Zing.

When you are engulfed in essays.

Take any former white hat wearing i-banker you seen on the street (like that one over there), spout off an insulting remark about Dave Matthews Band (I hear "Typical Situation" is about litter box odor), and you will most likely get some defensive response about how they were listening to Remember Two Things before anyone else knew how to trip a billy. Or whatever.

That is kind of like my love for David Sedaris... at least I would like to think. Although I only faintly remember his SantaLand Diaries on NPR, my friends and I were plowing through his essays in high school when everyone else was reading the TV Guide description of the next Dawson's Creek episode. And while my adolescent dorkdom resulted in a few too many practices I'd rather not divulge, I am proud of our foresight and good taste.

By the time he came to Omaha my junior year of college, I already felt akin to him, even though he wouldn't know me from adam or any of the 300 college students clamoring to have their copies of Naked signed. (Or cookies. My friend Keith, not having a book with him, instead presented DS with a stale chocolate chip frisbee from Java Jay, which he graciously signed.)

During my last game of Run and Buy a Book from the Borders By the Bus Stop Before the Bus Comes, I bought "When You Are Engulfed in Flames" and finished it this weekend. Maybe my perspective has been skewed by time or jaded by personal experience, but this may very well be my favorite one of his books to date. I think I was getting tired of anecdote after anecdote and needed some larger life lesson to cling to... something grittier, even if it too came in anecdote form. WYAEIF waffles between stories from his childhood, adolescence and adulthood (the bulk of the book) with purpose and intensity. And while I could finish up one of his earlier collections and feel a connection to David Sedaris at 10 or 16 or 21, I now feel like I understand the David Sedaris of today. I'm more of a recommender than a reviewer, so if I keep speaking to the subject, I will end up sounding like a hack. Long story short, the book is worth the time and hardcover price - IMHO. That's technology speak for In My Humble Opinion. In exchange for that nugget, give the book a try. If you don't enjoy it, I'll take your copy for posterity. I think I left mine at the airport.

bat dance.

Normally I'm a bit put off by a super summer blockbuster media onslaught. But I make exceptions for things that totally kick ass.

Domino's Gotham City Pizza bullshit aside, I think the viral and guerrilla-style advertising for The Dark Knight is really smart and fun. I've seen bumper stickers around town, and know a handful of dudes who not only registered to vote in the Gotham City mayoral race, but also subscribe to the Gotham Times. (For real!)

I'm not even a comic nerd, but I will totally nerd out for impeccably-executed hype. See you at the midnight show!

Paper Snowflakes

Last night I saw Son Ambulance at Schubas. The only other time I've seen them was probably 2005ish, when they played a free show at the Joslyn for art patrons, local fans and anyone else who wandered in off the street looking for air conditioning and/or macaroni art projects. And at the time, I was too busy painting a rudimentary self portrait with a group of more talented five-year-olds to pay close attention. Anyway, this time the audience was more intimate, slightly older, and with two beers and no dinner, the buzz probably added a little something as well. All in all, the show was good. Not great, mostly because it took them awhile to catch their stride and get into things, and the set ended soon thereafter. The band itself is awesome, and I'm not just saying that as a former Omahan. But... for the sake of full disclosure, the lead singer used to live across the street from me on Dewey Ave., in that big, crumbling mansion full of hipsters, vagrants and hipstervagrants.

In other news...
This morning I left a frozen veggie burger in a plastic bag somewhere in the apartment. I'm not sure where, and I'm already dreading the day I go to throw away a q-tip and find it decaying beneath the bathroom sink.

I'm treating this like my regular blog, so maybe I'll post it in my regular blog as well. (If you're reading my regular blog, it means you're reading the copied and pasted but no less authentic version.)

I have never wanted to be where I currently am less than I do today.

Pitchfork is this weekend. If you're in Chicago, you should go and hang out with my sister. You will have to be comfortable with the fact that I'm living vicariously through you (it's a pretty painless process).


Annie and I, along with a few other rather rad people, are traveling from our respective cities to KC this weekend to celebrate the nuptials of John and Monica. There are also plans to drink, reminisce, make mistakes and reminisce some more about mistakes recently made. Hopefully we'll return with stories and actual blog posts, because I'm feeling like a cock tease for hinting at good things to come.

TGIF.

I think we sort of have a tentative structure in place, but I'm going to go out on a limb and make Friday a free for all.

Shamille is currently on a plane to Chicago, her first motivation being to see me (at least I'd like to think), and her second to attend Chicago's Irish Fest. She has a friend in the band Bua, one of the featured festival performers. And I'll take any opportunity to drink heavily and break out a rusty slip jig (in that order).

Anyway, if you're in the Chicago area, you should check it out .

To get you in the mood, here's a video of Mundy performing Galway Girl. I ran the Bastille Day 5K in some sort of midwestern hurricane last night, and the only thing that kept me from taking cover under a parked car or hopping on the nearest bus was this song on repeat.

Cleaning house.

Hey guys,
Guy.
Fan. Singular.
Mom?
Whoever still reads this blog...

In addition to various title iterations, Get Out of My Dreams and Into My Blog has suffered some serious neglect over the past few months. Both parties involved are somewhat responsible, although I have to say I made a pretty valiant effort toward the end. But when you're contending with life and all of its various events, trying to sufficiently entertain the masses just isn't a priority.

However, we're back in action. In need to a creative outlet. Amassing recommendations, anecdotes and humorous tidbits to be passed on for casual enjoyment and intellectual betterment.

Starting sometime in the very near future (Today? Tomorrow? Sunday afternoon? The excitement lies in the uncertainty!), we're going to return triumphantly, blogging the shit out of the internet in a more organized, regularly updated fashion.

Hold on to your hats.

Best,
Catmoe and Annie

a koozie off!

Happy summer! In celebration, a tribute to the cold keeper of delicious beverages:

If the world ended now, I'd be left only mildly unsatisfied.

I know SNL is militant about keeping its shorts off YouTube, so this will probably be gone within the next five minutes or so. But still, I couldn't resist. I could lie and say I'm posting it because it's funny (although it is... funny), but in reality, it's because it features Jason Sudeikis playing John Krasinski. And in my celebrity crush world, that's pretty much the equivalent of the rapture. If you're having trouble following, pretend for a moment that your two favorite foods are cottage cheese and buffalo wings. (If you're lactose intolerant or a vegetarian, you're going to have to work with me here - suspend reality for the sake of my bad analogy.) Anyway, imagine the subsequent invention of buffalo wings battered in cottage cheese. That is what this is like.

I'm A-Runnin'

My friend Scott recently informed me that long before the cigarettes, chocolate milk and sequined suits, Rufus Wainwright was a Canadian child star. Scott found this out while watching Tommy Tricker and the Stamp Traveler, although I have yet to find out why he was watching that movie in the first place. Because I'm too lazy to go the IMDB route, I can only assume that the movie centers around the world of Canadian mall kiosk workers and the mischevious children who exist to foil any successful sales of wind chimes and fresh produce. (Examine the kiosk I'm referring to and let me know if you agree with me - she's either selling produce or baked goods, and either way, that's nothing you'd find at an American mall. We tend to stick to roasted chestnuts and Proactiv Solution).

I blogged.

In my blog.
http://itsourtimeontheedge.blogspot.com/

We must blend into the choir; sing ecstatic with the whole...

I went to see Funny Games on Wednesday night, and while I'm really not ready to talk about my experience yet (my heart is nearing its fourth and final trauma-induced attack), I engaged in my usual post-movie IMDB stalking rampage yesterday afternoon. I was familiar with nearly everyone in the movie except for Brady Corbet who, aside from various episodes of "24," appears in the video for the Bright Eyes song, "At the Bottom of Everything." It also features his Thirteen costar Evan Rachel Wood. And in my humble opinion, it's pretty great. I realize I'm a late-adapter in some arenas, so if you saw this a few years ago, good job. I guess I was too busy trolling IMBD... memorizing the middle names of the cast of Norbit.

Ponder.

Is it just me, or do the kids from Vampire Weekend seem like they'd be enormous pricks? Maybe it's the sweaters . Or maybe I'm just old .

the future is now.

An exchange via text message:

Feb 29, 11:25 am:
Do u know of anyone eles that will have sex with me.
Who is this?

Feb 29, 12:16 pm:
Sorry wrong number.
Good luck!

Feb 29, 12:21 pm:
Thanks. Are u cute?
No. Im actually horribly disfigured but hey! Life is still good! Happy leap day.

Feb 29, 12:24 pm:
u too.

If you ever miss Omaha, just light some incense and turn on Rilo Kiley. It's like a time machine.

Most heartwarming text ever. Thanks co-blogger.

Payday.

On the days I receive a paycheck (however few and far between they may seem), I pay my bills, buy big ticket items (a $300 Second City class, a $12 ticket to see Tilly and the Wall) and wage small mental battles over the purchase of other frivolous things. Case in point: I will now spend the rest of the day debating whether or not I should purchase this .

Jan 28 - you're starting a new job today - w4w (Portland, Chicago, my heart)

saw you over the weekend when you shared my air mattress. we ate chipotle together (twice!!!!#?!!) i remember you mentioning, as you gracefully picked up dog feces from my floor, that you were starting a new job today. knock 'em dead. they are lucky to have you on board. let me know how it went. and tell me what color parka i was wearing.

Cheetah Gym smells like teen spirit.

I'm sure this special has been running for weeks now, and that, despite incessant television watching, I've just managed to miss every airing. But last night at the gym, I found myself enraptured by VH1's 100 Greatest Songs of the 90s. I'm just guessing on the premise (I started watching about a quarter of the way in), but I'm pretty sure it involved counting down the 100 greatest songs of the 90s.

While I am a child of the 90s, I'm going to go ahead and admit that a good chunk of the decade is pretty much null and void for me, at least as far as music goes. When you're ten years old and chubby, living on a strict diet of Blueberry Pop-Tarts, Deviled Ham and Family Matters reruns, raised under the concerned gaze of intelligent yet unfailingly Catholic parents who, due to their decision to start a family later in life, have little knowledge of pop culture and a mounting fear of its corruptive powers, there isn't much world outside of the one created for you. If I listened to the radio, it was almost always an oldies station. I was lucky if my mom's grab bag of AM stations produced anything from the 60s or 70s, as most of it consisted of crackly 40s gems about bringing soldiers home and... that's about it.

As a result, virtually every other song featured on VH1's special was lost on me. Everything before '94 was fascinating, but unfamiliar. However, every time a song was discussed that I did know, a flood of nostalgia prompted me to run a little faster and a little longer, ignoring the sharp pains in my left leg, powered by memories of listening to the Spin Doctors in art class while I decoupaged George Bush's face on a fishbowl, playing capture the flag while Lightning Crashes played on repeat, roller skating while older, more experienced skaters who could make it around the rink more than once without having to roll themselves into the nearest wall glided backwards to 2 Legit, sitting at my cheap drafting table, doing homework by Bath & Body Works candlelight and listening to Tuesday Night Music Club...



I remember slow dancing to Breathe and realizing that boys have an oddly distinct smell, even through boutonnières and ill-fitting suits, finding my place in the back of a blue mini-van while Mo Money Mo Problems took us halfway to school, learning to drive and making Can I Get A... the lead on our soundtrack of Freedom Songs (note: soundtrack also featured a great deal of Indigo Girls, who were oddly absent from said survey).



Anyway, there's no point really. Just taking another moment to revel in a pretty decent decade. Although I spent the first third of it hoping Bing Crosby would win the Best New Artist Grammy, the rest of it shaped my coming of age, whatever that amounted to be. And I still enjoy a good beer buzz early in the morning.

ALSO: By way of Gawker, and so completely related to the subject matter above, I would like to take 1992 The Party to the people of Chicago and Omaha. Who's with me? (Scroll down on the MySpace page for the explanatory NYT article)

Here in Chicago, the college button has been pushed.

It's amazing how a relative heat wave (temps pushed 55 degrees today) really brings out the people. I haven't seen my neighborhood this... populated since I moved, back at the beginning of November. I'm trying to relish the ability to walk from place to place hatless, with my head high and alert and warm, my pace slightly more leisurely. I'm sure this will only last for another day or so...

So. No more false promises. A return to blogging is imminent. I'll probably post the Annie-related thoughts here and the less interesting, personal meanderings here: http://itsourtimeontheedge.blogspot.com (still figuring out how technological geniuses add hyperlinks)

I'm going to go ahead and attribute the extended hiatus due to a lack of interesting happenings. Life post-move has been chaotically lonely. And while I doubt the rate of intriguing stories is going to pick up any time soon, I vow to make things interesting, even if it requires a certain amount of exaggeration. And, in addition to being good at Swiffering and showering, I'm a pretty decent exaggerator.

This is where I live. Well, above the store pictured. If you look closely, you can see me on the back porch, basking in the gently wafting aroma of Chipotle's refuse and throwing rocks at rats.