The Kind Of Thing You Only See In Scented, Glossy Magazines

Actually there's nothing much to see or do at the University of Cincinnati, except things that remind you why college life is so good. It's not as big as the only other school I've seen in the US, but that's not saying much because apparently Stanford holds the record for contiguous land mass for a school or university. Citation needed.

Today marks the last working day of this trip, as Monday is Labor Day and apparently that and the weekend before it is a big deal. We'll see. Anyway, I'm left to my own devices again for this rainy Friday afternoon/evening and I spend it procrastinating whether to see Tropic Thunder in Newport. I know I'm the type to find that type of movie funny but in the end I didn't, because I don't recall ever bing satisfied with a Ben Stiller movie the first time I see it. Usually it takes the movie being shown ad infinitum on HBO before the true gems of jokes set in ("What is this, a center for ants?"). Meet The Fockers doesn't count, that's special for another reason.

Things are starting to wind down on this trip. I know I hate on Cincy for the most part on this journal, but it's really not that bad. For a modern city, there's some old school city love kind of vibe that we don't get in cities at home, except maybe for the South.

Take tonight, for example. Because of my unwillingess to ask questions (a character flaw that we'll revisit some other time, I'm sure), I got on the wrong bus on the way home, and I ended up in another Kentucky town, Covington. (There are a number of cool-looking bars down there, apparently; it's a shame I find this out only tonight.)

Anyway, I had to wait for something like 20 minutes for the next bus that will take me back downtown. For most of the trip back I'm the lone passenger and I get to see Cincy from the other side. It's actually pretty on this dreary Friday; the San Fo Giants are in town and the Great American Ballpark is lit up like an upside-down chandelier. I especially enjoy the huge halogen lights of the ballpark for some reason, and fireworks go off when Encarnaction hits a grand slam in the third inning to put the Reds up 4-0. Further down, the buildings and the twin towers of the P&G headquarters stand out in the Cincy skyline. There are a lot of people in red walking around because of the game, and maybe a wee bit more people than usual owing to the long weekend.

When I get down at Fountain Square there's an amateur performers concert going on, and while they're not Nucleus Running they're not that bad. I hang around the square to see a number of badly-named acoustic duos ("Hi we're and ") and leave when depression starts to overtake the appreciation of everything about tonight. I go home and make myself soup and wash it down with Bud.

I realize there are a million ways to tell the story of 'nothing happened'. And sometimes it seems like I'm going to have to go through every one of them.

Sometimes You Turn Your Back To The Wind

Alternate title: Hoosier Daddy.

This weekend, Jenny and her possie went to a mountain resort in Tennessee called Smoky Mountain. Hopefully for them it's nothing like what comes to mind when you hear the words "Smoky Mountain". Unless of course, that first thing that comes to your mind is "Paraiso".

In any case I passed up on that. Left to my own devices, I booked a bus out of town and went to Indianapolis, Indiana, the last piece of this "tri-state" area that I haven't been to. Indiana to me means only two things: racing and Reggie Miller, and I'm lucky enough to have time to visit the homes for both.

(Technically, automobile racing's home is probably Monza, Italy and Miller's home is either UCLA or the torn-down Market Square Arena or one might argue, NYC's Madison Square Garden. But I needed a segue.)

The Indianapolis Motor Speedway is located on the outskirts of town, opened in 1909 and the first Indy 500 race was held there in 1911. Also called "The Brickyard" for once being totally paved with bricks, it was home to F1's US Grand Prix from 2000-2007. It's home race is the annual Indy 500, and there are a few other competitions that are held there including NASCAR and motorcycle racing. This week there weren't any, which is OK because I wouldn't have had the time to watch anyway, so I had to content myself with the Hall of Fame.

The Hall of Fame houses, among other things, past winners of the Indy 500 and other icons of autoracing history. The only names (and cars) that were familiar were Schumacher, Jacques Villeneuve, Mario Andretti and Juan Miguel Fangio. Oh, and Danica Patrick. You don't have to like cars or racing to appreciate the stuff in this museum. At the very least, it's you chance to see the evolution of the internal combustion engine before our generation starts phasing it out.

Next up is downtown's Conseco Fieldhouse, the home of your Indiana Pacers. Of course, the season was over as well, and no I wasn't on the mood for the WNBA's Indiana Fever. I'll just note that the gift shop featured throwback jerseys for probably the entire starting five of that classic Pacers team that went up against the Knicks year after year, and that all things Jermaine O'Neal (recently traded to Toronto) were already on clearance. JO never did get the chance to do any playoff damage, and is overrated overall, but I still bought from the sale since he was the only semi-reliable big man on my 2005(?) fantasy NBA team, the Roswell Rayguns.

Indiana itself was probably slightly bigger than Cincy, but I can't verify that since I was only there one afternoon. It actually reminds me of a European city that I can't place. Vienna, maybe? Now that can't be right.

On the way home I had a slight scare because my bus reservation said 7:50 PM and by 8:30 it was still nowhere in sight. Then I remembered I never did check what time zone Indy was in. Was it Central or Eastern? The Pacers play in the same conference as the Bulls, and they're in central. Eaux fuck! Turns out it really was just late, and Indiana is on EST.

Next: The University of Cincinnati.

The TV Should Apologize

I know I've been here too long because I've started to understand The Hills. Stayed in last Sunday with the remaining bottle of wine and I got to see MTV run a Hills marathon all evening; all this to hype up Monday's season four premiere "We'll Never Be Friends". Oooh drama. Because I don't get enough of that.

There are a few things that betray this and some other "reality" shows as reality. One, how can there be a camera shot of a reality-show "star" entering a room...from the inside? Can they read the person's mind? Second, in a show where everyone is being followed around with a camera crew, how can any meeting be "accidental"? OMG, Spencer's here? The sound guy with the boom mike and another guy lugging around heavy video equipment didn't tip you off?

And finally, no way Whitney is that pretty and charming and just happened to be applying for the same job as Lauren in the show's pilot. At this point I'm like, OMG I'm giving this, like, too much thought.

Earlier that weekend, I saw Vicky Cristina Barcelona, both as a change of pace/scenery and because I hear ScarJo plays another free spirit in this one. In any case, new dream: see Barcelona. (You know, after Japan.) In the film at least the city is one big canvas for Gaudi; it's beautiful. The movie itself was typical Woody Allen fare: little plot, almost chick-flick-y and character-driven. But they were good characters, which saves it. And did I mention Scarlet as a free spirit? Rebecca Hall isn't bad either.

So between that, Saturday's breakdown and Lauren Conrad's reality show life, it's been a very uh, unmanly weekend. I need to do something about this. I need to go to the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. Next.

Break Cork In Case Of Emergency

No that's not a line from a song, as far as I know.

My fellow traveler's boyfriend and his brother are in town for the next two weeks, which explains why my date(s) tonight are the following:

After what I've been through today trust me this is the best I can do.

I have this habit. When faced with something I can't deal with I automatically conjure up some episode from the past that was also something I couldn't deal with at the time, but at least now I just remember being paralyzed and not actually are paralyzed. Or put another way, at least that only hurts in my head and not in, uh, other parts. There isn't a name for that tactic/condition yet, as far as I can tell. Psych graduate-friends, be a dear and help name it after me.

Here we go again.

Classes were suspended that supposedly rainy Monday. Someone had the bright idea to spend the day at his house to "jam" (read: play pretend-rock-star). The venue was going to be your lover's best friend's house.

I use the term "lover" in the loosest sense. All three of us were too young to know what love was, and at least one of us still doesn't. But I digress. Lover's best friend's house. Hardly neutral territory.

You and him and some bit player in this story take his Beetle. I hitch with my friend in his Lite Ace. Why do I tag along? Because I'm an idiot. I remember the song playing in the car (of course): Today by the Smashing Pumpkins. The irony is not lost on me.

The time it takes to get to the house is around 20-30 minutes, and there are a bunch of ways to get there. When we do get there the Beetle is nowhere to be found, but the bit player is. She tells us your alibi: apparently, you realized you had to get home right away because your folks didn't know where you were after they learned that classes were suspended, and so you had him take you home. This couldn't have worked out better if you planned it, and a big part of me still thinks you did.

You can imagine how expressive the "jamming" session turned out. The rest of that ironically sunny day I just drowned myself in something slightly less classy than 2005 California Red.

These are the stories that make up who I am; these stories of disappointment, weakness and despair. What else stories would you have me tell?

Put in more cliche terms: what do you want me to say?

Understands The Weather Of The Winters On Its Way

Current activity: time travelling.

A couple of days ago for no reason I could not get Even Flow out of my head. I guess thoughts do arrive like butterflies.

This one is for the kids who wish they were in Seattle in 1991. If you check the related videos there's a really good version of Breath, too.


A couple of weekends ago (before the concert), I went to Newport alone to kill some time and clear my head and so I took the opportunity to eat up front at the bar inside Rockets. Summoning all my The Secret powers, I got my order taken by one of one of the twins. (Jessica or Elizabeth, I prefer Jessica just because.) Yes, that's where I spend my The Secret credits: waitresses. Anyway, I got something called a Route 66 burger, and Jessica kept asking how I found it and refilling my Diet Coke.

Johnny Rockets provides each booth with a mini-jukebox showcasing some really good classics. We've never had one actually work, though. Anyway while eating and staring and clearing my head, someone selects to play the Beach Boys' "California Girls". When you're in the presence of the trinity like that (pretty girl, good food, great music), you have to crack a smile.

Later...

Tin (another Tin) was in town last week and after seeing a forgettable Pineapple Express (sorry Seth) on Friday we went out to the mall the following day. Tin rounded up her friend May and we met up with Kim from Jenny's team. One of the first few stores we entered was Papyrus (yes, that Papyrus) and the girls spent an annoyingly long time inside a store that sold perfumed paper products. Suffocating from lack of testosterone I went out to look at other things, and then I saw that the adjacent stores were Abercrombie & Fitch and Banana Republic. Not what I had in mind.

The gimik quickly degenrated into: Tin and May at VS, Jenny and Kim at Sephora and me looking at Tokidoki toys. The only place all five of us agreed to visit was Apple.

Next stop: Walmart. Or at least that was the plan. On the way there we got separated from the rest of the convoy on the highway. That's when Jenny said, "Follow that Walmart truck!" And that's when we got lost completely. Twenty minutes later we called it off and decided to go grocery shopping at the nearer Kroger instead.

Later...

There, I bought a poster book that collected some of the most memorable X-men covers (including that Rogue/Magneto one that still rocks to this day), thinking it would be great as a gift. When I check the groceries out the cashier looks at the book, looks at me and asks "Is this for you?" I answer, "Let's pretend it's not."

I'm keeping it, by the way.

Now...

If time travelling were possible, any one of those days would be fine. But I'd probably prefer to go back either two years or go forward two weeks. Either way, I'd be home.

Beat Back The Pain We've Found

Alternate title: Is This Real Or Am I Dreaming.

As you can tell I'm still high from the concert on Tuesday at the Riverbend Music Center. Dave and the boys played for something like three hours to a packed house and lawn. We were lucky to get good, uh, grass, and could see the stage without straining our necks too much since the "lawn" was actually the side of a sloping hill. Not bad for 40 bucks. And we were lucky it stopped raining in the morning.

I really should brush up on my DMB discography; I only own one album (...Crowded Streets) and got lucky since they had like three songs from that one, including one of my all-time faves. The concert was mostly to promote the new album, so I didn't know a lot of the songs but it didn't matter. Singing along to the last lines of Crush was well worth it. No, I made sure I didn't catch that on video. Videos and pictures to come.

The Band would launch into fifteen minute instrumentals before ending their songs, with guitar player Tim Reynolds taking about half of that. Isn't he listed as an official band member by now?

The place as I said was packed. Behind us were a bunch of drunk kids (beer was sold), and in front of us there was this girl who'd scream at the top of her lungs...before the front act even started. If she was that enthusiastic shouldn't she have better seats?

There was an annoying group of people to the right of us who were playing out some sort of real-life television drama (One Tree Hillbilly?) and wasn't really listening except when the band was playing Ants Marching, which annoyed the hell out of me. From time to time one guy would "break character" and would wolf whistle at the band for no reason in particular. I seriously think he puts that in his resume under "special talents". Argh.

Jenny seemed to enjoy it as well, except for the part where the drunk kids started stepping on her brand new beach towel and my bag, and kept invading her personal space to take drunk pictures. Kids!

At the end of the evening, some people found out the hard way that sloping hills and alcohol do not mix. I didn't take pictures; as much as I enjoy people getting hurt I am not a fan of getting beat up.

I guess from that night it's all, er, downhill?

...

In annoying news, my project manager reminds me of all those teachers who, when asked a real question that was not from the textbook, would answer: "Good question. That's your homework." Ugh.

Drink In And Always Be Full

Last weekend was dubbed the Prius weekend. Renting a car here is like playing in a raffle: I never know what car we're going to get until we're actually there. And since we were saving on gas we booked a sub-compact which turned out to be a hybrid. I was thrilled; you know how I want to talk about being good to the environment.

It's actually pretty fun to drive around, mainly because of the power button instead of an ignition (I'm driving an Xbox!) and the computerized dash, which shows which power source is moving the car at any given time. It also shows how much gas you're drinking up per trip (45.8 mpg by the end of the weekend). We actually had to google how to start the car when I had lost "the touch". Apparently you need to step on the brakes when you start the car; otherwise it's just like turning on the ACC.

But that's not the main part of Prius weekend. I got to see 90's relics Collective Soul, Blues Traveler and Live, uh, live! We decided to go see them on Sunday evening at the last minute. I'm sorry Manila but that beats Lifehouse any day.

The show was done in Turfway Park, which is actually a horse race track in Florence, Kentucky. It was held on the grass with no seats so we camped out as close to the stage as we could. There weren't many people there which was a departure to the kind of crowd the same concert would draw in Cubao.

Blues Traveler actually steals the show for me, and I think I know why. I've seen high school kids do Selling The Drama pretty accurately; and as good as the guitar solo in Shine is I'm sure someone cracked it back home. Even December is easy to transcribe. But I've never seen anyone else do or even try Run-Around. John Popper is god.

I managed to get the last parts of the song on video and share when I can.

No, Collective Soul didn't do Perfect Day and while that was disappointing I guess it's just as well. That way I can't ever compare it to the Nucleus Running version. Hahaha. They also snuck in the Killers' lyrics "I've got soul but I'm not a soldier" during the muted parts of December. Note to pretentious cover bands. Ahem.

Live didn't disappoint and did all the hits, including my personal favorite All Over You. And in case you were wondering, Live ended their set with Lightning Crashes and not Selling The Drama.

I haven't even gotten around to talking about Hooters. Maybe some other day. Music geek in the house.

Next Tuesday: the Dave Matthews Band! My Cincy movie has gotten its own soundtrack