15 Things I Learned at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame

 The band.

So you know when someone young does something that's a little inspiring and hopeful and then they suddenly die a tragic, horrible death and then word of that thing that they did spreads like crazy until the whole world sees them as some iconic image of Love or Peace or Equality or whatever it was that they did that was so inspiring?

Well I realized that I was setting myself up to die one of those tragic, horrific deaths and become the poster child for Following Your Dreams or Quitting Your Job or who knows what.

So let's talk about something else, shall we? Because I have no intention of dying, thank you very much (although the idea of becoming an icon is tempting).

This past weekend, Tad and I drove to Ohio to see our friends, Zach and Stephanie. And for funsies, we visited the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

Stephanie is a serious AC/DC fan (which we all find hilarious).
Tad loves Metallica (which I find hilarious).
Zach likes pretty much anything (although he has a huge weakness for ska).
And I...I'm one of those people who likes to think that I know a lot about old bands and artists, when in reality my knowledge doesn't go much past Wikipedia and the backs of my Ladies from the 80s Barbie Doll boxes.

So here are 15 things I learned at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame:

1. The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame can be summarized by two performers and one movement: Elvis, The Beatles and punk rock
2. If you're in a punk rock band in the 70s or 80s, it's preferable that you hate God, hate the government, feel misunderstood, and choose a really cliche stage name. If you do all of these things, you will get a massive display at the R&R HoF and a video in which you're promoting anarchy and a limited use of the English language.
3. If I was in a punk rock band, my stage name would be Cat Call.
4. Jimi Hendrix had a lot of stage outfits.
5. Kurt Cobain really did die. I saw his birth certificate. Take that conspiracists! (Whether Courtney Love killed him or not is still up for debate).
6. Mick Jagger is a small, small man.
7. Apparently, rock and roll ceased to exist after the 1980s. At least that's what the Hall of Fame's lack of any bands from the 90s tells me (Nirvana aside).
8. Since when are Simon and Garfunkel considered Rock and Roll? And if they made it, where's Peter, Paul and Mary?
9. Lady Gaga's meat dress really was made out of meat.
10. It's cool to play a right handed guitar backwards when you're left handed. Wished I would have known this. I wouldn't have been so embarrassed while playing my right-handed Yamaha.
11. It's a good thing I had a hair appointment the week BEFORE visiting the R&R HoF. Because if it was scheduled after, I'm pretty sure I'd come out of there with a Debbie Harry hairstyle.
12. Faith Hill does not belong in the Women Who Rock exhibit. (What's she doing there?!)
13. I saw enough sequined tops and outfits that from now on when people give me a hard time about mine, I'll just say "All the rock stars are doing it." (You think I'm joking about having sequined clothing? Think again.)
14. If you die young, you have a better chance of getting a really good display in the R&R HoF.
15. The items from female artists are 99% of the time way more awesome and well-kept than the items of male artists. So, if you're thinking of making a trip to the R&R HoF, go now and catch the Women Who Rock exhibit while you can.

And now it's time to play Rock Band until my arms fall off.

teavana

Enough about my ailments. And freakishness. And mutations. I could totally keep going and share about how my eye has a dry spot in it now. Right smack dab in the middle of the cornea. So saith the eye guy. Or I could discuss my growing astigmatism. Or the fact that I have to use Sensodyne. Or the reality that my ears aren’t perfectly parallel.

But I’ll spare you. Because I care. And because I’d like to have some friends as I go through this change into nerd-hood. Hah, that’s a thought! Instead of aging at a normal rate, I’m staying perpetually young as I slowly morph into the form of a complete and unsightly nerd.

Sigh.

So instead, let’s talk about tea!

My tea obsession started a month or so ago whilst on a business trip. We all went shopping together (as most do when they’re out of the office and have time to burn), and happened upon this enchanting store called Teavana.

And we’ve been in a figurative Teavana ever since.

They have the craziest teas and all you do is stand there as they waft the scents in your direction. Then, you buy it by the ounce. The ounce! And before you know it, you’re walking out of there with $40 worth of dried leaves.

Which is totally worth it, because it’s supposed to curb appetite and boost health and assist in the growth of wings so that you can fly.

But very soon after purchasing, you become absolutely paranoid of oversteeping or doing something that will prevent the leaves from going through their agony. (Yes, this is real). You freak out and overthink things and measure and test the water on your wrist and the whole nine yards … until you do the math and realize each cup is like .50.

So then begins the phase of steeping and resteeping and re-resteeping the leaves.

And in the back of your mind you think about spreading the grounds out on the sidewalk so they can dry and be reused.

And you tell yourself you’re done. That you’re just going to go back to Celestial Seasonings. But then your coworkers announce they’re putting in another order and you cannot help yourself. You order more. Different flavors. Flavors that you probably won’t even like.

But you don’t pay for it. Because you haven’t yet paid for your previous order.

And suddenly you understand what crack addicts go through.

Can I get an amen?

Impressions - Portland Edition

1.Where did the sidewalks go?
2. I want a tattoo, too.
3. My hair is definitely not rockstar enough.
4. Where did all this nature come from? I’ve almost walked into five spider webs.
5.I can’t believe Sandra is complaining about the humidity.
6.Do two-story homes exist around here?
7.Wow, their attempt at growing corn is pathetic.
8.This oyster tastes like mashed potatoes.
9.I miss mashed potatoes.
10.I really like how I don’t feel like I’m melting all day long. Thank you, overcast sky.
11.I should have brought my guitar. Everyone else here has guitars.
12.Just Starbucks? Guess I expected some sort of “Portland’s Own”.
13.Where’s Wal-Mart?
14.I wonder if they know that I’ve never heard of the term “die back” when referring to grass losing its greenness. I guess we always just say it ‘dies’. Well, after it’s covered by snow.
15.Oh, no snow here? That’s sad.
16.FYI – we light our bridges in Peoria, too.
17.Is that a homeless boy or a homeless girl? I can’t tell.
18.Where’s the ghetto?
19.The Rose Bowl sounds less wimpy when you realize it was named for all the roses in Portland. Ok, no it doesn’t.
20.What’s wrong with ordering chicken tenders?
21.All of that nature and only one mosquito bite. Who would have thought?
22.Clams are squeaky. I don’t think I can eat more than five.
23.I definitely can’t eat more than five.
24.I think I’ll visit again!
25.I’m ready for Edward to carry me up this tree, now.

Imagining a White City

Here I am., strolling the Midway Plaisance:

It's something my friend, Beth, and I have wanted to do since reading Erik Larson's Devil in the White City. To walk the grounds that once held the greatest fair in the world. To catch a glimpse of what exactly drew Helen Keller, Buffalo Bill, Thomas Edison, L. Frank Baum, and others to visit. To imagine the sight that was the world's first Ferris Wheel and envision the attractions and amusements that saw 27 million in attendance.

The World's Columbian Exposition (1893) introduced Cracker Jack, Juicy Fruit, and Shredded Wheat. It inspired Baum's Emerald City and Walt Disney's theme parks. It had the first commercial movie theater and was where Milton Hershey first purchased chocolate manufacturing equipment. It also was where the "Snake Charmer Song" was written ... you know, to set the mood for the "Streets of Cairo" exhibit (complete with belly dancing).

It was also home to America's first serial killer.

But we'll get into that another time. For now, let's just enjoy the Midway, shall we?

(Photo taken from the east end of the Midway. The railroad was directly behind me.)

To view a map of the Midway during the fair, go here.

And lastly, a photo of the Midway in its glory:


If you would be so kind and are into entertaining thoughts of parallel universes, please take a moment to imagine me and Beth to be but specks in the distance, facing the camera (which I assume was up on the Ferris Wheel in order to get a shot this good) and taking pictures of our own. Mine, I posted above.
Thank you. I do appreciate it.

Wisconsin in a Nutshell (or should I say "in a Cheese Wax"?)

1) Expect many roadside attractions. (i.e. The Wisconsin Dells. Jellystone Park. The House on the Rock, a very boring place that sells CHEESE)

2) Expect gigantic statues at nearly every highway gas station. (i.e. a giant orange moose, a huge mouse holding some cheese, an enormous man cradling a sausage and cheese, a jumping deer, etc). I apologize for not taking photos of each of these ... maybe next time.

3) Expect major highway construction.

4) Expect a genuine love for CHEESE. And not just any cheese, but CHEESE in ALL CAPS on a giant sign facing the highway again and again, exit after exit.

5) And then expect to buy some of that cheese because the smaller (but still fairly large) sign lures you in with its hilarity.



6) Expect to choose the cheese sticks over the curds, because the curds look nasty.

7) Expect it to be delicious.

Amanda the Viking Princess

A little over a year ago, I participated in one of those massive Facebook notes where you list a bunch of boring information about yourself for other people's enjoyment. (Though I tend to believe no one really ever really wants to read other people's notes as much as they want to write one about themselves ... but anyway ...)

And in this note, I said a fair amount of potentially humorous things (many of which I should consider as fodder for this blog), but the two points that received the most comments were:

22. I have boots that make me feel like a Viking princess.

23. I REALLY want to be a Viking princess. If I could have any wish, that would be it.

I haven't spoken much of my wish to be a Viking princess on this blog. I've refrained from posting the pictures of me in my viking princess boots. I've avoided going on and on about how I want to name my children Sigrid and Beck and how I want to have long, unruly hair and watch from the fjords as my barbaric minions head out to sea to bring me back riches from distant lands.

I've avoided this, thinking you all may get the wrong idea.

But I cannot avoid it any longer. Because, well, DREAMS DO COME TRUE.

Tad and I just got back from a trip to Minnesota, where we stayed in a hotel on Viking Drive. We didn't think much of it. Until a misled Garmin chanced us upon this wonder of the world:


And for thirty seconds of my life, I was a viking princess.

(That's me on the left)

Albeit a viking princess on a purple and gold ship outside of the Minnesota Vikings headquarters and training field.

Yeah, I'm thinking it's as close as I'm going to get.

To Russia, With Love

Here is the main problem with finding friends from other countries on Facebook…you rarely know/remember/can even spell their last name. Which means finding one Masha—your Masha—in a sea of Masha’s is next to impossible. Sure, you can look up mutual friends and narrow the search that way, but can you ever be 100% sure that it’s the right Masha when you don’t even know her last name? No. You can’t.

I just friended a woman who I believe to be my Masha. We’ll wait and see. I could be wrong. It could just be some random Russian girl, petrified that some American with an even crazier last name (and former last name) has just decided to span the Atlantic and put an end to the fallacy that Russians and Americans are only fake friends.

Or, it could be my Masha. End of happy story.

I’ll keep you posted on how this turns out. If all goes well, and I don't get put on Putin's "watch" list due to my peculiar obsession with friending random Russians, then I’m going to embark on a quest to find the girl I stayed with while there. Her name is Anna.

And I kid you not when I say there’s no fewer than 10 bazillion Russian Anna's on Facebook.

Wish me luck.

A Tale of Procrastination

In an epic act of procrastination, I was going to provide you with a photo of me climbing out of a sarcophagus.

And in an even epic-er act of procrastination, I just spent 20 minutes tearing the apartment apart, looking for the envelope of photos from my trip to Turkey that I may procure my sarcophagus photograph and retell the epic story of how I climbed into the tomb, got really freaked out, climbed out of a tomb, and then thought my camera had been cursed by evil spirits--or the awakened dead.

Stephen King would have been proud. As would Stephanie Meyer.

But alas! The photograph has been misplaced, meaning one thing:

Though I tried to avoid a New Year Resolution List that included "tidiness" and "organization", I have been bested.

New Year Resolution #14 - sort through, weed out, and pitch all of my crap (while simultaneously finding homes for the few items that are less like crap and more worth keeping).

In the meantime, here is a photo of the ancient clock tower in Antalya whose nearby trash can was bombed by terrorists during my first week there!

The Curious City of Fort Wayne

Things I find strange about Fort Wayne and Fort Waynians:

1) The streets flood within seconds. I am not even joking here. Seconds. I have oftentimes thought that Fort Wayne would be better off as a paddy field.
2) It is not safe to drive in the outermost lanes, because at any given moment they WILL turn into turn-only lanes. I will never forget when an old lady in church said that she wasn't afraid of anything...except for when the lanes become turn-only lanes and you don't have enough time to correct the problem.
3) Give the people of Fort Wayne a reason to bust out their lawn chairs, and they'll come in droves. DROVES. It could be the hottest day ever recorded on the face of the planet, and there they'll be, dragging their super-sleek chair-in-a-bag out to the middle of a grassy knoll to watch some old guys play Beach Boys covers.
4) They named their baseball team the Tin Caps, seemingly oblivious to the obvious nickname of the Pot Heads.
5) There is a Mexican restaurant on every block.
6) During the summer, there is a festival every week. I kid you not. Greek Fest, Latin Fest, Rib Fest, German Fest, Three Rivers Festival, etc.
7) The people of Fort Wayne rallied against spending millions of taxpayer dollars to fix up dilapidated schools and instead decided to build the ultimate minor league baseball stadium.
8) From the baseball stadium, the city looks unAmerican. Maybe Balkan. Or Russian. And there is a particular apartment building by the Anthony St. Wal-Mart that looks like it was hauled over here from Somalia.
9) There is only one true housing project that I know of. Only one. I am used to three or more.
10) Everyone blows red lights. A cop could be right there, waiting for his light to turn green and I guarantee someone will blow through the red without getting pulled over.

. . . And to think I got my license suspended for being rear-ended.

On Learning Russian

Bonjour! Merhaba! Buon Giorno! Hola! Hello!

If the foundation of a language is its alphabet, then the cornerstone of conversation is its greeting.

This is where I fall short.

zdravstvuyte!

Try saying that.

Wrong.

Wrong again.

The formal 'hello' in Russian has been my nemesis for years. I simply cannot get my mouth to rapidly pronounce the 'z', 'd', and 'r' in a way that allows me to follow up with an 's' and then the rest of the word.

I couldn't get it when I was assisted by actual Russians, and I can't get it now that I'm listening to a tape that breaks each and every word into tiny syllables. My only hope is to rely upon the informal greeting, Privet!

The problem with this is that every Russian I meet will think me to be nothing more than a disrespectful, pompous Amerikanski. (Yes, I actually have heard a Russian derisively mutter this under his breath when in my presence--I imagine he was saying something like "Ugh, obviously we have some American girls in our presence...I can tell by how I can no longer hear my own thoughts because the room is echoing with giggles and rainbows...where is my vodka?").

So, yes. I'm totally done for. No special trips to see Putin for me.

Another interesting fact I'd like to point out about my new audio program, is the first phrase I learned was "Excuse me".

. . . definitely could have used that 7 years ago when I frantically jumped on a bus and smacked an old lady in the face as I reached for the standing-room-only bar. All I could do was stand there completely and stupidly silent as she rattled off a string of what I could only assume were profanities.

I was sure it would only make matters worse if I exhausted my Russian vocabulary on phrases such as "Happy 8th of March" and "I want an apple".

Sunday Musings: Movies with Language

1. It is always helpful to have a pack of blank notecards in your purse when attending a bachelorette party.

2. It is always dangerous when, as a new pastor in a small town, you sneak out to the big city to see a movie with the word "Bast***s" in the title, because chances are the Senior Pastor has snuck out to the big city as well--except in his case, it's for some serious shopping and stir fry. In this particular dangerous situation, he'll be seated on a bench outside of the theater, people-watching for some good Sunday morning sermon stories, while his wife and her close friend (who is wearing a Bob the Tomato t-shirt) finish some shopping for Children's Ministries. He'll see you, and happily strike up conversation, asking what movie you intend to see, and you'll have to tell him, stating the name of the movie not once, but twice because he thought he didn't hear you correctly. He'll hide his devastation, because he wants to appear relevant, but there's no getting around the fact that God's #1 Guy caught you paying $8.50 to see a movie that has the word "bast***s" in the title. And then Tad will repeat "Be sure your sins will find you out" the rest of the evening.

3. It is always optimistic to think that you can learn a language listening to cd's from the library at work and during work outs. But if the people on TV and in the movies can do it, why not give it a try? (wish me luck!)

Why I Will Never Read Walden

In the land of purple mountains and bra-less hippies, there visited a city girl who volunteered to be Lead Paddler on a white water rafting trip down the Arkansas River. That city girl was me. . .

Our raft guide had already selected an ex-marine, Skip, to be one of the Lead Paddlers. She needed only one more. When neither Skip's wife nor his mentally handicapped daughter nor my friend Stephanie (who loves nature things) nor my friend Erin (a Colorado native) volunteered, I tentatively raised my hand. How bad could it be? Just yell "Rock!" every time you see a rock and you're good to go.

"Alright!" Erica, our super hippie guide (yes, she had dreadlocks...we were unsure about leg hair) sang out in her totally melodic, airy, sing-songy voice. "Amanda's our other Lead Paddler!"

"Why did you do that?!" Erin chastised me.

"Are you crazy?" Stephanie exclaimed.

"No one else volunteered," I said. "I felt sorry for her."

"You shouldn't have done that."

Come to find out, the Lead Paddler has to set the pace for the entire team. It's up to them to ensure no one dies, but they're also the first to topple out if things to awry. They have to be the strongest, the best, the most attentive. Ex-marine Skip was a natural choice. Me? Not so much.

I spent the next three hours trying not to get our team killed, trying to prevent the mentally retarded person from doing a sommersault into the water, trying to hear Erica's sing-songy instructions over the roar of the whirlpools, and trying to keep up with Skip's over-compensated, super ex-marine strokes that had us turning too far to the left or the right every time WITHOUT FAIL.

All of that, I could put up with. No problem. For once in my life, I enjoyed being in nature and was loving the great outdoors. I didn't mind the fact that Skip was too deaf to hear the "STOP!" command and sent us spinning or that Erin was being beaten over the head by the "disabled" girls's paddle.

Until....the bugs.

They were everywhere. In swarms of millions upon millions. And I, like any good girl, had applied a layer of sunscreen right before boarding. After passing through a particularly bug-infested area, I turned back to Stephanie to say something when she burst out laughing, pointing at my face. Erin laughed too. Even Skip. EVEN HIPPIE ERICA CHUCKLED A BIT.

From what I was told (and, judging by the level of laughter I created), my face was a gnat graveyard. There had to be at least twenty to thirty little guys splattered on my skin, stuck to the sunscreen. I spent the rest of the trip, turning to Stephanie, asking whether nature was on me and wishing I hadn't volunteered to be Lead Paddler.

I was reminded of this incident today, after coming in from my run. I truly don't like nature.

Notes of the Past

One of the most powerful ways to relive a memory is through scent. A friend knew this, and during our stay in Turkey you could find her in her room every morning, spraying a certain body splash and taking it all in. Now, I'm sure, every time she smells that particular fragrance it takes her back to the days of sweltering heat, lamb on a stick, olive Lays potato chips, and no coffee to-go (though I think the latter affected us more than it did her).

I accidentally managed this effect while in Russia a few years prior. I had an inexpensive, 9 or 12 oz. bottle of a sort of tropical melon fragrance that I used on a daily if not bi-daily basis. Every time I happen to stumble across that particular bottle in a box of old items (I never use my fragrances up entirely) or accidentally sample it in the Wal-Mart body splash aisle, I am transported to a place of blistering cold, dogs with no homes, bacon Lays potato chips, and a longing for Lenin to return.

The second most powerful way to relive a memory, I have found, is through sound. I have a shortlist of albums that remind me of where I was and what I was doing when I first truly became engaged with those songs.

Here are five albums that, when played, remind me of different times:


Parachutes by Coldplay:
When the album released in 2000, the popular track "Yellow" held me. The music video was nothing more than a ridiculous at-home-video, but I loved it. I broke down and purchased it a year or so later, but it didn't get adequate playing time in my boombox until my freshman year at college (2002). I'd never heard anything like it nor have I heard anything similar since. Coldplay veered off in a different direction afterward, and well, the sounds of Parachutes will always be just that: the sounds of Parachutes. Every time I hear this album, I am once again in room 106, my roommate Kim doing homework on the bed across from mine and our icicle lights glowing brightly.


Transatlantacism by Death Cab for Cutie:

I was a sophomore in 2003--the year Transatlaticism came out. I hadn't heard of Death Cab before, but was a goner once a friend showed their performance on Letterman (or was it Leno?). This played endlessly in my room, that year, and I'll never forget the moment of panic when realizing that I had purchased my first album with language I would have to hide from my parents. Needless to say, that moment of panic came and went rather quickly, as the sheer perfection of the album formed nothing but love and admiration in my heart for the indie group from Seattle. Listening to this album reminds me of have a double room to myself, sleeping through my Dr. Wes exam, pulling all-nighters and boys.

Speak for Yourself by Imogen Heap:
I've had a slew of female celebrities I've wanted to be. The most persistent, however, was Imogen Heap. This british electronica/pop rocker stole my heart with her collaborative effort as Frou Frou, and the moment her solo album hit the shelves in the summer of 2005, I was there. I took her music to Antalya, Turkey, where I listened to it while seated on our apartment's balcony, overlooking the busy street and monorail below and Mediterranean in the distance.

Our Endless Numbered Days by Iron and Wine:

My return from Turkey brought with it a list of new artists and albums to purchase, as the people responsible for putting the trip together fed my hunger for music. Iron and Wine was one such artist. I had graduated college and in the midst of a 6-week living arrangement with BethEmily when this album entered my life. It followed me out of that apartment and into one of my own, filling the empty walls and floors with its rich sound and at-home feel. It reminds me of those few years I spent living alone, eating rice and potatos and waiting tables.

Girls and Boys by Ingrid Michaelson:
Lastly, I present you the album I brought with my while touring the Chicago suburbs. As an Admissions Counselor in 2008, my primary travel zone was the Chicagoland area. The fun, upbeat songs on this album carried me from traffic jam to traffic jam, school visit to school visit, college fair to college fair, and pizza place to pizza place. This was also the album that witnessed my run-in with homes of my past. Not once. Not twice. But three times. This album reminds me of when I was truly doing something I loved in an area of the country that I'd marry if it were legal...an area I miss so very much.

When Counting Blessings Doesn't Pay Off

Today has seen no fewer than five* torrential downpours. And, because Fort Wayne was a rice field in a former life, the entire city flooded. Within seconds.

My drive to work consisted of 1) me fearing that the 1990 Honda Civic wouldn't make it through the 6-9 inch pools of water, and 2) people getting wet.

As I braced myself upon entering yet another flood zone, I noticed a poor soul on a bicycle. Covered with a green rain poncho, the man was doing all he could to keep his hood up and the bike on the sidewalk.

Until the truck in front of me tore through one of the flood zones, dumping gallons of water on the unsuspecting bicyclist. GALLONS. You have no idea. It was like splash mountain.

I really felt sorry for the guy. His shoes must have been soaked. His face definitely was soaked. And his poncho was suddenly very unnecessary.

How lucky I was to have a car! How fortunate I was to not be splashed upon or given an unwanted bath! How blessed!!!

The next thing I knew, an oncoming truck tore through another giant puddle.

The water shot through my open window and splashed my face to the point where I could no longer see through my glasses.

Somewhere, a heavenly Being was laughing.

*during the writing of this post, the number had to be changed from 'four' to 'five'.


August 16
Words: 721
Total: 7,409

Homeless Hang Out

Because Tad doesn't have a job, he's had to find some way to occupy his time and curb his inner desire to play video games all day long. His solution? Nearly everyday, Tad rides his bike to the downtown library.

The Allen County Public Library is pretty pimp. There's a Dunkin' Donuts on the main floor, we have the largest (or second largest) genealogical section in the US, and there's a substantial number of DVD's, Blue Ray movies and CDs that can be checked out for three days. So, it's not the shabbiest place on the block.

But still.

The other day, when he parked his bike at the bike rack and took a look around, he realized he was one of those people. The people who ride their bikes to the library because they don't have jobs, don't cars or have anything better to do all day. Some would call them homeless. Others would call them deadbeats. Tad, is neither, yet he could easily be mistaken as one.

My response to this was less than sympathetic.

"Well at least you don't have to go there to use the internet. Remember the entire summer I spent there looking for a job? Sat in that stinky room next to greasy-haired creepers who are managing to hold 15 IM conversations at once while playing Yahoo pool and chatting with their latest MySpace booty call. Yeah, that made me feel good about myself."

So, maybe I could work on being more supportive and understanding.

In the meantime, here's a photo of the internet cafe I frequented while in Antalya, Turkey. It was always full of guys playing Halo (or whatever their equivalent was) and, if I wasn't careful, my emails would show up with unidentafiable characters, such as ş or ç.

And if I really wasn't careful, the police would come and raid our apartment (which they did twice).

Enjoy:

In Memoriam of the Sears Tower

Before reading this post, I ask that you open another tab and play this song in the background. Thank you for your kindness.

To remember my friend, the Sears Tower, I purchased a Lego set. I had eyeballed it during our honeymoon, but at the time it was simply too expensive. Now, I realize, there is no price tag on loyalty and friendship.


I had Tad play Sufjan Stevens's The Seer's Tower in commemoration. The haunting melody was exactly what my hurting heart needed. I sang along, trying not to cry.

Block after block, I constructed the tower. I took my time, reflecting on the good times we had had together. . . the time I used it to find my way back . . . the time I realized that nothing too exciting happens at its base. I also took a few moments to shake my fist at Mayor Daley, his Irish mob, and Great Britain.


How would Britain like it if we bought Big Ben and renamed it Anheuser-Busch Time Piece? Or if we took Buckingham Palace and called it Washington Place? And where is Barack Obama in all this? He considers himself a Chicagoan, right?

But I digress. . . Sears Tower, we will miss you more than words can describe. You were my friend; you were my brother. You represented everything good and pure. You were the tallest, and then you weren't, and then you kind of were, but then you weren't. You were the newest, and then you weren't. You represented modernity, and then you didn't. You played your role well, Sears Tower.

I will miss you greatly, my friend.

Cue Sufjan Stevens's The Seer's Tower

I cannot believe this is happening.

It makes me want to have a Chicago Tea Party or a revolution or something like that.

In the midst of the economic downturn, I cannot believe that we're having to sacrifice a good, three-decade old piece of Americana.

Please, sign the petition. Join the facebook group. Just go here!

We beat them once, we can do it again.

Ohio-Speak

Location: I-75 in OHIO
Time: Night - coming home from Beth's wedding

We pass a large highway sign that reads:
BELLEFONTAINE
XXX miles

"How would you pronounce that?" Tad asks.

"I don't know. Bel-fon-TAYNE?" I suggested in my best faux-French accent.

"Nope. In Ohio, they say Bell Fountain."

. . . . "Oh, my . . . "

"Yup," Tad said. "Bell Fountain."

At that point, even Indiana seemed too far away.

A Funny Thing Happened at the Gas Station

For the uninformed:

Diesel spickets (the ones you stick inside your gas tank to pump gas) at gas stations are bigger than regular gasoline spickets. This prevents dumb people from putting diesel fuel into regular unleaded cars.

Now you are informed.

11 Tips for when you or someone behind you takes their eyes off the road.

Mary Jane has been compromised. A young man rear-ended her today and now she has scratches on her butt. Silver scratches.

In this fiasco, I found out a few helpful things:

1) If someone hits you and then suggests that you both 'pull over wherever', make sure that they lead the way. The last thing you want is for them to take off and leave you with a broken car. (This did not happen to me, but there was a definite panic moment in which I realized it was very stupid of me to assume he'd follow me into the parking lot).

2) Saying "I got screwed over once" is a perfectly good way to let the other person know that although they may not want you to call the police, you simply HAVE to do it and it has nothing to do with them personally.

3) It IS possible to do the whole "Hello? He- Hello? Can you hear me? Hello? Is anyone there?" when calling 9-1-1. Just stay on the line, they'll start talking eventually.

4) Approaching the police officer by saying "Ok, you're probably going to mad at me" when handing off your identification items isn't the best idea because they don't think in normal people terms and they DEFINITELY don't detect lightheartedness. Everything's business. (Why did I say that to them? See #4 and #5 below).

5) While it may seem shady to be operating under two names, it's totally okay! My drivers license has me as Amanda Luedeke while my insurance card has me as Amanda Heinsch. The officer didn't reprimand me one bit. (There's some kind of 30 day wedding window that saved my butt . . . and, having done the name change thing herself, she understood my laziness).

6) Don't freak out if your insurance card is expired. It doesn't seem to matter. (A citation COULD show up in the mail, but I'm doubtful).

7) It's possible to be hit by a person who doesn't try to weasel out of it and instead tips you off that you're looking at receiving a fat check from your insurance company. And then they tell you to pocket it.

8) Volkswagon Jetta's are indestructable tanks. Would Hitler construct anything less? The radio didn't go whack, the glove box stayed shut, and the bumper said "Hey! If you're gonna hit me, fool, then I'm gonna steal some of your paint!"

9) You can order a copy of the police report online. How technologically advanced of them.

10) Some female police officers have flawless skin.

11) While it's nice to get to know your assailant, it's best to keep talk superficial. Next thing you know, they'll be telling you about how their dad's been divorced 5 times and how they just gave up drinking a month and a half ago and how they wished they'd have gone to school and still think about going every now and then and how again did you say your friend gave up drinking? Cuz it's hard, man. Real hard.