good evening, sports fans

maybe it's not just the undergrad nerds? mb and i went to check out a new neighborhood gym last night, and after a quick warm-up on the treadmills (during which mb decided he had to lap me on *stationary treadmills* - honestly, who is that competitive???) we headed over to the weights. there was the usual throng of big guys admiring their own arms and preening in the mirrors, which i know is standard. but who was the guy grunting and shouting under the strain of the AB BALL??? now that's just not that hard core. i don't like doing ab workouts, but that's just silly.

on a sports-related note, to some of our favorite male blog readership: what is up with getting the ncaa tickets? jo-na would like to attend with you. especially as one of us lives within walking-ish distance to the united center.

hidden treasures

some people might say that it's silly to fly half way around the country to a new city and not leave the hotel. but those people probably wouldn't have a bottle of southern comfort and a giant mardi gras king cake in their room. they might remind me that there must be things do in nashville , and there's definitely nothing going on at the sheraton music city that doesn't happen in any hotel anywhere. those people have not, however, found themselves hanging out at the hotel bar drinking jack daniels (they make it here), discovering that there's a talent scounting conference going on in this very hotel. if they knew that, they'd also know that our seat from the bar afforded us an excellent view of the parade tired, emotionally spent amateur models (or even better their mothersr) sneaking out for a drink and cigarette. they also wouldn't have found that they could just follow one of these people back into the ballroom, where they would just be able to sit inconspicuously in the back, frankly intoxicated watching the runway walk of at least 100 anorexic 15 year olds sauntering around stage, trying desperately to get that bitchy turn on the catwalk down (we practiced in our room later - it's not that hard).

if you'll excuse me, i need to get back to the room so i can eat some king cake, drink some so-co, and figure where in this town one can eat BBQ and watch new orleans spank chicago. geaux saints!

ode to the undergrads taking up the gym equipment last wednesday afternoon

oh, little undergrad, with your scrawny self and your shiny tracksuit and your grunting and flailing and clanging the weights together with your efforts. how you wanted to look big and tough; i saw you struggle mightily with those 60 pounds, not stopping to consider that your poor form might limit your weight training prowess.

and oh, even scrawnier undergrad, with your moppy uncut hair and your sleepy drool on the left elbow of the chest press as your slack jaw rests on the machine rather than actually lifting anything. i hope you had peaceful dreams of nietzche and schrodinger.

oh, high-topped black basketball shoes and the black socks that accompany you... how happy i am that finally you have found a home where your fashion statement is not stigmatized, but rather is celebrated by the pasty white calves that love them so. the peasant dresses and military jackets with whom you associate are waiting patiently in the locker room for your return.

who needs magazines on the stationary bike? i mock because i love, my friends.

bar hopping for bottom-feeders

it was a long-anticipated weekend... and now i don't think n. will ever be seen with me in public ever again. ever.

it's not that i had high expectations for the bars on southport. in fact, when offering up our watering hole options i did, in fact, describe them as "small non-descript irish bar" and "big non-desccript irish bar." killing time in a smoky, crowded, aging frat boy bar woulnd't be so bad if the aging frat boys weren't still so obviously younger than us... and the musical mantra of this kind of establishment wasn't the non-descript folky irsh late 90s cover band. when it comes to lofty music taste i am, obviously, all talk. i may appreciate indie rock, but i'm not exactly a believer. and i just don't that sad bastard music is ever the right answer (for that you can listen to the fray or coldplay or U2- not nearly as painful). so it was frankly awful, but at least it was funny and we could sing along - or at least m and i thought so. n. was too busy trying to teleport himself back to wicker park, and the clientele was just to young to find any nostalgic value in "closer to fine."

then it was on to the buffy sing-a-long. in the back of my head, i always knew it would be a geek infested circus, and had the presence of mind to buy tickets ahead - a move without which i wouldn't even have been able to stand in the line that wrapped all the way around the block. i'd envisioned a small throng of goth kids, some sci fi dweebs, and handful of out-of-place stragglers like us - not the hoards of people, who honestly looked pretty normal... until we got inside. standing outside with their coats and confirmation numbers i really thought these people looked like garden-variety yuppies, but once we were all settled inside and the show started i realized that they were exactly the kind of vampire-obsessed weirdos i'd dreaded, masquerading as normal people.

i spent saturday recovering from my late-night outing. later i went to an unusually crowded avenue tavern to watch the saints win their first ever playoff game, and then found myself back on southport, at a medium-sized nondescript irish bar (its black facade with gold lettering not being at all helpful in distinguishing it from every other bar on the block). there were, of course, aging frat boys, and there was, of course, a non-descript folky irish late 90s cover band. and that's where i drew the line - let 'em bastardize dave matthews, i don't care, but "don't you forget about me" is off limits.

bender

a few months ago we ran a piece on hangover movies which, in my humble estimation, went over really well. less well received (but much more entertaining) have been my blogmate's witty and sardonic digs at indie rockers and the people who love them.

my relationship with indie rock (and with hangovers) is complicated. i feel i should resist, but i can't. ultimately it's unavoidable; if you have a vague aspirations of coolness, but really don't want to work that hard it's the way to go. i'll leave it at that, since i just convinced n to join me at the buffy sing-along and i don't want to piss him off (how much would it suck to go to the midnight showing of "once more with feeling" alone?).

so i offer my nominations for reigning best hangover music and open the floor to discussion:

franz ferdinand
modest mouse
the killers

aud lang syne

perhaps new year's resolutions are not the product of insightful reflection, so much as they result from the new year's day hangover and the self-loathing that accompanies it. ugly, tired, nauseated- of course we feel compelled to change our lives.

at 8AM i found myself wide awake and feeling suspiciously fine - i seized the moment, hopped out of bed, cleaned up and did the (many, many) dishes (that's what i get for deciding i was classy enough to serve drinks out of real glassware). i finished just as the insidious feeling of impending misery was setting in, and had myself curled up under a blanket on the couch with club soda, leftover spinach and artichoke dip, and the PBS brittish mystery drama marathon just in time. hours later i woke up to that all-too-familiar searing pain behind my right eye. let's be honest- there was no way i was getting away with five dirty gin martinis without feeling this way.

given how muddled i felt, i'm surprised i managed to draw any meaningful conclusions about anything today, but i did finally understand that day-after bloody marys aren't actually a hangover remedy, so much as they are a gesture of resilience. as good as i mixed them this year, it's not about how they taste- it's about how cool they make us feel.

i also found time (and consciousness) to find more fault with yahoo avatars. there are no dark circles under the eyes, no trashed apartments, no disheveled hair and rumpled clothes. i understand that it's weird that my avatar is always crying - i'm not really that despondent of a person. but it's the closest i can get to the way i'm actually feeling, which is just plain wretched.