WJOL sux0rz

Someday we'll get nostalgic for disaster

They say that when you want to consider the value of time, to ask various people. The value of a month, ask a woman who just gave birth to a premature baby. The value of a second, ask the person who just avoided an accident. As I sit here at WJOL, heading into hour number four, I've fogotten the value of time. In fact, I've forgotten the value of being busy. I can't remember what it's like to not be bored. I'm a bored board-op. A bored-op, if you will.

I'm one of those unfortunate people who can hear the high-pitched electronic signals. If a television is on nearby, I'll know. This was a point of contention for ex-roomie Kate and I, when you had to (gasp) manually turn our dorm's TV on and off, so Kate, whenever she was done with watching her show, would just turn the TV to an input channel, or put it on mute. She couldn't hear the signal, so it was as good as off for her. I, on the other hand, would wake up from a nap, annoyed, with a migraine. This dog-like super power of mine is good for conserving electricity, but very bad for my chosen career path, what with all the equipment that makes all sorts of fun noises.

Annoyance of the minute: WJOL is holding me hostage. Apparently "Sure, I can work between 11 and 3" means "I can be here indefinately, because my other job which needs me there at 4 isn't important at all". This is now the second week in a row that I've had to call Friday's to tell them I was going to be late due to a radio conflict. This is the last time I work a radio job prior to an important committment. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, I'm one fooling away from burning the studio down, Office Space stylie.

Suddenly, time seems very important. Funny how this happens.

Annoyance update: Apparently, this is my fault. I should have known that whenever one works a game, one stays until the end. Nevermind that I didn't know that. Nevermind that no one told me there was a game. I guess it's my fault for expecting my employer to respect me. Friday's has spoiled me, it seems.

Enough ranting. The bright side of this is I now have more time to ponder whether or not I should stop for gas and fast food on my way back to Bolingbrook. On one hand, it's not Friday's fault that my free hour went away. On the other hand, spending 15 extra minutes to not run out of gas on the way there, and not pass out from starvation might be worth it. The philosophical questions are mounting.

As I think I'm actually on the verge of transcending from "annoyed" to "angry", it's time to get my fingers off the keyboard.

Cathi out.

Punk insanity

Getting rid of the old feelings of the old ways of thinking.

It seems to me that when I order "the biggest coffee you guys have" I should get the biggest coffee Dunkin Donuts has to offer, not the mere "large". I also don't think it's too much to ask TGI Friday's for a "Brisket Sandwich, no fries sub sm house salad sub caesar no caesar drssng sub bl chz drssng". Or maybe it is. All I'm saying is that when my demands are simple, I expect them to be complied with to the letter.

I was never a rebellious kid. I had a stint in high school where I would walk down the middle of the street late at night, or say obnoxious things in public, or make memories involving gasoline, old shoes, a lighter, and two pitchforks, but I never did anything truly delinquent. My first cigarette was almost 2 years after it was legal for me to purchase them, my first sip of alcohol without parental supervision was of half a wine cooler the last week of my freshmen year in college, and my first time getting officially inebriated was months after it was totally legal for me to do so. I've never been in a fight or had to be treated for the clap, and my experimentation with drugs is on an "indefinite hiatus". The kind NSYNC has going, not the one LBC claimed.

My first book of the summer is Please Kill Me: The Uncensored Oral History of Punk. I bought it so I could get in touch with my musical roots, get a sense of history so I could appreciate where the guitar riffs and lunatic antics I love so much came from. The problem with this book is, it's not so much a "history" book, as it is a collection of interviews with members of the bands and record execs and groupies who were there. I don't know who these people are! That's why I got a history book! Although I suppose there's no better way to get to know a genre than to jump right into the deep end, so the first time I listen to an Iggy and the Stooges album, I can have fond recollections of their descriptions of how Ron Asheton had to tie a rope leash around Iggy's waist the first time he went on a 3-day acid trip.

The problem with the whole punk movement, I'm coming to realize, is that the people who invented the lifestyle were truly insane. Really, completely batty. Wearing strange clothes wasn't a fashion statement, it was the result of being on speed all the time. Vandalism and general mayhem weren't hobbies, they were inspired, random acts of lunacy. Anyone who claims they're "punk" is a liar and a poser. A true punk is a music-obsessed junkie on a self-destructive binge. If you want to be an individual, get a philosophy and develop your own fashion sense. Don't imitate meth-heads and the criminally insane. That sort of thing can never turn out well.

That said, I aim to be more inspired, more spontaneous, and a general nuisance to my Circadian rhythm this summer. Who's with me?

Nico,
Cathers

Summer is nigh

You traded my lovely gift for a sneering, semi-pornographic monkey lamp? How could you?!

Today, I am a girl. My hair has product in it, my legs had bronzing lotion applied to them, all 20 of my nails are an unnatural shade of "Summery Orange", there are these strange, pliable round things in my eyes, a skirt around my waist, and perfume clinging to my skin. It seems my X chromosomes decided to gang up on me today. It's sort of nice.

One final left to go before OMG SUMMER LOL! When I say "final" I actually mean "memorize two monologues and pretend I learned stuff about acting". I'm anticipating a grade report that might be allowed to drink from the same water fountain as Linda's, for once. The term sort of petered out on a pretty laid-back note, considering it began at a panicked fever pitch.

Summer Reading List (thus far):
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows
Please Kill Me: The Uncensored Oral History of Punk
Slaughterhouse-Five
Anna Karenina

More later?

history

We don't believe the words, we just love the way they sound

I'm thinking that opening quotation might be cursed, as every entry I have tried to write in the last month has begun with it. You'd think I would learn, but a lunatic devotion to "try, try again" has always been my way of doing things.

The first time I heard anyone say something negative about Martin Luther King Jr. I was absolutely floored. According to every account I have read or seen, the man was a saint. Not only did he preach non-violent protest and advocate for the rights of an entire people, but I also heard his tears cured cancer and a choir of angels sang at his birth.

History and Street Name Bureaucracies have been kind to MLK Jr. and our textbooks seem to have overlooked the media frenzy that surrounded him back in his day. Mistresses, drugs, and scandal abounded, some rumors of which may have been true. I wouldn't say that too loudly, I don't want the NAACP or ACLU on my ass. They're scrappy SOB's, and I'm no good in a fight. Ask Linda.

My point is that our history gets written for us and our memories fade fast. My lack of blog entries lately has stemmed from the sheer fact that I haven't had the free time to have epiphanies or meditate on the idiosyncrasies of life, and simply chronicling the non-adventures of bar tending and academia has seemed dull and silly. However... if I don't write about my life, who will?

Barring the fact that everyone has the desire to be remembered in some fashion, suppose I get named as the Pirate King in a strange twist of fate involving loopholes in The Code and a devious Captain, and the tales of my life are to be sang in beer halls forever more. I can't think of anyone worthy enough to write my biography than me. I would hate just as much to be vilified as I would to be sainted, for I am neither The Penguin nor Mother Theresa.

That being said:

-Bar tending is boring/stressful, but profitable.
-There are only a couple projects standing in my way of summer.
-I just bought 4 of 7 seasons of Gilmore Girls for $20 each.
-I'm pretty sure Durbin's amazing.
-Miranda is trapsing around Europe and I'm mega jealous.
-My bedroom window makes the wind howl, a problem I need fixed NOW.
-I get to live downtown Naperville while I'm in school next year.
-Only 23 more weeks of my college career. Yikes.
-Board opping at WJOL will put you in a coma.

Baby Jesus in the woods,
Cathi

Breaking rules and breaking down

I'm bored of being God...

There's nothing more embarrassing than having an emotional breakdown in front of someone you don't even know. Well, other than maybe melting down on national television, but hey, at least ratings would be good. I must say, though, having a good cry is quite the stress reliever. I sort of feel like now that I've got that out, my life can proceed.

Trying to figure out what to do about where I'm going to live next year is the most frustrating ordeal I've ever had to go through. Thus the semi-public emotional breakdown. Honestly, who schedules room selection on dates and times during midterms when there are classes scheduled? NCC's Residence Office, that's who. Jerks.

Everything is just sort of coming to a bottleneck. I've missed 80% of my term thus far because of speech. I had to spend the last couple weeks concentrating on speech so I didn't suck at Nationals, but now that I'm back in the real world, everything is catching up with me. I have two exams next week, a scene to memorize and perform with an only semi-cooperative partner, and a "short" 5-8 page paper due on the same day as one of the exams. I need to sign up for an oral presentation, register for classes, figure out how to be in two places at once to get housing for next year, arrange meetings with interview subjects, call Phil from WJOL and start working there, not to mention even beginning to read for the exams/paper. I'm already exhausted and I haven't even started. Oh, I also have to work at some point. Eat and sleep too, probably. It'd even be nice if I could hang out with The Boy here and there, but that idea is almost laughable at this point.

Fortunately, I hear women are masters at multi-tasking, and since I, too, possess two X chromosomes, things should fall together magically. It's the power of estrogen. Let's just try not to have another emotional breakdown.

Logan,
Cathi

overwhelmed and underslept

With envy for the solid ground

Dear web log,
I will be treating you like a diary today, and actually acknolwedging that fact.
Love,
Cathi

Sometimes my friends have the annoying habit of asking me "what's new?", as if my life is a series of exciting happenstances, instead of a monotonous cycle of "school, work, speech, no sleep".

Let's see, new things... new things. I've been hired into my first "real" radio station job. If I'm not mistaken, it entails me operating the board for WJOL AM 1340 for a couple hours a week. Nothing earth shattering or major, but a resume builder.

Brian mentioned a friend of his is moving to the city soon, and he's thinking about going with 'em. I think he was anticipating some sort of big, dramatic conversation where I may or may not have cried or gotten upset, but after him foundering around for about a minute I just told him to do what he thinks is best. I'm perfectly capable of figuring out what to do with myself. Plus I have parents I can live with should the occasion arise. I'm honestly not all that worried.

I still haven't had my State of the Union conversation, partly because I'm a big chicken when it comes to discussing "feelings" and "opinions", and partly because it's not of vital importance, yet. I keep getting clues that the conversation would tell me all the good things I want to know, so it seems silly to have to drag myself through something as painful as a Real Conversation.

One Nationals down, one to go, and I'm exhausted. All I want to do is sleep all the time. Alex said he doesn't understand how I can get so tired, but I don't really see the mystery in it. You average 5 hours of sleep a night and spend your days running back and forth across town, and cumulating them by standing for 5-8 hours having to be friendly to drunk people. I had fun at AFA, probably because it was a small group and the entire thing was pretty laid back. I even did pretty okay, but if you're not a Forensicator, be prepared for a long, confusing explanation of the numbers involved.

Here is what I want: I want to be able to wake up in the morning and look forward to my day. I want to be able to feel rested and energized. I want to have one or two nights a week where I can hang out with the few friends I have. I want to be able to spend relaxing time with Alex; not this hyper-intesne we-have-to-make-the-most-of-these-5-hours. I want to be able to afford to go out and do things, like see movies, go bowling, or even take a spontaneous weekend road trip. I want to have the time and energy to keep my room clean. I want to be able to have long coffee conversations with my sister. I'm still waiting to go on a photographic alley adventure with Miranda.

I just need a break, really. Freaking speech team.

That is all. Thank you,
Cathi

AFA and blogging

Oh yeah, I'm the mother fucking Princess.

I never have anything important to say anymore, and I really wish I did, because I heard blogs are going to be the new history books. Historians get all squishy when they find diaries from past times, "glimpses into real life from the past" and such. Look at how popular Anne Frank's diary is, and she didn't even particularly write about anything earth shattering. Just "Life is really tense. Living in an attic really sucks. I hope we don't die. I love Peter".

Pardon me if that was offense. I'm just saying she was writing about the trivialities of teenage life in the context of some tense politics.

If Cathi Martin were a beverage, she would be: Milk

Ever since I heard that bit of speculation-- that blogs will be future historians glimpse of real life in the early 21st century-- I've been wondering what, exactly, my scribblings have contributed to the collective consciousness of the world. My perceptions of major world events, that is, 9/11, the war on terror, catastrophic weather occurances and climate change, have been peripheral at best.

If Cathi Martin were a character from 10 Things I Hate About You, she would be: the dad

I plan to give a speech next year about how cell phone manufacturers are contributing to the turmoil in the Congo because they're greedy bastards. Yay!

If Cathi Martin were a building on NCC's campus, she would be: the library

I'm beginning to feel the first strains of my biggest fear of the whole "Alex going to UIC" situation. Talking (almost) every day is okay, I guess, but not a very good substitute for the real thing.

If Cathi Martin were a food, she would be: a pineapple

AFA-NIET,
Thrine