197: out of r. kelly’s basement

The dog has learned a new trick. She can catch popcorn in her mouth. I discovered this while watching “The Golden Girls” the other night with Jacinda. I threw the popcorn, she caught it, and it was lovely. I even made a little movie with my digital camera, but there wasn’t enough light so you can’t see it. Boo hoo. In any case, we’ll be moving on to larger objects like tennis balls and the like. I think we can make a career for ourselves in show business.

Tuesday night would have been a perfect night for watching “Carmen Jones” in Grant Park had I been brought a sweatshirt or a blanket in which to swaddle myself. It was co-old. Damien was shivering in his button-down shirt, and Jacinda was reduced to wrapping herself in the plastic tarp we got from Target a few weeks ago. It would have been nice to have a flask of whiskey or similar, but alas, we had nought to warm us except french fries from Wendy’s. Their powers as such were limited.

I’ve decided not to go back to Tagalog class because we’re reviewing stuff we did in the spring, and the class is still boring. And because I cut class this week, I was able to go home Wednesday evening, walk the dog, and eat dinner with Christine and Sharon before going out to see Jeremy and my co-worker James play at the Hideout. Christine and I gossiped about her trip to Amsterdam (naughty entertainment!) and to Germany (lots of wine with her mom’s best friend!). She said that she got into a bit of a tiff with her travelling pal and that, on the flight back, they didn’t speak. Her friend wrote in her journal the entire flight. You girls out there know what I’m talking about, having gone through junior high and all — if you’re with somebody and they’re sitting there, writing in their journal and TOTALLY IGNORING YOU, then you know they’re writing shit about you. It’s just the rules. Except when I’m taking notes for the flip front — that’s different.

The show was good. A bunch of Chicago bands convened at the Hideout to play one song each by another Chicago band. I thought Jeremy and James were going to play Cheap Trick’s “The Flame” but thank goodness, they played “Southern Girls” instead. Eric Roth and The Silver Schmateez brought down the house with R. Kelly’s “Your Body’s Callin'”. Some skanky drunk guy brushed up against me and tried to chat me up before stumbling off to chat up another girl. It was fun fun fun and then we went home before Yum Yum (you Hyde Parkers remember them?) got to play their version of the Chicago Bears’ “Super Bowl Shuffle”. The crowd was made up of the usual suspects — hipsters wearing holey t-shirts and glasses with thick plastic frames, the occasional old punk with tattooed arms and stubble. I had an idea a few months ago, and it’s nights like Wednesday that make me think I could be sitting on a gold mine: Indie Rock Escort Service.

Need a date for Le Tigre at The Metro? A weekly bud to shop for comics with you? Just call 800-INDI-LUV and within two hours Aunt Jasmine will have a vintage Levi’s cord-clad, vintage Adidas-wearin’ Oberlin grad on your doorstep with a six pack of PBR in their New York Portage record bag and a fistful of gerbera daisies. I think Foster and, if I can convince him, Jeremy would be my first employees. If you yourself are, or if you have any friends who are, indie rock boys and girls who are single and in need of some companionship (or just some booty), I can hook you up.

It’s gonna be so sweet.

I wrote away for tickets to be in the audience for “Total Request Live” when I go home in September — oh, didn’t I tell you? I’ll be in New York the first week of September. Those of you in the area would be wise to come hang out and fete my presence in the city. Although, Patrick, if you came in from Connecticut, I could buy you a belated birthday drink. Anyway, I can’t have the tickets because I am too goddamned old to be in the audience (16-24 is the preferred range). What are they afraid of — my aged-in-a-barrel sense of irony? My fashion sense? My refusal to scream immediately upon sighting Korn or Avril Lavigne? Oh well.

Keep those dream interpretations coming in. Kathy Stell is first in the running — grand prize is a pan of my famous brownies and a copy of one of the following books:

Judy Blume, Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret

Sue Townsend, The Adrian Mole Diaries

Jackie Collins, The World Is Full of Divorced Women

I’ll announce a winner next Friday. Oh, and who would be up for some Elvis karaoke next Friday? A show of hands, please, and enjoy the rest of your weekend.

Smooches,

Jasmine

*playlist*

James Brown – Superbad Pts. 1 & 2; Elvis Presley – Stuck On You; The Strokes – New York City Cops; The Roots – Thought At Work; Michael Galasso – Angkor Wat Theme 1; The Beatles – Here, There, and Everywhere; The White Stripes – Your Southern Can Is Mine

*links*

http://www.scifi.com/scifiwire/art-tv.html?2002-08/08/11.00.tv

http://www.nandotimes.com/healthscience/story/493710p-3938506c.html

http://www.jimmychoo.com

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~ by Jasmine on August 9, 2002.

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