Tag Archives: pictures

oh, america

Sometimes I get this niggling urge to go live in Europe, take public transit everywhere, enjoy raw milk cheeses, and explore cities established more than a few centuries ago. I like bridges, you see, and winding streets and architecture that’s had time to crumble. If I ever get my shit together, maybe this will happen. In the meantime,  I will admit to a deep and profound love of Americana in all its forms. This love, by the way, is completely without irony. Is sincere.

Chicago is sort of great simply because of its mid-century signage — oh, terminus of Route 66, how I appreciate your existence. Nostalgia for the west, the closing in of the prairie. It’s so spectacularly beautiful, even now. Totally the best thing about the Northwestern suburbs. Remember, guys, this used to to be the fucking frontier!

Now, while I do not love the back-and-forth trek to Kentucky– and please, no comments on Indiana as the great corn-growing crossroads of America, because while I like a tenderloin sandwich and GNR as much as the next girl–

It is still a fucking balls-ache of a state that takes HOURS to traverse in any direction, assaulting your senses with bad country music stations, billboards encouraging you to reverse your vasectomy and remember that you’ll meet Jesus after you die, and also the relentless smell of cow shit. And corn fields stretching to the horizon, industrial farming that makes me weep for the loss of the yeoman farmer (shut up, I’m allowed to romanticize just a wee bit here), and profoundly sad about the reach of agribusiness and the thumbhold of King Corn.

Last trip back, though, I did make a spectacular purchase at a truck stop. Possibly ironic, but it pleases me immensely.

WOLVES ON A DREAMCATCHER, people. It is no three-wolf moon shirt, I grant you, but it is my new writing talisman and I CHERISH IT.

pep talks (helen mirren)

I did have some vague intentions of making this a series, but, honestly, I kind of keep forgetting.

However, as the Fug Girls say, what I have an endless and profound love for is Helen, effing, Mirren. How great is she? How great does she seem? How not of an asshole does she appear to be? How delightful is it that her birth name is Illiana Lydia Petrovna Mirovna? How cute is her director husband? How does she manage to look amazing in a sari? How does she look better in a bikini NOW, at age SIXTY-FIVE, than I have ever managed, in my entire life?

I do not know the answers, friends and Twitterbots. But I do know that she is amazing. And a damn fine actor.

Helen Mirren in Elizabeth, speech to the troops at Tilbury

things that confuse me, special local edition

If you asked, I would say, fuck yes, public art is awesome. Whether it takes the form of bronze sculptures of local figures of moderate renown (Nizhny Novgorod and Andrei Dmitrievich Sakharov, I am looking very pointedly in your direction) or even the whole animal-as-totem of a cityscape (Lexington, Kentucky and variously painted horses being the main one I can conjure off the top of my head). I mean, yeah, rock on out with that.

It’s not always the best use of public funds, granted, since Chicago has potholes that can actually swallow your car and/or rip off a tire.

But this, people. This.  Seeing a giant creepy bloodshot eye looming over State Street genuinely freaks my shit out. I glance up from the bus, unprepared, and want to SCREAM in terror.

But, if someone wants to install another sculpture, just across the street, of a giant finger with a contact lens poised on it, I would laugh and laugh and laugh.

Article with the details on the giant eye art here.

piccy piccy spam spam

God, I am hilarious. No, really.

Too bad you are not getting hilarity. Y’all bitches be getting pictures.



Thanks for getting it right for once, Facebook. I didn’t know you cared.


nope, sorry.

Have some pictures. Go on, have a bit.

Note: That wedding cake is made of cheese. Really. Really. Imagine having that outside in dripping sweaty Kentucky heat in fucking JULY.