Nothing In Life Is Forever

Here is a set of photos meant to capture my daily routine for getting ready to ride in Chicago this past winter. Click an image and it opens into a slideshow.


  • Tights
  • Thigh-high socks
  • Ankle socks
  • Shirt
  • Jeans
  • Hoodie
  • Jean Jacket
  • Dri-fit gloves
  • Knit gloves
  • More knit gloves
  • Boots
  • Hat
  • Winter Jacket
  • Helmet
  • Scarf/Face Guard

Art: As Dumb As Fashion

So my brother, who is more badass than any artist ever, is on a cross-country bike ride and recently alerted me to the existence of Marfa, Texas and specifically the Prada store located there…in a poor, once-ranching town of about 2,000 people . [Insert hysterical laugh/scream here].

A little research on my part later revealed that the ‘store’ is actually an art installation piece. [Laugh/screaming continues]. I don’t have basic adult responsibilities so I decided to dive into the story of this town, its confusing existence and the deep well of hatred it creates in my heart.

portrait of a badass as a young man

portrait of a badass as a young man

So anyway, this town of Marfa, Texas apparently used to be a ranching town that, in its death throes, was descended upon by a few New York liberals with artistic ambition and money. These east coast vultures picked at the bones of the carcass town, then built them into a sculpture reminiscent of Georgia O’Keeffe’s early work, give or take a vagina. This was in the 1970s. All the art installations acted as a beacon for other people who have a lot of money and presumably no job skills and since then the small town has bloomed into the Disney World of art destinations. By which I mean it’s a place where the locals have jobs as dishwashers and landscapers, the school system provides an education on par with the ‘it’s a small world’ ride and the economy is based entirely on people who use inane expressions like ‘escaping the hustle and bustle’ and ‘non fat latte.’

Back to the Prada store. Yeah. So one of the attractions to this place is a Prada store that isn’t a Prada store. It’s just an adobe building with Prada items inside but no working door, no customer service agent and no point. When I first thought this was a real Prada store, I was surprised by the absurdity and downright insulting nature of putting a high fashion store where it’s obviously not necessary. The fact that it’s even less functional made the concept even harder to grasp. The ostensible ‘point’ behind it is worse yet. Since the building is made from adobe it’s mean tot decay with time. The artists even said that graffiti would add to its artistic integrity.

The place was broken into a robbed within 3 days. Ranchers:1 Art:0


“We loved this proposal for many reasons,” Ms. Villareal said. “We loved the idea of the piece being born on Oct. 1 and that it will never again be maintained. If someone spray-paints graffiti or a cowboy decides to use it as target practice or maybe a mouse or a muskrat makes a home in it, 50 years from now it will be a ruin that is a reflection of the time it was made.”

It’s funny because proponents of this place pretend that they’re all ‘it’s art, whatever happens happens.’ But in reality, they have this preconceived idea of what decay should look like. As in: an emotional reaction to the art itself, whether positive or negative. But after a bunch of shit got stolen, they replaced the shoes and bags (which I would think qualifies as ‘maintenance’) because that was a decay motivated more likely by financial need or even greed, but certainly not art.

Basically, fuck them for attempting to anticipate and congratulate themselves on the reaction a fucking faux Prada store in the desert would receive.


arts on arts on arts

Here’s a conversation I am one hundred percent positive occurred:

“Guys, won’t it be great when there are like bullet holes and Banksy’s all over this art to signify the tension between identity and self?”

“Totally, best eighty thousand dollars anyone has ever spent.”

“Art is so transcendent everyone. Okay, enough talking. Back to fellating each other while alphabetically listing things that make us superior to people who have jobs.”

Even more condescending is this gem of an article over at the Daily Cougar. “This $80,000 building is a sincere project by its artists and by art foundations to promote fashion even in areas where fashion may seem like a thing of the future.”

One can only hope that some day all those poor, loser locals in Marfa will stop being so lazy and start earning enough money to be self involved assholes. Just like the people who showed up uninvited and proceeded to impose their ideas and values on the locals living there. This is America’s greatest and longest running tradition, after all.

not sayin, just sayin,


some thoughts on…

Some Thoughts on Job Searching


Radical Post-Grad Malaise in a No-Profit World

Thanks to my high college GPA, substantial extracurricular background and impressive work resume… I’ve been un-or under employed for a while now. The resulting desperation and eroding sense of self has exposed me to some pretty upsetting depths of shame in pursuit of even the most basic qualifications of ‘making a living.’ Here are some resulting thoughts…

1. Tights are for chumps. I’m a thrift store true believer, so I rarely pay more than ten bucks for a pair of jeans. Unfortunately, I can’t buy second hand tights – because it is gross and – they never last long enough to BE second hand. Why? because they are so wholly pointless that they literally lack the temporal substancenecessary to remain intact. “Oh, sure I’ll pay $12 for some elastic that will undoubtedly develop a run in it after two wears.” Fuck you very much.

2. Here’s a tip to my competitors peers and potential employers: your email, as a “professional” should be If I have to talk to you I shouldn’t have to address my correspondence to “” Why?

Yahoo is a joke, people. is the way to go.

3. If you are a barely-a-notch-above-fast-food restaurant owner and you ask potential employees for a cover letter describing “what unique skills you will bring to our ‘family’/’organization’/’enterprise'”: kill yourself. Try to think of a new and exciting way to shuffle off this mortal coil, like drinking a vat of corn oil. This will make the news story of your death more “punchy”, and it will undoubtedly be the most important thing you have ever done.

not sayin, just sayin


Grenade! Respawn?

I, like much of the Who’s Who of online internet weblogging, am sad to see 30 Rock go, but look forward to watching reruns for years to come. Shot gunning this series got me through break ups, Chicago winters and more than a few hang over days. Which is to say: I’ve spent a lot – like tons – of entirely unsexy, snot filled hours in bed with Tracy, Jack and Liz Lemon. And I’d like to say thanks to Tina Fey for that.

During her illustrious career as a comedy writer Tina Fey has represented a beacon of absurd hilarity and irreverent insight in a dark and often bewilderingly unentertaining television landscape. She is one of only two people capable of making me marginally interested in watching the golden globes (I still only sat through about half of it), and I have listened to the entirety of Bossypants about 25 times. Sometimes I fall asleep to it. I love me some Tina Fey. She inspires me to try my own thing and I respect her for that.

Somehow though, her 30 Rock character Liz Lemon is even more special to me. I cannot think of another female character I identify with more (on television, at least. The character Ellen Ripley was based on me, so I identify pretty closely with Sigourney Weaver in all her roles).  In fact, if you asked me to describe myself I would say I’m 2 parts Liz Lemon’s relationship to food and relationships, 1 part Max Bloom’s attitude toward food and attitude and 3 parts Ron Swanson’s mustache.

Liz Lemon, and 30 Rock in general perfectly capture humor that is self aware but not self involved. I have no idea what that means but it makes me laugh! Iguess, I just love when people are self-deprecating but I don’t feel like if have to pity them. “You’re slovenly, alone and food obsessed? Me too! Wanna windmill high five about it?” Yes, 30 Rock, yes I do.

So thanks Tina Fey and thanks Liz Lemon. It’s been totally gayballz. Can’t wait to see what comes next.

not sayin, just sayin


tru punx: we can’t all die young.

Hey dudes.

Welcome to another installment of Tru Punx, where I give you tips on how to live your life, smash the state and look good doing it!

Today we’re going to take a journey to that special point where the future meets reality and talk about how to make that intersection less of a shit show for you. These are some easy things you can do now so that, 20 years down the line you can look back on your life and feel like you made marginally intelligent decisions   Before we get started, let me admit that most of this advice comes from a special place in my heart that is filled with both sincerity and hypocrisy. I don’t have the time or energy to follow my own amazing advice, but you should definitely do what I say. Why else would you be reading this?

1. Stop smoking, cool kid.

Everyone talks about the health issues related to cigarettes. Cancer, tooth decay, cancer. Blah blah blah amirite? What the “doctors” fail to acknowledge is the diminishing return on the coolness factor associated with cigarette smoking. You know how awesome it is right now when you’re standing outside of a show, smoking cigs and looking cool as fuck? Yeah, that doesn’t last forever. Eventually, you won’t be a cute 20-something year old breaking all the rules and scting 2 kool 4 skool. You will be a paunchy (potentially balding) almost 40 something who smells like smoke and has bad skin. You’re already the creepy 40 year old still going to punk shows -and that’s depressing enough- don’t add a smoker’s cough to the equation.

Earplugs, ever heard of them?

Hahhahhaha, you know how everyone thinks it’s sooooo funny to talk about their ear’s ringing after a hardcore show and how they’re going to be deaf in a couple of years? Yeah uhhhhhhh… Hearing loss is a bad thing that WILL HAPPEN IF YOU LET IT. Listen, as you get older, your opinions about having kids, moving to the suburbs or driving a car may evolve and change but your desire to hear stuff will stay pretty consistent. You will, I promise you, never NOT want to be able to hear better. Losing your hearing because you like music is for dumdums. Do some research, buy a bunch of ear plugs and use them.

Tattoos are never funny for long.

Just draw a picture of a drunk corn dog on, like, a piece of paper. Duh. No need to make your dumb inside joke fucking permanently on your body.

not sayin, just saying


2012: when will I stop talking about this shit?

Okay so a few days ago I let you all know about my biggest regrets of 2012. Then I broke down how I spent my time, which was dominated by nerding, burning stuff and failing to get gainfully employed. But for reals, it was a pretty solid year. Would I want to live through 2012 again? Not in the slightest, are you fucking crazy? But I had some fun times and look back fondly on the year’s successes and high points. Here a few of my personal favorite, personal bests.

success number one: Making Seattle fall in love with me, then breaking it’s collective heart by moving back to Chicago

success number two: Making Chicago fall in love with me. Again. Even though I recently broke it’s collective heart by moving to Seattle. Chicago is a gullible dummy.

success number three: Being a colloquial trend setter. Have you heard someone use some witty turn of phrase recently? Yeah, i started that.

success number four: Awesomefest 2012, as evidenced by this photo


this is what winning looks like.
also sweating.

success number five: Managing to blow out the crotch of like five pairs of jeans. Must be doing something right.

success number six: (trigger warning) Becoming addicted to, then managing to kick the habit of reading Jezebel comment sections. I wouldn’t even read the ‘article,’  I just skim the title and dive headlong into the morass of ignorance and mental numbness that awaited me at the bottom of the page. It was a struggle, but I just need to say: I did it all on my own and have no one else to thank for my recovery.

success number seven: Still don’t know what Pinterest is.

success number eight: Getting though 6 of 12 weeks of training for a half marathon. I basically ran a quarter marathon, guys!

success number nine:  Having enough fantastic, caring friends that I never ended up homeless or lost on the outskirts of town during a bender, even though it came kinda close a few times.

success number ten: Thinking up an idea for the best blog ever then deciding to go the easy route and start this blog instead.

Next up: let’s talk about 2013, bay-bee.

Not sayin, just sayin,


2012: Graphs is hard

Holy shit guys, making graphs is hard! Like, spend your whole Saturday afternoon on one graph hard.

Anyways, here’s a 100% accurate depiction of how I spent my time in 2012.

this is what crushing it looks like

this is what crushing it looks like

Here’s some other number stuff about my year:

number of times I collapsed in on myself like a dying star: 1

number of times I watched the entire series of the Office: 2

number of times I moved: 3

number of times I interviewed for a job, got stressed about whether I really wanted that job, then failed to get offered the job: 4

number of times I ended a friendship because of The Queers/Screeching Weasel/Glenn Danzig: 5 (I calls ’em like I sees ’em)

number of times I had to explain that no, I don’t like David Lynch and yes, I’m okay with that: 6

number of times I cried while sober:0

number of times I cried while shit faced: 7 (sorry friends)

number of enemies made: 8

number of times I shifted tectonic plates by eye rolling so hard: 9

number of times shouted “OH SHIT”, jumped off the couch, and ran toward my oven, now filled with burnt garbage: infinity

number of lists made: infinity

number of fucks given: averaging zero

number of cigs smoked: fewer than in years before

number of punx upped: all of them

Okay kids. This is where I leave you. Up next: more of the same.

not sayin, just sayin,