letters to the editor, pt. 4

It's letter-writing time again! Since I don't have enough money for stamps, I'll just put them all out there, and hope the recipients all google-jerk themselves to the right place...

Dear KY,
Since when did 'tingling' mean 'burning'? Your lube totally cockblocked me.
Refund city? I think so.

speaking of rash chemicals...

Dear Everyone,
Apparently, when you mix paint thinner and Febreeze, you get a chemical burn. When you're working with oil-based paint, just expect your clothes to get ruined. Turpentine won't get the stain out anyway and you never know when the last time you might have used a "fabric refresher" was.

that PSA was necessary because of this idiot...

Dear Me,
Start thinking before you do things. All things. That drop of oil paint is going to be on your eyelid until the skin cells die. You don't want to get caught in your zipper again, do you? If word gets out, people will stop paying you to do things.
Heads up,
You

I should have thought of that, years ago. Oh well, never too late to start

Dear Me (Circa 2002),
Moving into that apartment on Atrill is a bad idea, not just because it'll fracture your relationship with your best friend, but because you'll be furthering the gentrification of Logan Square. It's 2006 now, Bush got re-elected, and I've just moved back into a slithly-nicer apartment in a much-whiter Logan Square. I am the product of your gentrification.
Peace,
You (from the future)

I wrote another letter with the new/old hood in mind.

Dear Logan Square Construction Park rats,
I forwarded the above letter to you, because it raises some issues that affect you as well. Because of the ongoing gentrification of the neighborhoods immediately surrounding the now-inaccessible Wicker Park, a lot of old buildings have been torn down to make way fotr condos. The cluttered, razed lots created by this construction have allowed you to expand your homes much further out from the alley. While I know you must feel pretty powerful now, display caution. Display humility. STOP RUNNING RIGHT IN FRONT OF MY TRICYCLE. It's the big, blue Schwinn and it will splatter your guts from here to Hell.
Just wanted to let you know.

...Which got me thinking about other self-destructive rodents

Dear Israeli Prime Minister Ehud Olmert,
Fuck you. I am hardly a Zionist, but there are few things I want more than for there to be peace in Israel. You're fucking that up. I know, a soldier was kidnapped, that's a terrible thing to happen, but you're overreacting. Arresting 60 elected Palestinean officials is not preventing terrorism, it's an act of war. Buzzing the houses of Syrian elected officials with fighter jets is not a fair warning, it's an act of intimidation and AN ACT OF WAR. Most of all, depriving civilians on the Gaza Strip of power and water, and quite literally burning bridges, is not aiding peace. These are despicable acts that will create generations of terrorists and set the peace effort back decades.
Fuck you, for your complete lack of compassion, for your military short-sightedness and for fucking things up royally.
Your head belongs on a pike,
Eric (Mikhael ben Mayer)

Here's another angry letter

Dear Vice,
You are a decent free magazine, much better than your contemporaries Cool'Eh or Mass Appea, far more cohesive and far more readable than any of the places I've ever been published. I was willing to overlook the race-baiting shock value tactics employed by your editors, because you put out a good toilet read. For the most part, your writers use the same style, but it works for them and they do it well. You even outsource to talented, underground heroes like Jim Goad and Richard Kern and then, sometimes there are titties. You even almost won my heart by bringing Roky Erikson and the Boredoms over last week, but seriously, fuck you.

Your "Vice Guide to Chicago", the booklet handed out for free at last week's Intonation read like a "Vice Guide to Wicker Park." It also read like "Thanks for Having Us, Chicago. Fuck You from New York." Well, fuck you back. Fuck you for making me write what other people have written (recently and ad nauseum); fuck you for making me write something that echoes Chicago Antisocial; and fuck you for not getting the city.

There are a lot of people in this town who think that they're rock stars, and a lot of people who think they'd be better off in New York. Fuck em. We've never treated em right anyway. Who needs a Billy Corgan when you could have a Steve Albini, right?

It's easy to think you're a rock star here, because it's easy to know everyone. Not because we're some small Podunk but because there are so few people here that do just one thing. I don't just mean the artists, but everyone overlaps here, a million different ways like a Mandelbraut Venn Diagram...

The other day, I saw a South Side fireman throw down at a poetry slam on the North Side. All week, the guy I've been doing construction with has been telling me about the novel he's writing about 1930s Chicago, and just today, at a world music show in the Pritzker Pavillion, there were frat boys threw up devil horns, as they shouted out the lyrics to Amadou and Mariam's "Dimanche à Bamako" the way you'd expect them to yell "KEG STAND!" or "CHUMBAWUMBA!" or whatever it is frat boys are supposed yell.

And that's another thing you're missing: You can have a lot of fun in Chicago when you're poor. We've got parks, parks with zoos, zoos with parks and beaches running the length of the city. In the summer the city opens up to free outdoor concerts and movie screenings you could never get away with in Central Park. That's just the shit the squares know about, but you've still got crusties and gangbangers freaking about with mothers, children, and the whole wine-and-cheese set. We, don't as a city, rely on bars and clubs. We don't need to and, at least in the counterculture, don't want to. We've got a million apartments, houses, lofts, factories and assorted "spaces" willing to hide illegal and semi-legal and totally underground restaurants, galleries and venues. There are still speakeasys on the South Side if you know where to look, and places where you have to say the password to a guy through a door to get in.

It's a diverse city, full of rich browns and yellows and blacks and tans, and your "Guide" was so white. In a city where hip hop thrives and house music was born, where so many different races get along so well (and also not-so-well) alongside one another and you ignored it. Believe all you want that you've got it better in New York. Just do me a favor and stay there.

Kind regards,
Eric

speaking of people that just don't get it

Dear Me (2002),
Shave the moustache. Stop fucking your ex-girlfriend already. Make out with Natalia the next time you get the chance. Ask Lucy out at the Halloween party because you won't be able to get her number from Kafi later. Ask out Missy Calypso before she loses interest. Ask out Kristen before she gets knocked up. Ask out Miriam while you're both single. Don't ever move in with Curran. Don't start taking diet pills. Get a cell phone. Go to the Vegan House the next time Omnipresent Steve says you should. Adult three wheelers exist, invest in one. Enjoy your mohawk. It will grow tall and healthy, but you'll probably develop male pattern baldness early because of it. And start using condoms, for Christ's sake.
Your country's about to go to war,
You (from the future)

...and to end on a happy note...

Dear Someone Who Knows Amadou and Mariam,
Please translate this to French, transcribe it in braille, make two copies and hand them to Amadou and Mariam:
Your show tonight was awesome. I missed Seu Jorge but your band was so fucking tight it didn't matter. I can't believe you ended the night with an afrobeat cover of the Who's "I Can't Explain". Weird, unexpected, and super awesome.
Love,
Eric

Listening: World/Inferno Friendship Society - Hallowmas Live at Northsix

choose your own adventure

There are stars out tonight.

It was the third time she said it, and each time she said it she sounded a little more excited than the last. All in all though, there couldnta been more than a dozen stars in the sky. Not enough for a constellation even. No dipper, no hunter, no Orions Belt. But she was happy so who was I to rain on her parade?

Yeah, I said. Stars.

It was a good year. The music was terrible and so were all the sports teams, but all the women looked like porn stars and every once in a while someone would get laid. At least thats how I remember it.

We laid on our backs in a circle, forehead to forehead to forehead to forehead, legs out.
We made our own star.

The Northern point of our star was provided by a pair of grey, ripped-to-shit Chuck Taylors. They belonged to Bill. He wanted to talk about hopping freight trains, but there werent any takers.

The Eastern point of the star consisted of a pair of Grinders. They were painted a marble green, with acrylic flames running up the sides. Jarett wanted to talk about death, not the concept or the act of dying, but the romantic figure of Death. Something about a dream he had.

Clockwise, you had a pair of sandals, some knee high boots, and two bare feet next to an empty pair of Converse. Lisa wanted to make out with someone, or failing that, to talk about herself. Donavon wanted to talk about revolution, moreover he wanted to organize one right there on the spot. I didnt want to talk at all. The way I saw it, we were all just looking to make a connection with each other. We liked each other enough, but the fates werent having it, and I felt incredibly lonely.

With no common point to make, we acquiesced and talked about stars.

It was a balmy night, and after a month of sunless days, the rains subsided and the mosquitoes hatched. We swatted hopelessly at out necks and backs. We would have gladly gone inside, but it was too hot to move. It was too hot to close our eyes so we stayed awake and drank and laid on our backs and looked at whatever was up.

We would have probably stayed like that, pairing off or leaving one by one, if something didnt happen. Not something big, but anything at all, like our friend Yosef showing up. He had a bottle of Turk with no cap, and looked surprised to see us.

WHAT HAPPENS NEXT IS UP TO YOU!!!

a. Do I bring in a plot device, like mentioning that Yosef's carrying around his father's pistol?
b. Do I send the kids down the traintracks to meet new and interesting people?
c. Do I send in cops to arrest them for loitering/trespassing?
d. Does something totally left-field happen like an alien invasion, werewolf or terrorist attack?
e. Do I salvage the good lines and scrap the rest, pack up and call it a day, knowing full well that it's not the first story I've written about teenagers going on inadventures or feeling lonely together, and it certainly won't be the last.

Listening: Busdriver - Heavy Objects Such as Books

My vow is to write down every stupid dream until I remember them all automatically

Sarah had finally come out to visit me at school in California, to help me out. It was weird living at a military school, and I think I wasn't ready. It was nice being around old friends like Marcie Milkowski and Elijah Ruschman, who rode by that morning on a yellow Vespa and a red scooter, but I needed to get back to Chicago. We got up early to sneak into my room, my real room as opposed to where I'd been sleeping. I was worried about walking in on my roommate having sex, or her not remembering who I was and hitting me with pepper spray, so we waited til five in the morning to check it out.

I didn't remember what floor I was supposed to live on, so we climbed the clandestine staircase with the dirty, brown carpet and stopped off on the first three floors til I found my place.

"Wanna take a shower together when we get there?"
"Sure but I'm kinda gross right now, I was thinking we could just have sex."
"That makes next to no sense, Sarah, but...I'm down."

The door creaked open. As did the door to my room. The TV was on, had I left it on. The walls flashed blue as a skit played out on Just Shoot Me. David Spade and the crew were talking to an alien (from the movie alien), his model girlfriend, and her parents. Everyone but the parents could tell that her boyfriend was planning to eat her father's brains so that they would have enough money to buy a house.

There was a duffel in my closet next to a pair of military-issue dress shoes and a stack of mail filled with magazines and dvds.

"It's really easy to get the government to get you free stuff."
"Maybe you should stay."
"No, I shouldn't. Let's get out of here."

Watching: Serenity

my racist scholarship application

This Spring was a turbulent time for me. I was between houses, and it looked as though I might end up surfing couches. I had finished my tenure at Columbia, both as a student and an student worker with little prospect for regular employment. I was at a crossroads and everything was changing too fast for me. I needed steadiness, so I went where I always go in times like that, StormFront.org, website of the Aryan Brotherhood, where everybody thinks the same way and change is unwelcome.

Dicking around for a while, I found their scholarship. Two thousand dollars from David Duke and the White Brotherhood, and all I had to do was write an essay! First I checked the elligibility, and I was surprised to learn that I was not excluded from entering. You see, even though Jews are persona non grata over at StormFront, their scholarship is open to anybody who checked the White/European box on their enrollment forms. For years I've railed against the fact that there's no "Jewish/Semitic" box to check to no avail. Now, finally, being kicked out of Lithuania, Russia, Poland, Germany and Spain was going to pay off!

The premise of the scholarship, is that I would create an election campaign for a white politician named John Smith. Here, altered from its natural form of .pdf document, you will find the story of John Smith (part one)...

John Smith grew up in a house with no tools. It was rumored that his father had a paper bag in the basement that contained a single hammer, and assorted, unsorted nails, nuts, bolts and screws. He was not going to be the kind of man who worked with tools, he was a thinker. He was destined to be a leader, and though he was slight, he had broad, mental shoulders, strong enough to carry the burden of the great white race.

To lead he would need power. To get power, he would need plans. To devise a good plan he would need money, and for that he would need brains, which, luckily, he had in abundance so of course everything else fell into place.

Studying city plans at the library, he found his in, a loophole caused by his city's famous history of oddball gerrymandering. Unbeknownst to the taxpaying public, a new neighborhood had been created. Beautiful, unclaimed Landfill Square Park. Literally, it was the city dump and a couple post office boxes. One year later, John Smith, the unknown from uptown, was an alderman. He sat on the city council for years, building a reputation and developing a platform: Evolution.

Not the namby-pamby Latin of Charles Darwin, nor the paperthin politics of Charles' brother, Social Darwin, but a new theory, based on common sense (the science of the eye). He called it thus:

Common Sense Human Evolution Theory (CSHE)

He made speeched invoking both God and science:

"And God created a white Adam in Eden, everyone knows that, but what of everyone else? Could not the mud races literally be just that? Primordial ooze formed in Adam's footstep evolved to something similar? Adam too, we must remember, was made from the clay of the earth, the only difference being our Lord's touch!"

This wowed them. His theory required separation; his example was the zoo.

"You don't put the panda in with the python and you don't put the Protestant in with the Puerto Rican."

His idea was too keep the borders as they exist today, but to shift the populations manually.

"Just as time molds the lump of coal into a diamond, time has molded the Jew into a diamond-lover. Therefore, the Jew belongs not in Holy Israel, but in Africa, where he can contentedly mine his stone. As the Gay has evolved despite his backwards sexual practice, he would thrive in the most backwards of places. Naturally, that places him in the continent of Australia."

His ideas were new, revolutionary even, but it would take more than that to convince the thought-monopoly of the racial minority. Surely, he would be stopped, killed in the manner of all unpopular thinkers....

To be continued, maybe, in part 2 (but probably not)

Listening: Denizen Kane - Tree City Legends Vol. 2: My Bootleg Life

the DREAM JOURNAL refuses to die! (now with footnotes)

The whole dream takes place at Sarah's apartment.*

*Actually, I'm not sure if it was Sarah's apartment or mine. The layout of the place was a cross between Sarah's apartment, the place I just moved out of, and the office I worked at for the last two years. The whole dream took place in Sarah's bedroom, which was aligned backwards (where her bedroom opens West into the hallway, in the dream it opened East).

I was trying really hard to do a bag of blow*, by myself, before Secret Agent Bill* played in the basement. This was confounded by the fact that I was a little drunk, and the bag of blow rested on top of a bag of white sand.

**I prefer not to have multiple, consecutive blog entries that talk about drugs, because I really don't get high that often, usually months apart from each other, and my parents read my blog. Still, I think I had cocaine on the mind because it is a big point of contention a lot of my friends have with this kid _____, who is doing a lot of it and shirking his responsibilities to his roommmates and his pregnant cat. Because of him, the drug has been coming up a lot, also, some old lady asked me if I could get her some last night. It was odd that Secret Agent Bill was playing because, while I've buried the hatchet with the members of the band I've had issues with, and while they were once one of my favorite bands, I really don't enjoy their music anymore.

On the TV, there was a cartoon where a black guy faught aliens. At first I thought it was the Men In Black cartoon* but it wasn't.

*Which was a totally awesome part of the old, Warner Bros sunday lineup along with Freakazoid and Earthworm Jim. I want all of these shows on DVD.

In the cartoon, the alien wanted the alien-hunter to choose the form he would take to kill him.*

*ala Goeser the Goesarian in the first Ghostbusters.

He chose the form of Will Smith. A crowd gathered as the alien in Will Smith disguise drove around in his choptop alien conertible.*

*ala the Neutrinos in the animated Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

As the hero chased him people cheered, "and look, it's Jazzy Jeff!" right up until he blew a whole through Will Smith's chest cavity. Just outside of the room was Allie Young and Katie and Aaron Schaag.*

*I haven't seen Allie in four or five years. I don't think Katie has a brother named Aaron.

At one point, the door swung open as I was trying to nosedive into the bag on Sarah's pillow. My ass was in the air and my head was in a bag. Allie Young walked in with two of my young cousins.


"What are you doing?"
"I'm trying to do this cocaine."
"Wow, I didn't know that my cousin had turned into a big JUNKIE."
"I'm not a big junkie."

Then Cara, who is very little and very young looking, says, "Eric, I'm twenty. I'm in college. I think mushrooms should be for sale on plates in mall coffeeshops, but cocaine is the worst drug you can do."*

*Cara is thirteen. She just had her bat mitzvah. And why are the mushrooms sold 'on plates'?

I shot back, in a really snide way, "No, HEROIN is the worst drug that you can do. And meth. Heroin and meth. Now please get out."

As they protested, I just kept repeating, "Please get out." I wanted to do the blow so it would be gone forever. I emptied a line from the box, felt it and tasted it.

"This is just sand!"

The alarm went off and I woke up.* My first thought was, "I guess it was a bad idea to do all that blow without a good flat surface.

* Sarah woke up soon after to tell me that she had a dream too: I met someone with the same tattoo as me, so we talked. It was a boy. We talked about candy dishes. .
I woke up with the song "Hey Mickey, You're So Fine" stuck in my head.

Reading: Harvey Pekar - The New American Splendor Anthology

these are things I've never done before that I would like to take care of this summer

rafted
walked or cycled from one end of the city to another
fired a shotgun
mescaline
sky diving
that blowjob cigarette burns thing
owned a rat or snake
spent time in Kentucky or Canada
had fun in Indiana
performed outside of Chicago
DJed outside of Chicago
gone paintballing
played a sitar
played in a band at a bar/ played in a band and been taken seriously
played with a skunk, raccoon, squirrel or opossum
broke into a pool in the middle of the night (public)
broke into a pool in the middle of the night (private)
gotten a job based solely on the merits of my resume and application
quit a job
kayaked
camped outdoors
sat in a room and watched people have sex
jumped off a bridge
built a theremin (or anything, for that matter)
gone to a drive-in movie
made a zine
homemade napalm
ridden in a motorcycle
ridden a two wheeler
ridden a dune buggy
reved outdoors

adjunct list (things I haven't done in at least a year that I would like to do post haste):

skinny dip
Lincoln Park Zoo
Brookfield Zoo
petting zoos
Six Flags
hallucinogens
shopping cart adventures
ultimate frisbee
trashbarrell barbecue
killed something out of necessity
gotten something pierced
jumped off a building
Ren Fair
Mars Cheese Castle
left the state for the sole purpose of getting a meal
blown something up
outdor sex
car sex
outdoor sleep
beach sleep
CTA party
gone a week without the internet
laughed at the dead things at the Field Museum
checked out the Lamassu at the Museum of Asian Antiquities
fry bowl at Suzie's
neighborhood carnivals/falling in love with cute, crusty carnie girls
Michigan dunes
water slides

Listening: The Deviants - Disposable

Hypathetical Nonsense

Say there's a video online, of Fran Drescher eating out Rosie Perez. Would you watch it? Even if your volume was broken and you couldn't turn it down? I would. I'd probably get off, too. Those are two attractive older ladies.

Meanwhile,
Jack Black has a new movie, where he does a fat impression of Diego Montoya.

At my graduation party the other day, I had to listen as friends and friends-of-family told me how much I AM Jack Black.

Here's a chronological list of the fat comedians I've been compared to:
1. John Belushi (1992-1994)
2. Chris Farley (1995-2001)
3. Jack Black (2001 - present)

It could be worse. My friend Duo is one of the funniest people I've ever met. He's also black and skinny, and only gets compared to skinny, black comedians like Dave Chappelle and Chris Rock. Personally, I think he's got a real Mitch Hedburg style to him.

I have just one question: How the fuck was I like Chris Farley?
When will people understand that the only things they can safely compare me to are Muppets?

Watching: Shaolin Soccer

to those about to [ghetto] I salute you

Everywhere I look,
oversized white t-shirts
brighter than the sun, the stars and the future I was promised

cheaper to toss and buy anew
than to sit around and bleach

and almost impossible to co-opt
by white people

they will find a way, though
and the shirts will look just fetching tucked in to a novelty belt buckle
and a colorful pair of kicks

R.I.P. FUBU, Wu Wear, Cross Colours, X hats, and baller caps with clocks in the center
you will be missed

...meanwhile, in white people fashion
I saw this girl today wearing a short black skirt and a toolbelt. The toolbelt held a tape measure, a journal-style notebook, a tapemeasure, some Sharpies, a leatherman and a load of other shit (maybe even candy)! I just about came through my pants.

Listening: The Coup - Pick a Bigger Weapon

Terrapin

There is a dark spot on the wall over her bed. At first it looks like smoke damage, but as his eyes focus he can see that it's hands. Dozens of left hands pressed against the wall for balance as they fuck. The lube picks up little bits of dirt from the unwashed sheets and stamps them, like a Rorshack mandala, or like the walls of a jail cell.

It's a weird night, but the air is lovely.

He sneaks out for a smoke. The neighbors never used to care about him, sitting on the steps in his undies, desperately puffing away. It's all families now, and he catches the eye of a young blonde, closing the drapes in disgust. They never used to care about him at all. He adjusts himself and stares at trees. The wind pries at the lids of his eyes and crawls up his legs.

He's having an Is that all there is? moment, and tries to remember the lyrics to the old Peggy Lee song.

Fuck it.

In his bag, he's got a couple beers, but they're all warm. So fuck it. He's got a soda but he's saving it for work tomorrow and it's too late for soda anyhow, so fuck it. He's got a leather case full of cds, but all he wants to listen to is reggae or the gangsta rap he listened to when he was twelve. So fuck it. He's got a phone inside, he thinks about the numbers that he doesn't have, for people he doesn't call anymore. It's nice to think about the people, but he doesn't have the numbers, so fuck it.

He thinks about the girl inside. She only talks about her nightmares. Given her disposition, they happen less frequently than you'd think, but maybe that is her disposition. She's stronger than dreams. She scares drunks and vagrants, and spirits on the street, but maybe she just has a mean face. He wonders what she dreams about the rest of the time.

She's depressed and so is he. At least he thinks he is, but maybe he should ask. They're at a stalemate.

The smoke makes his forehead itch. He thinks he's allergic, but he's also stubborn. He needs pants. And socks. And shoes. He needs to do something. Quick, if he's going to do anything at all.

On some nights, there are no adventures.

Listening: Various Artists - Back from the Grave, Vol. 2

Reasons I am Smiling (list and facial expression, subject to change at any moment)

-I have moved back into Logan Square, and will probably stop having nightmares about being homeless.

-My roommate is still Tania, and my upstairs neighbors are the last two friends I made at Columbia.

-Arizona's Diet Green Tea Lemonade is finally available in Chicago.

-One out of three X-Men movies wasn't bad (hint: it was number two).

-I'm regularly performing and publishing on a local level.

-Tricycle!

-Semi-employment is not unemployment.

-I will be going on my first Rat Ride soon.

-"Seven Rooms of Gloom", by the Four Tops, is one of the best songs ever. St Elsewhere, by Gnarls Barkley, is surely the album of the year.

-I have my own computer. It ain't new, but it's got everything I need.

-Today, I witnessed the first fire-hydrant splash fight of the season.

-I have a freezer full of Freeze-E Pops.

-I have graduated college, which I really don't care about, but spent too much money on not to mention, and achieved most of my childhood dreams.

Listening: Mandrill - Fencewalk: The Anthology

Parents Just Don't Understand

Back in the day, Bob Greene went on the road with Alice Cooper. Dave Barry used to use the word fuck and talk about drinking. Even Dan Savage has watered himself down from his old "Dear Faggot" days. I'm worried that the longer I write, and the older I get, the more I'll out myself as obsolete.

If you can get ahold of the May 21st Chicago Tribune, the fifteen pound Sunday edition, you can read "Finding Emo", an OUR CHILDREN ARE IN DANGER!!! type article with three different layers of hilarity.

Apparently, the dangers are MySpace, a division of Rupert Murdoch's News Corp., and emo, a type of music that really, really sucks.

Full disclosure: I became acquainted with emo ten years ago, when a few friends ditched their hardcore and ska bands to "go emo." At the time, this did not involve any changes in wardrobe or attitude. Their lyrics just became a lot more honest (/manipulative) and they played a lot of Fugazi covers on acoustic guitar.

As I said, the article gave me three tiers of giggles. It can be found on the front page of the Q section, if you'd like to follow along at home. Apparently Q stands for "Qualities of Life". I'm not exactly sure what that (or maybe those?) is. The article is (1) terribly, terribly written, (2) awfully oblivious to anything real, and (3) talking about teenage kids like "Emo Tim" and "As The Blood Runs Down" would be funny enough without samples of their blogs and MySpace profiles.

[yeah, I know. this is a MySpace blog. that doesn't mean I think it belongs in the Trib]

The first paragraph is meant to grab you, it reads:

"They're 13, maybe 12, maybe even younger, and this is what they're finding on the internet..."

Scary, huh? You already know that what they're finding isn't going to be good. I feel sorry for them already, what with the lost innocence and all.

The author, Barbara Mahany, is clearly clueless. She searches google and myspace for the word emo and eats it all up, including what looks like several sources intended to mock the fad/subculture (tomato/tomahto). This isn't very quotable because it's mostly in her tone, but I think it's telling that the only band she lists as an emo forerunner is The Cure.

The article is full of notable, quotables, mostly coming from overly articulate kids:

"It's like the hair in front of their eyes shields the world from seeing the moral breakdown." (that's a pretty good metaphor, until Dude stretches it a bit more, "Under the gentle swoop of the bangs lies a world of debauchery."

The darndest things, right?

Here's what the adults sound like:

"Their heroes are these drug-addled, strung-out musicians."

"It's a generation marked by promiscuity anmd disobedience under wraps."

"Apathy is an epidemic."

NOT IN MY DAY! Hmmmph. Kids. Here's another gem from the guy who likes to talk about hair:

"It seems like...appearance is religion."

In high school? HELL IN A HANDBASKET!

According to the article, cutting has gotten cool. Just like Kabbalah tattoos and raver fat pants, I've proven myself once again waaaay ahead of the times. I guess kids are still swapping prescription pills, too, "the way they used to trade Twinkies for chips". This doesn't sound like a good idea, but I really can't come up with any reasons on why it's terrible. If a kid is depressed, he probably shouldn't be fucking with his medication, but if they're just faking it for the scene, who gives a fuck? It's a serotonin diddle, and it's safer than Robo-tripping or driving to the ghetto for real drugs.

In one part of the article, a 7th grader talks about how the emo kids sit alone to look depressed, but the rest talks about how COOL being depressed is. This is confusing in the same way that home recording recluses going on tour is confusing? What's the point of being cool if you aren't getting laid? It's like (x)Straight Edge(x) all over again.

And what about Barbara? Along with paragraphs explaining the difference between emo and goth, she writes shit like this:

"In Chicago, you can find the ever-more-youthful emo trend (I don't buy that at all) from Hyde Park to Lincoln Park, Rogers Park to Beverly. In the suburbs it's in junior highs from Aurora to Schaumburg, Wilmette to Hinsdale, Homewood to Arlington Heights."

What the fuck was the point of that sentence, other than saying the names of a lot of White suburbs? Seriously, it took like three minutes just to type?

I'm not a great writer. I forgot how I was planning to end this, and I mostly just like to complain and make fun of things but I'm a writer still. Is this what I have to look forward to? Putzing around whatever type of music the kids are listening to because it's somewhat different from the bullshit music that scared the shit out of my parents, who listened to somewhat different music that scared the shit out of their parents, who rebelled against their parents by listening to the sleazy scary sounds of American big band in the 20s and 30s and maybe even jazz? Fuck it. Find the article, it's good for a laugh.

[Listening: Gnarls Barkley - St. Elsewhere]