Friday, August 3, 2001
Right now I am at Notre Dame University, sitting at one of the library's computer terminals and praying, yes praying, that I will hit upon one of those crazy porn sites that bombard you with really graphic forms of eroticism and smut. You know the ones -- when you try to close the window it just launches another, with raunchier, nastier material that would surely freak out the holy-rolling flies on these walls. Then I would get up and just walk away. And maybe giggle at the number of closets being prayed in as a result of my mad mad research. The bottom line: this place is so white, so manicured and so religious, thou art especially frightened. I can't wait to leave for the more liberal west coast tomorrow.

Wednesday, August 1, 2001
I've been getting the Beagle to condition his hair more often. So if you see him today, you should say, "Your hair looks really soft and manageable, do you condition?" He'll be so happy.

Writing about good writing immediately makes me defensive. But pillowfort is good enough to fight over. Does that mean I should stop beating myself up? Read the p.fort 30 July entry, and crack a smile.

Tuesday, July 31, 2001
Does anybody know their IQ? Does anybody really care? If so can you e-mail me at libgrrl@hotmail.com? Also how do you find yours out? Thanks.

Monday, July 30, 2001
Surf lingo:

Back again. Trips home are always such whirlwind affairs. C, Mum and I spent Friday morning at the beach, getting blown around by the rather fierce wind. The waves were, truth be told, nuts. Discernable sets were seconds apart, crashing on top of each other and blowing every which way. The white water was killa; meaning that you wouldn't want to get stuck in it.

What else to do but fight our way into the inlet. Well, I got ripped. It was an amazing and exhilerating experience -- riding crests of these big-ass-for-me waves and just falling falling down the other side of them. Sets were coming so fast that I couldn't catch anything. It was rather difficult to estimate when the wave would start to break -- if you weren't in the exact position, you'd pearl and (if you = me) flip over, getting your leash wrapped around your leg. The leash, acting as the intermediary between you and your board, would then be pulled fiercely tight around your calf, making it extremely painful to touch for days afterward. This is not a picture of me. But enjoy anyway as I sit and nurse my war wounds.

Thursday, July 26, 2001
Where I'll be tomorrow: While surfing certainly has enraptured me, the true test will be to see just how much I remember from last month's Mexican safari. Luckily, there is no killer reef at Manasquan, so the prospect of getting ripped up on sharp rocks by falling the wrong way is greatly diminshed. Instead, I will probably just get shredded by sand and what Caroline calls the "black clam" wall.

It's nice to know that the reason I wandered around NW DC with blinding headaches now has a source. And so I thank my alma mater, American University, for attempting to bury, rather than just cover up, another black mark on its reputation.

Tuesday, July 24, 2001
Open beach invitation: Hey you guys . . . This weekend the Beagle and I journey east . . . another wedding on the sunrise horizon. This makes me happy because it means that I get to see the ocean. On Friday, the sister and I are surfing down at Manasquan. So if anyone wants to take a day-trip, I am more than willing to pick you up at the train station and hi-tail it over to our kick-ass beach. Take a look to see what you may be missing here. That, and me getting pummeled by the waves. This invite includes all of the peeps living in New York, Jersey City, the endlessly yuppified Hoboken or those academically-inclined who get summer Fridays off. That means you, Ange, Amy, Hillary, Heather, Erica, Megh, Steph and Buddy Bri.

Potential beach goers, check your train schedule here. You'll want to choose the North Jersey Coast Line into Manasquan.

Monday, July 23, 2001
Pop shopping:
Caution, falling star dust in a nifto-speedo (wait a sec, a bananaholder is never ever nifty. or nifto, really. the word is swifto? i don't know.) package. (Ergh, another bad play on words and speedo contents. apologies.) Looking for concepts? Look no further:

• Emily Strange: a concept. a girl so cute you wish she were real. added bonus: i like the name emily.
• delicious little t-shirts
• skater boy clothes: because boys with detachable wheels are so damn cute!

Discover your Hobbit name, sayeth I, Iris Deepdelver of Brockenborings.

Friday, July 20, 2001
The Baseball Pitas: Every day I leave work and frantically hope that I will remember where I parked my car that very morning. Tonight I venture to Comiskey Park, where the White & Red Sox will rumble. Hooray to Comiskey for clean seats and yummy eats. If Wrigley and Comiskey got into a food fight, Comiskey's corn dogs would kick Wrigley's cotton candy ass. The downside is that I can't walk to Comiskey so in the meantime I quietly root for the Cubs.

Learning stuff: This summer I have committed myself to memorizing all of the world's capitals. For no other reason than to stuff my head with potentially useful information. Let's try one out: Afghanistan = Kabul. Was that too easy? How about Albania? Ahh, Tirane. You want to have fun too? Okay cowgrrls and boys. The first person to mail me the answer to Sri Lanka's cap city wins a tiny wax duck.

Wednesday, July 18, 2001
Pita shopping: I lifted this from some girl named Angela's web page. Seeing the intersection of power and slanguage in the popular press makes me happy. Here it is:

     "'Younger women believe at some level that by sleeping with power, they're 
getting some.' -Newsweek. Such an unfortunate sentence... they really 
should have specified "some power," because obviously if you're sleeping with 
someone you're "getting some.""

The meep that was heard around the world: Joanna Ogilvie, wherefore are thou? Olde friend of mine, if you are searching for yourself** perhaps you will find me.
**(perferrably through google)

Support your feet! To all my grrlfriends with the killa summer shoes: please take the sandal pledge. Not so incidentally, my BCBG shoes (both pairs, actually) have wrecked my feet. Partly, I attribute this to never learning how to walk properly. Will it stop me from wearing my cranberry-colored blister-wonders? No, of course not. Like candy in cool containers, I'm all about the look.

Tuesday, July 17, 2001
Old People Fall: Today marks a sad day in journalism. Katherine Graham, former chairwoman, CEO and publisher of the Washington Post died today. This lady had an amazing life--her obituary reads like a history book. So I'm sad not only because of my ties to journalism, but because I admire strong, tough women, and Graham was truly courageous.

Monday, July 16, 2001
Today I was reading my Michael Chabon book outside, enjoying a rather empty campus by sitting on one of the strategically placed sunny/shady benches. What I didn't realize was the bench's ant infiltration, and I carefully flicked the ants off the book and my leg. I didn't think about how this might affect the remaining afternoon. However, like some psychological horror show, it's like I'm covered in the little fuckers, and feel like a dog in need of a flea collar. Unfortunately, I'm wearing a skirt and so scratching behind my ear with my foot is a no-go.

This looks like fun, but the script doesn't work on my computer. I urge you to try it out and e-mail me your face.

Kudos to Rich for going public with his dislike of H.Larimer. Or does he just want to get his sitemeter hits up? Only google will tell.

Troubles + far away = Yesterday H. and I went to the Old Town School of Music Folk and Roots Festival down in my old neighborhood. We reveled in the sun and in our newfound love of Andrew Bird and his Bowl of Fire. Besides being a complete cutieface, A.Bird ripped it up on the fiddle, smiling and stomping around the entire time, and sounding remotely like the late great Jeff Buckley. H. and I were in awe. Listen to his sugary goodness here.

Wednesday, July 11, 2001
Pinching the online penny: Coupons are definitely the way to go with web shopping. Two examples from today's online excursions: I saved $6.95 in shipping costs from J.Crew and got a $10.79 (15% discount) from Bluefly. And how? Just by searching good 'ole google with the handy keywords "j.crew and coupons" and "bluefly and promotional code". Now if only I could get discounts off my library school student loans with my super searching techniques.

Random Hump Day
Summer has been really kind to Chicago this summer. Unlike the ruckus two years ago, the heat is bearable and power outages are at a minimum. When I get home from library world my Sears Special pops outta the bike room. It's so nice being close to the lake path. I jump on at Irving Park, a block away. Yesterday, headed south with the Beagle for some sushi at Nohana -- a rather short journey just past Belmont. The Beagle only likes the raw fish, incidentally, but indulges my love of the spicy tuna roll. Tonight, I journey north to find the Turkish lake-cafe Paul told me about.

Moviemind: I loved Memento because it kept my attention, posed a hundred different questions and still deserves another viewing. A.This guy (q. who has two thumbs and likes. . .? oh nevermind) gets way into the multiple screenings. All in the name of research--my kind of pal. Semi-warning: this may take the mystery out if it for ya.

You know I'm bored because suddenly choosing between "shale" and "lavender" colored tank tops is taking a tad too long.

Tuesday, July 10, 2001
By the time reelection rolls around, abortions will be illegal again, stem-cell research will be voided by proxy, and all my gay friends will board a Mayflower-like vessel for a New World free of political persecution and religious backtalk because of crap like this.

Monday, July 9, 2001
Oh Sherry: Because you were once in high school too. Hormones ran high, and this song actually meant something. Or was that just me?

Friday, July 6, 2001
An hour before sunrise, four planets will be visible in the eastern sky: saturn, venus, jupiter and mercury. With binocuscope one can even see the rings on my favorite planet. Yips to this, even if it means no sleep till 4 a.m.

Chicago Bored Shorts: I feel like I've reached the upper limit of my Midwest threshold lately. Chicago is getting old and that jingly time to move on bell keeps ringing in my ears. A pending law school move, a trip to California next month and readjusting to a non-surfing lifestyle has made the city seem flatter and more boring than usual.

My librarian self looked for hope in the written word. And so I walked out of Borders on Wednesday with Oddball Illinois : a guide to some really strange places by Jerome Pohlen. Yep, the Beagle and I are going to take some road trips. Small, Land o'Lincoln-based ones, starting in the city. My hope is that we will break the neo-yuppie Lakeview mold and actually see some of the south side. By August we'll venture westward for some of Americana at it's small town finest! Tomorrow's route includes a hotdog picnic celebration at the gates of the Union Stock Yards and a drive-by of mass murderer Herman Mudgett's now-razed torture castle at 63rd and Wallace. Yum.

Thursday, July 5, 2001
Baay Beee Ruth! Because, really, who didn't aspire to adventures like this in their neighborhood?

Picture pages, picuture pages! Caroline sitting on the edge and the view from our room. You can see the surf to the left of her head. The next one is alittle dark; but it shows the view from our bed, flip-flopped feet and all: check it.

Monday, July 2, 2001

Some reasons why I will never return to Puerto Vallarta:
1. Smelliness
2. Garbage everywhere
3. Gross men who will follow you around the streets saying such inanities as, "you are a movie star" and "come here baby, i want to ask you a question".
4. Or even worse, getting that machismatic hiss.
5. Overbearing waiters.
6. Getting thrown into bars. Some of my friends will vehemently disagree with this, but it makes just walking down the street hazardous. Even moreso when forced to imbibe liters of pina coladas at every turn.
7. Cockroaches the size of footballs.
8. Drunk co-eds stumbling around with those ridiculous yard drinks a.k.a. 3-feet high beakers of margarita (shouting "wooooooo" at each other.)
9. What does "Spring Break Nightmare" mean to you?
10. The water.

Thursday, June 28, 2001
It may be appropriate now that I've fulfilled my sick love of Sayulitan real estate to inform you that, yes, surfing did occur and most of my time was spent on top of my board, not under it.

Ooh, ooh. Found a picture of the actual room we were in. The only reason I'm harping on this is because it was so fucking beautiful that my lame-o descriptions couldn't possibly do justice.

La Terraza Just wanted to give a long view of the villa where we stayed for surf camp. The hut at the center of the picture is the owner's residence, and there are hidden rooms (that you can't see) carved into the hill below the MainHut. Our room was much closer to the water.

Wednesday, June 27, 2001
SurferGrrl: There is too much to tell about the seriously crazyass trip Caroline and I took to Mexico. If I could sum it up in blocks of words, it would go something like this: coral reef, longboards, turtle rolls, popping up, goofy footed, fish taco, poisonous spiders, paddle paddle paddle. But more on all that later. The main line: I'm back from the best vacation I've ever taken.

Wednesday, June 13, 2001
Presentation accomplished: I am out of the bounds of professional paper hell. The talk went rather well; the crowd was small, but they asked a lot of questions and that made me happy. So while I'm sure they weren't overly impressed with my public speaking persona, the topic kept them glued. Go librarians with your badass digital reference selves (please hold while my corniness takes hold.) It's time to brave the waves, mi amigas y amigos. Fingers crossed that I miss any carnivorous sea creature action.

Wednesday, June 13, 2001
People say that Texans do things slower, that the way of life down here is more relaxed and laid-back. Well, it's true. The reason being that it is too damn hot to even contemplate actively running around. Even walking outside makes you a potential victim of heatstroke. I'm still working on tunnel access . . .

The Alamo is much smaller than PeeWee led us to believe.

Deep-Heart-Texas, redux: I'm convinced that there is a secret air-conditioned tunnel system that only San Antonians know about. Seriously. It probably even has people-movers. The only people you see on the streets are tourists, mostly librarians easily picked out by their terribly sensible shoes and navy blue tote bags. All the locals laugh echoingly underground, leaving me to clomp back to my hotel room, sweaty and defeated.

Friday, June 8, 2001
Deep in the Heart of Texas It's conference season in library world, and on Sunday I journey southwest to have some fun-in-a-bun. For some economic or cruel reason, these conferences are held in the damndest places. Texas in June, for god's sake! Hee haw. After I give my paper (those who know me can laugh at this pseudo-dabbling in academia), I abandon all professional tendencies and leave straight-away for Mexico.

Thursday, June 7, 2001
http://www.flipflopflyin.com/ Mimipops can potentially waste your afternoon. Seriously. Like most of my favorite things, the 'pops are what I deem small, baby. The miniMOMA gives art in small doses.

Wednesday, June 6, 2001
The only potentially redeeming thing about Matchbox 20 is that the Old97s are opening for their summer tour. On the other hand, I'm severly disappointed in the Old97s for this obviously corporate decision. Maybe they're looking for their songs to become whiny, pubescent sing-alongs? No, dammit. Why would a band want to alienate their legions of hipsters/indies/scene-sters? Isn't it bad enough that scores of pained Pamprin-popping teeny-boppers sing along to Rob Thomas' lyrics -- would you really want to consider them one of your fans?

Master Bates: does this mean that your parents weren't joking when they duct-taped your hands to the bedpost?

Tuesday, June 5, 2001
Because I'm on a beach kick, sharing a bit of the previously mentioned Manasquan seemed in order. In younger years and before they chopped the ladder off, nocturnal wanderings on the jetty were more enjoyable perched on top of the light post. If ya count down to pictures 8 and 9, you'll catch a glimpse of what I'm talking about--the tiny people put the tower's height in perspective. The second hurricane picture also gives a nice jetty view.

Tuesday, June 5, 2001
Wave catching: this will probably not be me. You know you've reached a whole new level when you get a video camera on the tip of your surfboard.

Friday, June 1, 2001
Photo Glam David LaChapelle takes a nice picture. Chickety check it.

Thursday, May 31, 2001
Hot Semi-Clad Women! In two small weeks my sister and I leave for surfergrrl camp, where we will leave to ride the waves, make funny heavy-metal hand gestures and allow our vowels to grow to inhumane lengths. Growing up on the Jersey Shore instilled the need to surf -- those who pubertized on the jetty at Manasquan understand this. The camp is for women only and promises surf lessons, yoga, massage, kayaking, relaxation and good food.

All of this aside, however, if you are like most people I've told, instant images of intense lesbian activity have just overwhelmed you. Sun! Surf! Tequila! Bikinis! Splashing! Sporty ladies! I roll my eyes at horny boys reliving dreams of their college girlfriends flirtation with bisexulaity. For all of the Therese and Isabelle fans out there, I can assure you I'm leaving my experimental nightgown at home. But anyway.

Camp is in the teeny town of Sayulita, Mexico, about 30-40 minutes north of Puerto Vallarta. Here is a picture of where we're staying as well as the official site of Villa Amor. And of course, for the ladies who just got inspired, here is the Las Olas site again.

Wednesday, May 30, 2001
Something for the guidebooks: As if you needed another reason not to be a crack whore.

Wednesday, May 30, 2001
Question:What do Pee-Wee Herman, Harry Potter and your mom have in common? They are all sniffing glue

Tuesday, May 29, 2001
Love me, love the WB There is nothing in the closet about my addiction to the WB. When I can't get enough of the actual TV show, I will sit and read through the online wrap-ups, written by the ultra-sarcastic and drippingly sardonic crew at Mighty Big TV. And besides, how can one not laugh at the cutting comparisons of the size of Dawson's forehead to that of his ego?

Tuesday, May 22, 2001
Archival Preservation Just when you thought this silly page was getting too long . . . shazaam! Indeedy, it did work. Check out libgrrl's past wonderings above.