Man, if a country singer ever applied to business school...

"I forgot to sign my transcript request form..."
I got that message at 5:10 today. I had faxed across a transcript request for the next choice on my list, the well-there's-a-week-until-the-deadline-but-they've-shown-they-want-me-and-I-should-get-in school. It's a great school, and I'd be lucky to wind up there. But I forgot to sign the document. This meant that I would have to return home, find the document, sign the document, return to the library, and fax the document.

"...and I didn't get into my first choice..."
Right. So I didn't get into NU. Between finding my transcript request form and returning to the call, I checked my email. And there it was, an update on my status and a word that a decision had been reached. And, after I dug up my login information and navigated to the proper page, I got the scanned letter - "It's not you, it's me," roughly. As I said to my mom, "Odds weren't good of me getting in, not because I'm unqualified, but because I'm a person." It's tough to get in, and I didn't, and it leaves me a little sad.

"...and I locked myself out of my house..."
Right. I locked myself out of my house. The keys were on the counter, not in my pocket. Thankfully, my phone was in my pocket. And maintenance was here in about 20 minutes. And it only cost 10 bucks, which goes straight to the maintenance guy. And he had ordered pizza for he and his wife, so it's like I bought him dinner. So that was nice.

"...and I forgot my iPod, too."
This is a minor thing. But after I got back in the apartment and found my keys, I headed back out to go to the library (four minutes one direction, via automobile) and then to the gym (one minute the other direction, via automobile). Well, halfway to the library, I realized that my iPod was on the counter. I went to the library, sent my fax, paid my two dollars, picked up a few New Yorkers and a few CDs, and stopped home to get my iPod, and went to the gym. I listened to Wilco's Summer Teeth. My run was fantastic.

The end.

Silver lining: I knew that my interview at NU didn't go well. I thought my interview in Hyde Park went well. My read on the first interview was correct. I hope my read on the second one was, as well.

Silver lining, Part 2: Baseball Prospectus arrived yesterday. I love Baseball Prospectus.

I hear from Michigan in two weeks. I have to write a new essay tomorrow night. I'm off to a good start. Three Bills, yes!

I got lots and lots of food from my mom this weekend. She claims it's a great joy - I claim it was a novelty initially, and now it's become another motherly task. I love this motherly task, but I feel bad when I wake up Sunday morning, drive home, arrive in The Ring Fingernail, and realize something like eight full grocery bags and a cooler stocked with produce and frozen meat. That's a lot of food.

I feel especially bad when I realize that she packed the car, which leaves my net time investment of zero (after all, I just got in the car, then drove it), and her net time investment of several hours and several hundred dollars (on food, several hundred dollars' worth, and time, packaging, packing, etc). Also, she paid for gas.

I'm a terrible son. Or at least, a son who is very good at taking free stuff.

What's worse is that I've eaten none of this free food this week. Well, a few frozen fish things, and the salad, and lots and lots of crackers, but I've only had the meat once. Tomorrow will be my third day of pasta and tomatoes for lunch. (Today was fish+peas, which was awesome, and just about always my favorite.)

Pasta and tomatoes for lunch is great, but I feel like I should have something more fantastic, in light of the pounds and pounds and pounds and pounds and pounds of properly-packaged meat I've acquired in the last four days.

Oh well.

Quick thoughts on a weekend, "strictly business" trip home:

- Interviews went okay. Well, Friday's interview in Evanston went okay, and Saturday's in Hyde Park went well. Friday's was with an admissions committee person, and she stared and nodded and wrote furiously the whole time. I got hardly a single good joke in. Saturday's was with a current second-year student, and we giggled a fair amount and there weren't really many questions asked because it was more a conversation about her experience. I enjoyed it quite a bit, and I think I answered a few questions pretty well, and I think I made myself a better candidate on Saturday. Friday, I probably didn't help my case - I may have hurt it, but at least I groveled quite a bit.

- Saturday was a cattle call. There were probably 200 people interviewed throughout the day. I spent the "lunch with current students" hanging out with an applicant of similar profile: I was the Midwestern white guy with the beard, he was the Midwestern white guy with the pink tie. He makes at least twice as much as what I make, but my first career was far more interesting.

- Friday was preceded by my first career trip to Al's Deli, bankrolled by Treem. I never thought the concept of chunky, chunky blue cheese dressing on a roast beef sandwich could work so well but, gosh, it did.

- Interviews are easier the second time.

- I was so darn tired when I got home on Thursday night, and so darn tired when I got home from dinner on Friday night, and so darn tired when I played late night Boggle with The Boy on Saturday night.

- My dad was out of town. Still, dinner with my mom and my sister on Friday was a blast. It's great that she's in town. I'm only realizing now that I was seeing my sister for the first time since...July... That's crazy, though probably not all that different from the last eight years, really.

- I got to see Didi on Saturday, too. We shared a croissant and drank hot chocolate. I think that Didi is going to be a fantastically successful politician in about 10 or 20 years. I hope she's okay with that.

- I was struck Thursday and Wednesday by how many fantastic friends I have. At least three people stopped by on Thursday to specifically say "Good Luck" before I left, and I got a call from another local on Wednesday and from another one on Tuesday, and two more from classic standbys on the drive home on Thursday night. It was great.

- I was similarly struck Monday by how many people up here seem genuinely interested, or seem to be genuinely pulling for me to do well, or who seem to genuinely care, anyway. It's reassuring to know that a) people are supportive and think I'm doing the right thing and that b) they're concerned about when I'm leaving, presumably because they'll miss me.

- I have a gigantic ego. I'm looking forward to not-talking about myself come a month from now. I'll know my fate by the end of March.

- In the interests of hedging my bets, I'm working on a new application tonight. Three more essays to write...hmmm.

- - - - - - - -

As a concept, this is absolutely amazing.

I mean, I know there's a world of wonder on Wikipedia, but, wow, this is, I'd say, the wonderfulest.

I'm really sorry for writing this. But, gosh, "one of the limited number of words possible in Calculator Spelling"!?! Really!?

I can't imagine writing this. Wouldn't you giggle the whole time? I would too. It's genius. I hope seventh graders around the world have discovered it.

- - - - - -

I should be preparing. Or packing. Or something. Instead I'm linking to Wikipedia. Oh well. I leave from work tomorrow. Should be fun.

I did something totally cool and totally manly on Saturday morning: I paid for a beard trim.

I paid for a haircut as well, but the beard trim was clearly the highlight. The smock (What do you call the thing the barber covers you with? The cover?) was basically a brown flecked with white in the vicinity of the neck when it was through and, truth be told, it was about the most satisfying five minutes of my life. Or, at least, of my Saturday morning.

I've determined that the Saturday morning barber shop experience is a good one. I was about the only person there solo - the rest were dads with their son(s), and I heard no prison rape jokes. (The last time I went to this particular barber shop - 13 months ago - I got prison rape jokes over the length of my curling-around-the-neck mop and, therefore, resolved not to return. This brought me to a far-more-expensive haircut at Supercuts the next time and then, ultimately, 11 months spent trimming it myself.)

The highlight:
Barber One: How does he want it cut?
Dad: Just a regular little boy's haircut.
Barber One: [gesturing to Barber Two's occupied chair] Does he want it like his brother's, or would he like it even?

Pretty funny, in a wholesome way, you see. It was awesome.

Also, I got no prison rape jokes.

- - - - - -

Reason for the haircut is a biggish weekend in which I will benefit from looking grownup, clean, something like that. I've got two interviews this weekend - Friday in Evanston, Saturday in Hyde Park - and I'd like to at least look the part. I'd also like to know what I'm supposed to say though, honestly, not knowing what to say has gotten me this far.

I think it'll be a quick weekend - in to the suburbs Thursday post-work, probably about 11ish. To Evanston late afternoon Friday for the interview, then back to Glenview to sleep early. Chicago interview is 2:30, I believe, then probably back home. It'll probably be snowy and awful Sunday, so I'll try to leave early.

A "business trip," as they say.

- - - - - - -

I'd be doing a better job of preparing, but Gurs told me that Wilco's show at the Riviera is streaming live on WXRT. It is, and it's so, so, so good. Gosh, they're awesome.

Last Wednesday, I had my best run in, like, forever. Slated for four miles, it went five, in large part because I was listening to The National's Boxer and the new Vampire Weekend record. Bouncy, fun, exciting, on both counts.

It was a nice-ish night - 25 degrees or so, limited wind - so I made the decision to strap on the running shoes and go outside. It's a nice feeling to sweat in sub-freezing temperatures, in its own way. So I strapped up my high socks, put on two long-sleeved t-shirts (the One Size Fits All free Sports Illustrated shirt, plus the navy blue 2003 TwinsFest shirt), pulled on the navy blue knit cap and my gray semi-warm gloves, and wrapped my neck in a gray bandanna. I also wore pants.

Often, I'll run to The Ring Fingernail's public almost-a-mile track do a lap, and return home - it's about a 2.5 mile trip, which makes for a six mile run or so. But I've not been to that distance in quite a bit, so I drove to the track and prepared to circle it four times. It's a pretty happening track - the complex also houses an ice area, a skate park, a few playgrounds, some basketball courts, a few softball fields, and small inclines that serve as tiny sledding hills this time of year. It's also a busy place - without fail, there are several others running or walking dogs or walking alone.

But this run was awesomer.

Things that were good about this run:
1) The musical accompaniment, as mentioned
2) The fact that, for some reason, a group of about 12 cars and 30 people were gathered in the parking lot, tailgating. Grilling, playing music loudly, hanging out. I couldn't figure out why, but it sure smelled good. It wasn't a great night, but they made their own fun, and it was awesome.
3) Ice on your beard is so cool.

- - - - - - -

The Mountain Goats' Heretic Pride comes out tomorrow. New Mountain Goats records make me very excited.

Ok, so this "three or four or five days a week thing" may be infeasible. Oh well.

I am a 27-year-old dude, and I cook for myself every night. It's usually real food, often involving slicing or steaming vegetables or simmering a soup or using spices or something like that. This can be considered odd.

So, considering that there are a variety of high-quality pizza places in the area, along with a slew of Mexican take-out places, some Chinese, and, I'm sure, several other high-quality establishments, why would I cook every night?

1) What else would I do?
2) Listening to music, singing along, and stirring something is more fun than watching TV.
3) Food I make, even if it's not that good, is more satisfying.
4) They never sell rutabaga at restaurants.

I eat a lot of rice-meat combinations. I make chili once or twice a month in the winter, usually. I like chicken wings. I don't make enough pasta, when it comes down to it, though I'm pretty good at improvising tomato-based sauces.

Here is my favorite thing that I make. It usually accounts for one dinner and two lunches. It did the trick tonight:

2 boneless, skinless chicken breasts
2 red peppers
1 can pinto beans, drained
1 bunch green onions, chopped, top half discarded
Rice, 1 1/2 cups dry or so
1 can chopped pineapple, drained
World Harbors Maui Mountain sauce

Marinade the chicken.
Slice the peppers, long and thin.

In a wok, cook the peppers a few minutes. Add the chicken. Add the onion. Add the rice. Add the beans. add the pineapple.

Serve with Tabasco, or without.

Wow.

However, it needs a name.

I've never gotten on an ebay kick. I've never sold or purchased anyone's soul, and I've never sought out phallic snack foods, I've never even investigated the procurement of reasonable but necessary things like cell phone batteries. (I need a cell phone battery, and quite badly.)

My ebay purchases have all been music-related: Three posters (one totally-kickin' Travis poster, which is pretty uncool, as well as more-uncool posters featuring The White Stripes and The Strokes) and about five CDs were the limit, until a recent kick.

The recent kick has included:

The Jesus & Mary Chain - Darklands
The Jesus & Mary Chain - Honey's Dead
Smashing Pumpkins - Siamese Dream
The Jesus & Mary Chain - Stoned & Dethroned [note that both band and record names include ampersands]

This is totally dorky, but also represents net investment of less than $25.

However, it's very reasonable. As someone who fears file sharing (I'm dumb, and my use of Pando may have led to my computer being virus-ized on Friday morning/afternoon [hence, the lack of a direct link to Pando, which I still believe is a strong service) or, perhaps, is not resourceful enough to do it efficiently, ebay has become my new conduit to fantastic back-catalogs.

I believe that I'll try to get a hard copy of R.E.M.'s New Adventures in Hi-Fi next, and I am still without hard copies of GbV's Bee Thousand and Alien Lanes (Lesson One: Only loan CDs to those deemed trustworthy after several months of acquaintanceship - this would not include first month flaky baseball interns), so those should be on the list.

Also, further inspection has revealed that Siamese Dream, while it does include "Disarm" and "Today," does not include "1979." Now, the fact is that "1979" is the reason I was inspired to purchase Siamese Dream. Therefore, Mellen Collie may be next. Hmm.

I should go eat my face. I'm a dork.

I've got an awesome new shirt. I purchased it at Goodwill. I believe it's best described as "tattered gay cowboy chic." It's the greatest shirt I've ever purchased. Maybe the greatest thing I've ever purchased.



My shirt got no less than five compliments when it made its debut on Monday, along with a very firm pat on the back from my giggliest coworker. My favorite was when I sat at my fashion plate-iest coworker's desk to initiate work-related conversation, and she immediately interrupted and said, "That's a fabulous shirt." I thanked her graciously.



Obviously, what makes the shirt fabulous are the mauve metal buttons. Snaps? Yes, I call them snaps. I now firmly believe that snaps are the coolest thing in the world. I will be stopping at Goodwill again this weekend to see if I can find another shirt with snaps. I'm thinking I'd like a green one.


What makes the shirt "tattered gay cowboy chic" is the manufacturer.


Wrangler specializes in "tattered gay cowboy chic."

My sister is awesome, you know. She's also been confused, or not so much confused, but just abyss'ed. Away, then Chicago, then in the parents' house [I just wrote 'basement,' but that was me], then arts-ing, then thinking Chicago again, then, well, who knows.

So, anyway, last week, my sister got a real, real, grownup job. I'm proud of her. I'm proud of her. I'm so proud of her. Who knows? She knows, kind of.

What's cool is that she'll be doing something that she's good at and, from what I can tell, something that she's at least fairly excited about. And something that, to be honest, can have a pretty positive impact on people, though really just the children of the very wealthy.

See, my sister will be teaching "creative movement" to preschoolers, at some suburban private preschool. Or, anyway, maybe they're all private preschools - this one's of the hoity-toity variety, as they say.

"So, what'll you be doing, anyway, kiddo?"
"Well, on Thursday, during my working interview, I said Move like butterflies! Move like butterflies! Flap your wings like butterflies! Oooh, now we're in the water! What color fishies do you see? What color? Yes, yes, good! Wiggle like fishies! Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle! Yay, fishies!"

See, this is fun.

And, because two year olds learn Spanish at her school, one kid kept saying that he saw fishies that were azul, which is cool, in its own way.

The school is named after the French saying, one that Americans often use to signify top-notchedness. What does this mean? Though they only teach Spanish to the two year olds, they answer the phone by saying, "Bonjour, Creme de la Creme."

My sister will be changing her last name to Cartier. She'll fit right in.

I've lost control of this thing. I'm taking control back. It sits here during the week and then, on Sunday, I spend an hour recounting. It's dumb. It's routine. Nobody gets to the end of entries. How could you? There's no central topic. They're, like, 900 words. Or longer. They're so light on detail - names and locations excluded to protect the innocent, obviously - so as to be incomprehensible.

So I'm done doing this. But I'm not done writing.

And I'll keep writing here. But nobody will read here. But, oh well.

Back when I started this thing, Gurs gave me the idea. He was on his first of, say, four started-but-abandoned-a-few-months-later blogs. They're probably still active somewhere - the first was on NU's now-defunct Pubweb. Anyway, at the beginning, it was poorly-punctuated, and updated several times weekly, sometimes multiple times nightly, and was mostly observational: This is a tiny story of what happened and, because I thought it notable, maybe you'll think it notable. Or, I like this new band. I'm sorry, but I feel obligated to write about them.

Anyway, though I've had other pursuits get in the way lately (you've ignored the painstakingly recounted play-by-play, certainly), I'm going to do my best to write here on a somewhat-nightly basis. Maybe observational. Maybe life tidbits. Maybe about awesome new shirts. (That entry is coming, hopefully, Wednesday night. You'll love it.)

For the record, Jenny has re-emerged in a new location, and she's doing amazing work. She's quite funny, though semi-NC 17, if you're the type who is inspired to click on these things.

So, well, let's see how this goes. I'll stick by my "no title" policy, which wasn't so much of a policy as something I started as a Hey, this is like an online diary! convention. So, no titles.

...

...

...

I don't talk to my older brother nearly enough. He knows this. I know this. What are you gonna do? It takes two to tango, right, and neither of us has really been interested in tango-ing so much in, well, forever. And that's okay. I love him. I think he's cool with me. Whatever, right?

I talked to my brother yesterday. He turned 30 yesterday. He threw a kickass birthday party on Saturday, bringing in eight bands to the land of beer and sausage, and playing bass with his favorite band ever. Or, one of them, anyway.

It was really exciting to hear him talk about the experience - after all, this was the band that played the second punk show my brother ever went to, and the first one he drove to, because it was half a lifetime ago for him. And they encore'd with one of my brother's favorite songs and, yes, he was playing bass with them. And, yes, he did the stage dive thing and, yes, after two nights of playing with his favorite band, he couldn't really speak on Sunday afternoon but, well, you got the sense that he could probably go six or seven or eight days without sleeping and not have a problem. Six-week adrenaline rush, friends.

He's 30. He's got the same enthusiasm he had for the music and the life that he did when he was 16. Probably moreso, in fact. It was pretty amazing to hear.

...

...

...

That took 12 minutes. It was more interesting than my last post, which took 90 minutes, probably, and which I labored through.

We'll see if this lasts. More tomorrow, perhaps.