Ode to a Fleet of foxes.

These two ladies sing so surprisingly well. This is a cover of Fleet Foxes' Tiger Mountain Peasant Song and when I stumbled upon this, I smiled and my imagination took off. I see myself singing in the woods in a hardhat and a white shirt when I go tree planting, hair a muck, top bun, wild bangs, strong back through a haggard shirt, strong arms, and stronger legs wishing desperately for a bicycle. We have been warned well of the nine hour day workload that looms in the elements, in the air, in the snow, in the rain, in the wind, in the woods and I am going to sing in between shovelfuls. I will probably cry between shovelfuls as well, but I will sing.

Nature, starring Madge.

Yesterday at work, I sang Maroon 5 for the entire day. Eight hours straight of Maroon 5, my poor coworkers. I will spare you of it, but in the meantime, watch these two ladies sing their pants off in the forest. The acoustics are good, very good. Oh, also as I previously wrote to Rebecca this morning, for the first time in seven years I can now lick the backs of my bottom teeth! They took off my permanent retainer at the dentist today. I feel like a new woman. I am off to drink copious amounts of espresso with Sula at Bar Italia.

God bless Fridays, Megsie.

Sliders.

Ragged Anne M saved me from myself this evening. She honks and I run. Today she rolled up in Gracie's car and when I opened the door I was flooded with beats of welcome and familiarity, and she nary said a word even though I knew that she knew I smelled of ass.

That is friendship.

She drove, we talked, hashed some things out respectively, hated on the Internet, laughed hard at my outfit and at our own pathetic selves and twin states of mind. She is one of the FEW who I can candidly admit who I stalk on the internet and she always complies and satisfies my curiosity with her own outrageous list.

"iGoogle, get on that shit". Okay girl, whatever you say Ragged.

I love this lady. This lady who slipped a hand written note into my flustered palm one night in summer at an art jam at the Boozecan. The kind of night where everyone arrived at the same time from different directions on bikes, drunk, happy, delirious with summer ease. We arrived separately and I left a different person. She was a vital part of self discovery this summer. It was the best "I love you" I have received in years. Ragged, I love you too. So much so. Scott, you are the shit too.

I just ate all that the luxe McDonald's on Grant (identical to Earls Main save for the ugly employees, heatless fireplaces and UPC codes on the wall) had to offer and now I am going to bathe, for the second time today. Then I will read while this food slides through my digestive tract like butter. It is time.

Starting now, I am on a four day weekend. Tomorrow shit is going to go down on a dance floor. Pardon my shit by the way; I find it to be a step up from the F word, which I am trying to cull from my lexicon. One shit and fuck at a time, Grandma. Baby steps.

Speaking of les enfants, I had dinner with Baby Mad (the Ukrainian queen) and her overtly relaxed mother and our friend Kathleen at Spicy Noodle House today and the baby was just that: Mad. Beyond mad, hopping mad, wild, livid, boiling, apoplectic, hot under the collar, on the warpath, foaming at the mouth, steamed up, fit to be tied, wrathful even. She screamed the entire time and while attempting to pacify this beast baby, people stared fiercely and instantly I became that person in a restaurant. That person who dares to cart a pissy newborn to Spicy Noodle House on Valentine's weekend. I felt like a single mama on a day out from the Projects. It was another of life's subtle reminders that I am not ready to procreate yet.

Babies turn into monsters, turn into people, turn into young adults who steel your liquid Tide, canned beans and toilet paper when you go away to Bali for a month. Thanks, life. I owe you one.

My baby fever has broken.
McDonalds is very delicious.
I HATE the teens who live underneath me.
Ragged Anne M tights-as-pants is the shit.
Shit, shit, shit, shit is the new black.

I am not clever anymore.

Halloween Dance Jam, circa 2005.

Thanks to the innumerable talents of Luke Marvin, I can now share this videographic jewel with the world. World, I was a dinosaur four years ago, back in the day when I used to wear a watch. In 2005 a whole bunch of us went to the Mansion for an intimate Halloween party. We snorted rockets, we scared children, we smashed pumpkins, and most importantly, we danced. Hard.

Luke was a cat from Cats, Erin a unicorn, Nathan an outhouse, Ainsley an expectant mama, Jaq was God knows what, the douche in the leather jacket is not worth mentioning, Andy was a Jazzercizer, Kyle a basketball star, and Tiff was a sexy ballerina. We danced and Luke turned it into something Oscar worthy. One more thing, we also microwaved the Mansion's cat. Sorry PETA, no one cared in 2005.

I am so glad to be able to share this. Enjoy, and thank you again Puke. (Rabbi, maybe don't watch this unless you want to puke in your mouth seventeen times). Just sayin'.


Hallow-oose Canons, 2005 from Luke Marvin on Vimeo.

Divinder called (again).

He said he wants us for real, Babs. Come home soon, okay?
And just for good measure, because Lord knows one can never see enough of this man.



Xo, xo; you know you love me, Francoise.

Святые дымы.

Святые дымы in Russian, means holy smokes in my mother tongue. Russian Vogue, or whatever, do me now.

Ho ho ho and a bottle of Rum.

I am draped in a Wreck t-shirt, painted and silk screened by the boys who I have watched with mother hen pride over the past fours years. It is nearly two in the morning and I am as awake as the day I was born. April 16th, 1986, ten twenty eight in the morning.

Spring was in the air today. It was such a tease and yet so reviving. Without fail, every single time a cyclist whipped past my position at the breakfast table, on the sidewalk, at the bar, or in the car, my neck swiveled to watch him pedal past. It is still balaclava weather, but today the air felt different. We felt different. I felt hopeful. And to think, I am missing Spring entirely! Insane.

Today was another Saturday, my favorite day of the week; my day of rejuvenation, my day of light and laughter, of slow mornings dragging my jammied behind around my so-loved home hefting cup after cup after cup to my mouth. Coffee on Saturday mornings at the red table. Andrea came to look at the apartment and we closed the deal with eye contact. No signatures necessary. I made up my mind a few days ago. My work here is done. It is time to give this home away to someone who needs a boost of positivity, roots and inspiration just as I did when I moved in two years ago. The winds of change are howling in my ears, it is welcomed and terrifying.

I hauled my ass out of my bed in time for her arrival and tidied with the pace of a thousand somethings, cleaned the bathroom, sang along to the Shins, anticipated breakfast. Desperate for some fresh, cigarette-free air, I opted to walk purposefully to the Village a little early to snag a forever dirty table and pop in to Pear to apologize to my sister for last night's sloppy doorway demeanor. I am sorry Frin, I was a mess. To recap, I fell into a tree and it took me half an hour to stagger to her house. She lives three blocks from my front door. Sorry Braintrain, I owe you big.

At the Toad I sat and read the paper, drinking another cup of coffee while waiting for the others. Jill and Chris showed up first, followed quickly by Alfie and Zach. Conversation was bang on and sincere. We are starting to become known as the table with the boistrous laughter and the wild hand gestures. Jill somehow won over our ice-queen-newly-knocked-up-and-still-bitter-as-hell-about-it server by talking baby banter and when our food came it had bigger portions than normal. All newly pregnant women, I salute you. Eat whatever you damn well want, you earned that lot. Eat your weight and eat your mistakes, it will be the best thing that ever happened to you six months from now. So we shot the shit over French Toast, kibitzed over bacon, shouted for attention over hash, and plum enjoyed all of the happy things that come along with eating breakfast at your favorite place on Saturday morning with good friends when you are all (save for the lady with child) still slightly faded from last night's shenanigans. It was good. We paid, left, breathed in the Spring air all together and took the Village by storm. Jill and Chris eventually parted ways to run errands, but Alfie and Zach and I perused records, magazines, toilet paper aisles, makeup counters, and Movie Village until heading back to my house for a round of afternoon tea and oranges. We listened to my new record (I like to buy a new one almost every Saturday as a reward for hard work during the week; and today I chose Suf's Illinoise, because it is a classic and a must-have in anyone's vinyl collection). Lord knows one can never have too much Sufjan Stevens on hand.

------------------------As a sidenote, I am desperately into Department of Eagles at the moment, thanks to the godfather Yosh, the true man of my heart. Listen to them. Love them. Take them on a trip. Find their album "In Ear Park" and listen to it while working or doing some activity that allows you to listen to it all the way through. Prick your ears and really listen. I like to listen to them when I wash dishes or wash down my grill at work. Grueling and rewarding. I hadn't really found a band that makes me think in that way since I stumbled upon Destroyer in Josh Ruth's music collection this summer. It is imperative to listen to it thoroughly. I think it is important to see things through in life. This is my new goal. See shit through. Pardon that outburst... back to the Perfect Saturday.

A few hours later we picked up Zach's lady, Mel (who I adore on every level) when she was finished work and popped into Garwood Grill for late afternoon grilled cheese and chocolate milk (just like on Saturday afternoons post public skate with my Dad one hundred years ago, and it tasted the exact same as it did at the VK to boot). The Wreck VI film premiered today at the Graffitti Gallery so we made sure to fill up on Garwood's comfort food and beetle over to the gallery way down Higgins to support my boys in the Wreck Posse. James, if you are reading this, I have never been so proud to be kin. Your part was graceful and tasteful and a pure feast for the eyes. Handsome devil, that man. One hell of a skateboarder. Bram and Gurngler did a bang up job of production. I felt very proud, and was honored to be called over by Baby Evan Stinclair and Tyler to stand beside them. These are my boys, my children. Anne M, I thought of you one hundred times while I stood between the two of them. I now feel what you mean when you call your man sons your sons. It was wonderful. Full stomach, full heart, full head, full throated laughter. Full day.

THEN, just when I didn't think my Saturday could get any better, the four of us (Alfie, Mel, Zach and I) drove to the Yellow Dog Tavern to see my very favorite local band, The Magnificent Sevens croon for the best people the city has to offer. They croon and their lead singer, Ida who plays stand up bass like a woman possessed, waiiiiiiiiils. She sings with her guts and people bend over backwards just to watch her. She is a showman, and it shows. We arrived hours ahead of time to get good real estate in the tiny pub but time slid out the window and became a non issue the more half pints we drank and the more rounds of Big Boss Little Boss we played. Nachos came, and so we became hungry vultures. I love nights like these. Eyes dart around the room, scanning, scanning, scanning for him, for them, for her, for it, for anything. Everyone is warm and appreciative of even the tiniest extension of grace. The room was full of good grace. Good gracious. I loved the men in plaid and heavy frames with the controversial haircuts with the side parts. Side parts! BABES. This is a bit of a gamble to admit, but ever since printing at Martha, I have developed a shameless (and quite respectful) crush on my art teacher who is very married. I am incredibly careful not to be one of those girls, groan, especially because I quite adore his lady who might someday be my boss (if I am lucky enough) and so on etc. But when he came up to me at the side bar to grab my hand and to tell me that because of the way I was raised and the way I work and the way I clean up my space, I now entitled to print at Martha street for free as long as I need to. It felt like passing a test that I had no idea I was writing. With gold stars at that. I was half faded and in my attempt to thank him for all he has opened me to and introduced me to in the art world namely, I probably spilled something or swore a blue streak (as did he) in my state of elation. What a teacher, what a man. And how. I am still floored. This will be something I do forever, printmake, I mean. No one can ever take that away, it is in my blood now, it is in my dreams. I feel so lucky to have found my niche so young.

When Ida wasn't dry humping her bass and distracting us from intimate conversation (the four of us have pretty intense chemistry when altogether) our heads were bent in the direction of each other. Again Zach delivered me straight into a Gladiator headspace so strong and decisive that it was tempting to up and leave our roundtable and head for the bush to start planting tonight. In my mind I am already there, going, working until puking, persevering. I think this will be the first time in my life that I will know exactly what it means to be Mennonite. We are a pack of work hungry wolves. I am at least. Ask me how I feel three months from now when I am planting three thousand trees a day, knee deep in swamp water with eight hundred fazillion bugs on my body. Hopefully I will still be hungry.

This doesn't make any sense. I am become nonsensical and it slightly depressing. Today was brilliant.

A-one.
Amen.

Tomorrow is already here. One day closer to there.

When, not if.

I was sans computer for days on end (my friend Bram is making a skate film that premieres today, cool) but I am back at long last. Pardon my hiatus. Nothing much has changed since, Rabbi and Kit left me for Buenos Aires, I was uninspired at my job for the first time, I made a beef borscht with the help of my Grandma over the phone and I think I nailed it, prints were finished and are ready to be mailed so sit tight. I take forever getting things to the post. Today. Today. Today.

Yesterday I was moping around my home missing my best gal, tired, hungry when Alfie called. Saved by Barfredo. I walked through wintery streets towards his home and the air was fresh. Country fresh, it was alarming and satisfying. We drank martinis on the floor and eventually got into a cab to go to a cocktail party in Wolesely (hilarious, if you know that neighborhood). We walked in and were greeted by men and women in shabby evening wear. Suits with sagging shoulders and bow ties that used to belong to grandfathers now long in the ground. Bejeweled dresses stolen from thrift stores with jagged hemlines and ripped panty hose. Knowing how that group rolls, I anticipated this and dressed accordingly.

The house was spilling with the right people and at one point Emily put on Fleetwood Mac's Rumors and I two-stepped shamelessly with this one blonde man with glasses for the rest of the night. He was more of a boy than a man in retrospect. All I really remember is twirling, and dancing in perfect step, laughing into him, everything was muffled and nothing else mattered. It had been a while since I shared a dance of that sort with another. All of the shameless twirling and martini consumption suddenly went to my head and the next thing I knew I was zigzagging down Arlington and then I was INSIDE an evergreen tree. I somehow fell in. Actually, I was leaning against one casually, resting, and then I fell in. So I chilled out underneath that beautiful span of evergreen, lay down and collected myself. I might have barfed once or twice, not on myself thankfully, but all in all it was quite a lovely evening. After a while I heard Alfie shouting my name from the front door of the cocktail party so I somehow bushwhacked my way back out and onto the sidewalk and called a cab. Once home, I realized I lost my keys (every single key to my life, gone) and had to stagger over to my sleeping sister's home to pick up my spare set. She was not impressed and I don't blame her. I think it was around three.

All the things I lost last night:
- my house keys
- one pair of slippers
- one pair of gloves; no, not the cashmere ones Anne M
- my breakfast, underneath that tree
- all of the money on my person (funny how that works)

All of the things I took home:
- one hundred pine-needles

So. Eventful Friday night. Ripper night, as they call it. Who is they, you ask? They would be tree planters. I was accepted to go tree planting come May first. Good Lord. Two months of back breaking work in the wilderness, ten hour days of repetitive work spent mainly alone, nights spent sleeping in a tent and sitting around a fire, suppers made for Gladiators and eating like a truck, bulking up and skimming down, working beside bald eagles and elk; here I come. I think I will have to write a book if I come home alive. I think I will have to write a book when I come home alive. That is news I guess.

I am off to our weekly Saturday morning greasy spoon breakfast at the Toad. Rebecca and Andrew and I were having a conversation before they left for their respective vacation spots (her Buenos Aires, him Thailand, them Jerks) about the routines that stay the same for the people left behind. Yes my routine will stay the same but that doesn't mean I am not missing them like crazy. I have been dragging my behind around for the entire week in mourning. I am grieving the loss of. But. Today I am chinning up and going to go eat my Little Tadpole breakfast in good company (we are the ones left behind and we eat together to pass the time until our best friends, lovers, brothers, mothers, sisters, whatevers come back to us).

I miss you Babs.