Yesterday I read about the "iPod nod".

This morning I'm on the bus listening to my archaic cd-driven mp3 player. Really, this thing is from the paleolithic era! It's got moving parts! To play a CD, you have to (shudder) insert a CD! I'm not kidding, an actual compact disc! It could ONLY hold like, what, 500 songs at a time? Oh, the humanity! I might have to CHANGE CDs if this bus ride doesn't end before tomorrow!

So a girl sits in front of me, and I notice with intense jealousy the telltale white earbuds travelling from her pocket to her ear. Oh, how I want one of those damn iPods.

I've known the sheer idiocy of my want since its inception. The iPod is a brand name, like Levi jeans or Abercrombie & Fitch. I can get the exact same thing for one hundred dollars less from Dell. Oh, but it won't have that simple, sleek, elegant white casing! More importantly, it won't carry that elitist status so similar to the powerbook. Honestly, I'm drooling.

What is it about Apple/Mac users that elicit such a cult mentality? Ever since I bought a powerbook, I've been indoctrinated into this new elitist world. People will approach me unwarranted and start conversations out of the blue, invarialy about all things mac. Yes, I've noticed something similar to the "iPod nod" with powerbooks. It's much like Saturn cars, and, oh man, guess what kind of car I own? Could I be buying these products for some other reason beside their functionality? Could I secretly, subconsciously desire to be a part of something, to be included, even if it is in some kind of a cultish phenomenon? Nah. People still annoy the crap out of me when they talk to me uninvited; I don't care what type of computer they own. And really, I don't want to talk about your mac or what new app or script you're using. The lure has to be those sleek, elegant, curvy, sexy... wait, we're still talking about a computer accessory, right?

Seriously I think I'm sexually stimulated. I must have it. Oh yes, I must.

The truth is, I don't need it. As I wrote earlier in this article/post/blog/whatever we're calling it these days, I already own an mp3 player, even if I have to carry (shudder) CDs around with it, and all this takes up (shudder) three times as much space. The only thing that has prevented me from already buying an iPod is Apple's recent release of the iPod Photo. That starts the process all over again, doesn't it, and for two hundred dollars more. Because really, if we're going to add pictures into the deal, I'm going to need 20GB more hard drive space. So do I go with the original plan, or spend two hundred dollars more for the New Fad? Faced with this dilemma, my only action is no action - I buy nothing. That's quite the ultimate money-saver. Thank you, Apple.

But I will have that iPod. Oh yes. I will have it.

listening to: idunno. everything.
in my sink: idunno. nothing.

The letter from CPS finally came. I am to report to 125 S. Clark at 10am on Friday, and be available to work November 1.

I can't begin to describe the feeling of dread I have at the thought of working for CPS again. There is nothing I want less. You know that euphoric feeling you get upon the first day of a new job? It's like a sense of new beginnings, starting over, endless possibilities? That "this time it's gonna work," "this job's gonna be so much better" feeling. Yeah, I don't have that. I'd rather be making dolls in a sweatshop in the Honduras than do anything for CPS.

I felt so sick about it I didn't want to wake up today, though I forced myself to anyway. Even after I ate and showered, I didn't want the day to begin, even though it already had, and time keeps moving forward forcing me into my inevitable fate - an endless dull existence bending over for a heartless, unthinking, insensitive, impersonal, unproductive and ineffective bureaucracy.

I know most people will ask why I don't just look for another job. Well, I have not because frankly, I can't even think of any better alternative. I've been in several chair-warming positions for companies whose names rhyme with "Horizon Tiredness" or "Abbott (and Costello) Macrobulbonics," and they all have offered similar meaningless, purposeless lives. Their main function always seems to be providing employees with unlimited internet, then finding new ways to keep them from using it. Frankly, the only thing CPS can give me that anyone else isn't offering right now is a steady paycheck, and I'm just too scared to turn that down. I'd go to the Honduras to seek out that doll-making position, but I can't find an email address.

listening to: fischerspooner
in my sink: my dog (or at least he keeps jumping up on it enough! and he never finds anything.)

Okay, I'm in a bad mood, so I'm taking someone else down with me.

For the past month David Crosby's "Almost Cut My Hair" has been going through my head as I've been wondering what to do with the tangled mess on my head.

Well, yesterday, I finally succumbed to the need and headed over to Big Hair in Roscoe Village. What resulted has to be the worst haircut in the history of this planet.

Why did I go there? I heard that you can get a haircut there for twelve dollars. Well, that much is true, but I also forgot that you usually get what you pay for. I'm not very particular about my hair, so I don't really like to pay ridiculous salon prices for someone to take scissors to my head. However, this is ridiculous in itself.

How difficult is it to cut hair? One side is shorter than the other. There are huge uncut tufts of hair sticking out from the trimmed line. It looks worse than beforehand; I look like I really did get into a fight with a lawnmower. Seriously, here, I'm trying to figure out how to do emergency damage control without paying more money for a REAL haircut before showing my face outside again. Someone suggested shaving it all off and starting clean.

listening to: troubled hubble
in my sink: a bowl, 2 spoons, 2 cups, and the top to my coffeemaker.

I just realized something.

When considering whether to open up a story I've been writing and add to it, I realized I really didn't want to. I don't just want to ignore it this minute; I'm not interested in finishing it at all. Slowly I watched my current story be placed in the category of all my other unfinished stories.

So what else could I write? I got nothing. There is nothing that interests me enough to write about. This thought scares me to no end. When I thought this, I sat there almost shaking with dread at the idea that there's no point to writing anything at this time.

I mean it's all pretty much been done and written, hasn't it? Even my ennui is a cliche. I could write a poem about it, but the whole "everything is nothing" motif has been run into the ground. I could book myself at venues and start singing about it, but how many bands in just about every musical genre out there are already screaming to us about how bored/ angry /depressed they are? "Oh well, whatever, nevermind." I mean, really - we've all seen Office Space several times by now.

Maybe one thing I could do is start reading some more; perhaps that would jump start my desire to write again. That, or I could just get a job at a coffeeshop somewhere and spend all my free time playing video games. Nah, screw it. I'm just going to sit here on my couch and watch [adult swim].

listening to: nothing. nirvana. then more nothing.
in my sink: old coffee.

My mother is driving into the city for something or other today, which means she's stopping by to drop off my birthday gift this afternoon. The birthday gift is three months late, but I don't care. That seems to have become more or less of a tradition, but I can appreciate procrastination. I guess it runs in the family.

As long as she was stopping by, I got her to do a few errands for me, so now I don't have to drive into the suburbs tomorrow. Let's hear it for laziness. I don't feel bad making her pick up Oreo's medicine, after so many times calling me up on a Friday night and asking me to water her plants so they can go to Michigan for the weekend, back when I lived five minutes away. It's only fair. I think.

Anyway, the point of the story is, well, there is no point. But what I've been getting at is my mom's visit has prompted an emergency cleaning session of my apartment. Dust here, sweep there, good grief, I'm a slob. My attitude seems to be, why bother cleaning? It'll just get dirty again in a couple of days. The dust doesn't stop falling. The dog continues to shed. It's an endless cycle. The toilet is the only thing I clean regularly because well, I have to touch that with bare skin. The only other time I clean anything else seems to be when I expect company, which is actually kind of rare. This is my Fortress of Solitude, after all. And if it's a dusty fortress, well that's my choice. You don't have to visit. Though if you do, I'll probably clean it in a panicked frenzy beforehand.

So what's my gift? A vacuum cleaner.

listening to: Beatles. After ripping all of my beatles cds, I notice my mp3 collection is now almost 10% Beatles songs. That's almost 1 day's worth of the Fab Four. I don't even think they made that many songs.
in my sink: The top to my coffee maker.

I would like to try to introduce a new word into our vernacular: "iPodular." It would mean anything cool relating to the iPod, music streaming, or file swapping, as in the following examples:

"Have you heard the iPodular Wilco mp3?"

or: "Check out this new song by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs - iPodular!"

Of course it can be used in a non-musical reference, too: "The internet connection in my dorm is totally iPodular, man!"

Then again, maybe the word sounds too eighties. It does invoke memories of a Frank Zappa song... But who cares, right? The eighties were cool, right?


... Right?

(Where are those cricket sounds coming from?)

Still, wouldn't it be cool if a bunch of us started using this word in our blogs, and using it in daily life? Then it might spread to other blogs, eventually making its way into chat rooms or something, and spread from there. By this time next year, it could be common lingo on MTV or something. It could happen! Not like I'd hear it, of course, because I'd never listen to MTV. Oh no. I'm too old for that. Plus, it's so not iPodular.

What?

listening to: Cake, Life at Sea, the Violent Femmes... totally iPodular, if I had an iPod...
in my sink: Dried coffee.

I'm still in disbelief. By now, I've read several articles showering incredulous praise over William Shatner's new album, "Has Been." They list all the great artists that have contributed: Ben Folds, Henry Rollins, Aimee Mann, Nick Hornby, and I think Joe Jackson. Not all of these are artists I particularly care for, but I'll admit they all have talent and would contribute greatly to the quality of a project such as this. Then, there's the sheer overwhelming quantity of shocked music lovers all over, expecting something like his "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds" or "Rocketman," but instead saying no, this is good. They tell me they can't believe they're saying it, but it is actually good.

Well then.

I've resisted about two weeks worth of these reviews now, but one can't fight their persistence. I can't take it anymore! I'm giving in and downloading a couple songs (only to um, "review" - yeah, that's it). Oh, the shame. Oh, the humility.

I still can't bring myself to put them in my music folder. They'll sit on my desktop screen temporarily until I can decide whether to move them there or to the trash. I mean, come on. It's Shatner. Really?

listening to: um... i can't... uhh... dammit... william shatner. YEAH I SAID IT. SO?
in my sink: a coffee pot. a coffee mug. coffee.

I have an idea for the way our next presidential election could be run. Why not skip all pretense, join the latest fad and make it into a reality show? We could call it something like "Presidential Idol" or "Survivor: Democracy." The networks would pick one hundred candidates in auditions across the nation. I can see the ads now:

WANTED: 35 year-old naturalized citizens to audition for new reality show/public office. Please show up at local polling station Tuesday, November 2nd before 6 pm. Bring headshots.

After that, the campaign race would go much like any reality show. Over the next few weeks, candidates would be eliminated one after the other. One week they'd have to eat bugs. Another week, we could put them on an island. Sometimes the audience would call in their votes, and sometimes it would be decided by judges like Paula Abdul and Simon Cowell. ("That was the worst debate performance I've ever seen. You're a horrible speaker and an even worse president. To have you for president would be the death of this country. No inaugural rose for you. Please extinguish your presidential flame. Oh, and by the way, 'internet' is singular.")

This way, the race would be a lot more interesting and I think have much more voter turnout. Both Bush and Kerry probably would have been eliminated in the first few weeks; in fact, we'd probably end up with someone like Pamela Anderson. Why not? It's not like we haven't had an actor in office already. It isn't necessarily a bad thing. Imagine her at a summit; everyone'll be too busy staring at her chest to fight.

listening to: Back to the Future II.
in my sink: Nothing.

It's wet and raining, and my hair has decided to curl up uncontrollably.

Someone compared me to a certain cartoon character today.



I don't see the resemblance.

But I have a sudden desire to be a dentist.

listening to: Sister Soleil.
in my sink: a cup, a spoon, a bowl.

Back in June, when I left my teaching position for good, I relucantly left my work laptop along with it, making sure it was {ahem} safe in the hands of the assistant principal before I went.

Today, I get a call from my mother. How are these two events related? How could they be related? Well, let me finish. So I get a call from my mother, prompting me to write this email:

Dear sir,

I was notified by a relative that you sent a letter to them stating
you cannot locate a laptop issued to me. On June 22, 2004, I handed
this laptop over to [name deleted], the assistant principal of [name deleted]
Elementary School at the time. I saw her sign an exit form
stating that I had turned the laptop in.

All paperwork regarding this, including the laptop and all items that
came with it, should be at [name deleted].

In the future, please direct any correspondence to me at:

[contact info deleted]

So there you go. CPS lost my old laptop, and now they're blaming me for it. I'm not surprised equipment was lost or stolen from that building, which was why I gave it directly to the assistant principal, made her add it to my inventory, and watched her sign it in the first place. And they still lose it. I'm still shaking even as I write this.

Furthermore, what's the deal with contacting my parents' house? That address would only have been listed as an emergency contact, on the bottom of any form which should have my current address listed at the top. I haven't lived at my parents' house in five years, three years prior to working with CPS. Are they just that used to calling peoples' parents when they get in trouble?

Or is it that they're just as adept at locating their employees as they are at locating their equipment?

I made sure to include my real address, phone number, and email in case this guy became more confused. Of course, now I expect him to address a snail-mail letter to my email address, or write an email to my phone number.

You know, after finding out about this, I no longer believe any of the BS my employers have told me about my skills as a teacher. They took my training and education, "retrained" me into inferiority, and molded me into one of them - the type of person who would misplace equipment, an employee, and probably even the nose on his face. [note: I never actually did any of that. And last I checked, my nose is still there.] I'm still recovering from their modifications; slowly, every day, I feel my mind trying to wake back up. Only, at the end of this month, I have to go back to work for them as a substitute, and I only hope I can ignore the administrators' attempts to jar me back into the incompetent slumber of a CPS employee.

listening to: Beatles, New Black
in my sink: a spaghetti bottle and a jelly bottle. Is anyone familiar with recycling in chicago? Does anyone really believe they actually separate the blue bags out of the trash? I don't.

Guess where I'll be November 17th?



listening to: Beatles, New Black
in my sink: nothing.

I was walking Oreo down the block. He stopped to sniff a bush. I looked up to see a lady standing in the door of her garden apartment about ten feet away. I smiled and nodded politely, and looked back down at Oreo.

She said: "Get him away from there. I plant stuff."

Let's recap, lady:

• He was on the sidewalk.


• There was a rail between him and the bush.


• He was JUST SNIFFING.

For once, Oreo was being a Very Good Dog, and he got two treats for it when we got home.

Naturally, I pulled Oreo away from there as fast as I could. When I passed the same house from the other side of the street, I noticed her pouring disinfectant where Oreo was standing. Are you kidding me? Yes, Oreo kills plants, but not by smelling them.

The only condolence I get is writing about this here. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go disinfect all the places Oreo lays in my apartment.

listening to: simpsons.
in my sink: air.

I haven't had something like this happen to me in quite a while. Apparently it's a pretty common phenomenon.

I "woke up" because I heard who I thought was my janitor knocking on my door. I assumed he was here to finish my cabinets, so I tried to get up but ended up fumbling around. Meanwhile, heard him letting himself in. I started to get the feeling that it wasn't my janitor, and it sounded like two guys, so I rush out into the hallway. There's a lot of confusion and I can't see who it is who just came through the door. Well, I ended up like a centimeter away from this man, staring at his neck, but I still couldn't see who it was because I couldn't see his face and I was paralyzed.

Somewhere at this point, my mind came to the realization, "Hello! Dreamland!" and I was instantly transported back to my bed. Weird.

No, it got weirder.

My bedroom door was ajar. (No it's not. It's a door.) Out in the hall it was very windy. "That's strange," I thought, because I didn't leave any windows open last night. So I decided I better investigate and got up, uh, again. Only, the wind is so strong, I couldn't open the door any further, and I struggled with it for a long time. When I finally got out into the hall, all my stuff is gone. I'd been robbed. Damn it.

Only once again, I blink, and I'm still laying in my bed. By this point I'm a little paranoid, so I get up again, and look out the door, and everything's right where it should be, with no intruders. Phew.

Except when I blink again, I'm magically transported back into my bed!

WHAT THE HECK?

This is getting ridiculous, I was thinking. Exactly how do I get out of this weird recursive dream loop? I tried one more time, and figured, I can't be dreaming this time, because I felt all the aches and pains of my aging joints and muscles that getting out of bed is starting to produce in me these days. So, good, I'm awake this time.

No such luck. It seems my dreams have found a way to recreate even those subtle nuances of old age. Yay. And there I was, back in my bed. Screw it, I decided. I'm not playing this stupid game. There I was in bed, presumably asleep, which is what I want to be in the first place, and there I would stay.

But damn, you know. I just had to lay there wondering, how will I ever know if I escaped that dream? I mean, for all I know, before I hit "post" on this journal, I'll blink, and find myself right back in my bed.

Of course, that may not necessarily be a bad thing. Doomed to sleep for all eternity.

Last night, John from the Grackles gave me a great compliment. He told me about a guy named Chris Peterson (I think?) who took pictures of bands in Seattle in the 90s. When the Seattle scene became big and all those bands became famous, so did he. Anyway, John tells me he thinks of me as the Chris Peterson of Chicago. Wow.

listening to: new black.
in my sink: baking sheet, the grilling utensils, 3 cups, some spoons, i think a plate.