Chimera

Friday night I went to Blockbuster with Rebecca, and who we saw will forever remain engrained in our memories. The man had red eyes and languid speech; his walk was torpid, and his hair reminiscent of a duck. He took about 20 minutes to sign me up for a membership, a process which I suspect should take closer to five so as not to awkwardly engage the patron. He remarked on how good of a movie The Wackness is about three different times, each time with the same praise, verbatim: “That’s a really good movie.” I think the best part of the ordeal was his name. His name was Sergz. 

I don’t really know what you have to be to call yourself Sergz. Anyway, I had a difficult time pronouncing it in my head. I’m pretty sure Sergz was a little into me, if only because he insisted on staring and saying thank you fifty-seven times. Sergz is a kind I’ve never known. His eyes burned red. I think I got a migraine just looking at him.

He lives on a universe tangent to mine, existing only in the lonely Blockbuster. I think I’m in love with you, Sergz. I love you and the unhealthy amount of weed you probably consume. I love you and your complete apathy for everything that wasn’t your vehement plaudits of some movie. Sergz, I love you.

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P4K 7/21Down 2 Fork: OH MY GOD BASED GOD + The Rest of the Fest

Yes, I did plagiarize “down to fork” from the Chi Trib’s Red Eye, but I hate the Chi trib.

The rough draft for this post was something along the lines of “LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B OH MY GOD BASED GOD LIL B LIL B LIL B WOO WOO WOO WOO WOO WOO WOO WOO LIL B #COOKIN WOO #VERYRARE #RARE ULTRA RARE WOO WOO WOO LIL B WOO WOO” but then I made some minor grammatical changes, and what ensues is the final copy.

You know what they say: Sunday, funday. What happened on Friday was a nightmare compared to Sunday. Actually, no. Friday had its nightmarish moments in its own right. Anyway, by Sunday, my blisters had multiplied (shout out to working extra hours on Saturday with my organization!). I’m convinced it takes true talent to grow blisters WITHIN other blisters. Needless to say, my 25 minute walk to Union Park was unnecessarily long and  excruciatingly painful.

I was asked to work at the sound board for the red stage. Do you know whose stage was the red stage? LIL B’s. My gig entailed handing water bottles out to people from the comfort of my seat and its immediate area; the rest of the time I watched acts on either the red or green stages (because I had a perfect view of each). First I saw Tree. I had read earlier that he “[felt] good. [looked] good.” but I didn’t quite anticipate that he and his crew would look dapper as fuck. They walked onto the green stage wearing black dress pants (though Tree wore khakis) and white button ups with ties (and a blouse for the fine lady with the killer vocals). He was loud and all over the place, and I mean this in the purest way possible. His set was fucking awesome. Much to my dismay, he didn’t bring in my boy Danny Brown to join him, but he still totally owned and represented all the badassness that I love about Chicago.

Next was Foxygen on the red stage. My first thought was “great. Now I have to hear some folk indie shit after this gangsta-as-hell rap set.” Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for ~indie folk punk grunge alternative~ thingys, but not really after I listen to cold, hard, honest-to-god soul trap. They played this weird, mellow Bob Dylan-esque, lemonade-listening songs. It was way chill, or they might prefer, judging by how they looked, that I say something like “totally gnarly, brah. Absolutely radical, dude. Cowabunga.” It was peaceful and kinda perfect for just relaxing in the sun, which as it turns out, was exactly what I felt like doing. I had forgotten to put sunscreen on my face, but lucky for me, I only burned/tanned half of my face (AGAIN. THE SAME SIDE) because my enormous hair shaded the other side (GOD DAMN YOU COW LICK!!!!!!!!!). Furthermore, because I am very skilled in the art of logic and sense, I put on my glasses (of the non-sun persuasion), so I ALSO got a bitchin’ cat-eye frame tan. More importantly, I will definitely be checking out Foxygen’s albums.

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Next I saw the one, the only… K I L L E R  M I K E. It was hard to grasp that fact that this individual was actually in my presence. I thought I was excited to see him, but the 40-something year old punk librarian who was volunteering with me damn near pissed his pants. I’m not talking trash about him or anything. On the contrary, I thought it was kind of adorable how happy he was to see KILLLAAAA. I learned a thing or two about Mr. Killer, but the most relevant are that he smokes weed and goes to strip clubs with his wife. I want a Killer relationship what the fuck?

Following was El-P on the adjacent stage. Naturally, Killer Mike showed up and practically performed for the entirety of El-P’s set with him. I wasn’t sure what to expect because I don’t listen to much of El-P, but he was kinda phenomenal. I think the duo did an  great job with Run the Jewels. You should give it a listen. I don’t have too much else to say about this performance because I was counting down the seconds for my shift to be over (at 4) so I could go to be elusive blue stage eleven miles away to see Waxahatchee.

Eventually, after hours and hours and hours of treading through the swarms of sweaty girls with flower crowns and dudes who thoughtlessly wore button-up shirts, I made it to Waxahatchee. The crowd was an amalgam of skinny white girls straight out of Forever 21 and a few guys who had the “I’m too obscure for you” face. It was so awesome. I didn’t get very far into the crowd before I realized that I didn’t really want to be there and that Katie Crutchfield is too sad for me. I once listened to Cerulean Salt and cried for 45 days straight. Then I  was all like “ok I’ll listen to American Weekend” and I’m still crying about it– I probably listened to that like four months ago. The music itself was nice if I drowned out all the words with happy thoughts, but the crowd was unforgiving, so I was glad when the set finished about ten minutes after I got there. Thank you but no thank you. I don’t cry in public and the last thing I need is some Holier Than Thou asshole rolling his eyes at me.

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Did I feel weird at Pitchfork because I was wearing running pants and running shoes? Yes. I commend the girls who wore their bikinis with (or without!) shorts because most people, I guess, envisioned an underground fashion show because I saw gorgeous dresses paired with fucking heels. I mean, it’s not my problem at all, AT ALL, but I certainly did not feel bad for the homegirls who looked somewhat troubled while walking on BUMPY GRASS.. AT THE FESTIVAL GROUNDS. The only thing I could feel was: “????????” As for the guys, well, it was very divided. There was a faction of dude-bros who wore no shirts or tanks/tshirts and shorts and converse and who looked drunk and happy and there was this other faction who, like many girls, wore fashionable attire to an all-day, sunny, late July event at a park. There were the aforementioned guys in button-ups, guys who wore overalls and gladiator sandals, guys (unsure of preferred pro/nouns) in dresses (no shame, but again…DRESSES AT PITCHFORK????), guys in all black because they gotta look punk as fuck everywhere they go, and well, I could go on, but I won’t. I should have ditched the running pants and worn a bathing suit, but I shall save this idea for next year.

This was my first year at P4k, and it was a success. As you definitely know because you definitely read the previous post, Friday I met up with my friend, but Sunday I went alone. I was concerned because I had thought I would have to awkwardly stare at my phone so as not seem lonely, but the event turned out to be 1. too busy and AWESOME to really use my phone 2. very friendly. The volunteers I worked with were VERY COOL. We talked about Murakami, DFW, Franzen, sci-fi, Chicago bookstores, where we work/volunteer(/intern), why we hate R. Kelly but can listen to Bump ’n’ Grind like no one’s bidness, Pissed Jeans, clavicle-long beards, and Tunisia. Shout out to Lindsey, Katie, Dan and Jeremy. I think I’m forgetting someone.

Oh right

OH MY GOD BASED GOD YOU CAN FUCK MY BITCH BASED GOD #SWAG #BITCHESONMYDICKCUZILOOKLIKEJKROWLING #WOO WOO WOO WOO WOO I LOVE #YOU THANK YOU BASED GOD

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So after the failed Waxahatchee episode, I walked back towards the red stage and sat down for a while before submitting myself to the growing crowd for Lil B. Before I actually got up, however, I asked myself why the hell I wanted to be surrounded by thousands of people who like Lil B. One or two people, yes, definitely. Five thousand? Probably not. Too many people who like Lil b = too many people who are like me = too many people who are obnoxious = bad. Slipknot, however, said it more eloquently: PEOPLE=SHIT.

Actually, I don’t ever want to be more than a foot closer to anybody in this world after Lil B for two reasons: 1. people were all up IN my grill trying to get closer to the stage, and when the set finally started (TYBG), all the white people of the world came together to #cook and elbowed me in the ribcage and spine like it was their last day on Earth. It was weird for me because I finally realized that for every black person who listens to Lil B, there are five hundred million white people. Or maybe this observation was skewed because tickets were $5o dollars per day, and I guess only the People of the Suburbs can afford that and not disenfranchised minorities (thanks politics!). 2. I TOUCHED BASED GOD SO I CAN NEVER TOUCH ANYTHING OR ANYONE EVER AGAIN BECAUSE IT/THEY ARE UNCLEAN AND UNWORTHY OF MY HAND THAT I WILL NEVER WASH AFTER I HAVING TOUCHED HIS RIBS AND RIGHT ARM. Lil B was too extraordinary to describe in words, and I ain’t about to try, so you will be left wondering what the hell that was like. I will say, however, that the show was enhanced by the fact that I was undeniably second-hand high. Everyone around me was going hard on the j, and yours truly was but a free rider to this arguably positive externality.

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I was going to stick around for M.I.A, but I couldn’t move because the park was completely sold out and immobile. I decided to leave; no one is worth the puking of claustrophobia. I missed R. Kelly, but I can bump and grind nearly everywhere else in the world and not be concerned that I’m in front of a pedophile. The train ride was cold and seemingly eternal, but that’s ok. Today is now Monday and tomorrow I am importing my best friend from Arizona.

LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B LIL B THANK YOU BASED GOD THANK YOU BASED GOD THANK YOU BASED GOD THANK YOU BASED GOD THANK YOU BASED GOD THANK YOU BASED GOD THANK YOU BASED GOD THANK YOU BASED GOD THANK YOU BASED GOD THANK YOU BASED GOD THANK YOU BASED GOD THANK YOU BASED GOD THANK YOU BASED GOD THANK YOU BASED GOD THANK YOU BASED GOD THANK YOU BASED GOD THANK YOU BASED GOD THANK YOU BASED GOD THANK YOU BASED GOD THANK YOU BASED GOD THANK YOU BASED GOD THANK YOU BASED GOD THANK YOU BASED GOD THANK YOU BASED GOD .

homegurl out. (TYBG)

P4k 7/19 Y ahora que chingados hago? No aguanto mis pies y este wey esta bien pendejo.

I am an unpaid intern. The thing about being an unpaid intern is that I don’t get paid. The other thing about being an unpaid intern is that I’m used to doing community service in exchange for cool things. I volunteered for the afternoon shift (4-10pm) at P4k on Friday.

Being who I am, I walked half an hour from the train to Grant Park only to realize the venue was actually at Union Park. It was 4pm on the dot. The perks of being an 18 year old, stupidly audacious and excited girl is that I can easily talk myself into walking one hour in the LITERALLY blistering 100+ degree, humid Chicago heat in black w120 Doc Martens.

I arrived at Union Park around 5:20. By that time, I had already 1. taken off my shoes 2. walked barefoot over blocks and blocks of black asphalt 3. gotten severe blisters and 4. incurred upon first degree burns on the soles of my feet. I asked as nicely as I could if it were at all possible that I sign in and continue my shift (the sane person would neither wear Docs to such an event nor make the hour walk– let alone pursue the 6 hour shift of standing and doing work).  The guy working the table was a complete asshole because I guess working for Pitchfork exempts you from being a decent human being. He made snide remarks the entire minute he offered his valuable time to me. Thank you, guy. Estupido inservible.

Porque I am the most amazing human in the world, I said thank you, it was my fault, have a nice day anyway. I sat right outside the festival gates where I could still hear the music and bemoan my existence. In front of me, on the other side of the sidewalk, sat a man who was asking for food and money. He inquired what was wrong and if I wanted water or a soda because “[he] doesn’t like to see people struggle”; it broke my heart-like thing in my chest. We talked for a while. He told me he lived in the town where I currently live (and I never told him where I live). Al parecer existen personas que no tienen la cabeza llena de mierda.

The following are notes that I wrote in my notebook for the purpose of this blog. They are profoundly moving musings on the people of P4K, myself, and life. Try not to cry.

 

5:45 A guy walked by and said to me “Damn you too fine. You need some company?”

6:30 Offered homeless guy an ice cream because he’s so nice. Declines. Claimed tooth sensitivity.

6:57 Another guy walked up to me; I thought I heard him say “Want tamales?” Confused, I said “What?” and he said “Some mollies!!!!” No, no I do not want some mollies…

7:04 Two girls with animal tails just walked by.

7:10 Guy with very blue eyes kneeled down and asked me if I was ok. Um.

7:15 Homeless man just got a free ticket from scalper so that he could sell it to make a few bucks. Incredibly nice.

7:16 Homeless guy (whose name I stupidly never asked for) gives me the ticket for free. Says he “doesn’t like to see people struggle.” I’m convinced I have met the man with the kindest heart in the world. I gave him $5 because that is literally all I have.

~

8:04 Joanna Newsom is too romantic for my lonely, jaded heart-thing

8:06 I think there’s a famous person standing in front of me. But who?!

8:32 Bew Jörk takes the stage…….wait what is that

8:35 I can’t believe I paid $5 to see Björk. Wait did I take a molly or is that supposed to be Björk…………

8:36 what the hell is going on

8:42 it smells like weed. people smoke weed?

8:50 I’m having such a romantic evening with myself. I look so beautiful under the moonlight. This music makes the moment even lovelier.

8:57 Björk is playing a song called “Crystal Light.” At least I think that’s what it’s called because that’s all I can understand her saying. Also I hear a xylophone on acid.

9:04 Is that really Björk? Because that looks like a magnified white blood cell OR a sparkling snowball. There is no way that is a person.

9:08 what the fuck is she ACTUALLY WEARING

9:15 The sky is pink. Must be blushing because I’m so beautiful.

 

~~INTERLUDE walked to train with Elisa and her friend Alfredo. The sky pours. It is a heavenly deluge. The rain is so aggravated you’d think God were punishing me for doing something awful. There is a pillow randomly on the street_END INTERLUDE~~

 

11:38 train. blisters. death. d e a t h.

Friday’s Pitchfork lessons are these:

1. Never ever try to do anything ever because you will fail

2. Humanity is rotten

3. Humanity is not all that rotten, and it’s the small people who make life worth living. May a million dollars loom imminently in the future of The Unnamed Homeless Man who is poor in the wallet but rich in the heart.

4. People still wear rat tails

You Might be a Stupid Hoe If…: Apologies and Not So Much

Woo woo woow oowoo woowowo wow ow ow owo  wowoo woo wo ow ow owowoww

Come one, come all
O people who somehow
Hate Nicki Minaj

I was thinking earlier: am I a Nicki Minaj apologist? As I listened to Stupid Hoe while I biked to the office, I felt guilty for singing along with the problematic lyrics in the song. I don’t like her comparisons between Angelina and Jen, and who is with Brad and who is not. As if Brad were something special… dude had like three good movies that I can think of (specifically Babel, Snatch, and Fight Club). ANYWAY, I just sorta… overlooked the whole line. I guess she’s allowed to feel like being with Brad Pitt is superior to not being with Brad Pitt, however woman-reducing that thought may seem to me. At the end of the song, she says she “[is] the female Weezy” Of course I asked why Weezy isn’t the male Nicki Minaj? I was vehement about that question. I guess in the end I justified it by arguing that Weezy preceded Minaj. That is my Minajical Apology.

Now for what we are all here today:
Nicki Minaj is so awesome.

Let’s all agree on certain things, in order for this post to convey the point I am trying to make– agreeable or not.

1. What is a stupid hoe?
I normally would quote the most reliable source, Urban Dictionary, but seeing as it has been taken over by a faction of HATERS, UD is partisan. I would quote the second most realiable source, the OED, BUT it has no entries for such a term. Sad. I guess I’ll have to propose my own definition. (pssshh no it’s not partisan)

Stupid hoe
A. (adj. + n.)
1.
a. a person (usually woman) who ships wood instead of platinum
b. a person (usually woman) who talks as though she were the queen when in fact is resembles a laboratory vermin

2.
a. Baby bop, Bubbles, etc.
b. Sons of Nicki Minaj, and of whom she wants not custody.

The “problem” with this song, I think, lies in the fact that she repeats “You a stupid hoe” more times than I can be bothered to count. I guess this disturbs white people (I need to make a post wherein I clarify what I mean by that), religious people “with morals”, and people who think that they are better than others.* The real problem is that said people have a skewed perception of, and maybe a preconceived notion about Nicki. Oh, she’s a rapper, and rappers are awful. Oh, she says ugly, vulgar things. Oh, she couldn’t think of anything smarter to say. Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah get that shit outta my face. But it’s ok if guys say it; she’s a lady and should act as such. We all know how I feel towards this misogyny.

The important thing here is she feels that stupid hoes are making her life more difficult. We should not expect every womyn to foster a sense of sisterhood at all times. The truth of the matter is that some people are difficult. And these people are the object of her song. What’s wrong with that? People piss me off too, and had I the verbal prowess and sense of rhythm of Nicki Minaj, believe me I would be rapping about it too. Sometimes bitches be trippin, and all I can do is blog about it to my two readers, one of them being my mom (and only when she feels like it). Male rappers come out with songs like this A L L the time. I feel like almost every song I have heard rapped at some point degrades other people. But because Nicki Minaj, the flamboyant, fabulous, extremely sexy, absurdly talented, eccentric woman said it, her song is somehow the loudest and most obnoxious. Thanks, whack-o society. If you find yourself hating this song more than almost any other rap song, check yourself. You might be what she’s talking about. YOU might be the stupid hoe.

Fret not, there is a way out. You can befriend Nicki. You can come back. She is a forgiving, loving entity.

* It’s funny. People who think they are better than others should be singing this song the loudest. I honestly wonder why everyone doesn’t love this song? It’s about self love (sure, degrading to others… but those others are unworthy; we all know a few unworthy people here and there). And it’s about self esteem. I feel like the baddest bitch in all the land when I bike in my booty shorts blasting this song on my earbuds. I feel like I, Michelle, get it cracking like a bad back too.

Um if you don’t know the lyrics to this song, the allusions in this post may appear nonsensical. Whatevies I guess.