Suck it White Sox Fans

GO CUBS GO.

Hazards of the Game

I have a Wii-related injury. Apparently this game will make you handicapped.

If I hadn't had rotator cuff surgery nearly ten years ago I would tell you that my volleyball career is definitely now over. I had to hold my arm over my head with my other arm in order to blow dry my hair after showering.

The game I mentioned above, combined with at least 14 good hours of Wii Baseball and Bowling has rendered me useless.

And I guess I'm not the only one. Current statistics show that 2 in 5 people who play Wii, come away with some type of injury. I mean, there is even a website dedicated to Wii-related injuries.

The kicker is that last night after having a delicious dinner in Chinatown with my friends Andy, Anna and Jill, they wanted to play Wii back at Andy's. My problem is I can't say no to anything and I am competitive to a fault. So I tried bowling lefty.

Turns out, I'm pretty fucking amazing as a lefty.

But now my left arm is fucked. I literally cannot lift either arm over my head. Also, opening doors is tough, too.

There really is no other point to this story.

I have a Wii-related injury and I'm almost 30 years old.

That is all.

When music is so good you want to keep it a secret...

I know I've been MIA lately, but I just haven't been able to net any inspiration.

Sunday night I saw Glen Hansard & Marketa Irglova in concert at the Chicago Theater. You may remember them from a little movie called, Once. If you haven't seen it, I implore you. Go rent it. Watch it. You won't be able to catch your breath at moments, I promise you.

That movie devastated me. It was so good and so genuine and so modestly poignant that I had to keep checking the date on the DVD cover. How could this movie have come out and not everyone in the world be talking about it?

Everyone knows I am a sucker for a good love story and I have to admit, that's what hooked me. At first. After about a half hour into the movie though you realize the love story is absolutely secondary. This movie is truly about the music.

Anyways, don't take it from me. As I said before, see it for yourself.

Moving onto the show Sunday night...

Here's the deal. Most shows I've gone to follow the same routine. People show up, the band plays, people stand up and clap, people leave.

Sunday night was completely different.

The whole theater was silent when they started their first song, "Lies". All you could hear was an errant cough, the shuffle of a sandaled foot. At first I felt like something was wrong. I was almost slightly embarrassed for the band because no one was clapping. But then something happened. The tide turned and all at once I realized it wasn't a silence of distaste or dislike, but one of anticipation and captivation. People were literally on the edge of their seats holding their breath.

As Glen Hansard launched into the chorus of the first song with a passionate howl, "The little cracks they escalated, before we knew it was too late..." the crowd responded like the buzz of a window with a passing train.

By the time he got to the second verse of the chorus, "Maybe if you slow down for me I can see you're only telling lies lies lies...breaking us down with your lies lies lies" the crowd erupted.

From that point on you could feel the pulse of every person in that audience racing with each octave Hansard's voice climbed. By the time they got to the piano build up alongside the strong guitar in the middle of the song, it made me catch my breath.

The energy those two, Irglova and Hansard put off is contagious and genuine. Their rapport is loving and witty and authentic. It's a pleasure to watch. They pull you in with seemingly barely any effort.

Glen Hansard is fucking amazing. The lyrics are fantastic, heartwrenching, poetic. But it's his performance that is so riveting. He plays with such emotion and fury that you can't deny his talent. You know that he's the real deal, not just playing for fame or fortune. It was refreshing and I left the show invigorated and dare I say, inspired?

Marketa Irglova was the perfect complement to her partner's rugged candor. She's reticent and demure and has a compelling likeable incorruptibility. But when she sings with him she comes alive. Her voice is like breaking glass, beautiful and dangerous. When she sings, "I'm sorry that you have to see the strength inside me burning" it makes my heart hurt. It awakens something slow, melancholic and regretful inside of me. Something dormant stirs.

For me the best song of the night was not originally one of my favorites on the soundtrack, but has slowly crept its way to number one. "Leave" really and truly makes you feel like you are running in slow motion, trying to catch up with someone who's already gone. As the song moves toward the end, Glen Hansard's voice grows progressively more out of control, violent, louder. His pleas become more desperate and achingly earnest.

From the buildup to the breakdown, this song is probably one of the hardest songs to listen to. You just know that distinct pain in his voice. Everyone can relate to that deep, deep hurt. I have to listen to this song on full blast on my iPod because otherwise I will cry.

It's perfect.

The whole show was perfect.

After the crowd stood clapping and screaming until their hands reddened and their voices grew hoarse, the band reappeared.

This happened three times. And three times they came back out from behind that dusty velvet curtain and played like it was their last and only song of the night. Of the whole tour.

I can't even accurately describe how good this show was and I know more words than the average person.

Thank god for original artists.

Dear current boyfriends, potential dates, interested parties, and waiters in the wings,

Let's get this out of the way now.

You won't like me.

First of all, I'm weird. I do weird things that are irrational and inexplicable. I act weird, seemingly senselessly and ambiguously. I'm a cross between a romantic obsessive compulsive and a fatalistic wet blanket.

I don't believe that the glass is half full because I'm the one drinking out of the 12" tall glass cowboy boot.

I am moody, messy, and seamlessly emotional. I am a walking contradiction, a caster of stones and careful architect of my own glass houses. I own several and rent out the ones I don't live in.

I don't sleep. But when I do, you'll never understand how. I've calculated the exact temperature in my bedroom to quantify the perfect amount of sleep. I am addicted to white noise and reading in bed. I'm afraid I'll never find anyone who will put up with my odd sleep patterns and insane bedtime routine.

You won't like me because I don't mind little white lies. I discourage dishonesty, but only in certain situations.

You won't like me because I won't keep my politics to myself.

I will be overbearing when it comes to global warming, women's reproductive rights, immigration policy lenience and civil rights. You'll want me to shut up. You'll want me to stop forwarding you emails about the next big campaign. I'll hit send and send and send again and I'll do it shamelessly. You won't like this.

I can't imagine anyone does.

You won't like me because I live more on paper than I do in real life. Because I'll keep my most intimate moments for myself on my hard drive and in softcover journals. This will drive you crazy. It will make you jealous in a way you can't describe.

I'll know you better than you think in a shorter time than you think and this will unsettle you. It would unsettle me.

You won't like me because there will always be that one percent of you that doesn't trust me completely. I thrive in that one percent. It's not intentional, it's just where I feel the most comfortable keeping you.

Also, here's the thing, you will need to embrace my inability to give up without a fight and laugh with me at the same dirty jokes. 

You'll wince when I tell you my guiltiest pleasure is eighties glam metal. You'll cringe when you hear me humming the chrous from Ratt's "Round and Round" while I text message.

And I text message. A lot. More than you can imagine. More than someone my age should.

And that doesn't just go for text messaging. I feel uneasy and anxious when I'm more than ten feet away from my computer. You'll hate that I'm this connected. That I have a desire to be this connected.

I'll check my emails at movie theaters and in your bathroom after our second glass of wine when I tell you, "I'll be right back."

I'll explain that I'm not a workaholic, I just don't want to miss anything.

You'll shrug.

Here's something else. You'll watch me believe in ghosts and not so much in religion. You'll look at me funny when I cry in theaters and during presidential debates.

Please don't also discount my quiet insecurities, my loud stubbornness, and that I'll withhold and disclose at arbitrary moments. Look past my penchant for arguing and my proclivity for wanting to beat you at your own games.

It is possible that you'll learn to love the fact that I always have one drink too many.

But probably not.

You won't be able to relate to my priorities. I don't want to own a house. I don't know if I want kids. I may never get married.

But I do believe in a home, a family, and true love.

All of this will puzzle and confuse you and just when you think you've got me figured out, I'll change.

And this is why you won't like me.

With all sincerity,
Megan

If rainy days breed dark thoughts, then I've got a litter of black clouds.

Once again I suit up, take the stage and play the fool.

I feel like I am constantly in the rinse cycle, whurring around and around and around trying to be free of what stained me in the first place.

And then there is this damned woodpecker, destined to peck away at the same scars until there is nothing left to peck away. It is relentless. it doesn't eat. It doesn't sleep. It just pecks.

And pecks.

And.

Pecks.

How does that saying go?

Go instead where there is no path and make a trail?

In my case, it's go instead where there is no path and make a brutal, irreversible mess of the forest.

Somedays I just can't find my happy.

STOP FUCKING TICKETING ME.

Today marks the THIRD DAY IN A ROW that the City of Chicago has ticketed my car for having expired plates. On Monday, June 2nd, I ordered my renewal sticker online and received an email confirmation later that day. I swear, if I get another ticket tomorrow night, someone as the Department of Revenue is getting shanked.

I am going to write a note on my car tonight that says, "Psssst. I know you are writing me a ticket. You might want to think again jackass because that shadow in the window behind you is me. Watching you. With a sniper rifle. Go ahead. Dooooooooooooooooo it."

I am fucking livid right now. I'm going to make poster sized copies of my receipt and tape them to the hood of my car with a sign that says, "See this man ticketing my car? STONE HIM." and I'm going to leave a big pile of jagged rocks by the curb with a smaller sign that says "Use me".

It's all about the menacing signs and notes, really.

And it's the same fucking guy every night at the same time. Officer Young, Badge #1005 between the hours of 10:30 - 10:40 PM. I'm gonna find you and cut you, Officer Young...even if I have to stake out my car all night. Even if I have to sit on the curb for hours widdling my shank.

Yeahhhhh so you could say I'm still harboring a little hostility. The City of Chicago and I have had a sordid history that began about 67 tickets ago.

Not even Barack Obama standing in the middle of Wrigley Field hoisting the Stanley Cup over his head could make me happy right now.

This is what progressive movement looks like.

Just like this.

Loving it...

Here's what it looks like all glammed up. I'm in love with it. Like, I want to f-ck my hair.