Go. Do. Now.

Today, my friend Brie sent me an email. The subject was "tonight." The body of the email... "do." That's all. I was struck by how profound this was. How Taoist. "When I let go of what I am, I become what I might be." "To the mind that is still, the whole universe surrenders."

Another email appeared during my existential haze. The subject was "tonight." The body of the email... "oops! :) i was trying to say... do you practice on thursdays? when and where? are you going? carpool if it's in lemont? i got my flight for kansas! :) brie"

Go forth.

Dirty laundry

Blogs are meant to be short form and free flowing. So, why can't I do this? Every time I sit down to write a post I feel like I have to write a mini-thesis and well-crafted story. I obsess. What kind of parallels can I draw from this other part of my life? How do I bring it full circle in the end? Does it have to be that complicated? What is my problem?

So, now I have a bunch of half-written blog posts that are piling up like rancid laundry. And it seems overwhelming. So, I just wanted to get something down. Just to make myself get over it. No delete key. (Unless there's a typo. It would drive me nuts.) A long time ago the bear forced me to try this exercise. Just write. And don't overthink it. It's liberating. And terrifying.

This post isn't beautiful. And that's ok. So, let me leave you with some things that are.

Yayeveryday
Postsecret

Snuggie Haikus

Not too long ago, our mentor started a Snuggie Haiku website. One Snuggie-centric haiku. Per day. Every day. That's a lot of haiku-ing for one person, so he opened up the floor and asked us for a few submissions.

This is what happens when you jam 1.4 pounds of fleece into 17 syllables.

Can't defend myself.
My deadly roundhouse gets lost
in this fleece nightmare.

Nothing says don't care
for personal hygiene like
snuggies in summer.

For more haikus and pretty pictures, go here.

Root! Root! Root for the Cubbies!

Yesterday, (yes, it was a school day) the bear, some e79ers, and I went to a Cubs game with the good folks at eyewonder. The weather was lovely, the drinks summery, and the Cubs lost. All was right in Wrigleyville. (Actually, the Cubs are doing pretty well this season. The dejected attitude is a force of habit, I suppose.)


We had rooftop seats that came with a delightful assortment of frosty beverages and ballpark fare, like this hot dog. [The bear art-directed the shit out of it. Look at how delicious that looks! Look!]


After the game, we wondered over to Casey Moran's. But not before we saw this musical baby.


At Casey Moran's I introduced Mike and Ryan to the term "lesbian shorts." (Aka ugly golf shorts that lesbians seem to have adopted as a summer uniform.)

[This lesbian shorts belong to a boy.]


[These do not.]


After the game and quite a few beers, I decided to get a hairscut. This was probably a bad idea. Because 1) I was... under the influence and 2) I gave little to no thought to where I was going or what kind of hairscut I wanted once I got there. I picked a direction, started walking, and stopped at the first salon I saw.

Terrible girl behavior. A real girl would probably compare that to running down the street with a pair of scissors (safety first), approaching the first person you saw and shouting, "Hey! Hey, you! Cut my hair." Definitely in line with this - Worst Girl Ever, Part 2.

Whatever. It worked out fine. All in all. This day gets two and a half high fives. Solid.

Trust the Tonnie Touch

"We are the physical, emotional, spiritual... whatever other word you wanna put in there... representation of every experience we've ever had. Every person you've ever met. Every relationship you've ever had. Every rugby game you've played. Every tackle you've made. Every time you've been tackled. And so on and so on," said my chiropractor friend, Ms. Tonnie, as she checked the alignment of four mangled ruggers. (Myself included.)

While she did this, I followed closely behind as an impromptu apprentice, taking mental notes and observing her every move. My teammates were slathered on the tables, relaxing to a soundtrack of music you'd find in a wind chime store and Tonnie's running commentary. I suspect that they were more interested in unsnarling their spines than the chiropractic lesson. But not me, the ever-eager Asian student. (Nerd alert.)

The technique she showed me was called Network Spinal Analysis, which is "practiced by hand, applying low force contacts to spinal gateways. These contacts cue the nervous system to develop new strategies for living and healing." What this basically means is that once Tonnie finds an imbalance in your body, she'll then alert your brain that things are a little out of whack by gently touching your spine. Just a little wake-up call telling your brain to stop imagining a hamster in a Zorb and reel things in. Way in.

To the untrained eye (i.e. mine) it seemed as though Tonnie had the Midas touch. She barely touched people, yet healed their peg legs in a single boop. (Ex. One of my teammate's legs appeared to be about 1/4 of an inch longer than the other leg. No doubt causing a slight lean and hatred of land lubbers. But once Tonnie booped her, the leg magically evened out... like magic. Of course, this wasn't instantaneous, but it did happen fairly quickly.)

Then it was time for the apprentice to become the test subject. I laid face down on the table and tried to relax. Apparently, this was futile because she told me that my back felt like a brick wall and that I was the worst of all. Well, great. She then proceeded to psychoanalyze me and throw out a personality profile that would have put Kinsey to shame. (Based on limited information and what my body told her.) She told me about how every little piece of our lives is stored in our nervous system. Every argument and unpaid bill. Every hug and handshake. Every stress and joy. And that our pain/discomfort level is indicative of how well we are able to adapt to this flux.

In general, it's pretty easy to tell when your body has had some physical trauma. Like in this photo I submitted to Your Scrumhalf Connection's bruised and battered rugby photo album.



But it's less apparent when you've had a spiritual or an emotional trauma. You carry your baggage around with you, undetected by the world. (Well, I guess that's not entirely true. Some people make it VERY evident to everyone that they have emotional issues.) But what if every emotion, demeanor, or interaction had a physical manifestation that was just as apparent as a rugby wound?

What would that be like? Would we look like the Operation guy?



Would we have to duct tape our hearts back together? Would bitter people taste that way, too? Would our skin change color like a mood ring? Would our genitals glow when we're turned on? (Uhh, awkward.) And would that type of emotional transparency help or hurt human interaction?

Probably a little bit of both. I think we could all open up a little bit more. So many of us let hurt and life wear us down. We throw up our wall, tuck our hearts away to a place where no one can wrench and wring it. But they also can't touch it. Your sleeve is a much better place for it. BUT I can also see the value of a little discretion. No one wants to be standing in the grocery line next to a creeper whose crotch looks like a Christmas tree.

I'm ok with not broadcasting my psyche to the world. The fact that I'm "a little stressed, but pretend to have my shit together" can be just between me and Tonnie.

New theme song

RT @mike_damico New single from "Structure Fire"

Thanks, bear. He loves him some interwebs.

To waste some time and give you a glimpse into my morning, let's take a look at all the windows I currently have open.


NYTimes
The Facebook or MyFace as my technologically challenged friend says in a completely non-ironic way (no need for a link, you know what it looks like)
Blogger
Chiropractor friend's website, whom I am writing about
Checking AdAge to keep up with the haps in the ad biz
Awesome wolf sweatshirt
Nerd out with Star Trek
Sweet Beastie Boys performance from Letterman '04
...and finally, what's Sunday without Zombies vs. Japanese kids?

Late addition to piggyback Star Trek article

Doodle doodle

Some random doodles from my sketchbook. Don't ask me to explain anything because there's a good chance I have no idea.

April Fool's 2.0

Last year at work, we pulled an April's Fool Day prank on our friend Jason. Jason X-1-6-3-8, to be exact. This year April first really snuck up on us. But we couldn't just let it pass without a follow-up. 'Cause after all, you only get one shot... per year.

So, at about 1 am the night before, we decided that we'd find a new target and unleash some awkwardness onto him. (We didn't have the heart to do it to Jason again, even though he was a champ about it.) Ironically, our new target was the editor of the Jason X-1-6-3-8 video, MG. No one is safe. We're like wild animals who will turn on each other in a second for a pork chop. Which worries me because I'm sure next year someone is going to try to blow us out of the water. But that's neither here nor there. We had to concentrate on the task at hand.

It's worth it to note that during the last few weeks, our IT department has been sending out emails about various viruses and how to avoid them. So, the fear of getting violated by technology was on everyone's mind, which played right into our hands.

This is how it went down. We broke into MG's computer and sent every single person in the company an email. (Thank God for password1.) BUT we faked it to make it seem like that person had originally sent MG an email and he was replying to THEM. Follow me here?

Here's an example:


His reply was always "What are you talking about?" And the emails they "sent" him were awkward things like:

-"Did you leave your Imodium AD in my office? Well, I have it if you need it again."
-"I can't believe this is happening again."
-"Hey dude, remember that guy we met at that party a few months ago? He's got some more product for you to try."
-"Your pants were working really hard yesterday."
-"Ahhhh, dennis knows! What are we going to do?!?" (dennis is our CCO.)
-"Stop touching my hot pockets. I really mean it this time."
-"What's that statutory loophole again?"
-"What are you talking about?" (With his response: "What are YOU talking about?" One of my favorites.)
-"I've got it! We can do it with prosthetics!"

Of course, this all created a whirlwind of confusion. Much to our delight. We had to let IT in on it early so they didn't freak out and think a virus had attacked everyone with uncomfortable-ness.

Then our CCO got wind of all the electronic action, figured out it was us (apparently, we have a reputation for trouble-making) and in turn, tried to pull a fast one on US. He sent our IT guy an email saying that a security breach had been reported and that within hours they'd find the source and take action. "The guys in New York sounded pissed" was a nice finishing touch. Our IT guy then printed the email, pasted on his best concernicus face, and showed it to us. We pooped our pants for half a second, then quickly realized that the email was as fake as an L.A. mixer.

Hmm, maybe I shouldn't be reminding people that we like to cause trouble. Maybe we'll call in sick next year.

The Duel

Last weekend, North Shore took a roadtrip down to Tennessee for the annual rugby extravaganza that is Nash Bash. We won both games the first day, but lost in the semis in a tough match against Philly. Not the desired result, but we were still pretty happy with the way we played. At Nash Bash, you're pretty much guaranteed a good time and good competition.

Something else that we've come to expect is a good after party. Kegs at the pitch and a Saturday night bar tour. Not too shabby. This year our team's tour theme was high school stereotypes, which yielded some pretty hilarious results.




But the real highlight was "the bet."
---

On March 28, 2009, two great warriors descended upon the grassy knolls of Tennessee to engage in a Homeric battle for the ages. Their tale would be one that reaches the ears of their great-grandchildren's children's nieces. Truly epic. After all, eternal pride, glory, and a list-serve mention were at stake.

When the sun was high the two warriors, Snausage the Loose LooseHead and Steph the Snogger, gathered to set the rules of engagement.

Whomever sucked face first on the Nash Bash bar tour, devoid of direct prompting (AKA asking someone to make out with you for the sake of winning the bet), would be celebrated and crowned as the Pimp Queen of North Shore. Other rules of combat included: a witness (or several) must give visual confirmation, there must be tongue involved, you cannot and must not accost a teammate, and the battle would begin promptly at 9 pm, but you may lay groundwork down before the official start time.

There was much rumbling amongst the citizens on whom was favored in the Snog-off. Many sided with Snausage as she is less... discerning about the sex of her target. Whereas, Jarem refuses to cross over to the dark side, which drastically decreased her candidate pool.

The battle begun promptly at 9pm and can be compared to teenage sex because after an eternity of anticipation, it was over shortly after it started. Snausage, determined not to lose, cinched victory within an hour of arriving at the first bar by making out with Marlise's pirate friend from Memphis. (Every year at Nash Bash, this girl and her teammates are dressed like pirates. Trust me, you've seen her around. It's pretty awesome.) (It should also be noted that there may have been a breach of ethics in the way this happened. It's rumored that the phrase, "Would you mind if I kissed you?" preceded the kiss. Some said this is a direct request, which breaks the rules of engagement. While some simply considered it polite to ask this before cramming your tongue into a stranger's mouth.) Not to be outdone, Jarem grabbed some tall boy to secure second place in this two-woman race.

But this is where the true battle begins. At the end of the evening, Jarem, emboldened by her sexy nerd outfit, started spittin' game like King Koopa spits fireballs and snagged a cute tall boy in her sordid web of seduction. They sucked face. Hard. As if their lives depended on it. AND she scored the digits. (Let the record show that Nova is the witness to this second make out. She made it very clear by screaming, "WITNESS!" into Jarem's face as it was attached to another human's face.)

Not one to be one-upped, Snausage went in search of another pirate girl. When she finally settled on a non-pirate girl, she brought her over to the group and the four of them had the fiercest Snog-off I've ever bore witness to. It was like the Jets and Sharks were battling in people's mouths.

Like a dance-off, the snogging went back and forth. Forth and back. Kinda sideways. And a little bit awkward. The crowd offered much praise and encouragement. And eventually some slight cringing, as this display went on for quite some time.

In the end, everyone got some hot mouth action and were deemed winners. However, because of Snausage's questionable questions and the nature of Jarem's final pick-up, it has been hotly contested by some that while Snausage may have won the battle, Jarem has won the war. The feud wages on.

---

I love my team, haha.

New team cheer

The Bear and I have a new team cheer, courtesy of our "racist" creative director. It goes like this, "Go! Go! Go! Super interracial team!... Go! Go! Go! Super Interracial team!"

I've never thought of us as an interracial team. Maybe it's because I'm one of those people who "don't see color." Which is a bullshit term. It is literally impossible to not see color. Are you looking at this person or toward this person? Are they in your periph? Yes? Then oops, you saw their color.

If for your entire life you've purposely avoided looking at or near people, then maybe you can claim this. But otherwise, I think it's just a way to overcompensate for a fear of being perceived as a racist because you may or may not be slightly racist. Racist.

Hmm, this post got really serious all of a sudden... um... go diversity! Yay!

To Whom It May Concern

Sometimes, I feel sorry for the word whom. It didn't do anything wrong, but it is somehow being shunned for inadvertently making people look like assholes.

Most of the time, I just can't bring myself to say it. I know exactly where it should be used and where it shouldn't. But I just feel like such a pompous prick when I say it. Especially when the context of the situation is ridiculous and insanely inane, which is most of my existence.

"Oh, I'm sorry, whom did you say you spoke to about the one piece jort suit and cattle prods??"
"Mr. Teeters is the man whom she stabbed with a spork in a diner in Bucktown."

This is what my writer friend Katy Rank Lev thinks about this: "listen, i use whom as much as possible. do not shun the whom just because you fear it! we are actually talking who/whom in my class in about three minutes. so there will be 19 more young people using it properly!"

Well, Katy Rank Lev (and this isn't going to help my argument of colloquial slang vs. proper speech), but you can suck it, ahhh hahahahahaha!

Worst girl ever, part 2

Another example of my lack of vagina-tude is my haircut or rather the process of the haircut. A few weeks ago, I went here to get ten inches lopped off of my ratty mane.

It's a cute, trendy place. They offered me some wine and a trashy magazine while I waited for my turn. I also got to pet that giant puppy in the photo.

When my turn came the stylist started asking me all sorts of questions about what I wanted. Did I want it angled? How should we frame your face? Do I want to try some bangs out? How long should the layers be? Apparently, cutting ten inches off is a big deal and something that requires deliberation.

I told her, "Well, just do whatever you want. I trust you. Plus, it'll grow back." This seemed to puzzle her. I guess my lack of concern about facial framing is atypical, especially in a nice place like this.

So, she did her thing. And this is what we ended up with.


[This is me being an asshole right after the haircut. My sister demanded pictures.]

My mom is probably disappointed that I'm such a terrible girl. Good thing she has my sister, who is girlie enough for the both of us. But I also wonder if my dad is slightly disappointed that I'm not quite a son, but too crappy of a girl to be Daddy's little princess. Oh well, sorry Annie and Danny.

Either way, I hope this creature makes you proud in some way.