Why do I not think of these things? August 27, 2008

Apparently this organization “jazzmobile” has been around since 1964, when it was created by jazz pianist Dr. Billy Taylor, who, by the way, is still kickin it at 87 years of age(!). But as I tend to fall behind on many things, I just learned about it today.  The story I listened to described this jazzmobile rolling into Newark neighborhoods, people parking it on chairs and forming a somewhat-impromptu concert. Sort of like a block party, but way cooler (unless the block parties you’ve been to trump the ones I’ve attended). Plus, there’s no arrangement to be done on the part of the neighbors, it’s organized by the non-profit and turns up as a surprise to many residents. People have a spontaneous excuse to go outside, sit, listen, maybe stand and dance, chat with and meet neighbors. All this, without the hassle or planning or travel cost of trekking it to, say, Millennium Park, and without the commercialism and irritating people-pushing involved in Chicago’s umpteen-thousand street festivals. I’m not knockin these things, as I go to the Gehry bandshell and the West Fests and enjoy them for what they are, but this jazzmobile is severely awesome.

It really is, just walk outside because you’re all, “What’s this jazz? Nobody blasts jazz from their car stereos driving around nowadays… Am I previous-decade daydreaming?” But no, you’re not, and you now have the perfect situation for actually meeting more neighbors than those you might already run into. I, for one, know a few of my buildingmates, some of the coffee shop folks, but that’s mostly it. I don’t consider myself to be a surly, holed-up hermit either, but there hasn’t been a block party or JAZZmobile getting everyone out and together.

Mobile things are ideal for really delivering, ahem, to the people. With high gas costs, busy schedules that don’t allow for entertainment planning, etc., it’s the perfect solution. Sometimes you just don’t want to plan. Reminds me of the puppet bike in the Loop, or even the meals on wheels trucks, which obviously serves a whole different caliber of need for folks. I think mobile street entertainment illicits a genuine form of surprise and interest. Maybe too, this makes people feel valued to have creative art (and, of course, human necessities, but that could be a whole separate posting..) find them, amidst their daily going-ons, interrupting and inspiring people to re-connect with their surroundings. In the radio story about the jazzmobile in Newark, it talks about the higher-crime neighborhoods really benefitting from the street music.

Jazzmobile, come to me! Or maybe I should organize something similar, perhaps, a karaokemobile for Chicago? A hip hop karaokemobile? Or would people just think it was a car stereo with a bad voice?

And the “wtf” factor this friday… August 22, 2008

Does anyone else find the irony of “nature” being brought into the “daily lives of urban dwellers” by a donut maker even more hilarious than the concept of grassy flip-flops itself? I’d totally wear these, especially if they were given to me free (if I lived in the UK, that is). I bet these are, above all, supremely comfy (Mr. boot, I’m lookin at you). Yet whenever I think of picnicing, the last thing I consider bringing is a donut. As far as marketing ideas go, this one sure ain’t bad, but it seems slightly misplaced. Ay, maybe that’s the point, marketing geniuses? The “wtf” factor? The “maybe I WILL bring a donut on my next park rendezvous” factor.

And, um, these flip flops are supposed to be “relaxing.” When I think of eating a donut, I think of being (a) at the office and (b) hyped up from sugar. Too bad they’re not quite office-appropriate, when I’d most want to have grass under my feet. I wonder how long they last too..steppin on grass is rough on it, to say the least.  Millennium Park, I don’t know how you do it. You have to grow the grass in the shoes first too. I’m already having bad flashbacks to the Chia pet that NEVER GREW (this happened to you too, right?).

Funny that I manage to kill every other plant I own….. Good thing I don’t have a lawn to mow.

To dabble does not a Gold medal make August 18, 2008

(Clearly I’m still in Olympic fever, as a posting disclaimer.)

Sometimes the NY Times reads my mind (is this what they’re paid for–to report the musings of its readers? wait, that’s probably the point, eh..). Watching all the determination it takes to be the world’s best beach volleyball duo or fresh gymnastics champion, I have my envy. To have such a narrow focus of “eat, sleep, train,” and a specific event to shoot for (olympics, NBA Finals, whathaveyou), it must feel like your life has such purpose. Purpose you tangibly feel standing on the medals podium or sinking that last winning basket of the game. Don’t we all want this sense of reason?

But then…after? When I start over-envying these hardcore athletes, I tell myself it’s alright even if I don’t have a medal and I can’t define myself as existing for one thing (diving! badmintoning!). Because I’m a dabbler. Even if this blog’s single focus has mostly been olympics thus far, yeah, I think about (and do) plenty of other things. In high school, I was the daughter my mother could always count on to have a new passion or be fighting for some new cause every few months or so. I don’t get bored. I also don’t have a room of trophies. It’s alright though, because I figure, I won’t wake up when the olympics are over thinking to myself, “What Now? This thing I’ve defined myself through until this point just shut its gilded doors of reality on me. Awwww shit.” (I may, however, wake up on Monday though wondering what other ten minutes of TV a day can capture such attention from me.)

So I can just feel badly for them…post-traumatic olympic hangover stress, or lack thereof (wow all these olympic-drinking metaphors, maybe they should make that a sport next time around). This week I’m still on the swimming (thanks, Mr. Boot!), but I got to re-start pilates again. Maybe next week I’ll pick up the guitar I’ve been eyeing, or think of a blog topic that isn’t about the olympics… The world is my funtastic oyster! Plus, I don’t like getting pruney from swimming too much. I’m too young and beautiful for such things.

The Michael Phelps drinking game August 14, 2008

The Olympics have been in full swing for almost a week now. Due to some ridiculous end-of-summer schedule insanity (must fit this in before it’s 30 degrees again!), I haven’t been able to watch as much as I’d have liked, yet somehow, I always manage to catch what seem to be some of the most significant Olympic moments I read about on the paper the next day. (Notice I said “on the paper,” not “in,” as I read it online. This should be a new phrase, no? I read it “on the paper,” that’s not really, er, paper at all.)

Right, so, if you watch enough swimming, specifically, ones involving the Almighty Michael Phelps, a new world record is shattered nearly every time. My roommate thinks it gets old (see her post here, and its terrific graphic I’ll refrain from stealing). I like my roommate’s idea that world records will become shorter and shorter until they disappear. To the idea of consistently breaking records until they become less exciting or significant each time, I kinda disagree. A good Times editorial today points out, “The records are merely place marks — a sign not of human performance alone but of human performance at that technological moment”.

So, if you consider swimming record-breaking as an example, each new low time demonstrates the ability not only of the swimmer, but also of: the pool engineer, the swimsuit designer, stroke analysis equipment constructors (I think this exists?), and lots of other tools I’m surely unaware of. It’s a glorious amalgamation of years of human progress. Technology combined with sheer human drive, and maybe some good bone/muscle structure thrown in, and dusty world records don’t stand a chance.

Bringing me to: the Michael Phelps drinking game. If you watch any swimming event, whether Phelps is in it or not, you’ll hear the commentators mention his name at least once every 10 seconds or so (and that’s being generous). Depending on what kind of night you’re feelin’, that’s one hardcore drinking game. Not that I condone such things, but y’know, if you’re into that kinda thing…

Boot and the City August 13, 2008

Kudos to my friend Omar for coining that name of my forthcoming book. Or at least a blog posting, for now. Yup, my friends, to those who don’t know (which, really, who are you? everyone knows this slight misery by now), I’m in an orthopedically ostentatious boot. Only one though, lest I really be starting a new trend of Giant Bootedness in the Summertime. I technically have a stress fracture, which means a little piece of one of my metatarsals (foot bone, to those unbeknownst) is broken. How you break a bone in the middle of your foot and nowhere else, I’m not entirely sure, but I tell myself it’s special talent only the booted few can perfect. I’ll have to take a picture of Mr. Boot and post at another point.

It turns out, everyone becomes about 10x’s friendlier when you’re in a boot (and a skirt, making it obvious you’re only wearing one giant moonboot). It’s like that point in the party at 2am after everyone’s had their drinks and strangers start talking, only this time, it’s people on the street, or elevators, or restaurants, during perfectly respectable afternoon hours. (Apparently I think only afternoon hours are respectable.) People say such gems as, “Wha’d you do, kick your boyfriend?” “Man I hated the boot, I had one too, how’d you manage yours?” So everyone has a sympathy story, or wants yours, or just uses it as an excuse to start chatting. Which is actually quite lovely… Giving people excuses to talk to strangers is one of the best byproducts of my having to stumble around in Mr. Boot for weeks. It’s like Mr. Boot and I have become inseparable friends who everyone at this party called the City wants to talk to. It’s…say it with me now…Boot and the City!

(Now, dating in Mr. Boot is a whole other post/novel, which is currently in the works on and being saved for a later debut.)

gymnastics jump n’ bend too far August 13, 2008

I think I’m getting old maybe for real. Late 4am nights now kill me, I can’t drink as much as I used to, I have numerous doctor appointments a month (mostly because I’m injured right now, but still), and now… I think gymnastics is creepy. Like, I found it hard to watch last night, as the Americans were in fierce competition with the Chinese, and the American girls kept on crying, especially after it became obvious they’d only (ahem, only?) gain a silver and not The Gold. I kept thinking, they’re *children*, right? I know this isn’t a revolutionary thought, but when I was younger it was more like, “Wow that girl is only 2 years younger than me and is on the TV olympics..” Now it just freaks me out. I can’t imagine having a kid and at the ripe age of 13, or however old most of them are, they’re subjecting themselves to such pressure–not to mention the physical demands (who can DO these things??). And it’s all so normalized now. The commentators on NBC and such, it’s all treated with such objectivity (whoops, 8/10ths of a point there, Jim). I know that sports in general are getting more and more so intense and over-life-taking, but this sport seems to make it the most overt to me somehow. If there’s t-ball at the next olympics (despite softball having been cut, but anyway), I may hold a protest sign! Wow I am an old lady, “But think of the CHILD-ren!”