First and foremost, I found a job at another travel agency in town, so that drama is put to bed.  Thank goodness.  A little something that allows me to stay here while I save up some cash and start applying to grad schools.

But now to the real post.  After reading the latest gossip on IMDb.com, I've been thinking about the concept of purity.  Last night at the VMAs, Russell Brand had a field day making fun of the Jonas Brothers because, apparently, they all have promise rings and are not having sex until marriage.  Jordin Sparks came to their rescue saying they are putting "purity" before sex.

Well, that makes me feel like used shared condom after a gang bang.

But not really.  I guess it's part of the whole abstinence craze thing that Mr. Bush has been promoting and the whole "hey, morals are great!" movement.  And abstinence isn't...a...bad...fuck, I can't even say it.  I'm coming out right here folks.  I don't think abstinence is a good idea.  And I'm not going to over-simplify it by saying "all of our problems would be solved if we all just got down more, yo!" or anything like that.  But here are my problems with it.

Firstly, denying sex until marriage is putting this huge fucking wall between you and a big part of yourself.  Sex is important in the development of, well, you.  As a person.  It is so natural and fundamental to who you are to find out what you like, who you like, where you like it and how damn hard is key to your progress as a human being.  This quote from my all time favorite book, Jeanette Winterson's The Passion, sums it up better than I ever could.

"The mystics and the churchmen talk about throwing off this body and its desires, being no longer a slave to the flesh. They don't say that through the flesh we are set free. That our desire for another will lift us out of ourselves more cleanly than anything divine."

Granted, the Greeks were right in that overindulgence is never a good thing, but to put a hold on the complete development of yourself is just silly in my opinion. 

Secondly, what is "pure"?  I don't have the highest number in the world, I've definitely gone through some droughts, but I'm sure there would be a few people laughing if I were to wear white on my wedding day.  Does this mean I'm dirty?  Unclean?  That I need to go through some ritual involving shaving my head Leviticus-style?  I don't think so.  I think I have a wider sphere of experience.  I think I know more about myself because I've had my heart broken, been used and have used.  I know these experiences have influenced me and my development, and I think I have more of the wide-eyed wanderer outlook because of it.  

So I guess it's changing attitudes about sex.  And moderation.  Americans, in all of our gung-ho attitude, have never historically shown much restraint.  We've always been an all or nothing people.  Plato's thinking on moderation never made it this far west, I suppose, and it's a shame.  It's a shame that kids today are choosing nothing because of some whacked out notion of staying clean.  It's a shame that that's what we're teaching.  It's a shame we can't teach them to embrace their experiences, to develop their own senses of sexuality safely, to embrace the heartaches and the bliss that comes as just part of the game and to grow deeper shades of color in their own souls because of it.  Because if they abstain, they may be pure, but white is sure one hell of a boring color. 

Is anyone else (primarily women) pissed about the implications of Sarah Palin for McCain's VP?  That, essentially, women will vote for anything with a vagina, regardless of politics?  Let alone a women in the one of the most useless positions ever created in the US government (hey kids, John Adams said it himself)?  Seriously?  Before, I liked 2004 John McCain, when he was a little crazy, when he was actually this maverick that he still projects himself as being.  As for 2008 McCain, I thought of him as a turncoat and another sleazy politician kissing ass for votes.  But this?  Trying to pick up those disaffected Hil supporters?  Someone with less than two years of executive experience, in fucking Alaska?  Okay, yeah, it's more executive experience than any of the others running, but lest we forget IT'S FUCKING ALASKA.  Call me crazy, but governing a very isolated state with less than half a million people is a tad bit different than running the country.  Just me.  Before, I was mainly voting for Obama because I want to see liberal justices being put on for the Supreme Court (and you know Stevens is just holding out for a liberal president to come around before he retires/kicks the bucket.  You an probably say the same for Ginsberg), but now I'm so damn offended I'm voting AGAINST MCCAIN because he thinks American women are so damn stupid as to vote based on hormones as opposed to who will make the best leader for this country.  Bah, I'm going to start drinking.

1.  I FUCKING HATE WRITING COVER LETTERS.

2.  I FUCKING HATE IT WHEN COMPANIES ASK FOR SALARY REQUIREMENTS.  Job searching sucks enough, you have more than enough competition, the last thing you need is to have such a sadistic mind game imposed upon you.

3.  The Boss will rock.  Forever.  He is the Apollo of the Gods of Rock.  Sixty and still doing power slides.

4.  Should any of you So Ill bastards come to visit me, we are going to St. Joseph, MO for wine, cowboy hats, and the Glore Psychiatric Museum.

5.  I FUCKING HATE WRITING COVER LETTERS.

That's all I can put down for now.  Why?  Oh, you guessed it.

Hey kids.

Damn it all, it was a stressful stretch.  I went home for a bit to chill the fuck out and escape this sad little rut I was thrown in out here in this grand wild prairie (and when you're in a rut, it takes a hell of a lot to pop your head out and see all that's beyond your walls), and that was nice.  I didn't get to see some people as much as I wanted (Alisa, Nick, Dave, I'm looking at you, but it's my fault, so don't feel bad).  And then family came into town from the armpit that is Northwestern Indiana.  They're good people, and I got to see a cousin I hadn't see in three years.  But then.

Wednesday - seven hour drive back home, being an hour from Lawrence and realizing that I had my interview clothes back home.
Thursday - having to buy new professional clothes (which is a shitty ring of hell, I'll tell you what), prepare for the next day.
Friday - Interview with travel agency at nine.  Three or so hour drive to Omaha.  Interview with a funeral home.

And here's the kicker with that.  When I applied to that job, it was right after I was laid off, when you're reeling in a "Holy shit, what the fuck am I going to do ineedmoneybenefitshowamigoingtopayrent aaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!!!" nightmare stupor.  So I was trying to find a gig anywhere.  Now that some time has passed, I'm dusting myself off by soaking myself through, that desperation was gone and I just curious to see what this was all about.  Helping people pre-arrange funerals, selling plots to the families of those who have recently died.  I loved the women with whom I interviewed, and I...really....liked the job.  And then I got a job offer right then and there.

Whoa.

Now, I'm a bit of a wanderer, but I wasn't expecting this.  For the past month and a half I had been preparing myself, even somewhat welcoming the idea of a move, and now it's offered and I realized that I wasn't prepared for the idea at all.  Blindsided by my own delusions.  I agonized about it all weekend, but I came to the solid conclusion that I knew as soon as it was offered:  I'm not ready to leave Kansas.  I'm not ready (nor do I think I ever will be) to be even further away from my family, my home friends, and that Zion of mine called So Ill for an indefinite period of time.  I'm not ready to leave the little life I've built here.  I guess when you're so used to traveling, you come to think that's all there is to you, and you maintain this image of yourself as a pilgrim of life trying to find whatever truth can be found in the road, a place, a person, a fucking rock.  Had I moved to Omaha, it wouldn't have been out of desire or wanting a new adventure.  It would have been for the preservation of my own self-image.  And there's just something...sad about that.  We spend so much time keeping up images for other people, lest we realize we keep them for ourselves as well.  I could go on into the Jungian school of thought on this, but I decided that if ever I am going to find truth, it must first be in myself.  To recognize myself and see myself possibly for the first time the way I really am.

And I'm attempting to do this without cigarettes. 

The internal journey through the rhizome of self-identity is just as crazy as speeding through the tarmac blood vessels of this great land of ours.

Maybe Emerson was right.

And how does one go about writing one?

This question I ponder as I sit with a mid afternoon coffee coming to terms with my procrastination and general lack of desire for doing this thing.  This thing?  Part of the job acquiring process for an independent alternative rag in KC called the Pitch.  Sales Exec.  Yeesh.  I don't have a problem selling things so long as I believe in them.  I really could care less about selling ads, but hey, I've always wanted to work for an underground newspaper, though as a columnist and not a salesperson. 

And it's so good goddamn hot.  I love it.  I love the mugginess that drenches you like desire for that stranger that you...are just...drawn to.  I love the sexy lethargy that just smolders when it may be too uncomfortable to get groceries but I'll be damned if I won't fuck you twice sideways.  It seems a shame to be in A/C writing journal entries as opposed to bullshit business plans when I could be outside and soaking it in.

I might apply to my obligatory two jobs and then enjoy Kansas the way I wanted to when I first got out here.  And yes, Kansas can be enjoyed.  The people and the prairie that throb with life in an ancient slow steady pattern.  This is the way of things and this is the way of things always.  To not see anything blocking your horizon, an ocean of land that makes you feel damn tiny in the best way and the sunsets that are God playing with color like a three-year-old and those rad 108 color box of crayons. 

All right, enough.  I need to finish this, finish the bullshit so I can go back to my place, tune my mandolin and let my painted toes brown in the afternoon sun.  With a glass of iced tea. 

Winter is for deep and committed love, curled up watching Letterman on a Friday night under warm blankets and quilts.  Fall is for comfort and routine, Sunday crossword puzzles in bed with croissants and organic fair trade coffee.  Spring is for the excitement of an initial spark, blooming like the plants.

Summer is for sex.   Dripping, panting, force you against a wall on your way home for the bar with your tongue in his mouth and your hand on his crotch sex.  Bruises and scratches and bite marks.  Hmmm.

Yippee ky-aye-ay, motherfuckers.

that I should be in a similar place now that I was last summer.  Things are so damn cyclical that you have to laugh.

Not literal place.  As opposed to sitting in my brown chair, I'm in Dunn Bros. Coffee at the corner of 23rd and Ousdahl in Larryville, KS. 

But figurative place in that I'm unemployed with way too many options.

So yeah, got laid off because of this grand fine economy and the CEO of our company being a douche bag.  It was a bit of an emotional roller coaster for awhile, but all I can do is ride the storm out and see what happens.  I may leave.  I may stay.  I have to take every day as it comes.

It's a strange world.  And that makes it all the more fuckin' sweet.  I'd write more, but damn if I don't have to piss like a race horse.

So as I was wandering downtown Lawrence and developing quite a crush on the place, I had a realization.  Or maybe just a really good analogy that's extremely personal.  The way I fall in love with places is quite similar to the way that most people fall in love with...well, people.  Let me explain.  Goreville - Goreville is like the first boyfriend, the person you "go out with" in first grade and then you stay together all throughout high school.  You go to the proms, the homecomings, you know each other very intimately, almost every minute detail.  But one of the main reasons you love this person (though you never fell in love - there was no dramatic change, it felt like loving that person [or in my case, place] is the natural state of being from which you know no different) is because, like the parenthetical comment said, you know no different.  And you get bored and scared that you're going to be stuck with this one person, this one guy for the rest of your life, that there will be no surprises and special joys.  So you go to college and you start dating Urbana.  Urbana you don't really feel affection for, but you love all that it brings.  It brings something different, and though you're not madly in love you're having a good time because it is different from Goreville.  Granted, you still go home to Goreville on breaks, but there is always a sigh of relief getting back to Urbana.  But, alas, most college relationships are bound to end due to powers kinda beyond your control, and so you and Urbana, mutually, part ways.  Oh, you're on good terms, you even visit and keep in touch, but it's never the same.  And that's okay.

And then, there is Glasgow.  Glasgow is your foreign affair after Urbana to help deal with the pain (even though you were ready, there is still a degree of suckage).  Okay, so you've been involved in two fairly long term relationships, and now is the time for your fling.  And Glasgow is it.  And it burns you.  Not in the bad insulting way, but it consumes you with blue flames.  You love it madly, intensely, plan desperately just so you don't have to leave this beauty.  You feel that it gets you in a way that you've never been understood.  You feel at home, but you don't have the boredom comfort of Goreville.  You only realize later that it seemed like Glasgow understood you because the fire with which you loved it burned you, a chemical change of the soul and self and it was there for that awakening.  Urbana and Goreville will always hold you to that old self, but Glasgow was there when all of the shit and pain and general malarkey of the past was burned clean, like a restorative fire to the prairies and forests. 

But one of the reasons your affair with Glasgow is so passionate is that you know going in that it has an expiration date.  You love it move because you know it's going to end.  And you are devastated coming back and more than a little terrified.  When you first come back to Goreville's arms, all you are thinking about is getting out of there.  You know Goreville.  There is no mystery, and all you crave now is something new.  But after your initial skittiness wears down, you give Goreville a chance.  And you begin to see with new eyes all of the traits that you loved before, discover things you never knew were there, and you remember why you loved it and see new reasons for loving it more.  But you know yourself too well.  You know that you forsake the roaming, but then you'll just grow miserable.  You've had a taste for the unknown and as much as you love Goreville, you can't be happy there now.  You still have some wild oats to sell, but at this point you're planning on going back someday, running into them at a supermarket, and maybe, if Goreville will let you, you can settle down.

And the good thing about places, they don't shatter you.  They don't break you on a residential street, on your knees on a sidewalk not crying hysterically, oh no, you are beyond that.  You are crying with nothing.  No hope, no passion, just broken bits of your once emotional self.

Give you some insight?

And Lawrence?  Lawrence is the first person in a long time you think you can date.  You're kinda excited.  You're not head over heels yet, but there is that possibility.  You like what you see thus far, and you're definitely wanting more.

Oh, and Nick, no worries about me.  I'm already joining a book club through the library, the library, looking into doing volunteer work, working with an amateur theater troupe, getting together with the local Couchsurfers, and buying local interest books so I can break open this Kansas bone and suck it down to powder.  No halfassing anything.  Do it from the heart or not at all, and do it completely.

I've been hibernating.  Major people detox, and to be frank, I was just a fucking cunt.  So I stayed around the house, drinking wine, smoking my pipe, falling in love with the stars, and watching movies from yesteryear (such as old favorites Tombstone [which I can quote verbatim] and American Beauty). 

A few notes:

- Little Grand Canyon is in the Top Three Coolest Places in Southern Illinois List.  Honestly, it's fantastic, and if you haven't been, you should.

- Humidity really does suck.  You forget how nice it is to walk outside and not be drenched within ten minutes.

- Won't be moving to Chicago anytime soon.  Didn't get the job I interviewed for.

- I love my bike.

- The Dark Tower series is worse than crack.  Seriously.

- It is pretty damn vital to have a good relationship with your past.  Even if it's not pleasant, you need to be able to look at your scars and smile.  You'll never outrun the person you were, so you might as well share a drink with them every now and again.

- I love Ryan Maness very very much in the purest most platonic way. 

- People who don't return phone calls are just rude, and rudeness is not cool.

- You shouldn't assume guilt for things that aren't your fault because chances are you'll have more than enough to feel guilty about in your life.

Well, I need to take a shower, eat a little something something, read a little something something, and then entertain crippled Jeff Russell.  Hibernation is now over.

So I was biking a lovely little stretch of the Tunnel Hill Bike Trail (the northern part between Tunnel Hill and New Burnside) when I came across a wee brown history-giving board that I never bothered to stop at before.  Ah, 'twas such a lovely day and I really had no place to be today, I decided to indulge.  Apparently, it was marking the site of an old town that used to be there, Parker City.  Now, I am a bred, born and raised Johnson Countian.  I've had family of some sort in these parts since 1854, and I had never heard of Parker City.  Apparently, it wasn't that big, but it was a major intersection between two of the different railroads that went through the parts.  The only remnants of the town are some concrete foundations of the post office.  Honestly, if it hadn't been for that, it would have looked simply like pristine forest.  Wandering around what used to be a bustling little railroad town, the hugeness of time became the focus of my meditations.  No matter how important we think some people are, they will die away.  All remnants.  I had visions of Palahniukian futures with people in leather stabbing dear with spears made from glass from the Statue of Liberty, children picking berries from vines curling around the millennium Bean and whatnot.

Is there any greater relief than knowing how pointless and meaningless your life is?  That no matter what or who you do, in the grandness and immensity of time it will die.  This is not depressing to me.  On the contrary, it is liberating.  If anything, it will only affect the world twenty, thirty years after your death.  Maybe more if you have kids.  That isn't even a drop in the bucket.  That's a water molecule.  Might as well enjoy every minute of your "stupid little life."

There will be a story of you.  It will become ingrained in this huge beautiful collective unconscious, so in a way it will live on.  Until this world moves on.  And then, if the story of you exists in a singular case, it will be legend.  It will transcend even you.  Seeing as that probably won't happen, what better legacy to leave those still physically manifested in life's energy field than to have a hell of a good time?

Speaking of hell of a good time, I'm feeling a pot of tea and calling some dear friends I haven't spoken to in a coon's age.  Life is too good.

Whoa, hot damn people.

It has been one mad week. 

Yeah, pretty much since last Thursday, I've been running around like a woman who is completely insane.  All day interview in Nashville (for a job I was offered but didn't accept - commission-based sales and marketing work = the death of Megan's soul), an insane Friday starting out at the cellar and ending under the heart-stopping Makanda stars (refer to previous post), eighteen point six miles on my bike and then an AMAZING day with Mr. Triest and Mr. Jones involving Inspiration Point, Trigg, and Dairy Queen, NO SLEEP (for various reasons) and then job interview in Chicago.  By the time I stumbled into Mike and Liz's Ukrainian town apartment on Tuesday night, I was amazed that I hadn't passed out.  But a brief respite from growing pressure cooker that is So Ill was needed.  Yesterday was Mike and Megan's Fuck All Day 2007, and it was amazing.  After my job interview (which went well, and even though I'm not the biggest Chicago fan, I might take this job), Mike and I did, you guessed it, FUCK ALL.  Eating pizza, watching Trainspotting, him playing a zombie game while I read Dark Tower, and then joined by Liz and my dear dear friend Ryan Maness for tapas, beer, and sangria, it was just damn lovely.  And after a fairly uneventful train ride back (except for the fact that this pregnant woman locked herself in the larger handicapped bathroom for the latter half of the trip), I'm back in Panera, working up the motivation to write some cover letters while killing time before the Sunset Concert tonight.  And so it goes again?  We shall see.  A lot of things are stewin' in this head of mine, with growing dramas here and a boredom that is making my feet itch.  I wonder what causes the swings between my being way too comfortable and completely eager to stay and my great and holy desire to move.  Maybe it will level out one of these days and I'll be able to do some meaningful work.  What kind of meaningful work, I guess I'll find out, but this "underachiever living a life of leisure" business is getting old. 

And I'm doing this without the aid of cigarettes.  It's been one week since my last tango with Sweet Lady Nicotine, and while the cravings aren't deathly, they are gnawing.  It's going to be interesting.

Wow, for someone who does not have a lot to do, I've got a lot on my plate. 

But I'm just sick enough to be totally confident.

Last night, after spending all day drinking way too much caffeine and deciding that there is really no way I can be a sales and marketing person, I was walking down a dark country road.  I had just got done skinny dipping, the night was almost too gorgeous, and I felt...fecund.  Fertile.  Part of the earth.  After all of the bullshit of trying to find a job and getting constantly disappointed, I have centered myself.  And it was direly needed. 

Things in So Ill are getting interesting, folks.  It's going to be a hell of a ride and I'm looking forward to seeing where it goes.

The Fourth is one of my favorite holidays.  The parades, the fireworks, cooking out, drinking beers, it's a grand olde time.  And I'm also blessed with a fantastic tennis match - Venus Williams vs. Maria Sharapova. 

But yeah, the most pressing news is that yesterday I had a job interview in Nashville, and I have to go back for an eight hour thing on Friday (which will probably require me to spend the night - DAMN!).  I can see myself being a Tennessean for awhile.  I'd rather be a Kentuckian, but Tennessee is a fine and lovely state, and Nashville is a damn fine city (though the Parthenon be lamer than the beggars that Jesus Christ healed).  But now that leaving home is getting more and more imminent, I'm finding more and more reasons to say.  I genuinely love Southern Illinois.  She is not overly fancy, quite simple, but I've known her for so long.  No matter where I live or where I go, a large part of my heart will be here.  Deep down, I will always be an Illinoisan.  I just need to figure out whether or not my reasons are good enough to stay around for.  It will be interesting. 

And I'm quitting smoking.  Definitely.  After a few day stint, I fell off the wagon last night, but from here on out I'm on the wagon and staying put.  That's the main reason why I'm writing it here.  I have decided not to completely forsake my pipe, though.  Very little beats a nice pipe on a lovely evening on my porch. 

I'm going to enjoy this match, enjoy my parade, and try to get in a couple good adventures before fireworks.  Have a good one, y'all!

I swear, if they hurt my city, I'm getting on the first plane I can find, heading over and kicking some ass.

NO ONE hurts my city.

My city being Glasgow.

Glasgow is often overlooked by tourists.  It's not like Edinburgh, with the capital, the castle, and having the Old World Charm.  It's not like Stirling, with the William Wallace connection, another gorgeous and more historically interesting castle, and being in the middle of some of the most heart stopping beauty on earth.  It's not like Aberdeen with the whisky (note the traditional Scottish spelling) trail.  It is often thought of as being dirty, industrial, violent.   It's the murder capital of Western Europe.  Gangs and beatings are still common.  There aren't many tourist attractions, nothing too famous occurred there.  But because of this, and so many other reasons, it is the greatest city in the world.

There's an energy that flows through Glasgow that I haven't experienced anywhere else, and a real sense of community, even though it's a fairly large city.  Glaswegians, even if you have an American accent, will embrace you.  They'll think you're crazy for wanting to live there, but say anything bad about their city and you will feel the sharpness of their noir humor.  Every neighborhood has a different vibe, but you still know you're in Glasgow.  The architecture is stunning, but it's not ostentatious like Edinburgh or London.  The subway system is probably the most pointless system in the world unless you live right next to it.  The West End is hip without being pretentious, Merchant City and downtown are classy without completely breaking you, and the South side has some Rennie MacIntosh gems if you know where to go.  It is the home of deep fried pizza, Tennant's Beer, and the Necropolis, which is one of the most enchanting cemeteries in the world (and I should know, because I LOVE CEMETERIES).  The accent is almost impossible, but once you get it there's not a better one.  You're called "hen" and you swoon.  It's the birthplace of Rod Stewart, Craig Ferguson, Paolo Nutini, Billy Connelly, and so many other bands and comedians it's ridiculous.   It's only forty-five minutes away from Loch Lomond, which is one of my favorite places in the world.  It was my home.  You know, when I went over there, I wanted to have a tragic European affair with a stunning Scotsman who would make sweet love to me while wearing a kilt.  I had a few flings, but nothing with a stunning Scotsman.  I had my love affair with Scotland.  I fell in love with the country, the land, the people.  I remember my last day off when I went to the Isle of Arran, the stone circles of Machrie Moor, and almost crying.  I remember going to the Burrill collection with my flatmate Claire on my last day in Scotland and feeling desperate.  I miss my shitty little flat at the corner of Maryhill and Great Western.  I miss the Captain's Rest.  I miss Morello's chips, cheese, and chilli.  I miss the fact that the Partick Thistle football club was actually located in Maryhill.  I miss Woodlands Road.

Yeah, I had my tragic love affair.  I long to go back, but I know it will never be the same.  Maybe I could recapture a bit of it, but never all of it again.   I will fall in love with another place.  But like with any former lover that you never completely lose your feelings for, if anyone, anyone dares to hurt my city like they tried to do yesterday, God help them.  They'll need it.     

I was riding off of my interview in Chicago (which I got called back to a second, next Monday I go) and enjoying being back in So Ill, reading an email from one of my Scottish bosses, Andy.  A woman I worked with in Scotland, Anne, who was pregnant most of the time I was over there, lost her nine-week-old daughter, Nico, to SIDS on Monday.  I don't understand this.  I cannot begin to empathize, let alone comprehend the grief that such an event must bring.  It's not like cancer or another terminal illness, where, though the death is not easy, you have time to prepare.  It's not like a car accident, where there is this huge dramatic event to blame.  It's just a death.  No frills, no fireworks.  You wake in the morning and your child, your beautiful, innocent child whom you anticipated for nine months and loved more than your own life is gone.  There is an explanation for it, but that explanation is so mysterious it brings no comfort.  Saying your child died of SIDS is like explaining with "God has a plan."  Yeah, God has a plan, but that doesn't comfort your pain NOW.  And this woman was one of the strongest female beings I have ever met in my life.  Unlike Tracey, who was feistier than all hell, Anne was quieter, yet formidable.  She scared the shit out of me the first few weeks (okay, the first couple months) I was there, and she had a look that would level you in a flash.  But once you got behind the initial cold and beyond the almost impenetrable East End accent, she was one of the kinder women you would meet in this world.  Always offering advice, always letting you vent when the fucking customers just wouldn't get off your damn back, and a sharp yet still gentle sense of humor, I was so honored to have worked with her.  I am angry at this news because it makes no sense.  Yeah, life is life and just like nature, it has its ways and it is uncontrollable.  But this isn't fucking right.  It is what it is.  But it isn't right.  Needless to say, I won't be making dead baby jokes for awhile.

Each life has its place.  What is Nico's place?  To serve as a warning?  To die so that the rest of us will appreciate life more?  The nine week old version of Septimus Smith (I'm rereading Mrs. Dalloway, hence the references)?  She was no visionary.  She was just an infant.  A wee bairn. 

Oh, book review.  Catch-22 by Joseph Heller.  Not a bad book.  The writing was sharp and devilishly funny.  It's always refreshing to read works that have such blatant disregard for the governing powers, and this book is especially nice because it deals with WWII, which is so often romanticized and placed upon the Greatest Generation pedestal.  Heller deals with it like a war that's being run by nincompoops for all the wrong reasons.  The humor and the satire, however, can get to be a bit tedious.  It was one of those books that I got to the point of reading it just to finish the damn thing.  But if satire is up your alley, check it out. 

Ooh, a bit of variety in today's post because I am writing live from the Caribou Coffee near Union Station in Chi-Town, Illinoise.  I'm up here for this job interview thingamajigger tonight, and tonight is probably the worst for it.  I'm coming down off a cold, I'm going through nicotine withdrawals, and I just generally don't want to be here.  I'm still trying to decide if I could call Chicago my home.  It's a lovely city, but...it may be a bit too much.  Too big, too impersonal.  I just don't know.  Then again, you never know until you get there.  Glasgow was just a lucky shot in the dark, and everywhere I live afterwards will have a lot to live up to.  I didn't want to come up, but damn it, I need to do something.  Sitting around in my brown chair in So Ill will get me nowhere unless I start taking these tiny opportunities when they are presented.  So we will see how it goes.  If anything, I can get experience here, and then move to L-Vegas, N-Vegas, or Omaha when I have more experience and cash.  But yeah, right now I'm killing time before I head to dear Mr. Winstead's apartment in Ukrainian Town to primp.  Putting on the monkey suit, doing the little dance, fuck I hate this whole charade.  Necessary evils...damn it all. 

Forgive me, kitties, for my tardiness in posting.  I was having a time in CU rebonding with some ye olde college folks there.  But it starts earlier.

Cardinal game on Friday.  Speeding through torrential rains to make it to CU.  Drinking.  Helping Ryan cope with return to CU Syndrome.  Providing moral support to Ellie in the shower.  Getting my ass handed to me via Mario Kart Double Dash.  Eating pancakes while learning how to make a Hawaiian sand oven.  Getting thoroughly creeped out by 1408.  Eating way too much at Chipotle, as usual.  Wandering around downtown Champaign.  Reuniting with Nishant.  Sir Ian, Sir Ian, Sir Ian WIZARD, YOU SHALL NOT PASS Sir Ian, Sir Ian, Sir Ian, Sir Ian.  Chaos.

And then the road home, 45 and 37.  Finally saw that gur-oov-ay hippie memorial in Arcola and drove through more rain. 

And a trip to Chicago for an interview.  Do I want to go?  No.  Do I need to go?  Not for the reasons you'd think. 

Fucking summer congestion.  Ruining my good vibe but giving me sexy phelgm. 

Quite often, I think I am either an a)eighty year old woman or a b)fifty-seven year old conservative chauvinistic businessman trapped inside a fantastic twenty-three year old woman's body.  Evidence for a is seen in my sincere love of crossword puzzles.  I started them in college because sometimes while at the CVC there was nothing better to do.  Greg Hawkins and I would often compare progress and whatnot.  Then, last summer, for some reason I just started doing them again, probably for lack of anything better to do before heading to the vineyard.  My mom would often get so irritate at me for asking, "Hey, Mom, what's a six letter word for needle case?" that she would give the puzzle a look over herself.  Thus, the very difficult to beat team of  Peggy and Megan was formed.  And we keep getting better at them.  With both of our spheres of knowledge, we do a pretty damn good job, and we almost always complete all of the Monday through Wednesday ones.  We even have a couple of Saturdays and Sundays under our belts.  Now, this may seem controversial, but we do look up the answers that we don't know.  Hell, how are we supposed to learn if we just sit there and stare at the damn thing?  That's no fun.  But we only do that when we're pretty damn close to getting it and there are only a few clues left in our game. 

But the more you do crosswords, the more you begin to get in that mode of thinking, which is quite scary.  The way you read things changes, and you begin to see so many more meanings.  You also get a sense of the people who do good puzzles versus the people who are not very good at all.  Phillip Anderson, for example, does a great puzzle.  Challenging, but not impossible, and the clues make sense.  Alan Olschwang does not.  His clues are always weird and sometimes he gets definitions wrong, which is just rude.  It's an interesting little subculture we have here.

A problem is arising, however.  I need more than crossword puzzles.  They used to be great, but they don't enthrall me as they used to.  So I'm adding sudoku to my daily newspaper repetoire, and it's intense.  The Very Easy ones I can get done in about fifteen minutes or so, but the Easy one today?  Oof, it took me a bit to get it.  The first few times I tried Sudoku, I didn't much care for it, but I think I'm getting addicted.  I just don't see where this road will end, though.  Will I be one of these people that spends two to four hours a day practicing my Rubiks cube moves? 

It's a dark path ahead of me.  Pray for me, people.

Whewt, hot damn people.  It was an interesting few days there for a bit.

Thursday.  I was doing my not uncommon activity of rounding up people for evening activities, and one of the people I contacted was a gentleman named of John Travelstead.  Around, I don't know, mid to late afternoon, I get a message from him asking me to go to Bonnaroo (huge ass music festival in Manchester, TN) the next day.  Naturally, my first thought was, "Pshaw, he must be joking."  But, with all of the sincerity that text messages can inspire, he assured his seriousness.  Hmmmmm....methought.  Naturally, when something completely random like this is proposed, you automatically think of all the things that are keeping you back.  But then, a blessed thought occurred to me, "Megan, you're unemployed and twenty-three.  What in the fuck do you have to do tomorrow that can't wait until Monday?"   So the wheels of possibility were turning while I was driving to Carbondale.  Met up with classic characters such as Brotha Lukas, Alisa, Mr. Russell, the ever delightful Genaro, and Lauren, purchased imbibements at Pinch, and got ready for a lovely evening at the Sunset Concert.  At said concert, I met up with Mr. Travelstead to discuss the plan.

The Plan:

-Get up early on Friday and head to Bonnaroo on his motorcycle in order to see Gillian Welch at 3:00 PM 
-If we couldn't get into Bonnaroo, bum around Tennessee for the day.
-Camp out somewhere, head back to So Ill in order for him to be at work at four.

And then, the "fuck it" moment.  I agreed.  The adventure was set.

9:30 the next morning, on the road.  Now, this was my first time on a motorcycle, and it was AMAZING.  But yeah, we didn't get into Bonnaroo, we did go to the Jack Daniels distillery (highly recommended), it started raining so we spent the night in Murfreesboro, ate a fantastic breakfast at Waffle House, and made it home.  It was a fantastic trip, and I realized a couple things, the most important of which is that, when I graduated with my American Studies degree, spent the summer at a vineyard and six months in Scotland, I knew that path was going to be rough.  But hey, I am who I am, and I am creative and smart and I will make my way through this.  This way I've chosen is not as easy as being an accountant, but it's testing me in ways that few people can understand.  Fuck everyone else, I'll be fine.

A brief rant.  Verizon is all "We're the best, most reliable network ever!"  THEN WHY THE FUCK CAN'T I GET DECENT RECEPTION IN MY OWN HOUSE OR IN MY OWN DAMN FRONT YARD!?!?!?

All right, I'm good.

Last night proved to be slightly nuts.  One Mr. Tregoning was having a bonfire out at his place, which was enjoyable.  There is this new game entitled Balls that I'm a bit addicted to.  Essentially, you have two racks with three bars expanding horizontally, and you place them a certain distance apart.  Then, you take two balls that are connected by a rope, toss them to the opposite rack from where you are standing, and try to wrap the ball around one of the horizontal bars.  Believe me, it's more fun than it sounds, and I'm a bit of an idiot savant at it, coming the closest to defeating current champ, Ronnie Zelek (who is back in town for a brief period).

After Guitar Hero, Shark and other games I headed over to Krishane's to hang out with my crowd over there, and also to celebrate the return of one Mr. Jeff Russell.  Things were chill and nice at first.  Dale et al including a surprise visit from Virg made it a delightful evening.  And then the guys.  Eddie brought with him a bunch of drunk people, and the night kicked up a notch, with, seeing as Krishane was upstairs for the most part, me being the only source of estrogen.  That hasn't happened in awhile, and it kinda threw me off of my game. 

And tonight.  Sunset Concert.  Sushi before.  And it's fucking Flag Day.  You know, originally when a state was added to the union, a stripe was added as well.  It wasn't until 1819 that Congress declared that there will be only thirteen stripes and new states would only get a star.  So if we know our history, folks, Illinois (becoming a state in 1818) once had its own stripe.  I hope tonight is going to be as good as the vibes I'm getting.