We Are Powerful Despite Our Injuries, Part III: We Don't Think So, We Know

I realize most people do not consider Tuesday to be part of the weekend but this blog is all about challenging the way people think and I’m sick and tired of making apologizes for delayed Maritime-themed blog entries so, without further ado: On Thursday, Kevin, Carrie, and I arrived at the 7^th Street Entry just shy of 9 PM. I was rather dismayed to read the posted set times of “Ada Jane – 9:30”, “Bound Stems – 10:30”, and “Maritime – 11:30”, especially after I had called First Ave earlier in the evening and received approximate set times of 9:00, 10:00, and 11:00. I later remarked to Kevin that I could only name one difference between the evening’s show and the Art Brut concert the two of us had attended at the Entry a few months earlier for which doors opened and 5:00 and - despite the presence of just one opening act - the music started at 6:00. The distinction was that while the Art Brut matinee was an all ages affair, patrons for the Maritime show were required to be at least 18 years of ages and as a result, alcohol was freely served inside the Entry. I have previously been victimized by similar tactics at the 400 Bar and frankly I find it disgusting that any venue would force concertgoers to sit around for up to an hour an a half in a desperate attempt to make a few extra bucks on drinks. With the exception of one particularly engrossing, jumpsuit-clad man in his forties, no one seemed to be drinking uncontrollably due to the extended downtime.

Ada Jane specializes in the type of country influenced folk that bores me to an extent more or less unparalleled by all other genres. To make matters worse, the front man continuously made uneasy references to the band’s absent bass player. I spent a good portion of the set pondering whether the bass player decided to stand up his bandmates during a high exposure gig opening for a national touring act or whether the venue simply wanted to maximize potential drink sales so badly that it unflinchingly booked two thirds of a relatively unknown local trio to open. The lone highlight of the set was a series of three or four fast paced rock songs played in succession which briefly garnered the audience’s enthusiasm. Sadly, the lead singer confessed immediately thereafter that the duo did not have anymore rock songs in their repertoire and again lulled the crowd to sleep, this time for the duration of the performance.

Whether it was the elaborate artificial ivy decorating the stage, the wide array of instruments on display, or the sheer number of performers, Chicago’s The Bound Stems exuded a vibe which left no doubt the band’s set would be a success prior to even taking the stage. Maritime’s Flameshovel labelmates offered a unique combination of ragged post-rock paired with irresistible male-female vocals. I can write with relative certainty that I have never seen a band take such delight in performing. In fact, on several separate occasions, frontman Bobby Gallivan could not help but rhythmically pat multi-instrumentalist Janie Porch on the shoulder and grin uncontrollably as the two sang in unison. Sadly, I later discovered in a devastating turn of events that Porch appears on neither The Logic of Building the Body Plan EP, the Stems only release currently available, nor the outfit’s forthcoming full length. Nevertheless, I still plan to investigate band’s first two records and eagerly anticipate attending a Bound Stems show after I relocate to the Windy City.

I envisioned the first three songs of Maritime’s set in a dream. Well…that’s a little bit of an exaggeration. In actuality, after repeated listenings to The Glass Floor in the days prior to the show, I realized (while awake) that “The Window Is The Door” would be the most sensible opener because the song is phenomenal, represents the first track on one of the band’s two releases, and features slow pacing which would bog down what figured to be an otherwise upbeat set heavy on material from We, The Vehicles. “Calm” would logically take things up a notch next as opener 1B and it would be unthinkable to break up the mini suite I praised at such great length in Part II, meaning that “Tearing Up The Oxygen” would be the band’s third song. As soon as the recently reconfigured quartet took the stage with drummer Dan Diddier manning the keys, the deal was sealed.

While “The Window Is The Door” was predictably gorgeous, “Calm” and “Tearing Up The Oxygen” represented the evening’s greatest disappointment aside from the forty five tedious minutes during which Ada Jane was onstage. The band appeared to suffer from the rust and over exuberance of playing its first gig in months. Both songs were ragged and “Tearing Up The Oxygen” in particular suffered from a regrettably fast tempo that smothered the tune’s irresistible pop gloom. Perhaps due to a lack of proper warm ups, Davey von Bohlen’s vocals were not only rushed but repeatedly off key. What happened next was every bit as shocking as the magnificence of We, The Vehicles: the band righted the ship with a performance of “We Don’t Think, We Know” – the same song I labeled the poorest track on the album in part two of this series – and from that point forward, never looked back. The best offerings on We, The Vehicles soared as “No One Will Remember You Tonight” offered redoubled brooding intensity and “Don’t Say You Don’t” went over so well the band jokingly threatened to launch into the song for a second time. Perhaps more impressively, middling tracks from Glass Floor such as “Someone Has To Die” and “All My Days Go By” (which I swear Davey incorrectly referenced as “If You Want To Go Out”), greatly benefiting from a louder attack and quickened pace, seamlessly fit alongside the expertly crafted material from We, The Vehicles.

In yet another surprising outcome, the highlight of the show may have been the effervescence exhibited by Maritime’s front man Davey von Bohlen. Some unflattering rumors about von Bohlen surfaced after The Promise Ring’s Wood/Water was met with disapproval from the band’s fan base and Maritime’s inauspicious beginnings did little to rebuild Davey’s reputation. I must admit that my eyebrows were raised when in the months after the release of a tremendous new Maritime album, the only interviews I could locate on the internet were conducted with Didier or departed bass player Eric Axelson and not the band’s lead singer, guitar player, and primary songwriter. However, I kid you not when I say that the man could not have been more of a delight. Davey performed with ample energy, shimmying lightheartedly across the stage on several different occasions. While extended bouts of silence to allow for tuning occurred early on, Davey soon picked up the pace with hilarious and charming anecdotes about Paul Simon, his inability to tune a guitar, and being lectured by a college professor who constantly remarks “You don’t understand. Just several years ago, everyone did not own a cell phone!” After the conclusion of the set, the man himself responded to my cry of “Davey, I was hoping for an encore!” by walking right up to me, placing his arm around my shoulder, and deadpanning “I know. I was trying to talk you out of it.” He then proceeded to regale Kevin and myself with self deprecating insight on the recording of his vocals and an unforgettable story about the reason the band no longer attempts “Adios” in concert.

What follows is an undeniably cheesy conclusion to this three part series and perhaps largely the result of fatigue but after spending multiple hours authoring these entries, my one and only hope is that the few readers I have will take the time to download a few tracks from We, The Vehicles. I do not offer such unbridled support of an album lightly and spending a brief amount of time in the presence of the band and most notably Davey leaves me convinced that such an amazing work could not have come from a much nicer group of guys. I suppose this axiom of mine has been proven false in other instances, but I firmly believe that due to the quality of the songwriting and performances, anyone who gives We, The Vehicles a legitimate chance will come to love at least several different moments throughout the course of the album.

We Are Powerful Despite Our Injuries, Part Two: It's A Sin To Know That We Are Powerful

The first listening of We, The Vehicles should be more striking and revelatory than it actually is in practice. I cannot offer a definitive explanation for why this is true. One critical reason is likely that it is difficult for anyone to ever come remotely close to fully appreciating a quality album when hearing it for the first time. Repeated exposure is generally required for even the catchiest of melodies to resonate while the subtleties of an exceptional recording cannot be absorbed without repeated samplings. Perhaps I simply experienced We, The Vehicles for the first time in a less than ideal setting by listening to the album passively while dealing with mundane tasks at work. Regardless, after obsessing over every last note of Maritime’s second full length for the better part of a month, I find it shocking that the first thirty seconds of the album alone did not provoke me to leap up from my chair in ecstasy.

The sleek, melodic, and buzzing guitar line which signals the beginning of “Calm” immediately breaks loose from the shackles of the balladry which dominates Wood/Water and Glass Floor. As if in direct protest against the mindlessly introspective down tempo tunes representative his recent work, Davey von Bohlen opens the track by singing “Ballads laugh at everyone / worse than silence is their song” over a driving, head bobbing rhythm. Propelled by instrumentation that is neither sparse nor subdued, it is von Bohlen’s soaring vocal melody as opposed to the unspectacular quality of his vocals which grabs the listeners’ attention. Twice, the song builds until Dan Didier’s tom hits transform into restrained yet emotive thrashing on the high hats. The first climax peaks with the impeccably delivered “Cause it’s a sin to know / that we are powerful” while the second build peters out before transitioning into the second half of perhaps the best two song suite I have ever heard.

At this point it is possible I will simply never be capable of completely wrapping my head around the first several seconds of We, The Vehicles second track, “Tearing Up The Oxygen”. Barely audible guitar accompanied by a heavily EQ’d electronic drumbeat tease the listener until the song erupts with a devastatingly plaintive, distorted guitar melody. The most striking feature of the intro is that the theme of “Calm” is repeated seemingly in reverse and with the absence of each note that lends the opener any sense of optimism or exuberance. During my first listening of We, The Vehicles, I actually did jump up from my seat to determine whether “Calm” had taken a turn of epic proportions or a second track had begun. After careful consideration, the only conclusion I can reach is that the transition between the first two songs is simply one of the greatest achievements in sequencing in the history of the world. This is not to suggest by any means that the remainder of the song pales in comparison to intro. Von Bohlen unleashes arguably the most memorable melody of the album while crafting a lyrically breathtaking love song about a road weary soldier (“So now I chase my bags / someday they’ll take me home / my clothes are worn so thin they accent my bones”) lost without his lover or perhaps alternately, his fans (When your eyes are off me, I’m alone / they could be anywhere / I should be so lucky”).

The third song on We, The Vehicles that no person should die without hearing is the unforgettable “Don’t Say You Don’t”. I could expend considerable effort attempting to dress up the track with flowery imagery, but the simple fact of the matter is that “Don’t Say You Don’t” happens to have one of the most addictively catchy, poignant hooks I can recall. The thrice repeated segment of the song where Davey improbably wails “There’s no night to fall in / where the sirens calling” is the closet to floating I have ever come while listening to music. A large portion of the credit for this should be attributed to Von Bohlen’s ascending guitar line which careens the listener further and further upwards until the rhythm section of Didier and Eric Axelson casts an anchor with taut syncopation while Davey cries out “We are up all ours”. After repeated listenings this should come as little surprise considering the frequency with which von Bohlen’s surprising skillful riffage carries the tunes as Axelson provides the foundation. A true measure of the song’s captivating hook can be found in the intense pain the listener experiences during the track’s conclusion in spite of a graciously gradual outro.

While I can classify only the three aforementioned tracks as frighteningly great, I could not in good conscious endorse an album so thoroughly if the remaining tracks were not admirable in their own right. Unlike von Bohlen’s most recent penmanship, virtually every offering on the album features a mid tempo, borderline danceable beat alongside a strong pop melody. The only possible exception to this rule is the light hearted, harmonica-tinged “We Don’t Think So, We Know”. From start to finish, the record pairs a quiet and dignified confidence with a stoic, workmanlike effort. At times it even seems as though the band made a concerted effort to abandon ornate, textured songwriting in favor of crafting a commendably straightforward rock album. In retrospect, perhaps the results should not seem so astonishing. Maybe von Bohlen – not unlike an athlete viewing old footage of a successful performance – listened to 30° Everywhere one night, decided to go back to basics, and rediscovered his mojo. Nevertheless, I find myself unable to shake the feeling that We, The Vehicles represents one of the most stunning reversals of fortunes in recent indie rock history. For this reason and countless others, I will be beside myself at approximately 9 PM tomorrow evening when Davey, Dan, and new members Justin Klug and Dan Hiss (sadly, Eric Axelson left the band upon the completion of We, The Vehicle) take the stage at the Seventh Street Entry. Be sure to keep an eye on this space for a detailed account of the show sometime this weekend.

We Are Powerful Despite Our Injuries, Part One: Say Goodbye Good

I strongly associate The Promise Ring, Maritime front man Davey von Bohlen and drummer Dan Diddier’s monstrously influential former outfit, with my Alma Matter, Macalester College. I can recall reading two articles in the Mac Weekly the weekend that I visited the school as a prospective student. The first reported on a fire that caused damage to several Bigelow dorms while the second previewed an upcoming performance by the Promise Ring at First Avenue. The college and the emo torchbearers became further intertwined when the legendary Wyn Douglas ’03 booked The Promise Ring to headline Macalester’s inaugural Fallfest during my sophomore year. While my familiarity with the band remained limited to a shoddy burned copy of Nothing Feels Good, I found the prospect of a celebrated indie rock act performing at our tiny liberal arts school to be intensely exhilarating. While I would later enjoy two of the most memorable experiences of my life thanks to Superdrag’s performance at Springfest 2003 and the Wrens domination of a cottage basement in the aftermath of Springfest 2005, the biggest name prior to The Promise Ring in my time at Mac was the lamentable Rah Diggah. Needless to say when I spotted Davey eating corn on the cob on a bench a mere fifty feet away during the beginning of the festival, I was completely star struck.

Sadly, my warm fuzzy feelings towards The Promise Ring faded shortly after Sarah Kiener finished spewing ipecac induced vomit and the band took the stage. Von Bohlen proceeded to lead the troops through performance after performance of the plodding ballads from the band’s most recent offering, Wood/Water. While the album received substantial praise from the critics, it represented a jarring break from the sound of the group’s previous material and generated considerable dissension throughout the band’s fan base. While the majority of the crowd at Fallfest was presumably unfamiliar with the band’s catalogue, I was joined by a crowd of serious fans at the front of the stage. I was most definitely not alone in my displeasure with the set list. One friend of mine actually located a pen and paper, jotted down a superior set list, and then successfully placed it at von Bohlen’s feet. One of the highlights and lowlights of the band’s performance occurred when guitarist Jason Gnewikow suddenly produced some type of wooden flute during one particularly snooze worthy song. The sight of the bearded, overweight man locked into extreme concentration while playing notes on such a ridiculous instrument provoked fits of uncontrollable laughter from the group at the front of the stage. The lone breath of fresh air during the set was a stunning run through of Nothing Feels Good’s “Red & Blue Jeans” which to this day remains one of the best live performances of a song I have ever witnessed. Several songs later, the well compensated headliner’s set abruptly concluded at the behest of the Saint Paul Police due to the lack of an acceptable noise permit. As the visibly defeated and road weary band exited the stage, a group of students belted “Is This Thing On?”, the band’s signature track, at the top of their lungs. The Promise Ring disbanded less than a month later.

Prior to Saturday evening my exposure to Wood/Water had been limited to several isolated downloads, the tolerable single “Stop Playing Guitar”, and my aforementioned experience at Fallfest 2002. I came to the conclusion that for this entry to be properly researched I would need to listen to Wood/Water from start to finish at least one time. There is little I can write about Wood/Water that has not already been deftly stated in Brett DiCrescenzo’s review of the album for Pitchfork Media. I will only add that my perception of the songs as plodding, gratingly whimsical ballads with less than memorable melodies were largely validated and that I cannot believe I waited so incredibly long to listen to the horrifying train wreck of a song that is “Say Goodbye Good” after reading DiCrescenzo’s dead on critique.

After The Promise Ring fell apart, von Bohlen quickly formed Maritime with TPR drummer Dan Diddier and former Dismemberment Plan bassist Eric Axelson. Eager to forgive and forget Wood/Water and encouraged by Pitchfork’s review of the outstanding title track, I quickly downloaded the band’s debut, the Adios EP. While the remaining four tracks are not particularly impressive and retain some of the qualities present on Wood/Water, I maintained an open mind about the act’s forthcoming full length debut, Glass Floor. When the album was finally released I was stopped in my tracks by Pitchfork’s Sam Ubl. Pitchfork Media’s reputation for snobbery is well earned, so while I do generally value the opinions of the staff, I attempt to brush off disparaging reviews of highly anticipated albums. In this particularly instance however, Ubl so perfectly articulated the horror of the bland songwriting present on von Bohlen’s most recent outings that I found myself unable to resist the writer’s suggestion to stear clear of the album at all costs. Terrified of another devastating let down from a man who crafted three of the 90’s best rock albums, I refused to so much as download the album for the purpose of just one cursory listening. That is of course until Saturday night when my quest for semi-credible blogging got the better of me and I decided that I had no choice but to listen to Glass Floor at least one time from start to finish. While I now disagree with Ubl’s conclusion that the album is in fact “even more tepid” than Wood/Water, the songs remain sluggish and continue to lack captivating melodies. The best track on the album – the aforementioned “Adios” – was previously released and the only remaining winsome track is the opener, “The Window Is the Door”.

When a songwriter goes three years and several releases without a glint of magic, it becomes reasonable to assume there will be no turning back. One can therefore imagine my surprise upon haphazardly discovering two months ago that the very same Pitchfork Media which so accurately lambasted Davey von Bohlen’s previous two works rewarded Maritime’s newest release a stellar 7.8 rating. The reality of the situation however, was that no words - no matter how expressive - could adequately prepare me for the astounding experience of listening to the glorious masterpiece that is We, The Vehicles.

To be continued tomorrow with part two …

Buyer Beware

I had not planned on authoring a blog entry this evening until I strolled past the living room and overheard a Tires Plus commercial in the background. Without further ado, I present you with five reasons to avoid setting foot in Tires Plus at all costs.

1) I decided to bring my beloved ‘88 Acura Legend to the nearby Tires Plus after discovering a coupon for a $13.99 oil change and tire rotation in the Sunday Star Tribune one afternoon as I waited to have my hair cut at the Highland Park Great Clips. When I arrived and stated my intentions, the employee behind the counter entered the year, make, and model of my ride into the store computer. He then informed me that because ’88 Legends do not use one of the fifteen most common oil filters there would be ten dollar fee to have my filter delivered from a nearby location. Disappointed with this development, I naively inquired whether I would likely face a similar predicament at most shops. The employee offered that aside from Valvoline who specializes in oil changes, very few establishments should be expected to carry the filter. Having driven close to four thousand miles without an oil change and conscious of the fact I drive a foreign car older than my college-bound younger brother, I relented. I have since learned that at least one major service chain performs oil changes on my vehicle at no additional charge (more on this in reason #5 below).

2) Before paying, I asked the aforementioned employee whether I would be subjected to a lengthy wait since my oil filter was being delivered from another location. He casually warned me that while the delivery of the filter would not cause a delay, the current wait for an oil change stood at two hours and advised against agreeing to the procedure if I could not drop off my vehicle and retrieve it later. This struck me as an exceedingly long amount of time to perform a simple oil change and tire rotation. As a proud car owner for only the last five months, I had never gone in for an oil change before. However, based on all the advertisements I had witnessed for early bird specials, I assumed working folk stop in for an oil change on the way to the job in the morning and are on their way in twenty to thirty minutes time. Because it was a sunny Saturday afternoon and I had little to do, I gladly walked back to the apartment after agreeing to anticipate a phone call announcing the completion of the oil change in a couple hours. I have since discovered that at least one major service chain performs oil changes in fifteen minutes as the customer waits (again, there will be more on this below).

3) About two hours after I dropped off my ride and forty five minutes after Michael Barrett sucker punched A.J. Pierzynski in the face, the sweet sounds of Sabotage emanted from my phone and an unknown number with a (local) 651 area code appeared on the screen. With the White Sox absolutely drubbing the Cubs at this point, I had grown somewhat bored sitting around the apartment waiting for the phone to ring and was excited to go pick up my baby. However, instead of urging me to head back to the store, the Tires Plus technician told me that my front and rear break pads were badly worn and asked if I would like them replaced. I responded with a horrified “Uh, no…I don’t think so,” and then asked what the damage would be if I authorized the repairs. While nowhere near a mirror at the time, I assume my face became quite pale when he indicated it would be over seven hundred dollars to replace all four sets of pads. After the technician stated I would receive another call once the oil change and tire rotation was completed, I hung up and immediately dialed my father. My old man is not an expert when it comes to cars, but he expressed shock that break work would cost more than a couple hundred dollars each for the front and back unless Tires Plus was proposing major cylinder work. I later found out that at least one major service chain performs premium break pad replacement service for a hundred dollars per axel, or four hundred dollars for an entire vehicle (once again, see #5 below).

4) The phone call I received from the Tires Plus technician occurred at around 2:30. Naturally I expected the second call stating I could pick up my car about ten minutes afterwards. By the time four o’clock rolled around, my last ounce of patience had faded. I marched out of the apartment towards Tires Plus. From a block away I could clearly see my beautiful red Legend parked out front. I immediately stopped in my tracks and dialed the store. The employee who answered told me the car was ready to go. His tone of voice conveyed that the car had been ready for some time. I replied that I would be there right away with what was probably more than a slight trace of irony and resentment in my voice.

5) Sunday evening, roughly a month after my experience with Tires Plus, I noticed smoke escaping from the hood of my car while stopped at a stoplight on Hennepin Avenue. After I arrived at my grandparent’s apartment at the Calhoun Beach Club, my cousin Alex took a peak under the hood. While he could not pinpoint the source of the problem, he discovered oil leaking from the car and theorized that this might be a contributing factor. Needless to say, after putting $1900 into a rebuilt transmission in January, I was a nervous wreck from the time I arrived at my grandparent’s Sunday night until I had the opportunity to take my vehicle into the local Car-X after work on Monday. The good folks at Car-X determined the smoke (toxic coolant which I inhaled deeply while attempting to determine the source of the “smoke”?) had emanated from a blown A/C compressor. Completely unrelated was the steady stream of oil dripping from the vehicle which the technicians pointed out to me. The diagnosis? A faulty oil filter. I nearly broke into an uncontrollable, delirious fit of laughter when one of the technicians suggested returning to whoever had performed the previous oil change and asking to have the filter replaced. I instead opted to have the skilled professionals at Car-X perform a new oil change for a flat fee of $19.99 while I waited and be on my way with the comfort of knowing no person employed by Tires Plus would ever lay another hand on my dearest car.

Epilogue: Because Tires Plus also rotated the tires on my car I now drive in constant fear that one of them will fall off at any given moment. For the love of God, please do not allow anyone you know to patronize Tires Plus. Society will be far better off. I intend to bring this entry to the attention of the company and will post an update detailing any response I receive.

This Could Be Love

My flirtation with blogging is in full swing. If time and motivation had permitted, I could have theoretically authored three separate blog entries today in addition to the entry which follows: a stern warning against ever trusting Tires Plus to lay a hand on your vehicle (which I assure you will be forthcoming the next week or two), a dull and rambling piece about the different roles self discipline plays in my life I wrote during a break at work, and my long rumored discussion of We, The Vehicles (I decided today that I have spent an average of half an hour a day over the last two and a half weeks pondering different comments to write about that album). Then again…had I taken the time to post the first three entries mentioned above, I most likely would not have been perched on the couch long enough to witness the two-episode, two-hour season premier of Hell’s Kitchen which ultimately represented the most satisfying subject to blog about before hitting the hay.

Prior to this evening, I had never viewed an episode of Hell’s Kitchen. The advertisements for the second season that began to pop up a couple weeks ago did nothing to diminish my perception of the program as a worthless vehicle for a farcically enraged British chef. The stars aligned to place me in front of the television at 7 PM on a Monday evening with absolutely nothing on television aside from Hell’s Kitchen. If not for an emergency trip to Car-X, a celebratory stop at Little Caesars afterwards, and a return trip to the then closed Car-X to attempt to retrieve the back pack I forgot in the waiting room, you would not be reading this blog entry right now.

The most striking of my misconceptions about Hell’s Kitchen pertain to the program’s featured personality, World Class Chef Gordon Ramsey. For starters, Chef Ramsey’s intense rage is not a mere ratings ploy as one would expect. While the Chef undeniably aims to maintain a tough love approach with the contestants, his venomous comments rarely come across as forced. It is difficult to say for certain when Fox both employs bleeping noises and pixelates the individual’s mouths to obscure profane speech but I doubt the word “fuck” has ever been uttered so frequently during a reality TV show. The fact that it is Ramsey - in the Donald Trump/Tyra Banks/Jeff Probst role - who drops the majority of the F-Bombs is beyond delightful. That is not to say however, that the effortlessness nature of the Chef’s nastiness is the only quality which renders his fury convincing. There are times when the man simply loses it. Completely. One particular scene in the second episode comes to mind where the Ramsey is forced to repeat his face paced recitation of a ticket for the third time. Upon finishing, the Chef unleashes a horrifying, guttural rant which in my opinion warranted one of those “Warning: The Following Program Features Material Which May Be Unsuitable for Minors” banners at the conclusion of the preceding commercial break.

Surprisingly, the character’s most refreshing turn occurs in the second episode during a brief scene where the Chef happens to be on his best behavior. After the all female Red Team wins a challenge, the women are flown by helicopter to a gourmet restaurant where the Chef insists the ladies refer to him as Gordon and engages in polite, gracious conversation. It is later hinted again that the Chef’s heart is not made entirely of stone when his hardened war zone exterior cracks as he attends to a seriously burned contestant in the kitchen.

Last but not least, the most captivating aspect of Hell’s Kitchen for me on a personal level is that for the second time life I have fallen head over heals in love with a contestant on a reality TV show. I fell hard for Nicole from Season 3 of America’s Next Top Model (a different person than the Nicole that won Season 5 of ANTM) who later broke my heart by announcing during an internet chat that she had a boyfriend. I am rather conservative about relationships and marriage in particular, meaning that I will most likely tie the knot sometime in my thirties after I have dated a woman for several years. That said, if given the opportunity to drop everything and move across the country to marry Nicole tomorrow I would probably jump at the opportunity. Suddenly, after just two episodes of the new season of Hell’s Kitchen I am beginning to form very similar feelings for Heather. Heather has virtually every quality I look for in a woman. She is hardworking, determined, street smart, rational, and stoic. After suffering what is by all accounts a brutal burn during the second episode, she continues to call out helpful instructions to her teammates despite what appears to be excruciating pain. Scariest of all is that while Heather most certainly does mean business and has to be considered the front-runner to win the competition at this point, she is also physically attractive and knows how to have a good time as evidenced by the scene where the women decide to don bikinis and get drunk in the hot tub. God help me.

Home Is...

I know, I know. Still no We, The Vehicles entry. While I am now resigned to authoring the most anti-climactic blog entry in the history of the internet, I assure you I will still be writing up the album in the next week or so.

I took two days off work this week to drive home to Flossmoor, Illinois to witness the high school graduation of my youngest brother, Andrew. It marked the first time I had seen my family since Kevin and I drove to Chicago to see The Wrens in February and everyone seemed to have a wonderful time. Highlights included two seven hour drives with scant air conditioning which were fueled by my IPod and various energy drinks (Monster needs to work on their distribution in rural Wisconsin), a family dinner at a local Thai restaurant, watching mother of a graduating student being escorted into a squad car after she struck another woman in the face during the ceremony, and unlimited late night bowling featuring at least six separate Toby Keith music videos blaring from the speakers directly behind our lane at a deafening volume.

The single two experiences I enjoyed the most over the course of the weekend were Andrew's graduation party Sunday evening and apartment hunting with my mother yesterday afternoon. As usual, my mother pulled out all the stops necessary to appropriately celebrate the educational milestone that is High School Graduation while the rest of us did our best to lend a hand when possible. The party featured an expansive spread of excellent local cuisine, badminton, 52 bottles of Summit beer I hauled from Saint Paul, and most importantly an outstanding guest list. I was able to visit with all three of my grandparents who I had not seen since February, numerous close family friends from the area, and my brothers' crews. Perhaps most exciting, I had the opportunity to spend time with my Cousin Tom for the second time in six months as well as my Aunt Pam after a few long years between visits.

Monday represented one of the most invigorating days I can recall in recent memory. I encountered the Chicago for the first time since I committed to attend law school in the city and the vibrance of my future home was simply astounding. Immediately after stepping out of the Metra Station, I discovered a throng of people walking down Michigan Avenue: bustling businessmen (and women), attractive art school students, and young tourist families. The sun was shined brightly but the temperature was tolerable thanks to the breeze off Lake Michigan. Children frantically splashed in the Millennium Park fountains and a pair of strangers strolling through the park participated in a casual exchange about the fun of lugging heavy suitcases.

After a scrumptious meal at the Park Grill and a tedious CTA bus ride, we found ourselves in the heart of Lincoln Park where I had scheduled two appointments to view apartments available August 1st. Lincoln Park is widely considered the most desirable Chicago neighborhood to inhabit, and it certainly lived up to the billing. The area is more or less a classier, prettier take on the quaint residential setting of Highland Park where Kevin and I currently reside combined with a trendier, more densely populated version of Uptown and populated almost entirely by twenty and thirty something students and young professionals. The park from which the area's name is derived, Lake Michigan, and the Lincoln Park Zoo are mere blocks away from any location in the neighborhood while Fullterton and Clark, the two main streets, are littered with restaurants, record stores, and bars.

We ended up viewing three studio apartments. All three are extremely expensive to rent which is customary for the area. However, two of the three apartments are both extremely expensive and at just 325 square feet, extremely small. The third apartment, located on Arlington just half a block from Clark, is certainly pricey at $700 a month (!) but includes all utilities with the exception of phone, internet, cable, etc. and is considerably more spacious at roughly 400 square feet. The majority of the apartments that will be available August 1st have not yet been advertised but since I will not have the opportunity to view these apartments myself and left reasonably impressed, I am considering pulling the trigger on the Arlington place. My other options at this point are pretty much limited to keeping an eye on Lincoln Park listings over the next month and then sending my mother to view the spaces on my behalf or considering somewhat less happening neighborhoods with more convenient transportation to the law school. I will keep you posted.