticeably younger.

Snow

I give you my first piece for my memoir writing class. I'm still working on it, so comments or suggestions are certainly appreciated.

Taken the evening this story is based on.

Snow fell for the first time. It glittered like pixie dust in the light from the street lamps and landed on the ground softly, as if it didn’t want to cause a fuss. But there was no one around to be bothered; the streets and sidewalks were empty, hushed.

I stepped outside and filled my lungs with the cold air, watching my breath slowly leave me in exhale. I smiled. For the first time since arriving on campus I felt at peace, light on my feet. I’d just finished finals week, placing an emphatic period at the end of my first quarter of college. I was giddy, practically euphoric.

I started toward my dorm, where my friends were waiting to celebrate. I hummed. I knew I’d aced that test, and I looked around for someone to rejoice with before remembering that everyone else had gone home for the holidays already. The snow was my only companion.

To be alone in a place that is usually full of people and life and noise unnerves me, but on this night I reveled in it. I soaked it in and I felt like a god, alone atop my snowy mount. I walked with my head back, my face pointed straight up, watching the snow come down. My snow. The sky was a dark gray, almost black, and the white flakes were falling evenly, a perfect grid, as if it had been planned that way. I had planned it that way.

I’d moved to Hawaii with my family right before starting high school, and aside from the occasional visit to family on the mainland, I hadn’t seen snow up close in more than four years. Moving back to the Midwest felt like coming home, though my years on a tropical island had severely depleted my cold weather wardrobe. I owned two pairs of socks when I arrived at college, and no winter coat. One extreme winter clothing shopping trip later, I was fully outfitted for even the most arduous blizzard. My collection of long underwear was something to be envied.

On this night, then, the gentle snowflakes had no chance against my many layers of clothing. Still they landed on my cheeks, in my hair, melting in contact with my skin and dripping down the back of my neck. I shivered as I walked past the arch, the gateway to campus. It looked like a postcard. Untouched snow glazed every tree branch, every surface. It was beautiful. Everything was beautiful. I couldn’t remember the last time I felt as though everything in the world were just perfect.

I considered the fact that I was done with a third of my freshman year. I felt like a little kid, one that counted her age to the closest fraction possible so as not to be mistaken for too young. I wasn’t five, I was five and three quarters. I wasn’t a college freshman, I was one-twelfth of the way done with college. I would go on to harder classes, and a thousand new experiences, and I would walk this sidewalk hundreds of times. I would lead the marching band, join an a cappella group, dance for 30 hours straight (twice), and teach myself how to make giant papier-mâché ants. I would also gain 30 pounds, have my heart broken, and feel utterly lost more often than not. And I’d meet my best friend.

But at this moment, alone in my winter wonderland, I was blissfully unaware of all that lay before me. My life was uncomplicated. College was still a concept. I was still figuring it out. As I walked up the steps to my dorm I realized that, for the first time, I felt ready to handle whatever came next. I’d survived one quarter. I could certainly make it eleven more.

I walked inside and the warmth embraced me.