Collaboratve Brilliance
Well, we’ve got the new Blogger Blog up and running. All new posts will start coming up there. We’ll be keeping this one up, though, so if you have a comment on any of the posts on this one, we’ll still see them and respond.
We hope you’ll all join us.
So, I’m at Mickey’s on Oak Park Ave, on my Sidekick, reading Mitchell’s post, you know, his take on the conversation that we all started in on yesterday, and whose booming voice do I hear next to me?
River. That’s right, our homey from the blogosphere. We go back to my bartending days– six years ago, but we’d lost touch forever, and the next thing you know, dude’s got his own kick ass blog going, we’re shooting the shit on each other’s pages daily.
Yesterday’s whole back and forth became such a great conversation, and then to be standing in front of Mickey’s counter waiting for my order, reading Mitchell’s response to River’s response to my rant, and look over to see River ordering food–it was just weird.
How ’bout it, Riv? You were just like–Wha–? Who? How?
Heh heh.
Funny stuff.
Our friend Paul over at Skull Kull just passed the 2,000 hit mark today. How did he choose to celebrate? Well, I’m sure he’s up to all kinds of trouble, but one thing he did do was to give Shoulda Woulda Coulda special props in his blog.
One of the coolest things about Paul is his collaborative spirit. He spends a lot of time getting artists and writers to work together, and we think that kicks ass. Check out Skull Cull for all kinds of creative and interesting projects.
http://skullcull.wordpress.com/
Congratulations on hitting the 2000+ mark, Paul. Keep up the good work.
After almost thirteen years, I’ve just started reconnecting with some of my old high school friends. I went to school in a very small town, so small, in fact, that there still isn’t a proper traffic light. Peotone, Illinois still has probably less than 5,000 residents, and despite the fact that you can see the orange arc-sodium glare of the whole Chicagoland area, it feels like a distant world. It looks like, and is, classic Small Town America.
When I graduated and went off to college, I stayed in touch with about four of my friends. It happens–after graduation, people go their own way. But I’ve recently found my way back, and it’s been so much fun. Around Christmas time, one of my best girlfriends invited me to come to a Christmas party with her. It was thrown by some kids we went to school with and hadn’t seen in years. They’d gotten married, had a few kids and were holding it down old school.
We’ll call them the Wills, since I don’t want to be exposing peoples’ names in public. Anyway, I went to the Wills party, hoping it wouldn’t be awkward, since I hadn’t seen or talked to anyone in over a decade. Not to worry. As the night wore on, as the home-made absinthe made an appearance, as the keg ran down and and as sisters J’s and A’s mom’s famous beef sandwiches diminished, a sense of “Where the hell have I been and why have I not been hanging out with these hysterical, fun and kind people?” overcame me.
At one point, I laughed so hard, I literally choked on one of those tasty beef sandwiches. My girl, D, had to smack me on the back. She saved my life.
In the last few weeks, I’ve made it back to my hometown to go to a couple of girls’ nights, I’ve hung out and sung karaoke in the bowling alley (the BA if you’re nasty), hunted down all the 2nd Street bars (there are only four) looking for my best friend’s brother, and harassed the cop on the beat because he drilled me in the face with a snowball as I stood at the bus-stop when I was twelve years old.
Relationships take a lot of work, it’s true. Finding time to cultivate our friendships while trying to be a good family member, go to school, work and have some kind of personal life is a balancing act. It’s not easy to keep it all together; who has the time, right? But I had a chance to reconnect with old friends, and become better friends with people I knew but didn’t really hang out with, and I’m glad I took it. It’s done way more than open different social avenues.
For me, it’s reminded me of the fun I had growing up in the home of the Will County Fair. While everyone has done all the grown up things, like forging careers, starting families and settling down to the job of living life, it’s been good to see that we’re all pretty much the same people—but better. It’s been more than just rehashing good times and asking for refreshers in cases where my memory was stunted by Busch Light. I’ve got one of my old school buddies in on the blogging action, and some of my other friends have agreed to submit some writing to Alors, Et Toi?
It’s awesome to get the people I know involved with the creative aspects in my life. I’m one of those people that thrives on cooperation and collaboration. Getting back in touch with my old school people hasn’t just been an exercise in nostalgia, it’s been an exercise in creativity and it’s made me feel … just good. And happy to be around people I’ve known since I was a kid. “They” say you can’t go home again. In my case, it was not only possible to go home again, it was highly a recommended move.
Stay tuned for the Peotone files. I have to run some ideas past my friends and have them pick out code names to protect the innocent, and more importantly, the guilty.
I’m super stoked about some college basketball tomorrow. Memphis vs. Texas is undoubtedly going to be an awesome game. I watched them both last night, and they played like motherfuckers. The big one for me, though, is Kansas and Davidson. You know I’m going for KU, since they kick ass, but Davidson is tearing it up lately. There’s a lot of talk about them being the Cinderella team of this tournament. Hopefully, when Kansas is done with them tomorrow, it’ll be because they wear pretty dresses and ride a pumpkin all the way back home.
Have you been following the games at all, Nora?
What games? The Olympics? No, Mitchell, I’m afraid I’m not much of a sports fan. I’ve been keeping busy tracking the orbits of some of the more threatening asteroids, planning for the zombie apocalypse and trying to keep my dad busy while my mom writes Juderonomy. Hey, maybe he needs to start watching college basketball. That ought to keep him out of her hair.
There’s always an open beer and a seat open for him if he would like to join me. It’s consumed me lately. I’m a little worried about Stephen Curry. They guy scores thirty points a game like it’s easy. I think the Jayhawk defense can keep him at bay, though. They seem to thrive on a fast-paced, tough game. If they don’t win tomorrow, I’ll be the guy crying in the corner, clutching a picture of Bill Self and asking why he has forsaken me.
Would it be mean if I pointed and laughed? Yeah, Jude would send you a fruit basket if I sent my dad to Hutch for the remainder of March Madness. Whatever you do, if he asks you to “pull his finger,” don’t indulge him. Hey, Mitchell, not to kill your basketball buzz, but how did you like interviewing Juliette Lewis? What the hell was she smoking, dude? She’s a little nuts.
She’s a lot of nuts. We’ve got to stop scraping the bottom of the Hollywood septic tank for my interviews. It’s getting a little tough.
Back to basketball! My prediction: after all is said and done tomorrow, Texas and Kansas will be advancing and things are going to get crazy. If not … well … I’ll just stop fucking watching. What are your predictions, Nora?
*YAWN* Huh? Wha…? I must have fallen asleep there for a second. Well, even though I couldn’t care less about college basketball, I sure hope KU wins for your sake, dude. And don’t worry–we’ll work on getting you some better interviews. I’ve almost gotten through to the cousin of a girl whose neighbor does Dustin “Screech” Diamond’s mom’s nails. That would be cool, right?
Do you hate me? Is that it?
Mitchell and I have the distinct honor of introducing my mother, Jude. We decided to offer her own column, Juderonomy, because … well, we can. We thought we would be remiss to deprive you of her infinite wisdom.
I know I’ll probably sound like a curmudgeon to some people– you know who you are.You are the ones who are using Pop-psych on a two year old, who only wants to be home in his crib, trying to explain to him why throwing a crescent roll at my table isn’t nice! Meanwhile I’m trying to enjoy my overpriced glass of wine at 8:30 p.m. in a semi-fine dining establishment.
Yes, let’s negotiate with the little tyrant…who then is let out of his restraints to terrorize anyone within hearing distance (read 300 yards), “I wanna get pudding! I wanna sum ice cream!” Mom and Dad sit there calling the Future Terrorist to come and sit like a nice little boy.
What ever happened to getting a babysitter for a few hours,or going out at an age-appropriate time for the child? Or how about one parent taking the child outside while the other pays the bill and gets the leftovers wrapped to go?
We are in an age where we can’t diminish Little Johnny or Suzie’s self esteem. To that I say BULLSHIT! Work on self-esteem after you’ve taught them proper behavior and use some common sense yourself. You cannot negotiate with a toddler. You set the rules. A good one to start with is: don’t take him to dinner at 8 p.m. Unless, of course, you go to Chuck E. Cheese, where you’ll never see me…for obvious reasons!
Stay tuned for the next installment of Juderonomy on SWC: Harnesses for Kids–Teaching or Torture. You be the Judge!
As far as the genetic lottery goes, I can’t really complain. I’m strong, healthy and symmetrical. When it comes to tits, though, I got robbed. Yeah, I know; I could buy a set. But guess what? I’ve had enough non-elective procedures that I’d really rather avoid the brutality I’ve seen go down on the table on the rare occasion I’ve tuned into Dr. 90210.
Some women just aren’t meant to fill out a training bra. C’est la vie. Cruelly enough, though, Nature has endowed a population of males with my share of the boob fortune. When I was pregnant, chugging down soy-milk like I had formerly quaffed the sugar-free Red Bull, I discovered that endocrine-disrupting phytoestrogens found in soy products could impact present and future testosterone levels in my unborn son.
The fountain of West Soy that spewed forth from my mouth was legendary. I’ll never forget the feeling of paranoia as scientific knowledge gripped me with its cold, clinical fingers. It isn’t just the soy, my friends. Estrogen-mimicking agents are found in just about every chemical we use in big agriculture and industry: pesticides, fertilizers, improperly disposed pharmaceuticals that leach into our water, and even plant hormones, like the phytoestrogens found in the humble soybean.
There are plenty of frightening environmental consequences to pumping these chemicals into the elements. The most disturbing to me, personally, though is that these industrial and agricultural practices could potentially breed the nuts off and bolt the tits onto our menfolk.
Any endocrinologist will say that hormonal balance is a delicate operation. The hypothalamus and pituitary glands are pivotal in every aspect of human development, and disruptions in the secretion and feedback loops of human sex hormones are easily disrupted by the presence of these chemicals.
According to an article by Bernard Poggi, “[s]ignificant deviations in the levels of the appropriate sex hormones can cause severe consequences in reproductive and urogenital development, especially at the time of fetal growth and the pre-pubertal period. In humans, the process of masculinization or feminization is not a black and white proposition but a process that takes place on a continuum over the years.”
It’s a frightening proposition to think about how much of our food is saturated with hormone-mimicking agents. I see only information on estrogen-mimicking, though. Where can I find some phytotestosterones? It strikes me as the bitterest irony, thinking of the masculine nature of industry and how we try to dominate nature into producing for us. Yet, the more we bend nature to suit our desires, the more nature feminizes that force.
Poggi’s article links these chemicals to the drastic decline in male’s sperm counts, claiming that “sperm counts have seen significant decreases worldwide, falling 50 percent from levels measured in the 1930s.” Not only that, he writes, “More recent findings show that the numbers of functional sperm are even lower than those cited above and researchers are finding a large number of immobile, double-headed, double-tailed, and broken sperm that have no real function because of their inability to fertilize an egg, even in close proximity.“
Repeat after me: HOLY SHIT! Why is this happening?
“The scientific explanation for this reduction in sperm quality has to do with an overall reduction in androgens that occurs when there are significant levels of estrogen in the body. The reduction in androgens causes sertoli cell function to be disturbed, leading to impaired germ cell differentiation.”
That is to say, the shit in our soil, water, air and on our plates is helping to break down all that is masculine and wonderful. Although it might seem like a joke, it isn’t. And the frightening part is, much of our population is blissfully unaware that the dominant practices that put our environment to work for our pleasure and convenience are phasing out something I love: manly men.
I’m sure it will come as no surprise, after reading all that, the most heartbreaking symptom of this trend is the shrinking of penis sizes.
“In the post-pubertal years, exposure to high levels of genistein, as is seen in strict vegetarians who replace animal proteins with soy-based foods, has general feminizing effects on their male anatomy, including reduced sperm production, a decrease in viable sperm, breast development and a reduction in sex drive due to an overall decrease in androgens.”
If ever there was an argument to rethink agricultural practices and to grill up your man a side of free-range beef, that would be it.
After I began to research the topic, I figured what’s good for developing man-boobs might be good for developing mine. After Junior Junior was born, I went back on soy with a vengeance. I also started soaking in all things lavender. Lavender oils are rich in phytoestrogens and have been proven to contribute to gynecomastia, so instead of returning any and all lavender bath items Junior Junior received at his shower, I appropriated them for my experiment.
Sadly, my increase in soy products and lavender cosmetics has done nothing to increase the size of my boobs. I don’t take that as a sign that all my research is reflective of bunk science. Not in the least. I had heard tell for years about the effects of estrogen-mimicking agents on frog populations. But as soon as I heard that mens’ dicks are shrinking as their boobs are growing, I realized times were getting tough and I had to get involved in the fight against the chemical emasculating that’s happening all around us.
I am calling my readers to join me in finding ways we can stop the shrinkage of dick and increase of man-boob. I want to work together to find solutions to this problem. Because if my son grows up and needs a bigger bra than I do, I know the end is near.
For Poggi’s intense scientific breakdown, click this link:
I was hanging out at my best friend’s house the night before Easter. We chilled out, had some drinks and watched the NCAA games. Exciting stuff.
When I came in from a smoke break, I noticed their kids at the dinner table drawing on computer paper with crayons. I inquired what they were drawing, and they gladly explained. It seems there is a Bad Easter Bunny, which comes at night and eats the eggs that the Good Easter Bunny has hidden for the children to find the next day. They were mapping out plans to trap the Bad Easter Bunny and keep him from doing that. Being five, their drawings skills were sort of … lackluster, but they happily explained each of their plans to me.
The first one involved putting out a stink bomb in the guise of an egg and tricking the Bad Easter Bunny into eating it, thus incapacitating him. Pretty clever. That plan eventually evolved (with no help from me) into filling an egg with nails and killing him. Kind of twisted, but I can dig it.
Idea number two was hiding at the top of a mountain (in Kansas?) and waiting for his brothers to pass by, then dropping rocks on their heads, Wile E Coyote-style.
“Wow,” I said. “You’re going to take out his family? That’s pretty heavy.”
“They eat eggs, too,” they explained.
These kids were born mafioso. I wondered if they had his mother packed in a crate somewhere.
They wanted me to draw my own plan to catch Bad Easter Bunny. I was feeling creative, so I obliged. Here is the result.
The idea is simple, really. The sign clearly states “Egg.” This will entice the fiendish rabbit into the cage, which has an egg tied to a string that’s tied to the door. When he takes the egg, the door shuts. Then Frank Zappa goes to town on him, subjecting him to terrors he could never have fathomed before.
The kids suggested the stink bomb idea was the best.
