tangled up in blue

I haven't posted anything here in a long time. Is there anyone still using this service?


But I've been doing some thinking. I wanted to get it down, on "paper."


I have two tattoos. The newest one, less than two months old, is an image of the chicago flag. the other, roman numerals that read, MMVIII

I like the idea, to quote ani of, "tattoos like mile markers map the distance she has come, winning some, losing some." I want my tattoos to tell a story. I want to lie in my grave, covered in tattoos. I only have two so far. With luck, I'll soon have more. Their meanings to me change each day, as everything does. When i got MMVIII, i wanted it to remind me of the hardest year of my life, up to that point. I've lived so much of my life guided by fear, so in 2008 I did that which scared me the most. I jumped out of an airplane. I shed myself of not one, but two different crutches (cigarettes and a boyfriend.)

The tattoo was to remind me that I survived. It reminded me that I could do that which scares me and be stronger for it.

But I also like the idea of tattoos as permanence. All of my closest friends, everyone that is nearest and dearest to me, lives hundreds of miles away. Everyone I have ever loved I have had to say goodbye to. Either permanently or temporarily, as our lives take us down different paths but the wonders of the internet make staying in touch so easy.

I like that if I get tattoos of things that are important to me, that those things will never leave me, even if they are just on a tattoo. I would never get a tattoo that symbolizes a person, because a person can always let you down. But your tattoo is always there, you can look at it, touch it. sometimes you can even feel it.

And there is nothing I can think of that fills me with such sadness, or such joy.

I'm copying and pasting this from my myspace blog, because I post in that more that I post in my livejournal. Those of you who are my myspace friends, go subscribe to my blog. Those who aren't, www.myspace.com/citizengotto can add me! and then subscribe to my blog. anyway, here's the post from last night...


I just finished watching "Across the Universe" and it's the first movie in a long time that affected me so much that I have to write about it.

Which isn't to say it's a good movie. Quite the opposite, actually.

But first, backstory. In high school, (1994-1998, for those wondering), I was a huge Beatles fan. The Anthology came out my sophomore year and from then on, until seriously about 1999, The Beatles were all I listened to. There were a few other obsessions in there as well, which I'll not embarras myself by admitting to, but it all came down to the Beatles. When I enrolled in film school, my one dream, the one movie I wanted to ever actually film (other than a good, scary adaption of Stephen King's "Salem's Lot") was a movie musical set to the music of The Beatles. But who, of those among us who are creatively inclined in whatever way, has never thought about stringing together Beatles music to make a movie? The Beatles themselves did it four times; A Hard Day's Night, Help!, Yellow Submarine and Magical Mystery Tour. To be fair, Yellow Submarine, wasn't their idea and was only made out of contractual obligations. And the less said about Magical Mystery Tour the better. This is the movie that features John Lennon shoveling spaghetti on to a fat man's plate in the middle of a restaurant.

Then there was Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, which is such an unmitigated disaster that it ruined the Bee Gees' career (though it was already on borrowed time by then).

Anyway, I came to Across the Universe a Beatles fan first and a film fan second. But I also sat down to watch it knowing that good or bad, for better or worse, this was the movie that made MY movie impossible.

I never wrote a script to my movie, naturally, and I never even sat down and worked out plot points, so I don't know what my little movie would've contained. I can tell you that it would NOT have had characters named Prudence, Sadie, Jude, Maxwell, Lucy and Doctor Robert. I'm sad to report Across the Universe has all of these characters, and more. There's also a JoJo and a Martha. Sigh.

Ok, I'll concede that I might've used at least one, maybe two of these names. But Prudence? Has anyone ever met a Prudence? or at least one that wasn't dancing about a pole?

I also never would've dreamt of using thirty-five different songs. I like to think I would've drawn the line at twenty.

Anyway, I sat down to write this to get my thoughts on the movie out and I'm meandering.

Across the Universe actually gets off to a nice start. There's Jude, a nice Liverpudlian who moves to New York City and, just like Forrest Gump before him, innocently wanders through life loving a girl and watching history happen in front of his face. There are some truly amazing set-pieces in the early going. "I Want to Hold Your Hand" is made into a heart wrenching ballad by a girl staring lovingly at a classmate, the aforementioned JoJo is given a rousing introduction as he enters NYC for the first time (set to, of course, "Come Together," in another fantastic cover by Joe Cocker.)

Then Uncle Sam starts to sing, and its all downhill. He literally comes out of his "I Want You" poster to sing, what else? "I Want You (She's So Heavy). Then the soldiers carry the Statue of Liberty as they chant "She's so heavy." This is the most literal adaption I think I've ever seen of a song. Ohhhhhhh, I get it. They're carrying a statue. And it's a female and it's heavy. GET IT!??! SHES SO HEAVY!!!! GET IT??

Jesus. Then Bono shows up in a walrus moustache and I'll bet you can't guess what song this one sings. If you guessed, "I Am the Walrus," you get a gold star. If you guessed, "Where the Streets Have No Name," you do not.

But the real problem with the movie isn't it's interpretation of heretofore interesting metaphors, its that the film-maker relies too heavily on Beatles songs and references to tell the story. They introduce a character named Prudence (who, HAHA, comes in through a bathroom window) so that they can lock her in a closet and everyone gets together and sings, "Dear Prudence." Then, inexplicably, that character is gone until the big finale (with a band playing on the roof of a building, HAHA).

At no point throughout the film did I ever care about the characters, the leads have no chemistry, the songs have no resonance to anything going on on-screen. The film seems to exist as one long Beatles music video. Not a bad idea, to be fair, but I liked that better when it was called A Hard Day's Night.

It's rock paper scissors as to whether I will get over you at all.
It's hand against hand and both hands are mine.
It's standing in a circular line,
which is not to say that I'm not also happy.
A happy meal with a surprise inside.
Surprise, surprise here's another bright light in your eyes
Exposing all the stuff you're not calculating enough to hide.
This melancholy that I carry makes me feel so grown up
at the kitchen table doing shots of resignation.
I never thought I'd see the day
When I would I say I give up
and break the stallions of my wildest expectations.
But I do not want to know you this way, surrounded by so much pain.
But how am I supposed to let go of you this way, like a bird into the sky of my brain?
I think I could accept all these dark colors as just part of some bigger color scheme
If it wasn't for that drippy string quartet of sadness underscoring each smiling scene.
Yeah desire drags me right out of myself like a gas soaked rope tied to a piece of coal.
And I'm getting pretty good at looking at the bright side
While the flames ripple on the sand and swallow me whole.

--Ani DiFranco, "Rock Paper Scissors"

Last month, I dipped a bit into my savings account to purchase tickets to see Wilco live, downtown at Millenium Park. I don't remember the last time I was so excited for a concert; probably it was the first time I saw Bright Eyes at the Metro. I remember I'd driven in from Peoria, where I was then living, and bought tickets to the late show that had just been added. And I remember that he closed with, "June on the West Coast" which remains one of my favorite Bright Eyes songs, even now. I'm listening to it now, the guitar picking, the melody, its all quite pretty, but the lyrics are so sad. Almost to the point that its embarrassing, both to Conor Oberst for writing it, but also to me for once loving it the way I did.

Which led to me to start thinking about Bright Eyes, and Wilco, which opened the floodgates to thinking about music in general. Specifically, the music that I love, the music that, at one time or another, got me through a day.

In high school it was The Beatles, in all of their "All You Need is Love" optimism. Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Heart's Club Band is the soundtrack to my senior year. Their song "Day Tripper" reminds me of sophomore year, fudging around on the guitar, determined to master that opening riff. To this day, it's the only song I can play on the guitar. Their optimistic world view, these are the songs that helped me survive high school.

In college, it was Ani DiFranco. Her frantic guitar picking, her songs of love lost and love gained spoke to my new-to-Chicago heart. I was eighteen, nineteen, I thought I had all the answers. For the first time I was on my own, free to know and love whomever I wanted. I was an still an optimist, still believed that I could find that one true love and live happily ever after. Her songs, though, told me it'd take work. That I would cry, I would yearn, but in the end it'd be worth it.

The hall-light which seemed so bright
when you turned it on
is nothing
compared to the dawn
which is nothing
compared to the light that seeps me from me
while you're sleeping
cocooned in my room
beautiful and grotesque

It wasn't until a few years later that I discovered Bright Eyes, all sad and depressed, he seemed to be singing from my own experiences. I was heartbroken and "Fevers and Mirrors" is maybe the quintessential broken heart album. It was written from a dark place, to be sure, and I think it speaks to that same dark place that, at one time or another, we all visit. It was just that I visited for longer than I maybe should have, and Conor's words helped me to wallow. He gave words to what I was feeling and put them to music.

Time, take us forward
relief from this longing
they can land that plane on my heart
i don't care
just give me November
the warmth of a whisper
in the freezing darkness of my room

Its almost embarrassing to admit all of this, I wonder what some of you will make of it? But there it is.

Then there's Death Cab for Cutie. They appealed to me during my Bright Eyes/Saddle Creek phase, but their song "Transatlanticism," is what made me fall in love. In fact, I can pinpoint the exact moment when it happened. It was August, 2004. They were playing here in Chicago, at the corner of North and Clybourn, part of Summerfest (which I'm not sure even exists now that we have Lollapalooza). They closed with that song, dusk had just arrived, the night had that dark blue hue, stuck between day and night. As they chanted "I need you so much closer" my heart swelled, hundreds of lighters dotted the night, tiny earth bound stars. That song, even now, I don't know what to make of it. Is it a song about long distance relationships? Other songs on the record speak of watching his love leave, or is it about an existing relationship where they just drift further, and further apart? I don't know, and therein lies the wonder in his song-writing.

What I'm getting at, or trying to, is that there are these distinct moments in my life, looking back, and there's a soundtrack to each of these moments, these phases.

Now its Wilco. I find solace these days in Jeff Tweedy's words, though Ani has found herself a new place. Her songs that once seemed so beautiful are given new weight, now that I'm seeing them through different eyes. But Tweedy is interesting, he's filled with anxiety and nerves, and I relate to his songs in that way. I've been in therapy for anxiety, I'm becoming more and more claustrophobic in my old age. And its nice to have songs that make me feel just a little less crazy. Which is what music has always been about, at least for me. I listen to music for the same reason I watch movies; I listen so that I can lose myself, I listen so that I can find myself.


with a sky blue sky
this rotten time
wouldn't seem so bad to me now
oh, I didn't die
I should be satisfied I survived
that's good enough for now

the new Wilco record is fantastic. its unlike anything they've recorded, and yet at times I swear I can hear "Being There" or "A Ghost is Born" coming through. it is both of those records, it is neither of those records. it sounds like something that my father would've listened to, nursing a six-pack and a pack of Kool's, in the basement rec-room of our old house. I can hear it entirely in that context. but it also sounds like Wilco, the next evolution in their sound after "A Ghost is Born" (which I was never a fan of, and I think this album forgives it).

that's all. May 15, rush out to buy this record. it is amazing.

I talked to my mother yesterday. She'd called while I was at work and left a voice-mail, telling me to call, regardless of what time of day. I knew what she was going to say, I knew the words before she spoke them.

About a month ago, she'd told me that my dog, Cassie (I've always hated that name, it struck me as a fat girl's name; not one you would give to your dog), hadn't been eating lately. So my mother took Cassie to the vet and was told the dog had cancer. A treatable cancer, apparently, my mother administered medication daily. It worked at first, the swelling in her neck withdrew, she returned to her old self. But just lately it stopped working.

Yesterday, my little brother witnessed Cassie standing on shaking legs. Once again she was unable to swallow her food. As my mother told me this, I started to cry. I was sitting on the red-line train, northbound, and I just couldn't help it. The image of my dog barely able to stand, the thought of her helplessly enduring her pain. I just couldn't shake the image. And it was too much. Finally, it was too much and I broke down. And once I started I couldn't stop. How much of it was because of my dog? I don't know. But it broke my heart to know that I'd never see her again. Every time I went home, she would sleep in my bed. She made a habit of following me around. Once, as a test, I began to walk in a small circle to see if she would follow me around the entire 360 degrees. And she did, looking up at me, tail wagging, happy as ever to see me. My mother cared for her at the end, my mother did what I know I'd never be able to do, which is make that final drive to the vet. She held my puppy as the doctor inserted the needle. I could never do that. I began to imagine it on the train, I could hear myself begging, pleading with my mother to come to Chicago and do it for me.

I haven't seen Cassie in months, and yet I sat on the train, crying my eyes out at the knowledge that I never would again. I barely gave her much thought, honestly, until my mother told me she was getting sick.

But now she's gone. And it won't be the same without her. I don't do well with separation, the thought that what was once is now gone.

I know that nothing gold can stay, but that doesn't stop me from trying, sometimes against all reason and better judgement.

I decided that I'm going to try and update in this thing more, if for no other reason than to justify that it still exists at all.

Today at work was a bad one. Since I haven't been keeping this up-to-date, I should tell you that I'm still at the Melting Pot. still making cheese for yuppie couples and their poorly behaved children.

They've been giving me "on-call" shifts. I'm to call at a designated time and they'll tell me if I'm needed. Now every time I've called, thus far, I've been told to stay home. This is frustrating, because I get out of bed and call at 11a.m. And while I realize that 11a.m. is not what most people would call early, understand that I don't get out of work until usually 2 or 3 the night before, so I don't get to bed until 5.

So yeah, it's frustrating. Today I was told to come in at three, instead of my scheduled four. Not a big deal, necessarily, but again, frustrating. When I get to work, at three, I start on opening sidework and I begin to worry that I was called in for the sole purpose of starting on opening sidework and that my early arrival won't actually mean anything in teh long-term. And then two tables came in. Two of the stupidest, most annoying tables I've ever had in my five years of waiting tables came into the Melting Pot at the same time and I had to deal with them both..at the same time.

Before I go any further, also understand that there are a few groups of people who, it is widely known, just don't tip. Europeans and african-americans are at the top of this list. I really believe that this is a cultural thing. I've had some trashy white folk leave me bad tips, I've had Europeans and African-Americans leave me wonderful tips. Can you blame the British guy for not tipping when, in England, leaving an additional twenty percent on top of your bill just isn't done? Probably not. I'm getting off track.

Long story short, two tables, one African-American with a bill of approximately 140 dollars, one Polish couple with a bill topping 200. Between the two of them, at twenty percent I should've made around 70 dollars. But I made 35. Less than twenty percent of the largest bill.

The reason I bring this up is that these tables put me behind. Large parties came in, parties that went to other people because I'd been there an hour longer and I'd already had two tables. Things just got all fucked up, and it cost me a lot of money.

Because The Melting Pot isn't like other restaurants. I miss the days when I could get three tables at the same time and, not only would it not bother me, it would actually kinda bore me. Three tables is easy, four tables is easy. At a normal restaurant. But I digress. I'll not go into the logistics of it here.

But I got so worked up and angry tonight, I know I did. And, I feel, with mostly good reason. I stood by and watched other servers get large parties and make lots of money while I made shit. But the problem that I have, that I always have, is that in my mind it always feels like they're against me. As though management knew I'd get shitty tables and make shitty money. They're just trying to run a business, they can't be blamed for every shitty tip someones given. But I truly feel, sometimes, as though I'm simply set up for failure. They'll give me shitty sections and give the good sections to lesser servers. People that I know I could run circles around are making good money, while I'm busting my ass just to break 100. The guy that doesn't do his sidework gets to leave early (because he didn't do his sidework, naturally) while I stay late and clean up after him.

And while I know that some of these are genuine complaints (why the fuck does he get to eat a salad while i have to cut apples for an hour???), how much of this is merely conjecture? Maybe I'm reading into things that aren't there?

I don't like who I am when I'm at work. I don't like being bitter and angry, I didn't use to be. But I have this job where it feels like I'm blocked at every turn. I do my job, I do my sidework, I come in on time every single day and they reward people who don't do shit? The people who call off every Sunday because they're too fucking hungover to stand?

But maybe its just me. Maybe I'm not getting rewarded because I see that it doesn't matter. I work five days a week for nine months and it doesn't get me anywhere, so I turn bitter and my bitterness grows and festers and I become vocal about it and suddenly I'm getting the bad sections because I have an attitude problem and maybe it is all just my fucking fault?

whatever. why the fuck does he get to eat a salad while I have to cut apples for an hour???

Children of Men is not only the best movie of 2006, it is the best movie i've seen in years.

I don't remember when I last watched a movie and was so enthralled by not only the story, but by the film-making. Alfonso Curon has made his masterpiece. This is his Godfather, his Pulp Fiction. the movie that from now on he'll be known for.


I can't remember the last time I watched a movie and I just had no idea what would happen next. There is nothing worse than knowing the ending to a movie before you get there. with "Children of Men," i really had no idea where it was going, but I loved it and I was willing to follow the film-makers, where-ever they took me. Clive Owen was remarkable. I remember seeing him in "Croupier" in 2000 and loving him then, and now he is everywhere, from "Sin City" to "Closer" and now "Children of Men." in this one, you're not even aware of his acting. This is not a show-offy performance, like "Closer" nor is it a comic book like "Sin City." His character, Theo, has demons that Owen the actor conveys without ever underlining. They're just there with him, like his keys and his bottle of scotch. Not obvious, but not hiding either. It is pitch-perfect in its simplicity.

there is a scene in the movie, i'll not tell you what happens, but its all done in one shot, which probably lasts about ten minutes. it starts innocently enough and erupts into one of the most violent scenes in the movie, and the hand-held camera, unwavering, unmoving, gives it an immediacy, a frightening you-are-there quality thats unshakeable. You hear gun shots behind you and you almost want to duck. And once its all over, you want to run away, to flee the scene of the crime, but the camera doesn't let you. It lingers for just a moment in the aftermath of brutality. The film makes knowing nods to current events; immigration, 9/11 and Abu-Ghirab just to name a few. This is not a dystopian vision of the future that seems unreachable, with its flying cars and hi-tech devices. "Children of Men" is a warning, it shows us the future that we're building for ourselves.

http://playlist.yahoo.com/makeplay…

i can't wait.

Yesterday as I was going into work, I stopped at Subway. i ordered a turkey sandwich (the special), some chips, a beverage.

after I finished my sandwich, I got to work on the chips. Baked Nacho cheese doritos, if you want to know the truth. they didnt have much in the way of selection. and i sat there, listening to my ipod, listening to Regina Spektor because that song gets stuck in my head, like, ALWAYS and i can't do anything about it but listen to it and dance and sing along in my head and pretend that i'm in a music video. but i'm no music star, so i'm not in a music video and i can't sing so i cant even so much as be in a band, i mean, i can't even sing karaoke. though i like to. its my exhibinist side. how do you spell "exhibionist"?

ex-ib-ish-in-ist.

phonetically. fuck, how come "phonetically" isnt spelled phonetically?

so i sat there, i was eating my chips. they weren't even very good. and i was drinking my cherry coke, which was kind of flat (its funny how its always so sub-par at subway, but they keep me coming back. they keep me coming back with their cookies and that sandwich was actually pretty delicious, it was my fault for getting the doritos, i mean, really, i could've had anything. i could've had Sun Chips if i wanted to, but who eats sun chips anyway?

but i was trying to ignore the transaction at the register, because who even cares, really? the gentleman at the register had just come from the bathroom and look, how nice, his friend joined him. i was at this exact same subway just recently with my friend Rob. i even sat in this same table (hi rob) only he sat where i am. i didnt want to sit with my back against the wall this time since i was alone. though i wish i had, with my back against the wall, because then i probably wouldn't have seen anything.

the song stops and the next one starts, and this one is "Samson" and its slow and its kind of sad and its about Samson and Delilah. but between the piano chords, i can hear talking and i can hear the guy when he says "open the register" and thats weird, maybe he needs? maybe he? maybe?

yeah. it was like that. and i saw the gun. and i cant unsee the gun. it was uneventful, ultimately. i mean, i'm lucky i guess. he didnt even point it at me. he could've if he wanted to. but he was stupid. he turned his back and went into the employee break room and i heard the door click shut and i was gone, gone with the wind, gone like the wind, and thank god for cell phones and 911. and i saw the gun. and i cant unsee the gun.

they say that things like that make you appreciate life more. i mean, maybe if the experience was anything near-death, but it wasnt. he didnt even point it at me.

its only made me jumpy. its been less than 24 hours right now. on the way home from work last night i was scared, so scared, to be riding the train alone and i'm never scared, because its no big deal, i do it all the time, ok? and it was a one time thing. and it didn't even happen on the train.

in my building there are two doors. theres a main door that anyone, just anyone can open, and about 10? 15? feet later theres a lobby door that requires a key. last night as i was walking into the main door i heard someone calling, "hey! hey!" but i ignore it because its Chicago and its midnight and god-damn!! people can be crazy. so I ignore it, but not totally because i'm fast, i'm fast in getting my keys, but not so fast that I drop them, because i dont need that, i dont need it today. i unlock the door and behind me the main door opens and i pull the lobby door shut because i dont know this guy and if he lives here he can call the building manager and let her deal with it. because i just live here and its not my fucking problem, sorry champ. and he taps on the glass, and he says "man, i forgot my keys" and i turn around and I shrug as if to say, "i dont know you so i cant let you in and i dont need this today, because i saw the gun and i cant unsee the gun and i DONT FUCKING NEED THIS LEAVE ME ALONE" but its just a shrug and he says, "yea, i see you" which is good because i was starting to wonder...

and theres an elevator right there waiting for me and thank god and theres a girl in it, and i dont know her either but shes cute and smiles at me and i want to hug her because i need someone to hug, i need someone to not be crazy, but i dont know her so i dont hug her and i get to the ninth floor and i walk faster than i usually do and when i get home i turn around i lock the door behind me. i lock the knob and the deadbolt and the chain and i feel safe, but not really, because i have to leave again tomorrow and i try to feel safe but i cant because i saw the gun and i cant unsee the gun and it'll be okay, it's going to be ok, someday i will have forgotten all of this but for now i saw the