Lately, it kind of feels like pulling teeth in order to think of something to blog about. I’ve reached the point in my summer at which I no longer want it to be summer anymore. I know…serious biz.

As a result, it seems natural that I clue you in on the most exciting that has gone on in my life in the past weeks: PITCHFORK MUSIC FESTIVAL.

As you may remember, I blogged a little bit about hip kids a couple of weeks ago. You can probably consider this post, part deux of that.

Ironically, as I write this, I sit in the studio of WPGU, across from the newly erected but not yet hipped out Urban Outfitters, wearing my bright blue American Apparel hoodie and black skinny jeans. Needless to say, I seem the proverbial pot calling the kettle black.

Albeit strange, this exact situation would place me in the “blah” category of Pitchfork-ians.

More than a music festival, bigger than a bread box, Pitchfork Music Festival is not a gathering of minds. Instead, it’s a gathering of clothes.

You know those outfits that you see in the Urban Outfitters catalogue but just don’t have the balls to buy?…someone at Pitchfork did.

Fortunately for you, it may or may not (lean towards may) look just as ridiculous as it did in the catalogue.

Fortunately for me, I dressed for function and not fashion. Don’t get me wrong, I like to spiff up sometimes, throw on a little make up, a cute summer dress. However, a music festival is not the time for a Bryant Park runway show.

Reason numero uno for avoiding the Sunday’s best portion of my closet : The Hold Mahfuckin Steady.

I had been waiting months for this moment. I sat (and inevitably rocked) to Craig ‘double whiskey coke, no ice’ Finn and the boys of summer for nearly 2 months straight. I fiiiiiiinally (again-to be fair) got to see them last Saturday. I think my right bicep may have increased in circumference due to fist pumping that evening.

I saw two friends out on the town last night. One is a huge Hold Steady fan already and was wearing their t-shirt. The other walked up to the Finn fan and said…”Man, I just saw The Hold Steady for the first time this weekend. They were amazing.” That pretty much sums up all virgin Hold Steady experiences. Instead of awkward and painful, The Hold Steady brings the pleasure from day one of seeing them live. The most confusing part is that most people who haven’t ever seen The Hold Steady before seem very surprised that they enjoyed them so much.

In the paraphrased words of Ferris Bueller, “They’re so choice. If you have the means, I’d highly recommend picking them up.” Instead of a red sports car, you get songs about drugs, alcohol and sex sung by a tongue-in-cheek man who probably looks a little like your dad’s best friend.

I just saw The Hold Steady this weekend and I’m already looking forward to the hypothetical ‘next time.’ For now, I’m wanted in the party pit.

Disclaimer: If you are a self-proclaimed hater of all things Urbana, do not read this blog.

I mean it.

THIS JUST IN: HIP KIDS LIVE IN URBANA. I don’t know when this trend came about but I can only assume it is an ancient tradition steeped in the glory and majesty of the Anglo-Saxons. Anywho, students simply must admit, there is a proliferation of American Apparel and Urban Outfitters east of Wright Street.

With hip kids, comes the hippest thing around: smoking!!!! This is where the porches of Urbana come in. Granted, there are porches in Champaign. I will freely admit this point.

Howwwwwwwever, the porches in Champaign lack one thing that I find in abundance in Urbana. Peace. And. Quiet.

When I go outside to fill my lungs with the most lethal poisons in the smallest package, I don’t want to hear the latest Fergie single (Fergie’s still cool, right?). Instead, I’d like to sit, throw an LP on the old turntable and hold hands with Joe Camel for a while.

Smoking is only one of the many reasons the porches in Urbana are far superior to the house extenders in Champaign. They are so paltry in comparison that I won’t even refer to them as the p-word.

The visual environment in Urbana also serves as a reason I would rather porch sit in the U rather than the C. When I sit on my front porch, I look at beautiful houses where real people with real lives live (real people?!?!). In Champaign, you have a view of the lovely…beautiful…exquisite…well, shit! This could be a while.

In addition to the pure aesthetics of the architecture and greenery in Urbana, the attractive qualities of whomever you are sitting outside with are heightened as well(here’s looking at you, blue eyes). I’m sure many a good make out sess has been produced on the porches of Urbana. Not that I would know. Instead of having to fight the noise of construction somewhere in Champaign, you can sit in the quiet, stillness of Urbana and enjoy the sound of the rain and conversation with someone that you think is pretty alright.

Unfortunately, with the quiet, comes the burden of hearing EVERY obnoxious noise possible. I am often woken up in the morning by the sound of an elderly lady’s walker scraping down the brick streets of Urbana. Yes, it is as disturbing as it sounds. Fortunately, I count that as part of the character of my kind of town.

Admittedly, this post is not full of as much substance as my skeptical post on patriotic songs in the United States. To me, however, it serves as a reminder as to why I decided to stay in Urbana this summer instead of making the 45 minute hop, skip and a jump to Bloomington for the summer.

I can take the yapping of an annoyingly tiny Dachshund over the yapping of a loving yet consistently exasperating set of quinquagenarian parents.

God Save the Queen. God Only Knows. Jesus is my homeboy. Heaven is a Place on Earth.

In actual relation to this post, God bless the porches of Urbana. The bringer of joy to all that enjoy them and the bringer of sanity to one particular blogger.

To me, Fourth of July used to mean going to my aunt’s house in Paris, Illinois to swim all day, eat a plethora of barbecued meats, and watch fireworks by a closed down minimum security prison. Ahhh, to be young again.

Now, celebrating the Fourth of July is filled with the jadedness that comes with getting older in a nation that very obviously isn’t as perfect as I once thought it was.

The choice of music that played behind all 1.5 fireworks shows that I saw was one befuddling part of my new depreciation for the Fourth of July.

As I sat and watched fireworks in Chicago on “Independence Day Eve,” Bruce Springsteen’s hit “Born in the U.S.A.” backed up the multi-million dollar pyrotechnics. This Boss tune does accurately portray the United States of America but definitely not in the sappy, Old Navy flag shirt wearing society we live in would like it to. Instead, Springsteen warbles, “I got in a little hometown jam/And so they put a rifle in my hands/Sent me off to Vietnam/To go and kill the yellow man.” The man in this song is most definitely born in the U.S.A. However, the United States in the song isn’t one that puts up with the notion that every American has a perfect life. Much like many Bruce Springsteen songs, he depicts an America that factory workers, coal miners and everyday Joes can relate to.

Unfortunately, for every Bruce Springsteen, there is a Toby Keith and a Darryl Worley. On the Fourth of July, I went to see the Kane County Cougars “play” Single-A baseball in Geneva. Again, it seems like whomever was running the audio had some ironic sense of humor as to the true meaning of Born in the U.S.A. As soon as the last chorus of Born in the U.S.A. ended, Darryl Worley asked us the question, “Have you forgotten when those towers fell?”

After swallowing the vomit that had just appeared out of nowhere in my throat, I answered Mr. Worley’s question with, “No, no I have not.” This, however, is not the point of the song. Instead, like any red-blooded American asshole, Worley represents the attacks on 9/11 as a reason to as Toby Keith so eloquently states it, “put a boot in their ass.” Although this song was written in 2003, I can’t help but wonder what kind of government payola ol’ Darryl received after writing it.

The problem with these types of songs is the vagueness of who “they” are. Unfortunately, I think that’s the point.

Instead of fighting against the domestic problems that plague American citizens every day in the United States, some people work their hardest to prey on the heightened emotions following tragedies like 9/11.

At this point, I don’t really care if people who enjoy the sentiments of Darryl Worley think I’m a bleeding heart liberal. Much like Christmas for me, the Fourth of July has become something to make fun of, rather than revel in.

America as a whole has completely lost sight of what it means to be an American. I feel like I probably understood this a while ago but just didn’t want to admit to it.

Instead of listening to the subtleties of what our own music has to say, we consider any music with the words, “America, U.S.A. or boot in your ass,” patriotic.

As long as people keep spouting the rhetoric of the United States as a land of opportunity and freedom, people will keep believing in the mythical beast that has yet to rear its ugly head. As long as there are Springsteens and Guthries out there telling me our country isn’t what it seems, I’ll keep questioning it.

As I ride my bike through campus on a daily basis, I start to wonder to myself… “Am I the only on this planet that does not have a working iPod?”

To preface my tale of woe and analysis, my iPod was 1. a hand-me-down and 2. a U2 iPod.

I got my first iPod after receiving the exorbitant amount of graduation money that every high school senior tends to get. It was a green iPod mini and it was just about the cutest thing you’ve ever seen. I named him “Kermit” after Teddy Roosevelt’s son (obviously).

When my boyfriend at the time was upgrading to the video iPod, I jumped on the chance to get his hand-me-down U2 iPod, which had way more memory on it than my mini did. Instead of just giving it to me, it was my Christmas present. He thought it was a gift, I thought it was cheap.

During first semester of my junior year, the signatures of Larry Mullen Jr. and Adam Clayton wearing off on the back, my U2 iPod went the way of Andrew Dice Clay’s career. Since then, I have been iPod-less on trips, including the 30 hour round trip that I just made with my parents and grandparents to and from South Carolina. Instead, I brought a portable CD player. A DISCMAN! There are children who don’t even know what cassette tapes are.

All of this background information is just incidental but the real truth is that I really don’t miss my iPod all that much. Maybe it’s because I want to purge myself of what it symbolically means in my mind. Mostly, it’s because I’d rather traipse through the world like in the days of yore (pre-2001), sans iPod.

Going back to the idea of me being the only person on the planet Earth that does not have a functioning iPod, I’ve never been the person that walks around with their earbuds glued in their ears with last week’s earwax.

Instead, I’d much rather people watch and eavesdrop on people’s conversations. As much as I’d like to be listening to RHCP’s greatest hits or Weezer’s El Scorcho while I’m walking to the library, I can’t help but be more intrigued by dynamic strangers walking past me on the sidewalk than Rivers Cuomo’s stagnant voice that no matter how much you want it to, will never be any different on that particular recording.

People should find humor in the most mundane situations. My friend Matt saw two 9-10 year old boys doing tricks on their bikes by the UGL while singing James Brown’s “Sex Machine.” That’s Overheard in Champaign-Urbana material, right there. That situation could have never existed if he had been focusing on any other medium.

The intent of this post is not to ward all iPod devotees off of listening to their Apple products while in transit.

I guess my thoughts on getting so entranced in your own world are best described by Ferris Bueller: “Life goes by pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”

As you may know if you’ve ever met me before, I love the Chicago Cubs. Not because blue and red go very nicely together (which they do) but because I just do.

This season has simultaneously been one of the most puzzling and exciting seasons in Cubs baseball history. On the eve of their sweep of the crosstown rivals, I have to take this chance to share my personal thoughts about the Northsiders.

For me, it’s been hard to deal with the success of this season because for once in my history as a Cubs fan, I don’t have much to complain about.

Being a Cubs fan means some very paradoxical things. It means you have faith that they can do better next year if they suck but it also means that you talk some maaaaaaaad shit about them when they do. Every Cubs fan knows something Sweet Lou doesn’t.

Sure, in the series previous to this one, they got swept by the hotter than hot Tampa Bay Rays but you know what, the Cardinals got swept by the Kansas City Royals, who I’m pretty sure have no fan base in or near the Kansas City area. I’m a silver lining kind of girl and that’s the sunshine in my sweep storm.

My little jab at the STL is neither here nor there.

Sitting in the bleachers of Wrigley Field with your friends (besides the bad taste of shelling out more money for one beer at the game than you would spend on three on a Thursday night at Murphy’s) is a thing of beauty that can’t be explained. Even if I have to sit next to a fratty who thinks Gamecocks hats are funny…hell, he’s my brother for those 2-3 hours.

This post is not my declaration that the Cubs will win the World Series on the 100th anniversary of their last win. This post is not the 2004 cover of Sport Illustrated with Kerry Wood’s paunchier mug looking back at you. Kerry Wood is closing the book on teams now and I’m closing the book on making wishes that might not come true.

No matter what happens, the Cubs are now, and will always be, my team. Go Cubs Go.

As I try to keep with me if any particular strokes of genius pop into my head while I’m out and about, I carried a little journal with me throughout my South Kakalaki journeys. This is a particularly entry from my travelogue…

Here I sit, squished in a van far too full with people and stuff but at this time, I’m content.

I just got done being part of something. SOME-THING. To be fair, it was just a wedding. In the eyes of many, weddings are stressful and seem like a waste of time when they’re over. In the case of my sister’s wedding this 2nd weekend in June 2008, I can honestly say that not a single second was a waste of my time.

Maybe it’s the same mountaintop experience you feel after Bible Camp but I haven’t felt this good in a while.

Much like Fantasia Barrino’s life (see Lifetime movie for clarification), my sister’s wedding was not a fairy tale. In my opinion, fairy tales are pretty boring anyway. Instead, this wedding seemed more like the cover of a Southern Living magazine.

The backdrop: a mid-19th century Gothic mansion smack dab in the middle of the Low Country of South Carolina (jealous, yet?). The menu: Low Country boil, a dish akin to Southern paella (well, now you are).

More than the perfection of the aesthetics, though, was the downright goodness of everyone involved in the wedding. The flower girl and ring bearer got along. She dropped the right amount of flowers at the right intervals. She honestly looked like a mini model in a wedding magazine. None of the groomsmen showed up drunk (a surprise to everyone concerned). Even though one of the groomsmen wasn’t wearing the requisite tie, he looked like GQ embodied. The weather was perfect; not a cloud in the sky and low humidity by South Carolina standards.

At the reception, there was plenty of food and booze for everyone. The champagne came in cans but this was a champagne-in-a-can crowd. My proudest moment throughout my whole week of being an extremely cooperative and kind person (rare, I know) came when I sang the hyper-sentimental R&B wedding hit, Always and Forever during the anniversary dance. I had to sing it approximately 7 times because the emcee was slow to the punch but for once, I was completely satisfied with my performance as a singer. And it. felt. good. Maybe it was the liquid courage but more than that, I think I wanted to give my sister and new brother-in-law something that would last longer than Crate and Barrel dishes or a blender. To ice the cake (pun sooooo intended), I caught the bouquet. Caught is probably the wrong word. I caught the bouquet and then ripped it out of my 13-year old niece’s mini-grip. Sadly, being the youngest grandchild in the family until my niece was born, I really could be the next person to get married (although not anywhere in the cards anytime soon).

This wedding, by all accounts, was perfect. It will never be one of those memories that I have to lie to myself about to make it seem better than it was. For the first time in a while, I was proud of my whole family and I felt like they were proud of me. And it. felt. good.

Vacations are great. Family vacations with your entire family…those tend to border on insanity. And border is probably an underrating.

As you may know if you read my previous post, I’m currently in South Carolina for a week and a half for my older sister’s wedding. I don’t get to see my sister that often any more since she moved to South Carolina so when I do, I really look forward to the time we can spend together. We think things at the same time even though we’re a thousand miles away. If you don’t know what that’s like with anyone, I’ll pour one out for you at the reception.

I digress. Normally when I visit my sister down here, I come alone. My spring break this year consisted of getting hit on by 50 year old men who sang me a Michael McDonald-esque cover of “Sarah Smiles” by Hall and Oates and watching LOTS of afternoon Soap Net. DONNA MARTIN GRADUATES.

Once again, back to the task at hand. This time, instead of hopping a flight from the Central Illinois Regional Airport, I was forced to come with not only my parents but my entire extended family (minus the uncle who creepily told my sister that he would have paid more attention in school if he had had a teacher like her). Creepy uncle stories, however, are for another time…

In my family, togetherness is key. As a result, we try to stay in compounds where we can spend every possible second together. For me, as a “single” person in the family, this means getting stuck wherever my parents tell me to sleep. My brother has a wife and 3 kids. They get to stay with my parents. With my sister being the one getting married, she isn’t relegated to the comfy family vacation sleeping spot next to me any longer. I, on the other hand, get the role of what I like to call the “redheaded stepchild” (sorry to all the gingers out there).

By that offensive euphemism, I mean that I’ve been in South Carolina since Sunday night and have slept in 3 different places since then. Refugee jokes would be in bad taste here but I will say that it makes me feel like more of an afterthought than LaToya Jackson.

Despite the feeling that I am constantly being either babysat or cast aside by my kin, I am learning a lot about being cooperative this week. I know my sister needs the support and doesn’t need to hear me complain so for once, and probably only once, I’m keeping my mouth shut. The obvious exception is this blog.

My point with all of this familial rambling is this: my sister is what we kids of the 90s might call, “tha bomb diggity.” She deserves happiness more than anyone I know and I’ll do anything to help her achieve that. If backrubs and being shopped around like a 39 cent can of creamed corn is what she needs to maintain sanity, consider me Maid of Honor and Maid of “I’ll kick your ass if you make my sister cry out of frustration at her wedding.”

Congrats Erin, you deserve it.

As much as Joe Lamberson likes to convince people it’s not true, my sister is getting married on June 14th. As a result, my blog will, for the next week, be dedicated to talk of my vacation in South Carolina. For the next week, enjoy: Hot Town: Summer in Bluffton.

As my parents and I made the incredibly long journey down to Hilton Head Island in South Carolina, I woke up from my day long hibernation to find that the temperature was 105 degrees. 1-0-5 de-grees. If you’re new on the planet, that’s pretty hot. Especially with 84% humidity.

If you haven’t been to South Kakalaki in summer, the humidity is like Illinois’ humidity plus the feeling that you’re just sitting with your face directly above a pot of boiling water. Sounds nice, doesn’t it?

Despite all this, I’m not complaining. The condo I’m staying at is two blocks from the beach and I have access to 3 pools. I hope to come back a bronzed, beach babe that is unrecognizable to Illinoisan eyes.

The likelihood of this actually happening is as small as Dakota Fanning not growing up to be a coke addict but you never know, she could really push through.

I’ll be filling C-U in on all the hot wedding action and hopefully you’ll find the stories about my family and the crazy locals funny. Until then, I’m off to the beach to run in slow motion in a red swimsuit…

I know this might be hard to believe but it’s summer here in C-U and summer means orientation for the incoming class of Fightin’ Abes or Kevin Bacons (wishful mascot thinking). I can’t help but get a little nostalgic when I see all of those faceless, orange, drawstring backpacks walking around campus as of late.

To preface this discussion, I was scared shitless to come to college. My “nostalgia” probably stems from some idealized version of my own orientation. I actually came here in the middle of June with my parents, we walked around, I realized I knew nothing about U of I and that I was completely unprepared for college. So yeah, it was a great day for me.

I’m a little sheltered. My mom has mentioned the word sex to me approximately 3 times in my life. If you look up the phrase passive aggressive in the dictionary, my mom’s picture is next to the definition. We don’t talk about things that I’m not supposed to do, I’m just supposed to know that I can’t do them.

As a direct result of this type of upbringing, I did absolutely NOTHING during freshman year. I sat in my room (in Busey-Evans, which is funny if you know me), watched TV a lot and cried because I missed my high school boyfriend that now went to another school. Sometimes I left my room to go to late nite!!!!! EXCITEMENT EMBODIED. Basically, a night out consisted of going to Insomnia to pick up a few cookies. I am not backing underage drinking here but even if you don’t drink, you can at least go out to a party every once in a while. Finally, second semester freshman year, I decided to make a huge change in my life: I decided to…get this…talk to people at WPGU, where I had already been working for a semester.

This was the best decision I have made to date.

By the end of freshman year, opening up my sassy mouth and letting the Sarahcasm flow helped me to create friendships that I know I will keep for years to come. Some people have come and gone but I know that many of the relationships I created at WPGU will stay with me forever. In addition, as I am a gurrrrl, my WPGU crushes have mostly likely numbered somewhere near the 29398987 range since then.

The big picture situation at stake here is that everyone really should make the most out of college. I sat around watching the O.C. with my roommate freshman year and I really regret that now. Find your WPGU and make your friends. Have crushes on everyone you meet. Most importantly, make sure that the people who were like me at WPGU freshman year feel welcome right away. I guess I’m probably preaching to the choir here since I don’t assume many incoming freshman are familiar with the media juggernaut that is the Illini Media Company or the217.

No, I’m not getting paid to say this and no, I won’t ever get paid to say much of anything around here but I just wanted to thank WPGU and the Illini Media Company for helping to make me the insane eye picture that I am today.

Someday I’ll look back at my time in college and think, “remember when we played ‘Pork and Beans’ 900 times a day on WPGU and I made inappropriate jokes in the work place and got away with it?” *Sigh* Yeah, yeah I do.

I am about to drop some knowledge upon my five readers on the217.com. Those five readers most likely already know me but this may come as a real shocker. I. Like. Music.

Ok, so maybe that’s not exactly a huge surprise to anyone who knows the teeniest biographical info about me but yesterday I was reminded by our newest blog here on the217, Triple Entendre, that I should probably write more about something I know about.

I’m not looking to take over the “Music” section of our small section of the blogosphere but as my start at the Illini Media Company was in the Music Department of WPGU 3 years ago (!) and I now work as a DJ there as well, I feel like giving music a little summer holla seems like a good idea.

At the beginning of every summer, the musical theme for the season becomes pretty apparent. When the warm weather rolled around this year, my ears returned to a familiar home: Wilco.

Wilco is my favorite band.

THERE, I said it. As much as it feels like I’m cheating on the band that I’ve considered my favorite for about 4 years now, I cannot lie to myself any longer. Wilco is at the top of my charts both literally and figuratively.

As someone interested in both music and internet culture, I am a participant in last.fm. If you are unfamiliar, last.fm “scrobbles” the music that you play on iTunes or WinAmp or whatever default music player you may use and tracks them on a chart. In one week, Wilco moved from being my 11th most played band to my 2nd most played band. Needless to say, I’ve been listening to them a lot lately.

For some reason, Jeff Tweedy and the gang seem to have something to say for all of my moods. “Via Chicago” makes me dream of waiting at an El stop for a train at the end of summer. “Reservations” makes me think of beaus past, present and future. Passenger Side makes me want to drive around with the windows down. I fall asleep to Wilco. I make lunch to Wilco. I clean my house to Wilco. I can do EVERYTHING to Wilco.

All of that aside, I have NO idea why Wilco has come back into my life at this particular moment in time. However, I’m not going to fight it. One thing I’ve learned in my life (albeit a seemingly trivial lesson), you can’t fight what you want to listen to. If you’re into Summer Girls by L.F.O. in the warm months, then you go right ahead and like girls who wear Abercrombie and Fitch.

Music makes life significant to me and brings up memories I always want to remember and also some I’d rather forget. Find the soundtrack to your summer, whether it ends up being your favorite band, your former favorite band or your great uncle’s polka band. Let me know how and what music has gotten you through hard, happy, boring, yadda yadda…times (yes, I just yadda yadda’d music) this summer so far. I’ll be in Urbana, on my porch, listening to Wilco.