All right. Here is my list of the people who, had they not known the right people and wrote the better songs before I knew what the hell I was doingwith life, I might be in place of...
Jenny Lewis of Rilo Kiley. "Pictures of Success" is a song that doesn't try to go anywhere but one that she said, "Ok, I'm singing this song and you can listen if you want." So I listen. And sing along as if it were my own story to tell.
Sara Bareilles. So I don't play piano nearly as well as she does. And the only songs I've ever written have either been with someone else, or are just lyrics and a melody that I still have to sit down with a real musician and add the chords to. But Sara's songs fit my voice, and when I sing them, I feel like I'm sharing something of myself.
Katy Perry. Because I want to be the spunky new girl in town. And wear strawberry jumper suits in place of my already popular and worn-out minidress phase.
Missy Higgins. Okay she's another pianist (and guitarist, and just an overall better musician than me), but her music has that familiar feeling when I listen and/or sing along.
Is there a lesson to be learned from this? Take what I love and feel like has been marketable about these 5 women and whip it around to myself?
Nope. These women are all who they are and we know their names because they stayed true to themselves and were not afraid to let that out.
So....it's time for me to stop being afraid of me and just get out there.
The snowfall in Chicago early early this morning (2 hours before the sunrise, to be exact) was somewhat beautiful. I greeted my Wicker Park Fitness class at our squeaky 6am hour and began the fun journey into a full-body, cardio-interval workout. They always make me feel great. This class (same as my Saturday morning class, except Saturday has more members seeing as it begins at 9am) is the only one of the regular 7 that I teach where people seem to know anything about one another and actually care to be sharing sweat with the person next to them. They make the walk to the "L" that much easier on my early mornings so that sometimes I find myself excited enough to be walk-skipping down the street. (note: I also ran a good 5 miles after my class, so the high level of endorphins pumping through my body could also take some credit for this particularly upbeat and probably cheesy description of my morning)
I also want to note that I had another positive realization last night and I only wish I knew how to show that person my gratification for their presence in my life. It isn't often that I find myself smiling alone and replaying thoughts in my mind this many hours after the fact.
On a completely different note, my sister and brother-in-law are coming to visit me tomorrow! I plan on taking them to the Meatloaf Bakery, hopefully to see Macbeth, and definitely to The Bongo Room during their short stay here. I love them and can't wait for them to see where I live, hopefully meet some of my new friends, and just run around the city with me!!!
Breakers Broken (Herf Yamaya, Tim Yamaya, Neal Wehman)
Ghosthouse (Jimmy Con, M.O, A.D.D, Chuck New)
I am writing this review while dancing in my chair to sweet ass tunes on Ghosthouse'smyspace page. While it may be common to find me jamming out alone, it is not common to find me smiling, dancing, and feeling inspired by rap music. Fronted by emcee A.D.D. (Rory Middleton), and producer Jimmy Con (James Henry Wineman), and backed on the keys/vox by Charlie New, this trio brings it and brings it hard. The performance I saw would not have been complete without the full sound provided by Breakers Broken. I had no clue what I was in for, as I was originally attending this show as a former friend of guitarist/vocalist Tim Yamaya of Breakers Broken. But when Ghosthouse opened their set with Lights Low, my mind and body were consumed by a hard, thumping beat that immediately got the crowd dancing. They create a familiar house-party sound, using their master mixing and sound production abilities to write songs along with old-school (or is it "old skool" ?) hits containing easy-to-follow hooks and clever lyrics spouted out of treble rapper A.D.D's face.
Ghosthouse means business. All members command the stage, mic, and crowd as the music gets the hips gyrating and lips pursing in response to a sick-nasty groove supplied by the drums, bass, and synth. Even a clever use of clap tracks could not annoy the most elite of live music connoisseurs. When I see a live show, I commonly cringe when I see a drummer set up a laptop next to his throne, or a keyboardist plug in some high-tech expensive gear. But when it came down to Chuck New's singing into a vocal tube for effect, I have to admit the sound was exciting and impressive because I could still hear his powerful voice cutting through the technology.
Music may be making a turn toward "electro" or "telechtronica" or whatever people are calling these days, but Ghosthouse and Breakers Broken have a sincere understanding of how to mix their (expensively) crafted talents with new-age recording techniques to create a solid atmostphere of sound that leaves you singing along and wishing only you could be that cool.
Plus, they let me dance on stage during the last song. Who can complain about a group that shares the limelight?
I sadly entered the club late from another performance venue, but if you'd like to be greeted by Tim Yamaya's beautifully smooth voice, head to http://www.breakersbroken.com/ to see what I missed. They have great songwriting techniques with awesome guitar playing and tight vocal harmonies. Any drummer who can sing (and sing well) while playing gets mad props from me. These guys make me want to go back in time to my first year at the University of Miami and propose to all of them. That's right. A three-way wedding.
P.S. - before I sat down fully prepared to write a review on the show that I saw on Saturday night, I received an email informing me of this site. Custom sushi designs on shoes? Yes, please!
If you are a fan of "Eat This, Not That" or are ever curious as to what kinds of foods you can swap out for "better for me" items, then I think you'll enjoy HungryGirl.com as much as I do. It may just be the fitness instructor in me or the foodie in me that loves the suggestions and recipes on this site, but I definitely recommend it for fun ways to change up usual recipes. The scones that I've made famous at get togethers? They're now lower calorie thanks to Hungry Girl (and nobody noticed). I tried out a new chocolate chip recipe by merely replacing butter with pumpkin and the sugar and brown sugar with Splenda blends and even a sweet-toothed boy liked them (granted, I have now dubbed those cookies "fiber bombs"...).
I get email newsletters from this site every day with recipes and swaps for me to try, and it helps to make me feel better while the winter blues threaten to bring on the blahs.
For gift ideas, Hungry Girl also released a book this past Christmas season. Do I sense a Hungry Girl themed party night in the future??? Well, my friends may not know it, but it just may happen!
Macbeth at Chi Shakes: http://www.chicagoshakes.com/main.taf?p=2,29
My beloved Karen Aldridge takes over the stage as Lady Macbeth, introducing us to the emotional and familial side of this tragedy. In an aesthetically beautiful production, even the annoying little kids shine.
Also The Investigation at the Theatre Upstairs http://www.chicagoshakes.com/main.taf?p=2,35
This production draws parallels between Rwanda and the Holocaust.
I originally wrote this short story as a Christmas gift to my dad this year (yes, I was so broke that I wrote a story, printed it out, and pasted it to colorful paper that I strong together using a 3-hole punch and pretty ribbons). After another read and my mounting enthusiasm for the beginning of baseball season, I decided to post it here.
It's All History
by Stephanie Fravel
The remaining base runners hustle back into the Cubs dugout in between the second and third innings of what could be their last game of the season. A packed Wrigley field is filled with hot and steaming Cubs fans – all of whom are determined this would be the year the team will make it all the way to the World Series. Even the bleachers are full at this game. The usual hecklers are present, ready to be a part of Cubs history.
“Ain’t it sad ‘dis the last season with Yankee stadium?” a man asks his co-hort.
“Yeah, yeah so sad it’s exactly whad I’m thinkin’ about,” he swigs Miller Light. “What da fuck I care?”
“Hey you a baseball fan ain’t ya?”
“Yeah but whadda fuck I care for da Yankees?”
“History, man. It’s history.”
“Yeah fuck the Yankees and their stadium,” he glances at the manual score board. “They probably gonna tear dis piece a shit down too.”
“Ain’t nobody gonna touch Wrigley.”
He turns to finally face his friend. “Why you think they getting’ rid a Yankee Stadium? S’about money, man. Fuck history when someone’s makin a buck.”
“All I’m sayin’ is it’s sad.”
“Yeah, yeah, sad, sad and you’s the one cryin’ when they got ridda Sosa, too.”
He laughs and gulps some beer. “Now fuck Sosa. History or no history – that man a baby.”
“D LEE YOU MAKE THAT CATCH!” he yells to the field, on his feet among other fans.
“All I’m sayin’ is –“
“All I’m sayin is stand the fuck up and watch the game,” he gulps some beer and wipes sweat off his face as the focus has now turned to a full count at the plate.
The man looks at his last sip of beer and mutters to himself, “Yeah they tear dis place down an’ it’s da only place you come all summer long getting’ away from your wife an’ gettin’ shitfaced and yellin’ at D Lee and you tell me who be cryin.” He tosses his head back finishing the drink. “I’m goin’ da get more beer.”
His co-hort responds with a fist-pump and a grunt toward the field as the third out is made.
A girl sitting in front of the two men, about twenty years their junior turns around and addresses the remaining one, “Your friend’s right, you know.”
He sizes her up, not recognizing her and therefore leading him to believe she has no credibility. “Excuse me, little lady?”
She smiles at him. “Your friend. About Yankee Stadium? He’s right.”
The man rolls his eyes and brushes away more sweat. “Oh man what is it today? I miss da memo for nostalgia day at Wrigley Field or somethin’?”
“You don’t think there’s nostalgic value in Yankee Stadium?”
“I don’t care about da Yankees. All I care ‘bout is gettin’ dis team here offa da laugh list and into the Series.”
“Yeah but I mean…don’t you just like baseball?”
He finally looks directly into her eyes. “Course I like baseball, why da hell am I here if I ain’t like da game?”
“Then you’ll miss it when it’s gone,” she turns back to the field. “I will.”
The first man returns with two plastic cups brimming with Miller Light.
“Yo you can give that beer to your little softie in front of us here.”
“Huh?”
“Excuse me, miss?” The girl turns again. “Miss, here, here take this so you an’ my frien’ here can cry over your beer ‘bout the damn stadium.”
The girl raises both hands in surrender, “Oh, no, thanks I –“
The man has snatched the beer out of his friend’s hand and is shoving it into the girl’s. “Nah nah, our treat,” he smiles. “You shoulda heard’er talkin’ bout missin’ da stadium. Funny shit.”
“Hey hey now. None a dat with the young lady,” he addresses the girl, “You hear whad I was sayin’?”
“Yes and I think you’re completely right. It’s a big letdown for all baseball fans. First Busch, now the Yanks and…well…” she looks at her surroundings.
“Don’t even get me started on dis place.”
“I’ll drink to that,” she chuckles and clinks cups with the man.
“You know it really started when they started doing things like renaming Comiskey ParkUS Cellular Field. Still Comiskey to me.”
He laughs, “Yeah you know ‘bout dat, too?” he slaps his co-hort on the arm. “Joe she even pissed about Comiskey.”
“Yeah yeah cry inta your beers and whatever. Fuck da Sox.”
The girl makes a face to her new friend in reaction to Joe.
“Don’t mind him. He’s actually sad too but he’s just so worried ‘bout the Cubs blowin’ it for annudda year, ya know?”
“Yeah. The Flubbies,” the girl smiles back at him.
“How you know that term?”
“Is it surprising to find me well versed in ChiTown lingo?”
The man chuckles and takes a drink. “Not at all, little miss. Just don’t expect a Trixie-lookin’ girl like yourself to know much ‘bout dis stuff.”
“Well,” she drinks, “My father is a baseball fan. Mom is too. They have their favorites but still when it comes down to it…they just love the game.”
“They musta taught you well.”
“Ha, well I can’t quote any trivia other than what’s hanging on my dad’s wall, but I can cry over my beer for the loss of a nostalgic landmark.”
“You two done pissin’ around yet? We got a game here makin’ history.” Joe looks around the stands, “Yo Blowie get me annuda Miller Light here!”
While his focus is on the beer salesman, the girl asks, “What’s his deal?”
“Oh, Joe? Yeah he act like he don’t care but he’s been in that spot on these bleachers for years. You got your dad’s walls; he has dis place. Can’t miss a spec a da game.”
“I got you.”
“What you learn from your dad’s walls anyway?”
“Well, a lot of the stuff we gave him for Christmas and birthdays. A collage of old trading cards from when Joe Torre and Mike Shannon played, the ’67 World Series team plaque – “
“You must have a cool dad.”
She smiles and looks back to the field. “Yeah. Yeah I like him a lot. Baseball brings me close to him.”
“My dad got me inta baseball too. Course he was draggin’ me all over the little league fields throwin’ pitches and teaching me howda slide an’ shit….” They both take a drink and focus on the game after hearing the crowd boo and missing a run on the Brewers’ side.
“Missing a good game,” the girl says.
“Yeah but I think we both know how dis one’s gonna turn out.”
“I don’t know, man, we may not have Flubbies today!”
“Man – fuck the Flubbies. Watch da game an’ drink yer beer. We got history,” Joe sputters.
“All I’m sayin’ is –“
“All I’m saying is –“
“Yankee Stadium’s gonna be gone an’ all a you’s baseball fans gonna be sad.”
“Hey,” said the girl, “You’re the one obsessed with missing history you know.”
Joe looks down at the girl. He shakes his head and silently focuses back on the game, then back to her. “You tell your dad where you are. He’d understand. History fo sho.”
I moved to Chicago from Miami, FL on August 1 2008. On a random day when I thought I wanted to be an intern writer for CS Magazine, I wrote this personal statement article. After reading it again today, I came to the conclusion that in the 5.5 months since my arrival, still not much has changed. :)
Where Have All the Palm Trees Gone?
by Stephanie Fravel
On August 1, 2008, two overweight suitcases fall onto the baggage carousel at O’Hare International Airport as if cementing the phrase, “Welcome to Chicago. Have fun schlepping your shit.” I lift them onto the newly polished floor with a pretend ease in order to avoid any unsolicited help from the surrounding baseball-capped and smiling Midwestern men. This will be easy, I tell myself. A smile finds its way to my lips as I continue under the façade of “I’ve done this before,” and proceed to move my suitcases, one after the other, to the looming glass doors. It is as if my bags are playing leapfrog. I continue in this fashion, feigning signs of confidence and never looking anyone in the eye until I spot my rescuer’s car arrive at the far curb.
“Excuse me, miss? Would you like some help?”
“Oh, no thanks,” I giggle to the stranger sporting a premature Bears jersey. “My friend just got here. Way…over…there. But thanks.”
He eyes my luggage and glances at the University of Miami logo scrawling my chest. “Miami, eh? Well, welcome. You picked a great time to be here. Get ready for the cold!”
With that, my heaviest suitcase is swept into the arms of my rescuer and friend Drew from Miami, and Mr. Bears jersey disappears into the wave of more new arrivals. Drew had recently moved to Chicago as well, only his was a return trip. His short two years in grad school at Miami did nothing more than assure him of his unconditional love of the WindyCity. Sure, there are no palm trees and families of egrets roaming the sidewalks - but there are hotdogs, pizzas, and an unending number of “festivals” offering unending amounts of beer every weekend from here to October.
The excitement and vibrancy of the skyline overwhelms my senses as soon as it comes into focus. Forget the beach, I have new city lights and the sounds of the “L” lulling me to sleep now. Drew points out the SearsTower and the HancockBuilding and tells me that I must get pictures taken “window washing” at the latter. “Excuse me? Chicago makes their tourists wash windows for admission?” I’d rather have a Cuban accost me on the street for my status as a gringa.
In a city that prides itself on native talent and local businesses; I discover the absence of Taco Bell and presence of Lazo’s Tacos refreshing.Who needs Domino’s at 2:00am when you can just call Chicago’s? Drew, aware of my enchantment with Wicker Park since renting the movie with me a few months prior to the move, drives into the hip and lively center at Damen and North Avenues. Suddenly Josh Hartnett vanishes and thoughts of meeting a new person at a cool place like Double Door enchant me instead.
Little did I know how easy it would be to meet people here. On Thursday night during my first full week as a Chicago resident, I find myself on my own. Determined not to become a sad, little artist girl holed up in her Logan Square garden apartment, I trek back into WickerPark. I stroll along Division past places called Angels and Mariachis and Moonshine until I find a place with a patio sans tall scary guys in tight black jeans and plastered hair. Hipsters, I learn, is how these people are labeled. Hipsters? In Miami, I would have just called these guys chongos – but maybe that term lacks appropriation here.
Fifty/50 is alluring with its pink lighting and friendly staff who appear to be my age. I take a seat at the bar and smile at the bartender, saying “I have a friend meeting me here,” so he might think I’m some important, young heel-clacker. He must have doubts when I order a Hoegaarden and nurse it like a frightened sewer rat. In between intervals of checking my phone and faking interest in a Bears exhibition game, three young businessmen find their way to me. These men, I learn later, are referred to as Lincoln Park Chads. They see a girl in a white tank top and pink skirt as invitation to her naïveté and assume this Miami girl either missed or ignored the memo that one must wear black when going out in Chi-town. When conversation turns to sports (as most every bar conversation has so far), I spout out facts from the summer of 2003 when Mark Prior and Kerry Wood were rising superstars. I figure this makes me appear to be a real Chicago person with real fan knowledge. No one has to know that in reality, I know nothing about this season’s team and what tidbits I do fake are products of my Iowa upbringing.
“So let me get this straight,” says Lincoln ParkChad #1. “You came from Iowa. Had a taste of New York, then moved to Miami, and now you’re here? Why the hell would you leave the beach? Did you forget what winter was like?”
My “been there, done that” smile returns as I explain my affair with the mystique behind Chicago’s arts and entertainment industry as well as the unconditional love Drew so oft recalled. I pretend not to notice the look of disdain that washes over my Lincoln Park Chads’ faces at the mention of winter. I pretend not to notice my own inner fear of the returning dark, cold months. I ignore the fact that I may become just another artist labeled “hipster” spending my days lolling the streets of WickerPark, wishing that the man running by with his dog were my live-in boyfriend.
Realizing I have lost my audience, I throw in some sarcasm and say, “Call me a sadist. Bring on the cold!” We clink glasses like old U of I frat buddies and I smile at the bartender again, knowing I have completed some sort of initiation into some of Chicagoans’ common denominators. Beer, sports, and a shared hate of winter.
One of my overweight suitcases is still packed with summer clothes, flip flops, and an emergency survival kit should I change my mind and hop on the Blue Line to O’Hare. But since I’ve discovered that I don’t really have to wash the windows to earn my right to the astounding view from the Hancock Observatory, and my egret family has been replaced with neighboring dogs, I figure I can deal with the lack of palm trees. Besides, what good is a palm tree if you can’t complain about it?
In an attempt to force myself to write more often and on a more consistent schedule, I have created a newer, more "professional" type blog. I'll be chronicling moments in entertainment, auditions, uplifting moments from the day, etc....basically anything that is not bitching about my life as a broke post-college girl who really spends most of her time worrying about paying bills and starving. They say that happiness comes from within, so I hope to use these moments to create stories that will evoke a certain positive atmosphere and interesting take on a 20-something's metropolitan lifestyle.
If you should happen to care to read my real bitchings and negative thoughts, check out my livejournal (you'll have to search for it!).
I'm also going to try to take more photos of events and special people to record here. Life is interesting enough without words - why not add photos as evidence?
Sara Bareilles. So I don't play piano nearly as well as she does. And the only songs I've ever written have either been with someone else, or are just lyrics and a melody that I still have to sit down with a real musician and add the chords to. But Sara's songs fit my voice, and when I sing them, I feel like I'm sharing something of myself.
Katy Perry. Because I want to be the spunky new girl in town. And wear strawberry jumper suits in place of my already popular and worn-out minidress phase.
Missy Higgins. Okay she's another pianist (and guitarist, and just an overall better musician than me), but her music has that familiar feeling when I listen and/or sing along.
