No Idea

Officially got me Esq.









Afterwards, we went to Chinatown for lunch.


Coincidentally, I ran in to Mike Mkngs at Rock Bottom that night. He was with this girl:
I bought this camera about 4-days ago and it got sat on that night. This was the last photo it took:

Uncle Bill

My Uncle Bill’s dying. He has brain cancer. I guess he’s known about it for awhile but didn’t say anything until he had a stroke a couple weeks ago. The doctor said he only has 2-weeks, and that was 2-weeks ago. Recently, my mom, my grandmother, and her brother, Un-Chuck, went to San Francisco to see him for the last time. That is, my Uncle Bill was visited in the hospital, one last time, by his sister, his mother, and his uncle, and all parties new it would be the last time they would ever all be together because one of them was going to be dead in a few days.

It must’ve been weird.

I wonder what they talked about. I wonder if it felt like if it was the end and everything was consequential or if it was boring and frivolous and seemed to go on longer than it needed to like most family get-togethers, or really like most human interactions. The worst part is that he didn’t die while they were there. They said their goodbyes and got a plane and he stayed there waiting to die by himself.

I could probably count on both hands the number of times I remember seeing my Uncle. He’s a total weirdo, and not in the fun jokey Bill Murray way. More in the Todd Solondz character way, which makes me uncomfortable because Uncle Bill and I look a lot alike. I saw a picture of him right before he shipped off to Vietnam and he looked exactly like me. It makes me uncomfortable because I sometimes feel about myself the way I feel about him. Or I atleast believe that people see in me what I see in him, which is just a disconcerting loner. A guy that does unexplained things and is so far gone into himself, the most simple human interactions come off as clanky and uneasy. He lies a lot and it’s painfully obvious, and when I lie, I feel like it’s being perceived the same way. When people aren’t calling me out on my untruth, it’s not because I’m so good at misleading them, it’s because they pity me like I pity him.

UPDATE: Uncle Bill's dead

Proud Black Woman

So you may have noticed a drop-off in posts. This can primarily be attributed to the terminal state of my Samsung Digimax U-CA5. The camera was a present from Christmas 2004. As you can probably tell from the lineage that appears on some of my photos, it’s been on the fritz for awhile. Very recently, it passed into a comatose state. So until I get a replacement, shit on Just Fronts will be slowed down.

However, in non-visual news, I recently found out that I passed the Illinois State Bar exam, and (supposedly) will be sworn in as a licensed attorney in about a month.

I’m not going to lie; I did not think I was going to pass. About a week after sitting for the exam, I put my odds of passing at 42%. That number incrementally decreased the further away from July 28th I got. In fact, days ago, I was dreading incoming mail (electronic and conventional) because I was convinced a notice of tragic news was waiting for me. In the back of my mind, I was mounting a strategy for when and how I would retake, or if I was even going to bother to retake, the exam. Actually, this feeling has yet to cease. I remain fearful that the State of Illinois will change their mind and send a retraction letter.

But I did try really hard to pass. I (hopefully) will never work that hard, for that long of a period of time, ever again. I mean, not only was Summer 2010 completely annulled, it was sorrowful and laborious. Like you don’t even know. It’s like I don’t even know. Think about what it felt like when you made out with a really beautiful woman. Remember exactly how it felt. Can you remember the exact way her lips felt on yours? Or particularly, how extraordinarily magnificent that feeling was. And what that huge rush of endorphins was like? Really try to remember that feeling. Try to put yourself back there.

You can’t!

It was a feeling that memories can only recreate so much of. The rest only existed in that moment, and you will never be able to experience it again unless you kiss a different, equally (or possibly more) beautiful woman. That’s how studying for the bar was. Only instead of extremely sexy and pleasurable, it was heartrending and oppressive. It shaved about 5-years off my life.

On the other hand, it’s something that thousands of other young law school graduates had to contend with this summer, and something thousands of other young law school students have had to contend with for dozens of summers before, and they all survived. But I imagine there will come a time, maybe in my lifetime, when bar associations across the nation see fit to suspend the bar exam. It already (sorta) happened in Minnesota. It’s just way too tortuous, and honestly, I don’t remember anything I “learned” from BARBRI. I don’t remember anything from law school. That’s probably why I’ll’ never be a lawyer.

Please don't be gentle with me

The Cabaret was pretty alright. But I don’t know why the fuck I keep going back to The Crocodile. I suppose because it’s thoughtless. It’s become a go to spot eventhough I don’t want it to be and there are far better places within greater proximity. It’s become like a shitty booty call that always leaves me unsatisfied when it’s over. But then again, maybe it is in fact satisfying, since I don’t want to go there anymore when I leave.Kevin “Yogen Fruz” Wndr said he would buy a round after two back-to-back nights of me flipping the bill. After ordering and the bartender informing him that there was a $15 minimum on cards, he deferred to my Bank of America checking account.We only got two cans of P.B.R. before we decided to leave, so I was left with $8 that needed to be spent before I could get my card back. I told The Crocodile bartender to wow me. $8 + tip for him to go nuts. Anything he wanted to make me, as long as it didn’t involve gin. What I imagine would be a bartender’s ideal drink request after a night of popping the tops on domestic tall boys. So what did I get for $8? What concoction of spirited delights did the imaginative bartender come up with for me to imbibe? A shot of Jameson’s mixed with about 10oz of soda water.I should have thrown the drink in the fucker’s face.I don’t understand why you would become a bartender if that was the best you could do. I mean, it’s not like you’re a janitor. Bartender is probably the second oldest profession, and it’s highly sought after by males in their 20s to 30s. Yes, your earning potential peaks about 20-days into the job, but you’re respected. And I’ve always surmised that it’s a position that draws in a significant amount of tail. I mean, girls are paying you to get them drunk. If I were to associate a numerical figure with the percentage of all the girls I’ve ever had any sort of physical romantic encounter with who were drunk at the time, it would probably be just over 100%. Plus even in 2010, thousands of years after the invention of booze, people are still exploring unchartered territory with libations. Open the NY Times on any given Wednesday (or is it Sunday?) and there will be a new cocktail that was just invented. And that’s been every Wednesday (possibly Sunday) for the last 50-years. This shit breather couldn’t have searched the archives and made one of those? For fuck sakes, 2-ingredients isn’t even technically a cocktail.Yelp is going to hear about this.

Yeah, we know what we want

There was a party here last Friday. Although parties are a celebration of humanity, when it’s my house, it always makes me kind of loathe humanity. You spend all day cleaning your dwelling, buying and transporting booze, then about a dozen of your closest friends show up with several dozen people you’ve never met before. Everyone ends up drinking all your booze, trashing your place, ransacking your pantry, then splits when the sun comes up, leaving you $100 in the hole with a thrashed apt. I guess there’s really no other way to execute a houseparty and still honestly call it a houseparty. I mean, you could charge at the door, but then you’re just turning your apt. into a makeshift nightclub and your friends (and friends’ friends) into clientele. It’s better to just bite your tongue, open your ass cheeks, and do the best not to hold a grudge against your friends, and instead hold your anguish inside until it can be properly released at some other poor sap’s houseparty.Approximately 99.5% of the party guests were friends of Melissa and H.R. It felt a lot like when I was a kid and my parents would invite all their friends over for a party. Not only were they not my friends, but I couldn’t even relate to them.I’m not sure if I’m bad at conversing with people in the Midwest, or if people in the Midwest are just bad at conversation. They never offer enough words into the discourse.Good conversation should be like tennis. There’s a back-and-forth and each party has possession for about the same amount of time. I find that when I talk to people here, it’s more like shooting hoops by myself, where I’m me and they’re the basket. I’ll lob something against the backboard, the basket will have possession for a few seconds or milliseconds, and then the ball drops backs to me. I now have possession, but I don’t immediately shoot. I dribble around to the top of the key and then rush the basket for a layup amounting to about 20-seconds of possession for me. The basket then has possession for a second, and then I again have the ball.I don’t want it to be like this. I’d rather play basketball with someone else. Everyone always accuses me of talking too much, but truth be told, I don’t really like talking that much. It’s just that if I don’t talk, nobody else will. I would much rather hang back and let somebody else make words with their mouth, but it doesn’t happen here. If I shut my mouth, there’s dead air. Essentially as if I was talking to the coffeemaker.Maybe I’m just too timorous about the open spaces and people just need more time to put together a thought before they respond. Or maybe people in the Midwest just don’t talk that much. Or maybe the content isn’t something that interests them. Although, I think that’s unfair, because I’ll talk to anyone about anything. In fact, the less I know about a topic, the more interesting it is for me to talk about. If anyone reading this has actually talked to me, I’d be very interested to hear your opinion on what I’m doing wrong.On one hand, I think it’s vibes. I’m positive of the fact that I give off spaz vibes. I know I’m squirrely, and I generally talk about things that: (a) I truthfully don’t care about; and (b) I do not genuinely believe. Plus, I’m a weirdo, and say things that people perceive as strange and confusing. I’m not being honest and I think people pick up on that and they consciously or sub-consciously withdraw.But on the other I think they’re just lazy. In the first episode of season 4 of Curb Your Enthusiasm, “Mel’s Offer,” Larry gets permission from Cheryl to have one extramarital sexual encounter. Shortly thereafter, Larry clumsily makes an attempt to cash in his matrimonial get-out-of-jail-free card with an attractive woman while watching Mel Brooks sing at a karaoke bar. He starts off solid with something like, “Hey, karaoke’s pretty fun, right?” She responds with something insipid like, “it’s something to do.” Then Larry says, “well, for things to do at night, you’ve got going to the movies, bowling, and karaoke.” She says nothing. Larry then dovetails into an improvised stand-up bit about bowling. She almost instantaneously loses interest. But it’s sort of the woman’s fault because she had a window to speak up when Larry laid out four topics of discussion: movies, bowling, karaoke, and things to do at night.” I personally, never let an opportunity to talk about something go un-taken-advantage-of.
Sure enough. The following morning, I woke up to find the pad flogged.
I remember the keg being tapped before I went to bed, but I guess that didn’t slow down our party guests’ ambitious party ways.They surged ahead with wine.And bottled beer (many of which used to belong to me).I’ll admit I’m upset, but I won’t show it. That’s what future house parties are for.

When so many love you, is it the same?

On and off again lover Dustin Brchr drove down to Chicago from wherever Justin Vernon recorded his first album. In tow was his best friend, Sully the dog, and his (presumed) best girlfriend, Julie. Anytime someone comes to visit me in my city of residency, I voluntarily bear the burden of showing them a good time. I want to give them a tour of the place that I live in a way that will be pleasurable, unique to that particular geographical location, and will weigh heavily on their future impressions of that place. I know this seems like common host sense, but I can’t tell you the number of times I go to some foreign city to hang out with a friend I know from a different geographical location, and upon showing up, they ask, “so what do you want to do?”

My first year of law school, I dated this girl that I knew from high school. I somehow miraculously convinced her that I was someone she ought to want to date during a chance meeting in New York City 5-years after high school graduation and then sealed the deal during my 2007/2008 Winter Break. I made several trips out to Los Angeles where she resided and should have known the relationship was doomed when I was given the burden of finding couple-shit when I was greeted by her at the Burbank Airport.

Eventhough I moved to The Windy City 3-months ago, I spent the first 2-locked in a battle of wits with the Illinois Bar Exam that rendered me incapable of exploring and mapping my new domicile. So when Dustin and Julie showed up, I was at a bit of a disadvantage with showing them a side of Chicago that was pleasurable, unique to Chicago, and would weigh heavily of their future impressions of Chicago. But I was still determined to do so. I researched two alternative excursions that would showcase exclusive components of the Midwestern United States’ most populace city. The first option was to take the El-Train to the Loop and eat hotdogs while watching live opera in Grant Park, which abuts Lake Michigan. The second was to walk down Milwaukee Ave. to watch improve comedy in a bar cellar. Dustin and Julie chose the latter.

Chicago is an improv comedy town, but that doesn’t mean that every improv comedian is John Belushi, or Tina Fey. Truth be told, most of the comedians are horribly untalented hacks performing in a medium that proves challenging for even the most experienced pros.That night’s performance in The Crocodile’s basement can best be summarized by this individual’s reaction to it.The upside is that at The Crocodile, each drink purchase is accompanied by a personal pan pizza at no cost. So how ripped off can you feel about free pizza and free (although very bad) improv comedy?Dustin and Julie live together with Sully in an apartment in Washington D.C. They told me what part, but I’m not familiar enough with our nation’s capital to have had it register.A lot of guys, like Jimmie Shannon, would argue it’s a mistake for a 27-year old man living in a major cosmopolitan to cohabitate with a woman, but one advantage to living with a chick that goes unmentioned is perceived maturity. A guy living with his girlfriend is seemingly more of an adult than a guy living with a roommate, eventhough in both cases, it’s still just living with another person that you split the rent with.

If you’re an unmarried dude, and you can’t afford your own place, but you want to appear to be a mature, developed social actor, you should turn down bunking up with your bros in favor of coupling with your sweetheart. It’s the same amount of money you’re spending on rent (possibly less), but people will consider you living with your significant other as a sign that you’re further along the dubious road to adulthood than your unspoken-for, underemployed, male counterpart. I’m not sure why, but living with someone you have regular consensual intercourse with makes all the difference.

I suppose it’s because living with someone you’re in a relationship shows: (a) you’re emotionally capable of making a long-term, serious commitment; and (b) it’s your love for the other person that’s causing you to share you’re living quarters and not your chintziness.When I lived with Kristen in New York, it was the total opposite of adulthood. It was essentially like moving back home with an angrier, more authoritarian version of my parents. A total reversion from the independence of college. I had chores and obtuse responsibilities, had to call and check in, and got scolded for bad behavior. In defense of Kristen, I was in fact, totally immature, and not really emotionally willing to commit to being in a relationship. She wasn’t sharing an apartment with her live-in boyfriend, she was sharing an apartment with a man-child with a slight drinking problem.

As soon as I moved out of our place in Queens and into a dilapidated boho bungalow in Brooklyn, I started to spin out of control. I did all sorts of terrible things to myself that Kristen kept a lid on while we were together. Just like my real life mother, Kristen’s mothering had kept me safe from myself. As soon as she was out of the picture, I went to self-indulgent pieces.Knowing Dustin, he’s not the kind of guy to spin out of control. He’s actually kind of a dork. He enjoys exploring the far reaches of the internet in his free time, and the lion’s share of his favorite records were made in the 70’s. As far as I can tell, Dustin’s days of sowing oats are behind him now, and what’s left is a torpid boyfriendable husk that any girl in her mid-20’s would be ludicrous not to nail down. I really hope I showed him a good time.

REVIEW: Men's Collars

Have you noticed that when you look in the men's clothing department, sweaters, shirts, and sweatshirts are divided into V-Neck and Crew Neck? V-Neck and Crew Neck. I'm no Karl Lagerfeld or Miley Cyrus, but wouldn't it make more sense if it was the V-Neck and the O-Neck, or possibly the U-Neck? I mean, we were talking about the alphabet, right?
THUMBS DOWN.

They will eat right out of your hand

Brandon flew in from Tempe this weekend. Mutually eager to explore our urban surroundings we embarked on a metropolitan expedition primarily consisting of a jaunt across the abandoned elevated train tracks running east-west through Chicago’s northwestern suburbs, commonly known as the Bloomingdale Trail.

As far as I know the trail is legally owned by some railroad company, but there’s no hope in keeping trespassers out. The unlawful intruder flood gates have been blown open. Brandon and I spotted cyclists, dogs, and short fat people, suggesting there are several easy access points (none of which we found, we had to hop a fence 6th grade-style).

There’s been talk of converting the tracks into a public park, but I feel like any official municipal recognition would only diminish the menacing appeal of the Trail as it sits. When you’re up there, you feel like you‘re above (pun intended) the law. You look down on the Plebs, too simpleminded to shin up a chain-linked fence. It’s awesome and I would recommend it to everyone.


These specks look like birds, but they're actually fighter jets.









This piece of grafitti is just south of the Aldi on Milwaukee.I can't figure out if it's a tribute, or possibly the work of NYHCers H2O, or if it's someone manifesting their admiration for the chemical make-up of water, or if it's just some retard's tag name. Either way, it does something that the vast majority of other "street art" falls short of: it makes me think. But only barely.