...In which our heroine returns to proper form.

Let's ramble, shall we?

I just saw a delightfully adorable photo of a Boston Terrier in a Santa Hat. It never ceases to amaze me how I can draw equal pleasure from both zombies gnawing on human flesh or a cute baby animal. That makes me nostalgic for Odin's Word, and thinking of Cute Overload. I've been adhering to Sylvia Plath's wisdom lately of taking baths so hot you can only edge in one foot at a time. I don't understand - I hate being hot any other time, but I love hot baths. Last night it was hot to the point that I almost made myself pass out. I listened to "Nights in White Satin" in the dark bathroom and thought wintery thoughts. As much as I hate hate hate Christmas music, I'll listen to "Last Christmas," yes that "Last Christmas" by Wham! any day of the year. Heidi read my tarot cards in several variations tonight which never ceases to amuse me. I don't believe in god, but for some reason I listen to some colorful pieces of cardboard. I got the death card in every reading, which is actually not so bad. The words attached are things like "rebirth, new beginnings, desire, moving on."Another book she has talked about how the power card for Scorpios is death is not the end, but only a chance for resurrection. And somehow death is tied to Scorpios because we're the most sexual of the zodiac, to which the only connection I can make one Neil Gaiman short story talks about how the French call an orgasm la petite morte: the little death, and I suppose they're mostly right. I always liked that phrase or the other French phrase Mr. Gaiman taught me, l'espirit d'escaliers, the spirit of the staircase, meaning you remember the exact right thing to say as soon as you leave the party. I've had many of those nights. Tonight I ate an all-time Hall of Fame Chipotle burrito that had the perfect amount of corn salsa, but just a little too much cheese. John, it's a nice thought that you're telling me all I need is love right now, but terribly impractical. BUT, my finals are nearly done. I put finishing touches on my film today, and I'm a mere sound mix away from never having to shoot another film on a Bolex, although they are very cool cameras. Someone told me Columbia got the very last shipment of VHS tapes, in addition to owning the very last Bolexes. That "exes" looks weird in the last sentence. As people talk about Tiger Woods and Brian Kelley, I realize how little I care about sports. This shouldn't be a surprise, but then again, I haven't seen a movie in theaters in two months, which seems insane for a film major. The Cranberries on shuffle, the song takes me to 1995, Q102, Target parking lot, holding my new stamp shoe Barbie. Emily and I have been binging on 90s music this whole fall, crap from our childhoods that isn't any good, like Third Eye Blind, but then again neither is 80s music and I love that. I've been exploring Tumblr accounts lately - they start frequently with "fuck yeah" and end with "Christina Hendricks," or "beards," or my personal favorite, "beards and bacon." It never ceases to amaze me how much time people spend on the internet, because I know how much time I spend, which is too much, and they spend far more. In seven days, I will be a junior in college. I was at Big Art last night, and Joe told me to stay in college forever, and I nodded, smiled, because he is so damn cute and not nineteen. A man, not another silly boy. Motorhead, alright shuffle, I see we're behaving badly tonight. Skip. Now "Material Girl." Yes, Madonna, I'll listen to this garbage because it reminds of MTV clip specials I watched back when they still played music, and I still played Barbies.

Leah in Production II is using this in her final film. Gave me chills when she showed a rough cut.

ED. NOTE - Fixed "Least Christmas" back to the proper "Last Christmas." I think that was a Freudian blogger slip for actually talking about Wham! in a non-ironic context.

...In which our heroine survived, once again.

Of course Halloween weekend gets a ramble! It was my first time going out into the city for Halloween, and the city kept up its end of the bargain.

I know when we get off the blue line train at Logan Square and see Vincent Van Gogh and Amy Winehouse, we are terribly underdressed for the Dan Deacon concert. It's chilly and windy and smells like dead leaves (and the dirty ground) when we're walking to the venue with a ton of other scene kids. Emily and I play the "look at that fucking hipster" game, and have a hard time deciding who's dressed up. The shitty opening acts take forever, but one of them has these awesome neon green shark heads that move while they play their instruments. As always, Emily knows people there. Dan Deacon keeps yelling at people to move away from his table but no one does. We dance and drown in electronic neon bliss. Dan thanks us for not doing drugs. This really is a rave, with everyone dressed up like bumblebees and luchadores and the crazy 88s. Two dance contests later, I'm disgustingly hot but then "Woof Woof" comes on. It is an insanely fun show, but I'm so toasty I'm glad when he says thank you and goodnight. Of course then it is freezing outside, and I realize we have to take two trains and a bus to get back to Wrigleyville. This takes approximately one million years. We stop by Ben's apartment and I wonder where he got that obviously original Dark Side of the Moon poster, and if he misses his Johnny Cash t-shirt. We are cordial and friendly as always, and I feel bad when he says all he does is work and school. By now it is very late, and we stop at McDonald's on the way back to Emily's. The stuff we smoke is ungodly potent. We eat, and sleep within the hour. Her couch eats me alive, and at some point in the middle of the night, it sounds like her neighbors throw a body down their back stairs. My mom wakes me up with a phone call - she's in Philadelphia watching Pearl Jam close the Spectrum out, her 23rd and 24th shows. We discuss what we call "good groupie skills" and she tells me she was only twenty or so rows away, and I say Dan Deacon stood a foot away from me, because he did. Emily and I go back to my apartment - everyone on the train looks far rougher than us. I shriek with terror when we watch Candyman with Heidi, Telly, and my RA Megan. Heidi does outstanding gore makeup on Megan's neck, and Emily and I prepare our TV characters - she's Nancy Botwin, I'm Meg Griffin. The costumes are covered with tin foil, and we go to Chipotle. For some reason I get a new burrito combination which is quite delicious. Back on the blue line. We go to a party in a loft in Wicker Park, and the costume stopping is fantastic. On the train we sing Cher with a Rollergirl in drag and female versions of Dr. Gonzo and Raoul Duke. The party is awkward, and I want to go immediately after arriving. Strawberry jello shots are better than cherry or lime, I discover. Telly and I smoke one of her hand-rolled cigarettes and say hi to Wolverine and Catwoman. It's midnight before we can get Emily and Heidi, social butterflies anywhere, to leave. Back on that same trek from last night, except it now takes two million years. I run into Leah from class while waiting half an hour at the Belmont stop, and drunk or not, it makes me smile at how glad she is to see me. A girl eats her dropped Subway off the train platform and I grimace. She gets arrested a minute later for smoking on the platform. We finally get on the train, and to Kris's where everyone is GONE. Tyler gives me a Parliament,which tastes like last fall. I love the smell of tobacco in my hair, and get giggly, eating too much candy and watching Kris and Tyler do Wrestlemania impersonations. Grace falls asleep in her Audrey Hepburn makeup, and we don't leave until 3 or 4 - half our phones haven't made the switch yet. This is the latest I've ever taken the train. A very drunk Mike Tyson gets abandoned at some stop by his friends, and in his place a guy gets on and smokes a bowl, right in the middle of the car. A very scary homeless man sits behind us, and while I'm not paying attention, Telly grabs Heidi and I and tells us to move. I assume he has a weapon, but no, Telly says he was getting personally intimate. On the train. This is why I do not take it alone past one. I thank my lucky stars for making it home alive and not vomited on. The multitude of shit shows in the lobby is amusing. Amateurs. Bed has rarely felt so good, nor has brushing the sugar off my teeth, like my eight-year old self. Some things change, others stay the same.

Sara Quin (Telly) of Tegan and Sara and Meg Griffin make careers out of being awkward.

Heidi should've worn her helmet on Legends of the Hidden Temple...

Emily IS Nancy Botwin. And that is oregano and basil, I promise.

Obviously this is not the Dan Deacon show I was at, but we did this. So, so fun:

Dan Deacon Dance-Off from kata rokkar on Vimeo.
As an aside, why do no one's posts show up in my blog list anymore? And neither do mine. It still shows that my last post was actually the third one ago I wrote. And it says the same for Cassandra and Gallacher. WTF maaaan. How do I fix?

...In which our heroine recounts an evening.

Okay, so the exile from streams of consciousness wasn't very long, but I like them so deal. This is from last night though, so it isn't totally off the cuff.

It's Emily's friend Matt's 21st birthday. We're watching Near Dark and she tells me we're going. To a high rise on Lakeshore. A very posh high rise. The lobby seems positively hot after the chilly wind that appeared suddenly and has persisted through the week. I've gawked at this building before, and it's definitely the nicest building I've been in through the city. The lobby looks like Don Draper should be smoking in it. Instead of going up, Matt meets us with a bottle of beer with an elephant on in and we go to the basement. Emily is met by two photo majors she hates, discusses lenses and things I do not comprehend. This must be how she feels when I start talking about discontinuity editing. A tall man with long dreads that looks like he could be in TV on the Radio passes me a pink and blue bowl and I don't say no. Back on that chain gang. Somehow, standing in the circle of smokers, it doesn't seem so cold anymore.

We go upstairs and I realize again, how little of a hipster I am. They're like action figures - ginger hipster, ironic headband hipster, bro hipster, asian hipster, and lots of photo hipsters. Vlad, one of Emily's most hated, keeps taking my picture, the flash making spots in my eyes. Every time I go to these things with her, I meet people I've met before, but they're too drunk to ever remember. Someone gives me a PBR - elixir of life to hipsters - and I don't say no again. A Classics major from Northwestern with no social skills starts talking to us, and I feel bad for his inability to talk to girls. We go into the kitchen and I smoke guava shisha, which is fruit, out of a hookah. I get incredibly lightheaded from the thick smoke, which has left my chest aching today. We stand in the foyer, which is hot from the plastic chandelier, and Emily simultaneously fends off advances from three different boys while I watch. I feel like I'm dead weight at these things sometimes. One of them is a creepy DJ we met at the Glow in the Dark party who always hits on her. She starts speaking hebrew and talking about Israel with a boy whose class is next to mine. He is drinking whiskey and root beer. I decline another PBR. I meet a film major, then another, then another, but our conversation ends once we ask "what's your concentration?"We go back to the kitchen and try to get the hookah going again. "Electric Feel"is playing, and we talk zombies. Emily is drunk and keeps hitting the kitchen light switch. It's one AM, I want to leave because I hate taking the train this late. Matt hugs me twice and thanks me profusely for coming. The night is reaching it's peak and the shit shows are beginning. It's so cold when we leave. For being Lakeshore Avenue, there's trash everywhere. We discuss the party - I tell Emily to pursue the boy she was speaking Hebrew too. The train seems a million miles away. We dodge lots of broken glass on the sidewalk. A homeless man asks Emily for a dollar, and when she says no, he kicks her in the shin. I'm glad she's drunk, because it keeps her giggly about the thing. Bad vibes, so I decide to just stay at her apartment. We drink hot chocolate, extra marshmallows, and watch public access cooking shows. The woman is deep frying panna cotta - I like her. Emily is getting goofy, so we talk soul-mates. She is friends with mine - a drummer from Cincinnati who she went to Jew school with and is the most attractive thing I've ever seen, although I've only met him once. She's texting hers, as she often does drunk. I go to sleep under a Carebear fleece where I'll remain for the next ten hours. Sleeping in jeans on a strange couch reminds me of high school parties, and my to' up-ness in the morning makes me nostalgic.

Updated to add photo realism, from excessive camera flash's Facebook:

Bryan Ferry is just the coolest. This is one of my favorite Roxy Music songs.

...In which our heroine is the midnight rambler.

Ramble, ramble, ramble since we seem to not only like them, but make some of our own.

The Facebook online box is a list of former lovers. It always it hits me when more than one of them is on at the same time. Someone who you've shared you're most intimate moments with is reduced to no more than a green dot and a tiny profile picture. Technology, what a weird thing. Not even former lovers. Former classmates who I spent nine hours a day with are reduced to no more than "WHO DEY" status updates and changed profile pictures. The wind is howling fierce outside and I love watching it rain from this height. I look at the Sears Tower, clouded in fog, and think of Ben, always. There's a tiny cockroach shimmying across the carpet, but he's too small to kill. There's also a spider that lives behind my tapestry but every time I try to kill him it just retreats back up. Fall is in the air and I can't put into words how the chill in the air and Sundays spent hitting these buttons makes me nostalgic. I miss my house in the winter and I miss taking it down and passing it around in my upstairs, when it was still something forbidden and fun and not a lifestyle. I haven't smoked or drank in a month which was longer than I went with mono. Bugs thinks I'm looking down on his current activities because of this, but really I'm just tired of the stoner lifestyle. Most of my peers indulge and I feel like I'm being holier than thou for living clean. The cockroach is migrating towards my DVD shelf and now "Crazy Mary" is in my head. Who really cares if their eyelashes aren't thick enough, Latisse? Mascara works just fine. Mad Men is more perfect than I can say and it inspires me to say less and show more. Which completely goes against the point of this. I spent four hours tonight writing about race and gender and I don't really give a shit about analyzing either. I will saying Writing Women Safe is both awesome and nauseating. When the woman, Tara Dabney, came from Family Rescue this week and said that in an abusive relationship, the woman feels like no matter what she does will ever be enough, I dug my nails into my palms and tried to make my stomach stop doing the hot/cold thing that happens when I'm excited or terrified. That class is making me perceive my life and my relationships in a new way. I need to call my grandma and aunt, but every time I do they make me feel like shit for being here. Sorry, I need to live my own life and that I don't have a three-year old right now. The spider veins in my thighs remind me I'm theirs, purple and fragmented despite the fact I'm not even twenty. Emily has them too which makes me feel not as horrible. A Johnny Cash song I don't know the name to, one line from it is on repeat. I played one level 47 times in Crash Bandicoot tonight before passing it and cursing every word I know. Then I lost on the next level, of course. We're under a tornado watch tonight so I won't sleep, the wind howling. I'm getting to be an expert at cat naps but my dreams have been especially vivid. Bachelor No. 1 keeps coming to kill me in them, or comes back to school. I wake up and can't go back to sleep. Tool Academy, now there's some deep television programming. They could shoot it in my building this year. I keep seeing cute boys in the film building but they all seem so old. Another mascara commercial - I don't even know what brand I wear, just that the tube is yellow and purple. I made the fatal mistake of finding out Cookie Jar blizzards have a thousand calories, but that won't stop me from using my dollar off coupon. I eat so poorly when school starts. I've had a headache for five days and my immune system is doing its best. I refuse to get a flu shot, swine or otherwise, or use hand sanitizer. Wash your hands, drink your OJ, do something nice for someone else, and sleep tight.

Here's that song. My mom would faint if she knew I was posting it, the only Pearl Jam song I still actively listen to and it's not even theirs:

...In which our heroine alphabetizes.

One last stream o' consciousness, only because it's the end of summer, and last night deserved it.

"Take Me I'm Yours" by Squeeze should never be made into a mash-up by a DJ. Nor should "General and Majors" by XTC. I see a lot of the same faces over and over again, re-meet them, and then do it all again. One girl, Sophie, has been incredibly drunk every single time I've ever seen her. My left forearm is still stained with faded highlighter flowers. Fruit soaked in everclear is impossible to ingest, although the hairy buffalo/jungle juice we made was delicious. One bite of pineapple set my chest on fire. It was the first party I've been to in a while where no one made a total disaster out of them self, which was a nice change. Julia, one of my old roommates, came all the way from Rock Falls for the party and we talked forever about bills and boobs and boys. Ben came, and everything is okay. We talked for a while and I told him to take care of himself when I hugged him goodbye. He looked well, but his new phone and wallet made me realize just how removed from his life I am. I still struggle with the concept of spending all day, every day with someone and then being reduced to bullshit party banter. But it was okay, and I'm just glad he's doing well, truly. I felt bad for Emily that Lane didn't come, but that wound is still fresh. People amaze me with their alcohol tolerance - that fruit was lethal and they were eating it by the cupful. I was the perfect level of drunk and had enough sense to stop myself before words began to slur. It was a chilly night but I kept laughing and stayed warm. There was a drunk bro outside of Emily's window screaming so loud and violently about losing his phone I started to get nervous. My back ached from sleeping on one pillow. McDonald's is the ideal morning after food, and "Rhythm is a Dancer" is the ideal music for the morning after. It sunk in, between sips of punch and catching up with new and old friends again how I'm growing up, again, again, again, once more with feeling. School starts Tuesday and I am glad.

And just to keep you from being too bored, my favorite bands from A to Z, with a second choice for each:

A -  Arcade Fire (Alice in Chains)

B - The Beatles (Beastie Boys)

C - The Cure (The Clash)

D - David Bowie (The Decemberists/Daft Punk/Depeche Mode)

E - Elvis Costello & the Attractions (Elton John, before 1980)

F- Fleet Foxes (Foo Fighters)

G - Grant Lee Philips (The Gossip)

H - Hole? (terrible letter, no second choice)

I - Interpol (Iggy Pop)

J - Jenny Lewis (Joy Division/Johnny Cash)

K - Kings of Leon (The Kinks)

L - Led Zeppelin (Lucinda Williams)

M - My Morning Jacket (Modest Mouse)

N - Neutral Milk Hotel (Neil Young/Nine Inch Nails)

O - Of Montreal (Oasis)

P - Pixies (Pink Floyd)

Q - Queen

R- Radiohead (Roxy Music/Rilo Kiley/The Replacements)

S - The Smiths (Sisters of Mercy)

T - Tool (Talking Heads)

U - U2 (Urge Overkill)

V - Violent Femmes (The Velvet Underground)

W - The White Stripes (Wilco)

X- X (XTC)

Y - Yaz (The Yarbirds)

Z - Warren Zevon (c'mon, it's Z)

For whatever reason, this is still my most played song on iTunes. Aretha just knows what's up:

...In which our heroine rambles on.

Another late evening ramble, yes?

I think I finally may be tiring of Girl Talk, which is not surprising since I've listened to Feed the Animals hundreds of times by now. I am so ready for school to start, to find another album to define the year and shed all the baggage that the past year has brought. I'm still wondering about what'll be like to see him. I don't think I'm properly utilizing Twitter yet, and still kind it kind of ridiculous. Diablo Cody is my girl though, I'll even forgive her for making me sit through Megan Fox for two hours in Jennifer's Body. Speaking of, what the fuck is up with movie lengths? I'm tired of two and a half hour movies that do not need to be. I started writing again, something I think that'll be a TV pilot, or at least in my own head it will. Somedays I still worry if I'm going to be able to summon the muse to pay the bills. I kind of want to go to grad school, then come back and teach at Columbia. I'd get to live in Chicago, enrich the lives of young people, and write on the side. I've met a grand total of one cool new person. All the freshman are bro assholes who cannot work a key card or an elevator and are trying oh so very hard to work their game on the opposite sex. It's kind of pathetic. My roommate, Alexandria, is back. Let's talk some opposite lifestyles now. I haven't even heard her curse yet. I have no idea how to broach the subject of substances or boys, and limits on either. Speaking of that, I'm thinking of detoxing for a month or so. Telly is very into all sorts of natural remedies and teas and such and I'm getting really tired of my lifestyle. Granted, I've cut way back, but still every time I've smoked lately I just feel like a mass of wasted brain cells. The charm has worn off, maybe. I dunno. And I think it'd be good to start the new school year with a clear head. Yes, I am tiring of this Girl Talk finally. I keep getting the smell of ammonia wafting off of my hair, which is freshly cut and dyed. Too dark again, but not as bad as before senior year. It definitely looks somewhat brown. I can't ever get my bangs cut the way I want even when I bring pictures. My Morning Jacket is covering "Get Down on It," which would be intolerable any other time. Inglourious Basterds is probably the best thing of the summer, and the best thing Tarantino's done since From Dusk 'til Dawn. I loved Hans Landa. I tried to read the script in the bookstore today and it made my stomach hurt. I guess it's a stylistic thing I'll develop too, but my god, so much descriptive text and camera movements and such. Summer is pretty much over and I'm not even sad about it, I'm just glad school will give me something to do. I still need a job but have quit looking. Extract wasn't very good at all, and neither was Mike Judge a very thrilling Q&A. Kevin Smith is at the Chicago Theatre in a few weeks and its taking every fiber of my being to not purchase a ticket although I'll probably cave. I feel like as soon as I have any money to spend it's gone, feast or famine. It's weird having someone else's food in the refrigerator and towels on the rack. I was quite liking being on my own. She doesn't curse - how do ask someone like that if you can have the room for the night, should it occur. Jeff Mangum is the King of Carrot Flowers, parts one through three. "Communist Daughter" certainly has the oddest lyrics on the album. Nancy Botwin finally learned that she can love men but not depend on them in last night's finale, good advice Not Francie. The ladies had a particularly good week on Mad Men and I still envy Christina Hendricks something awful. I would very much like Santa to bring me a PS3 now that they cost $299 so I can begin to move towards Blu-Ray and all that jazz. "Two-Headed Boy Part 2" makes me want to cry every time I hear it. Mangum's voice is just raw. Pangs of nostalgia hit hard this week, the chill in the air, the old rituals. How I've changed in this year. My dreams and deja-vus have been particularly intense. My scalp is stained with pigment and I want another huge, colorful tattoo of a feminine origin. I like how it challenges a conventional notion of beauty. But I don't want anything that'll show in a wedding dress, ha ha ha. I think Mia Wallace, hypodermic needle and all, will happen for Halloween, especially with this new hair. Say it Jeff, "Two-headed boy, she is all you could need. She will feed you tomatoes and radio wires and retire to sheets safe and clean, but don't hate her when she gets up to leave." I did leave him, whose birthday I didn't even acknowledge this week,  and I'm tired of safe and clean sheets, but it was the best choice. Second chances, are they worth it, or better yet, am I just imagining them. Who knows. I always project grandoise situations of reality before they even begin to germinate. It's how I go to sleep at night, imagining an alternate reality for myself. I always have, since I was little. Frank Black is screaming about some wild honey pie and I'm sleepy.

The "Cat People" scene in Basterds gave me chills like only a good movie can, but I prefer my Bowie like this:

...In which our heroine lays it out.

A late night confessional -

I had my first fish tacos tonight (no pun intended) and they were delicious. I do not think they would have been as delicious without the PBR consumed. Consequently, I still think PBR and Bud Light taste the exact same. I have red velvet cake for breakfast, delightful. It's funny how new friends work out and how I feel like Emily and I are the ones getting left out. I'm glad Bugs is back, but it also means Ben comes up a lot more now. It's a lot easier to be over him when I don't have to talk about him. We'll see how our first encounter goes in a week or so. Craig Ferguson is infinitely funnier than Jimmy Fallon. I wonder why my cable signal is only worbley on some channels. I'm getting a new roommate Friday and her favorite book is the Bible. Hmm. I need to get paid - funds are getting slim but I still spend on things like red velvet cake. I will have a red velvet armadillo cake at my wedding, should it ever happen. The bad tattoos in the world never cease to amaze me. A conversation about sex with a lesbian, a gay male, and a straight single female and an attached straight male is guaranteed to end in hilarity. Disagreements are always bound to happen about hippies and their body hair. "Oceanside" by the Decemberists is in my head right now. I'm currently wondering if recent transgressions were a mistake. Is a relationship better if it didn't exist, then really existed, and then is awkward, or better to not have that relationship exist at all? "Friends" is one of my most hated television shows. But yet I watch a constant stream of reality shit on VH-1. I do not mind having the apartment to myself. I'm so ready for school to start. I need to meet people, and not develop a crush on someone on day three of the school year. I don't want a relationship right now, but I'm tired of mornings alone, not even the sex as much as the companionship. Heidi and Telly, Bugs' and now my lesbian friends, are an exceedingly adorable couple and I want what they have. This seems inane, this stream of consciousness, right now as I'm writing it. I started a Twitter which is just one more way Big Brother is watching. Maybe my mom is right - who really needs to know if you go to the fucking grocery store? I wish they'd stop with these haunted house movies, especially the PG-13 ones. Antidotally, I borrowed The Devil Rejects from Heidi and Telly. I have such boy movie taste. DQ Blizzards and Ben and Jerry's ice cream are genetically perfected stoner food.  I've been sleeping copious amounts lately, storing up for the school year I guess. Dan and Darlene's relationship on "Roseanne" is incredibly similar to mine and my dad's. I feel bad about how little I've written in the past month or so, but other priorities have taken precedent. I can't even look at my script anymore, I'm tired of it and it needs fixing. I love writing like this as dumb as it may seem, it's the most cathartic exercise for me. These little girl pageant shows are abhorrent, the mothers more so than the daughters. And they always seem to be toads with hateful husbands. Yeah, that won't create daddy issues. I hate being a grown up and spending money on things like cleaning supplies, how lame. Lysol, so fun. I watch a lot of really terrible 90s movies on TBS, yet neglect my "intellectual" Netflix acquisitions. And now, this ramble ends.

And I want to go to Austin, Texas: