how to waste $50

i got back in town last night to discover that the show i've been obsessing over the past month (to be my first proper concert since i got here) was about to begin in an hour and was sold out. i didn't think girl talk was playing until next thursday. fool that i am didn't think it necessary to buy tickets beforehand or double-check his dates.

as soon as i got off the train, megan met me to try and scalp tickets. we spent an hour in the cold, haggling with scalpers and generally being angry at every 16 year old boy dressed like a woman and every girl dressed like a 12 yr. old. finally we were able to get two tickets, one from a nice and intoxicated kid going to school at loyola in chicago (sorry, em, he doesn't know your brother). the other came from a guy who's other ticket for his wife was a phony (foreshadowing). for the both of them we paid about $50, which was only $20 more than face value.

when we went through the line to get in, it turned out that my ticket (from the intoxicated loyolan) had already been scanned. the kid went through, then came back out and sold us his ticket. i don't know if it was out of malevolence or drunkenness, but anger and frustration are not adequate words.

we sat in the lobby for about 15 minutes just stalling, hoping the ticket checker would have a heart and let us in. there was nothing he could do. either megan went to the show by herself (not an appealing proposition, espeically in light of one of the better conversation we'd had outside the venue earlier with a particularly wise 19 yr. old: "i had sex with a girl at the last show! the enitre crowd saw my ass." amazing. i'm sure that's how she would describe it as well), or neither of us went. we gave up and went home.

i guess the most disappointing thing about the whole evening was that by the time we got home, i wasn't that depressed. maybe i'm trying to be coyly jaded or just getting older, but sitting outside the theater last night seeing those kids didn't make me want to experience that crazy concert at all. i should've known before going to a concert like girl talk, but i guess i just ignored that quiet, prideful and judgmental voice in the back of my head until last night.

i still love going to shows. and i even truly appreciate the semi-counter culture that the indie music scene can be. i've just gotten very choosy about live music and what was once unique is now mainstream. there are still plenty of original artists (girl talk is one of them) and there are plenty of listeners who will enjoy them as art and not as consumption (maybe girl talk is intended to be more of the latter?). but i guess all things change, including my love for live music and what used to be considered independent. this sounds pretty trite and stuffy, i know, but there it is. in spite of everything, here's to hope for art...

charred paper, fractured plaster

for the past week, i've been forging my resume into a titanic juggernaut that thwart the most stubborn receptionist. or, for an entire week, i've been staring at the past three years of my employed life boiled down to 3 bullet points, fighting back tears and feelings of inadequacy.

why is i'm judged by merits my resume writing capabilities over what i have or haven't done? it just seems to encouraged embellishment. to be honest, this works to my advantage. i haven't actually been working that long. it still drives me crazy.

to spice things up, we decided to hang pictures, shelves, and maps in our apartment this week. mostly, this went according to plan. we generally bickered about the placement of items, moved them around, moved them back, and settled for something neither of us really loved. hanging on plaster is painful as well, but we figured out where we needed to drill pilot holes and where we did not and moved on.

the one piece we didn't argue too much about was our cheap, target "wine rack and glass holder." we both thought the most natural place was next to the refrigerator in the kitchen. dutifully, i pulled out the appropriate tools, measured, and marked the holes and began to drill.

about halfway toward the required anchor depth, i hit and impenetrable barrier. like any man, i assumed i just didn't have to right drill bit, accepted the excuse to go to home depot, and bought a masonry bit--fire wall be damned!

but this trick also failed. after several hours of sweat, tears, degenerate speech and foul oaths i managed to get the thing on the wall--crooked. which is where it sits now.