Backwoods

So again I’m experiencing the afternoon ennui of Perfunctory Friday. Matt and I have no specific plans for the weekend, except dragging all of my furniture back into the basement where brand new carpeting is settling. I never thought I’d smile so toothily about such things as new carpeting and where to hang art work, but domesticity has taken its place in my heart.

Matt and I went to Bloomington last weekend for a little IU tour, bluegrass concert and camping in the rain. We stayed at the IU Union on Friday and Matt, a Charlottesville snob of sorts, was most impressed with campus. You know you’re an adult when you book a room at the Union.

I took him to the Bluebird, my college home-away-from-home, and we watched Del McCoury belt it out with his boys for over two hours. We were afraid old Del might suffer a tenor’s aneurism right there in the middle of Travelin’ Teardrop Blues, but he made it through unscathed. Matt said I should take up banjo, and I’m considering it.

Saturday, after much ado about Urban Outfitters, we groceried in town and headed to Yellowwood State Park…where we assembled our tent (Jason’s tent, actually) and tarp kitchen in the bleak welcoming of a rain storm – it was fantastic.

A chocolate lab found her way to us, and Matt suggested we dognap her and take her home with us the following day. I was in, but she escaped our blindfold, gag and burlap bag and headed back to her owners after downing a couple of hotdogs.

We drank some wine and headed to the tent around midnight, where a host of mosquitoes awaited our entry. As we unzipped the tent, the leader of the swarm stood on one knee helping push the others inside quickly. We didn’t, unfortunately, discover this until we were climbing into our sleeping bags. Matt announced, “I feel itchy!” And with this began a twenty-minute mosquito massacre. I frantically maneuvered the flashlight and Matt’s job was to finesse, i.e. smash, the mosquitoes against the wall of the tent, which, as you can imagine, was no easy task. Matt was cussing and shouting (and drunk) and finally pronounced that he would soon be entertaining a COMPLETE FREAK OUT if we didn’t kill those monsters immediately.

Oh, I died laughing. And I’m still laughing on the inside. Matt had about 12 large, red, swollen bites all over him and all week I called him “Lumpy.”

My friend Anne and I had an underground newspaper in high school called Aurora Boring Alice. It had one issue, which consisted of about 16 copies we "posted" on various car windshields in Broad Ripple. A bit underachieved, maybe, but a fun afternoon.

We moved on to imaginary bands. Oh yes, we rocked (this was imaginary, please remember) in such bands as Kitty Transport and Wind Tunnel Tested.

I made up a new imaginary band today: Bored Certified.

September 14, 2006
Living with 'love interest'
Big step has Jill dreaming of Crate & Barrel.

Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

No matter what age, fathers worry about their daughters; mothers worry, too, of course, but it's not the same, endless duty.

Twenty minutes ago, in a cowardly act, I e-mailed my father and "mentioned" that I've moved in with my boyfriend.

My parents have always been cool not to pry or judge, and certainly to never ask: Is he the one?

That is a question I never answer.

When a girl moves in with a guy, my suggestion is to proceed slowly; that way he won't feel his territory disappearing all at once.

With all of those shoes, you'll need a lot of closet space, so carefully weed out his '80s clothing and the junk he's saved since high school, then quietly move these items to the "charitable donations pile."

Take your time switching out the artwork on the walls -- accelerate too quickly and he'll notice.

Pictures and letters from old girlfriends that you "come across" should obviously be boxed up using an entire roll of tape, and stored in the basement.

I took my sweet time moving in, taking small boxes up each day, and hiding things like my Star Wars lunchboxes and snow globe collection in closets.

I've been told more than a few times that I own a lot of stuff. Yeah, well, duh.

Everyday more of "me" arrived and the closets began brimming with skirts, purses and high-heeled shoes.

On the official moving day, I created the illusion that all I really owned was a bunch of extremely heavy furniture.

I'm that good.

My boyfriend and my good guy friend carried all my stuff up and down flights of stairs for the proverbial pizza/beer tradeoff.

This pizza/beer thing is the greatest device known to womankind.

I helped with the drawers and mattress, but basically I was there to direct traffic.

I hardly broke a sweat, and now I live there. When it was just called "dating," and I visited, I loved cleaning the kitchen every day.

Strange, I view it now as a job without pay or vacation.

Laundry's lost its luster a bit, too.

Domesticity takes its daily toll, but I never get Crate & Barrel tired.

I want to buy more stuff.

In fact, sometimes I daydream of waking up in a different style of Crate & Barrel bedroom every day.

This is what time on your hands and routine shopping in Indianapolis will do to you, so be careful.

But so far, sharing time and space and grocery duties is pretty wonderful.

September 7, 2006
She's California dreamin'
L.A. is her guilty pleasure, from the OC to Laguna.

Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

I have a few guilty pleasures: Maroon 5; Steak-n-Shake; extremely expensive shampoo; and Los Angeles.

But I just returned from the OC, and I've added Laguna Beach to my list.

I've "aged-out" of the television series, I'm afraid, and before I left for my trip, all I knew about The OC was that everyone there was beautiful, because my 15-year-old-sister (who owns the boxed set) told me so.

She and her friends probably discuss the characters via their MySpace accounts.

(Ah, MySpace: Couldn't you just, um, call or e-mail your friends? Does the world really need to see your daily notes?)

I visit Los Angeles every year. My girlfriend there lives in the guesthouse of a famous female singer whose name bears a popular, well-paid fruit.

Every time I'm there I meet people in the "industry." Everyone is creative and talented, and most of them are pretty cool about visitors from Indiana (because no one, namely bands, is really "from" L.A.).

Last week I had lunch with my girlfriend on Hermosa Beach. She said she had $56 in her checking account, but I noticed that she was sporting Gucci sunglasses.

That is a perfectly respectable Californian quality and I defend her.

After all, without California, The Red Hot Chili Peppers would have nothing to sing about.

Everyone in Los Angeles wears jeans and flip-flops, and that's kind of dressy. Make-up is subtle, hair is purposely disheveled and long, and people watching is first rate.

The last time I was in L.A. I went to a bar whose theme was national parks, and another that was a diorama of hair salons.

It is a wacky, dirty city, and I love it.

The battle between L.A. and Orange County pits the Jets against the Sharks, and until now I always sided with Hollywood & Vine.

But the rumors about Orange County are in fact true. It is the land of toned bodies and sun-kissed hair; myriad sports cars and overpriced art; but man, is it lovely.

Orange County isn't the Carmel/Geist, Ind., parallel I'd always heard it was; it actually has stuff to do.

Walking Newport Beach and catching the sunset at Laguna, I decided that I'm moving to California.

I crave endless days of summer, bodysurfing, wearing no make-up and seafood tacos.

I want Mischa Barton's hair!

Back in Indy, I'm currently daydreaming at my desk. I've begun saving my pennies, waiting for that day I too can pay $2,500 in rent for a two-bedroom beachfront shack.

August 31, 2006
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist

Yesterday I spent the day at Disneyland in good old Anaheim California.

My boyfriend and I are visiting his family, and on my wish list was the Magic Kingdom, near where they live.

My childhood family vacations tended to involve canoes, tents and hiking, but several times we went to King’s Island.

I never got a wink of sleep the night before a trip to King’s Island. It was cool, and the Brady Bunch hung out there too, I told myself.

When planning our California adventure, my boyfriend explained that the rides at Knott’s Berry Farms were a lot more frightening; my response was: Knott’s Berry Farms is a real place?

I thought Knott’s was like Hidden Valley, or Keebler Forest, merely crafted by marketing people to sell jam, salad dressing or cookies.

I’m a Midwestern girl, and so my theme park knowledge was a little underdeveloped.

The decision was mine, and though I’d rather experience thrill rides, I couldn’t pass up Disney.
Those Disney commercials - the ones that put a little tear in my eye - are real!

The minute we arrived to the park I felt my inner toddler come forward, like one of those personalities Sybil had and no one knew about.

Within minutes of disembarking from the Lion King tram, I ran into Geppetto. I got a little giddy and wanted his autograph.

Next came Woody, from Toy Story; I made my boyfriend take my photo with him.

All day long, in between rides and our 35 dollar lunch, I searched for characters.

We rode Space Mountain twice and the music was so good that I now want the soundtrack. Is it available? Please say I can maintain this fantasy.

I ran into the evil queen from Snow White, and Cruella De Vil, but when I made my boyfriend stop to watch the parade, and I saw Ariel live in the flesh, I got a happy chill down my back despite the blanketing summer heat of southern California.

As a rule, I don’t disclose every facet of myself to my boyfriend, but at the Magic Kingdom I learned that one cannot think straight.

I mentioned the chills and goose bumps I was experiencing, and I asked if we could get a little closer so I could take a decent photo of Ursula, the sea witch.

I’m not sure if he’ll ever look at me the same way again.

Disneyland is 50 years old this year; I suggest that every inner child make a visit.

August 24, 2006
Nephs 2
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist

Once a year I donate my time to a needy cause: I baby-sit for my nephews, allowing my brother and sister-in-law time to regroup and sleep.

This year I presented the babysitting anniversary as a weekend getaway package for my boyfriend; kind of like a gift, but not really.

He fell for it (ha ha, I laugh).

We loaded the car with some clothes and necessary supplies (half case of wine) and we were off.

As an aunt, there is nothing quite like the moment of arrival at their house. Both boys’ smiles turn upward in animated awareness, and I run toward them in slow motion, arms stretched out, like I’m in a field of poppies.

I scoop them up, drown them in kisses and usually pinch their little behinds (a cheek is a cheek is a cheek).

This year was easier: there were no longer diapers in the house; the boys dressed themselves; and they played without constant supervision.

For a brief moment I thought maybe I could own a pet of some kind, or maybe just a houseplant.

My sister-in-law left all-American food for us to cook the first night: veggie hotdogs and Laura’s lean hamburger.

Truly scrumptious.

My boyfriend squirted mustard on his dog and it came out Kelly green. Fearful, and a little grossed out, he looked to me for an answer.

“It’s kid food, I guess.”

But he pointed out that nowhere on the package did it mention anything about the color green.

We deferred to the five-year-old.

“Oh, mommy did that for my Hulk birthday party…”

I have always taken issue with food coloring, and this day was no exception; luckily the ketchup was still red.

So, on the first evening my boyfriend and I decided that a tired kid in the morning would be a good kid in the morning, so we allowed them to stay up until 10:30.

“Run around the yard again,” I’d say, snickering and setting my inner clock to sleeping in late.

But morning came, and with it the sun; the boys were staring over my bed at 7 a.m..

“We want pancakes,” they chanted.

“But aunt Jill is sleeping peacefully…you know where the grapes are, right?”

“We want pancakes.”

Wearing dark circles and housefrau slippers, I lumbered to the kitchen.

The boys hadn’t stopped smiling from the night before; I said, “You’re killing aunt Jill, you know.”

They giggled.

The next night we allowed them to stay up past midnight; the following morning there they stood smiling…this time at 6:45.

August 17, 2006
Chicago
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist

Lazy summers are a great time for taking road trips, and also a good time to bite your tongue, suck it up and learn once and for all: men don’t ask for directions.

My boyfriend and I drove to Chicago last Friday to meet his parents for a minute-by-minute fun filled weekend.

His parents did all the heavy lifting: they made the hotel and dinner reservations; plans to hit the Gold Coast Art Fair; and bought tickets to “War” at The Second City.

Basically, all we had to do was remember to pack our toothbrushes, which we both forgot.

For the most part I am, some would say, a super planner, and it’s difficult relinquishing that role.

The only task I had for the entire trip was to print directions to the hotel off of mapquest.com, thus butchering my work ethic.

But I held those directions, my sole responsibility, tightly as we burned up the Dan Ryan, and, nearing our exit, a few times I gently nudged: Honey, you might want to get into the right lane soon. Honey…um, honey…

We were looking for Exit 51A: the hotel was a straight shot downtown from there.

Four exits before our designated route (good God, men are predictable), my boyfriend said, “I’ve had enough of this traffic; let’s get off on this exit and make it an adventure.”

Thereupon, a small hell broke loose in my bloodstream.

We had a dinner deadline; I needed a shower; I wanted a nap; I had drunk way too much water.

Things that make you go: damn it!

I kept a smile plastered to my face; an hour, and what seemed like hundreds of U-turns later, we arrived at the hotel.

I didn’t need to say “I told you so” because he knew; oh, how he knew.

But if anything can help shake off travel debacles and boyfriends who let you waste an entire sheet of paper with directions printed on it (I am so kidding right now), Chicago is it.

Within minutes of dropping my bag in the room, I shed my infantile hubris and we all ate at Gene & Georgetti’s, the St. Elmo’s Steakhouse of Chicago.

I had a fat steak and a belly to prove it, which is pretty good work if you can get it.

Thankfully, I walked off the steak on my way to chocolate truffles at the Fudge Pot, then nightcaps atop the John Hancock building.

Indy is a good place but, oh, Chicago, couldn’t you move to town?

August 10, 2006
Superhuman aspirations
She's no Wonder Woman, but a girl can dream, right?

Jill Brooks Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

I simply don't get TV, especially reality TV.

I've spent a total of six delusional minutes flipping between a few reality shows, but I felt no allegiance toward Puck as I already knew he wasn't my brand of roommate, and I didn't need to view Rupert building shelter out of coconuts, or whatever he did, to trust that he's a cool guy.

There was no way the channel changer was ever going to stop at "Cops" or "Who Wants to be A Millionaire."

To me, television keeps the dust on books. But I must admit that the new "Who Wants to be A Superhero?" has piqued my curiosity.

I may even forgo productivity one night just to catch an episode. I never had the body to fill Wonder Woman's costume, but the boots were sure nice.

I wanted to be Samantha on "Bewitched." She was kind, independent and powerful.

I can raise one eyebrow, giving the universal glower signifying disappointment (can't all women do this?), but unfortunately my nose won't twitch.

And unlike Sam, I would never marry two separate men whom no one could tell apart.

My superhero name would be The Social Independent.

My secret identity would be: Girl Next Door. My alter ego would undoubtedly maintain a squeaky clean headquarters.

I would fight for recycling, animal rights, facing fears about vegetables and being allowed time off work for traveling to concerts.

I'd be prone to shoe shopping but immune to poison ivy.

My cape could be used as a tablecloth, a pot holder or an evening gown, and I'd be a gourmet chef able to open tight jars with a single twist.

I'd speak seven languages, cleverly turn phrases and be on Jon Stewart's holiday card list. (I could watch Jon building a shelter out of coconuts for hours.)

I would have a perfect shower voice and perfect pitch, and therefore be a singer in a rock band.

I could stream music between my fingers, but -- look out -- my vulnerability would be hip-hop.

Hip-hop would make my ears bleed, and then I couldn't hear the monitor while on stage. I'd only wear dresses, and I'd never have to shovel snow again. I'd own a vegetarian restaurant near the sea, and my lipstick would be everlasting.

I'd write good poetry, not the crap I currently scrawl, and my catch phrase would be: "Be still my heart."

Most importantly, I'd be the first superhero to daydream and nap, because a superhero must play to her strengths.

August 3, 2006
She's not tortured enough
Novel writing dream nixed by functional lifestyle.

Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

I read Emily Watson's column a couple of weeks ago about how she quit her job to write.

(Note that I didn't say to "become a writer," because everyone knows one must actually write to become a writer.)

After reading this, my first thought was "Go Girl, You" and my second thought was one of pure, sore jealousy.

Isn't she terrified? Doesn't she worry about health insurance costs? Surely she doesn't grasp the American way: work all week longing for Friday.

But she has something I only dream about . . . courage.

According to a 2005 American Community Survey by the Census Bureau, Americans spend more than 100 hours commuting to work each year, with an average commute of 24.3 minutes.

That's more time than the average American spends on vacation.

My commute used to be six minutes. Because I fell for a guy living on the Northeastside of town, it's now more than 30 minutes, if a semi doesn't jackknife on I-70 before I pass it.

Weaving through the car maze of people refusing to putter over 40 mph, I ponder life.

Now I have the added frustration of imagining Emily opening her laptop and sipping her first cup of coffee just as I'm slamming on my brakes (for the sixth time) near the Emerson exit.

I enjoy the work I do, and I write for a living, but there's something so romantic about leisurely crafting stories while snug in one's jammies.

I just finished a book called "A Dab of Dickens & A Touch of Twain" by Dr. Elliot Engel, a compendium of short biographical essays on the "greats" of English literature.

From Chaucer to Frost, it chronicles the lives of 17 authors who were disciplined (unlike myself) and passionate (much like myself) about the one and only way they knew to survive: by writing.

Almost all of them had ne'er-do-well fathers or overbearing mothers, and most were severely depressed.

I question why my parents didn't allow me to suffer more so that I may, too, someday, pen an American novel. (One can blame parents for simply anything!)

The only thing novel I'm currently working on is this column.

I love wine, but can't even manage an alcohol addiction -- a crucial element for ever being considered a literary master.

So, like most working Americans, I'm a talker, a dreamer and a dabbler.

I tolerate my commute and complain about it to make sure it still exists.

But if I can just get depressed enough, I'm sure there's a book in me somewhere.

July 27, 2006
She's so 'Tragically Hip'
Jill runs into the band at the airport with no lipstick on!

Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

Most days when I wake, like many Americans perfunctorily scraping noses against grind stones, my first thoughts focus on coffee and my hefty commute.

But a handful of special days I save for myself. On these certain days I open my eyes, my heart warms, and thoughts assemble "Hip day!"

There is this rock band I know, The Tragically Hip, greatest live band ever and, unequivocally, better than sliced bread.

I am a Canadian wannabe; everything I touch turns to maple leaves.

I've been branded "one-dimensional" given my propensity to, ya know, "belabour" the point. Besides one boyfriend I fired because he didn't appreciate the Hip, everyone else to whom I've introduced their music became a fan.

I flew to Montreal last weekend to see them with masses of other Hip followers.

My theory is that the French-Canadians traveled south until they found land on a river that was as hot and muggy as Montreal, and so became New Orleans.

Not having developed this theory before I left, I mistakenly over-packed jeans, jackets and four pairs of high-heeled shoes (and I couldn't resist another pair once I got there!).

My French, although I took four years of it and have been to France a few times, is rotten. But Montreal is not Paris.

If you can muster "Bonjour, comment allez-vous?" followed by a scared foreign look that depicts "J'ai mal au ventre" (I have a stomach ache), they'll grant you English.

The band was just off a European tour and, ironically, we were all off our planes at the same time. Some might call this fortunate, running into your favorite band at the airport, but not after four hours of travel.

I had "nap" hair, mascara all over my face and I was messing up my French vocabulary tres bon. But in baggage claim, I turned around and there they stood.

It was greetings and hugs all around but, curse my mother, all I could think was "I'm not wearing lipstick!"

After catching up, touring the city and torturing my feet with hills and heels, the weekend culminated with the concert.

Seeing the Hip at an outdoor venue in the ski village of Saint-Sauveur was, perhaps, like seeing a moose running alongside your car: pretty amazing.

My girlfriend and I pressed our way to the front row, passing out our friendly "pardon!" to persons left in our wake.

Finally in my element, I stood before the band, smiling and dancing. I never tire of their music . . . those talented Canucks.

July 20, 2006
Recent indecent exposure
How I got caught with my pants down -- literally.

Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

We used to play a drinking game in college called "Most vulnerable."

Going around the table, you had 10 seconds to tell one of your life's most embarrassing moments, or you had to drink.

For some people it was difficult to deliberate, or at least to admit something. For me, the girl for whom big plastic red noses were invented, the difficulty came only in choosing from my extremely long list, as I made a fool of myself -- wait, let me check, yes -- daily.

I excelled at winning this game, and never once caught a buzz while playing.

But like good wine I've aged; the only drinking game I play now is, frankly, called "Here, have another."

French people drink every day, and that's why I pulled for them in the World Cup. But wait -- I think Italian people drink every day, too.

Like them, I appreciate that wine is a basic food group.

I drank a lot of it last Friday night, and suffered the consequences early the next morning when my boyfriend announced, "They're showing the house in 15 minutes."

We've dubbed this "The morning scrambler." Each weekend, hung-over or not, we're forced to leave the premises while the Realtor does her thing.

We did a cursory cleaning of the house; I couldn't believe I was up, much less vacuuming the living room floor, at 8 a.m. as I suffered from extreme dehydration.

We ate breakfast at Café Patachou, where I hid behind sunglasses and three cups of coffee.

An hour later, I headed back to bed and my boyfriend went to the gym.

While trying to get back to sleep, I suddenly heard doors opening, squeaking and slamming. I heard footsteps and voices, and before I surmised that it wasn't my boyfriend back to wake me from the dead, I realized it was another showing.

The exact moment I realized this was, unfortunately, the exact same moment when three people walked in to the bedroom.

I was lying on my stomach in a T-shirt and underwear; a sheet draped over one leg.

A woman asked, "They wouldn't have left a person here, would they?" (Her question struck me as fairly stupid, but I pretended to be asleep.)

For what seemed like minutes, they stood there. I moaned and they gasped . . . right before leaving the house.

I always win most vulnerable, but it keeps me entertained.

Still, I text messaged my boyfriend: "You forgot the second showing; you're in big trouble."

July 13, 2006
What she'll do for love

The fire of passion ignites like the sky on the Fourth of July.

Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

My boyfriend is turning me into a juvenile delinquent.

A few weeks ago, around midnight on a week night, we heard cars drag racing through the neighborhood.
Routinely sipping wine on the back porch, I said, "Damn kids."

My boyfriend took it a step further: he suggested we go and get them.

We gathered a few handfuls of pebbles from the neighbor's driveway and hid behind trees awaiting the miscreants return.

Making decisions like this while drinking usually concludes with the line: "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

In my youth, I was a trouble-free kid for many reasons: I was a bit of a goodie-goodie; I was afraid of getting punished.

I was into Barbies; and Bobby Brady's line "Mom always said, 'Don't play ball in the house' " was lodged in my brain.

Bobby's painful caveat came to mind often, like the recurring nightmare I sometimes have where I'm looking up words in the dictionary, but they aren't there.

Anyway, I now grant myself permission for a little unbridled pebble throwing.

The drag racers never returned, but we kept our pile of stones for future rumbles.

For the Fourth of July, we went to a fly-by-night fireworks store run by carnies in their off-season (seriously, they told me this).

We schlepped around selecting our explosives, filling the laundry basket supplied to us with Roman candles, ground bloom flowers, four-feet sparklers (so I could best chant my middle and high school and college fight songs), and a few hens in a basket. (Those were for me.)

My boyfriend is from a state that doesn't allow fireworks, not even sparklers.

I remember trips to Atlanta when I was a kid, when we'd stop in Tennessee for the banned, ultra-dangerous detonators, then smuggle them (back then, this felt like espionage) back in to Indiana.

Standing before a pile of M80s, filling my basket with bottle rockets, my boyfriend asked, "We just put these in a bottle and shoot them? These could catch a roof on fire!"

I shook off his West Coast mentality, replying: Put 'em in the basket.

For hours, we stood on opposite sides of the street and tried to shoot sparks over cars.

Our timing was always off: 5 seconds to light; another 15 seconds to detonate.

Only 8 seconds for the car to pass by.

We drank a lot, though, and spent the next morning hosing off the driveway.

July 6, 2006
Dentistry as punishment
Sometimes getting your teeth cleaned isn't all fun and games.

by Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

Dentistry is in the air.

I love all things sparkling and cherry-sandpaper flavored, so naturally my over-achieving favorite pastime is getting my teeth cleaned.

Brushing puts me in a really good mood, and flossing is the icing on the cake, requiring another brushing.
I look forward to my six-month check-ups, and because teeth cleanings are as important as hair highlights, I'm careful never to reschedule an appointment.

I went to my appointment last week in a Downtown skyscraper; the view overlooks Monument Circle with minimally invasive laboratory lighting, and often I'm inclined to nap.

I ignore the unsettling brochures and life-sized posters dripping beneath fluorescent lamps, featuring the cross-sections and structural anatomy of Chronic Periodontitis and advancing Gingivitis.(Don't mock my descriptions you crazy science people.)

Do I care about a form of periodontal disease resulting in inflammation within the supporting tissues of the teeth, progressive attachment and bone loss characterized by pocket formation and/or recession of the gingiva?

Am I worried about the mildest form of periodontal disease causing the gums to become red, swollen, and bleed easily? (Not to mention bad breath.)

No. I'm just there to get my teeth cleaned.

I happen to like my dental hygienist, and don't mind hearing her stories about how she partied really hard the night before.

But when I arrived last week, I learned that my usual tooth inspector was off work for the day; instead, I was met at the operating table by Nurse Ratched.

Except for the pillow-like surface on which to rest my head, and the aforementioned Circle view, there was nothing enjoyable about this visit.

Ratched had it in for me from the get-go; she sensed my trepidation, and she pounced.

She decided to do that thing where they count your teeth: 1 -- 2 -- 2 -- 3 -- 2 -- 1 -- 2 -- 2 -- 2.

I made the fatal mistake, trying to gain her friendship and sympathy, of asking what this process meant.

She punished my ignorance by boring her little tool into my gums as she counted. I missed the delicate adeptness of the party-girl.

I pretended to read the gory posters, acting as though normal people find them fascinating.

To this came no avail.

Hours after my violent cherry scrub, my gums still bled and ached.

June 29, 2006
Singing the bird blues
From now on, I'll leave the nature photos to the pros.

Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

For what I'm about to admit, please don't send me hate mail -- I already feel horrible enough, thank you.

It all began with a few twigs and some hay . . . .

A bird family built a small nest atop an outside sconce on my boyfriend's back deck, and he and I kept the light turned on low to help incubate the eggs.

All spring I chronicled the life and times of the cozy family by nosily peering over the nest with my digital camera.

My photos captured such events as sitting, hatching, feeding and growing.

Sure, I felt awkward and self-indulgent invading their privacy, but I wanted a good photo, to boot.

My digital presentation began with four small eggs, and then moved to the frail, plumply veined bodies of the two ugly babies that survived the hailstorms.

Each week the babies produced more feathers, and my photos, and ego, grew more in depth. Ansel Adams had nothing but film on me.

The parents of the offspring began to fear me, and my persistent, super-human attitude went something like this: Dude, relax; I'm just taking a photo.

Weeks and weeks went by, and here's where I begin to rationalize my behavior: I think the babies were ready to jump from the nest.

At least, I hope the babies were ready to jump from the nest, because after that one last shot I just had to have, they jumped from the nest.

My boyfriend was outside with me when it happened -- two frail birds hopping over my head -- and I screamed.

I asked him to run and grab two hand towels while I stood there screaming about what an idiot I was. He didn't deny this.

I thought we'd get them and put them in the nest before the parents returned.

Alas, the tribulations of cool conceit.

Both baby birds -- I'm choked up about this -- flew away.

I would like to believe that the parents found them in the woods and are still feeding them today.

But this past weekend, the mother bird returned to the nest alone, where she sat and stared for hours.

My boyfriend and I were sitting on the porch drinking wine when she landed. He looked at her, then at me and said, "That may be the saddest thing I've ever seen."

I'd created an empty nest syndrome; I am a failed naturalist and awful person.

Oh, birdies, wherever you are, I hope you are warm and eating well. I have some great photos to show you.

June 22, 2006
Getting wild at the zoo
What does the Blue- Tongued Skink think of party people?

Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

Last year was my first experience with Indianapolis Zoo's Zoobilation and, sure, I disputed the happiness of the animals.

I ponder such things, and I'm repeatedly armed with a line of questioning.

I care about the Amur tigers' innermost feelings and whether they're getting four squares, or at least some protein from other animals, per day.

Are the African lions allowed to decorate their dens the way they want; does the Blue-Tongued Skink feel comfortable in his skin; will the Aldabra tortoise ever come out of his shell around the Pacific Walrus?

An event like Zoobiliation merely adds to my worries about animals' adaptation to simulated habitats.

Sure, I've seen the band Zanadoo perform a few '70s tunes in my day, but do Kodiak bears get down to Roberta Flack? Does the Gila Monster really need any more mojo?

This year I spent a little more time with the animals, and from initial statistics collected in their community "gallop" pole, I discovered they're OK with fundraisers.

As it turns out, they all have expensive tastes.

The California sea lions lay sleeping the entire evening, across from blaring cover bands and the martini bar, but I'm pretty sure I saw one tapping his right flipper.

And what really causes more anxiety for a Greater Kadu: pedestrians in formal wear sucking oysters on the half shell at a kiosk, discussing the latest venture capital deal whilst splashing about in delicate, plastic finger bowls, or a hungry cheetah that has just targeted you for dinner?

For the passive, vegetarian creatures, a zoo is like being in high school with the bully on your side.

Zoo keepers will get the meerkats' lunch money back and there's nothing the hyena can do about it.

Knowing this lessened my distress and helped me enjoy Zoobilation.

I had no problem mixing alcohol and using bushes as "facilities." (It's the zoo, after all.)

Plastic surgery was rampant, and my friends and I pointed it out like we were playing a game of Slug Bug; this proved fun.

It was my first formal date with my boyfriend, and I certainly didn't mind him checking me out. Every couple should dress up together once in a while, even if only to sit on the back porch at home and count stars.

But in the end, I'm a simple person.

I asked of him: 'Will you please return to Morton's booth and get me another beef burgundy?'

His laugh gauged astonishment in how much one little black evening dress can hide.

June 15, 2006
Itch you just can't scratch
For the first time in my life, I know the agony of prickly poison ivy.

Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

All summer long the ant slaved away, while his friend, the grasshopper, played and played. But when summer turned to fall and fall to winter, the grasshopper had nothing; the ant, however, had poison ivy.

That is a variation of a variation by Woody Allen, an ode to mortality and the brutal, spring youth of the poisonous, indigenous leaves I encountered.

Scratching at my red and inflamed wrists, which weren't properly covered while weeding, I may have spoken too soon when cursing my discontent for winter.

I now carry four varieties of topical histamine-blocking analgesics at all times.

On a friend's suggestion, I rotated sessions of soaking my arms in bleach-filled water at the kitchen sink.

As I hovered over the basin, my boyfriend said I looked really cool. The problem is I thought I was invincible.

Growing up in Indiana, camping, hiking and romping through almost every state forest, I never fell "babe in the woods" to the pretty little three-leaved monster.

Until now, I wore "never did drugs" and "never had poison ivy" as badges of honor.

Ripping the vines from the side of my boyfriend's house and tearing them root by root from the ground, I scoffed at threats from his experienced knowledge warning "beware the ivy."

I was on a mission; I now have one badge of honor left.

The other night, I scratched my arm so violently that it looked like a small sea creature had burrowed beneath my skin.

The scratching feels so good, but an hour later the oil spreads to my elbow, or perhaps the back of my short-shorted leg.

Suddenly, with every itch comes a degree of worry, and I constantly wash my hands like an OCD sufferer.
I think of alternative misfortunes I might enjoy more: seasickness; a poke in the eye with a sharp stick; Turkish prison. I'm maddened by the prickling sensation.

I've become sympathetic to King George: he wasn't roaming the palace grounds with porphyria -- he obviously had poison ivy!

I wake up every hour on the hour engaged in a disoriented scratching pose; Mother Nature, I want my old skin back!

Just today, after three weeks of scratching, I visited my family physician. I opted for Cortizone pills instead of a shot, the lesser of evils.

I'm typing, and waiting for the itch to vanish. But first, I relapse and scratch.

Mmm, so good.

Through this I've learned one more valuable life lesson: next time call a lawn service.

June 8, 2006
Passing the parent test
Indy 500 is a tough place to bond with boyfriend's family.

Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

My boyfriend's entire family came to town for Memorial Day weekend.

Typically, this is the weekend I get out of town as it's also "race weekend."

Always eager to entertain, I cleaned house for three days before they arrived.

Before we picked them up at the airport I gave the microwave one last dousing of 409 cleaner. (Moms always check microwaves.)

From what I could see, I passed in this category.

Not only did I meet the parents et al, but I attended the Indy 500 with them, as well.

This is where it got a little tricky.

Some people dread meeting the family, but I am of the peculiar breed who looks forward to such things, where interest and putting your best feet forward converge.

Unfortunately, I vehemently dislike large crowds who gather where music isn't playing; watching drunk people crush beer cans against their heads, and heavy contenders battling it out for Darwin Awards.
Oh, and I'm not a race fan.

The band Staind played a tune from their catalog of morose selections before the race began, and I couldn't help but imagine their disappointment in crowd enthusiasm.

My boyfriend said, "They sure chose an uplifting song for the 90th running, eh?"

I heaved a sigh that noted being stuck wearing earplugs for four hours.

I downed two beers before Mari Hulman George called for the engines to start, and a boxed lunch appeared on my lap.

Things were looking up.

But after I ate the chicken breast, only a bruised apple remaining, there were still three hours left.

From me came a silent sigh and a big, toothy smile for his dad.

I cheered, I clapped and I pulled for the Andrettis: It was a name I recognized.

After the race, we made the fatal mistake of herding through the endless IndyGo shuttle line headed back Downtown, where one employee belittled us all, and grated our remaining nerves.

Trying to remain carefree, and not get in a fistfight with the frustrated masses (because a fist fight might leave a lasting impression), this proved a difficult time to impress new parents.

But we all made a pact to watch the race at their house next year, on the big screen; oh mighty Isis, how we bonded.

Later, we grilled steaks and let off fireworks.

After several beers I performed my high school fight song while holding six sparklers.

I'm not sure if I passed this category, but I gave it my all.

My boyfriend told me to keep being myself.

June 1, 2006
Music means so much
'There's no stopping a free spirit caught up in a musical moment.'

Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

Music gets me through my days.

In middle school, living solo with my dad, we had full band equipment set up in our living room.

The couch was pushed over in a corner so that the drum kit filled in the backdrop for guitars, bass and amps.

Sleepovers were the rage, and I appreciated my girlfriends' homes full of wicker, flowered wallpaper and Helen Reddy.

When they came to my house I'd say, "Wanna turn the microphone on and sing along to Ministry?"

Friends loved the freedom of expression at the Brooks abode.

Call me ardent.

After first seeing the Tragically Hip, I listened to them for six straight months. On the seventh month I rested, and then I began listening to them again.

I can multiply because of School House Rock, and I can survive the Indiana weather because bands tour here.
Due to an iTunes snafu recently, my friend and cool person who runs Midwest Music Summit, bailed me out of yet another impasse with technology.

While transferring music from my computer to iPod (third time, long story), he said, "Your database is like Christmas morning."

I told him he could "listen" to anything he wanted. I suggested an L.A. band called The 88, my recent favorite.
He listened; he loved; he transferred.

The 88 played Radio Radio, June 19, alongside Matt Costa, and I fell helplessly victim to starstruckitis.

I was the only person in the building who knew all their songs and, oh, how I milked it.

They've been featured on NPR, Carson Daly, Gray's Anatomy and, gosh darn, The OC, so they're obviously good.

This unsigned Silver Lake phenomenon sold (out) their song "Coming Home" to a Target commercial, and who doesn't love Target?

They're a power Popsicle changing creative tempos on a five and dime, Hockney's surreal L.A. in the happiest times.

Think Queen meets David Cassidy dressed in his Sunday best and you're there.

I shouted out a request: "Melting in the Sun!" The band laughed and the lead singer said, "Oh my God, we have one fan in Indianapolis!"

After their set, about eight other people and I skipped Matt Costa altogether, and were privately serenaded behind the venue.

They took more requests and allowed "the women folk" to sing along or play tambourine.

My boyfriend grunted a couple of times, but he understands that there's no stopping a free spirit caught up in a musical moment.

Some may say, "Grow up."

My standard reply is, "I've always grown up with music."

May 25, 2006
1 isn't the loneliest number
In a book club, Jill's tastes for literature stand on their own.

Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

I've been in a book club for two years.

The beginning stages brought six bright women together for a literary fix.

We met once a month, rotating houses and supplying each forum with a lavish spread: wine, beer, maybe even champagne, and a feast of delectable hors d'oeuvres and desserts, because you can't parley on an empty stomach.

I can attack a bowl of mixed nuts and swig a flute of champagne like nobody's business, then get right down to a line of questioning administered by proxy to a Cliff's Notes exacting blueprint.

The first book was Steinbeck's "The Grapes of Wrath," which I'd never read.

(So many books to read, so many bands to see.)

I was so engrossed reading this book, and when I finished, its chilling conclusion coursed through me. Lying in bed, I closed the book and pondered its relevant pulse, beating still in today's corporate hierarchy. Then I read the last two chapters once more.

I'm a sucker for bad news.

This is what literature is supposed to accomplish; and so, I found my independent self a member of a book club, the first real non-sports group of my life.

Book club is a time to "take the floor," a time to exfoliate some of life's brittle dust onto other voracious readers. But members of my book club grew tired of my piercing angst.

More and more we were split down the middle, realizing one tragic book club flaw: We didn't have the same interests in authors.

Some members begged that I no longer choose the books. "Jill picks weird books that no one understands," one hostess exclaimed. Another said, "Can't we read something happy for once?"

A few of them have taxing, complicated daily jobs and asked if we could "lighten it up a bit," so we read several books about female editors living in NYC, dating their bosses or best friends' boyfriends, or not dating at all.

I know when I'm not wanted, but I like these people. I suggested we all read what we want but still meet once a month for champagne.

Last month only two of us showed up at Starbucks.

We ordered tea and crumpets and sat discussing men, kids, world leaders and good chicken recipes.

Literature is a personal thing, and just like all my former clubs of one, I hold tight as the sole member.

May 18, 2006
Hung over in Hotlanta
Loving libations on a recent free trip, but not the hangovers.

Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

Last spring I volunteered to get bumped from my flight and miserably hang around LaGuardia Airport in New York all day in exchange for a free travel voucher.

I felt it only fair that I receive this flight after shredding my sails in the scattered winds of a long-distance relationship.

I held this voucher for one year; I do not like being rushed.

After sifting through restrictions, blackout dates and no direct flights whatsoever, I finally booked a flight to Atlanta. I was worn out already and I hadn't packed.

Atlanta is a cosmopolitan city where you'll find sweet tea, pot liquor and local accents that just fell off the turnip truck.

The word "Atlanta," to a native, has seven syllables.

Day one: hung over.

Like a bad recurring dream, I arrived in Atlanta after a nefarious episode involving Cinco de Mayo, two 40-ounce margaritas and a nap on the bathroom floor the night before my trip.

I stayed with my best guy friend and we rotated dinner plans with his friends, my aunt and uncle and a former college roommate.

We met my suburbanite aunt and uncle at their hip downtown retreat within minutes of my landing.

We were offered glad tidings and a killer bottle of Chateauneuf du Pape.

I love animals and oh, prickly hair of the dog, I certainly cannot deny you.

We ate dinner at a railroad-loading-dock-turned-swanky-restaurant called Two Urban Licks.

It was full of southern charm, slow cooking and sleepy waiters.

Wine (this is a column about wine) was served in carafes and "thieves," which apparently robbed you of your next day.

Like fools we ordered several of the latter.

Day two: more hung over.

As if my head wasn't exploding enough, my friend and I ate too-spicy Indian food then sat slackjawed at an underground Mexican restaurant listening to his buddy "DJ" two hours of Prince songs from his iPod.

Day three: Ibid.

My college roommate was busy carting her kids around all day, so my friend and I did reconnaissance work in her neighborhood before meeting later for dinner.

With map in hand, we scoured Buckhead until we found her chalet on a hill.

"So that's what hard work will get you," I said, as we secretly coasted down her street.

At dinner, her husband mentioned their house.

My friend and I smiled at each other, danced our eyebrows a couple of times and kept eating.

I love traveling, but nothing is worse than a hung-over day four, heading home.

May 11, 2006
So fresh, so clean, so fast
How to survive at-random showings by your Realtor.

Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

Tired of the long drive Downtown, traffic as tight as a jealous girlfriend's noose and only three slightly-above-mediocre restaurants in his Northeastside neighborhood, my boyfriend recently put his house up for sale.

With this, new ways of exploring my Obsessive Compulsive Disorder befell my neat-as-a-pin talents.

I get a little choked up when life comes together so beautifully.

Having a house for sale puts one at the mercy of constant yet sporadic "showings."

The Realtor usually calls when my boyfriend and I are napping, cooking or have unknowingly just tracked in 5 cubic yards of mulch, telling us she'll be stopping by in 15 minutes with a couple greatly interested in symmetrical vacuum tracks on the carpet and a kitchen sink that glows in heavy fog.

For me, this is like getting picked first for kickball; for my boyfriend, it's a real pain in the arse.

In one 15-minute spree I vacuumed five rooms, made the bed, straightened the bathroom hand towels, unloaded/loaded the dishwasher and took out the trash; in this same amount of time my boyfriend turned on lights around the house.

I can accomplish any household chore in 1/8-Flight-of-the-Bumblebee-time while heating up a turkey sandwich and applying lipstick.

Clean house accomplished, heart racing with an athlete's flourish, I searched for my boyfriend; he was outside hosing off the driveway.

Now, if I were house shopping, a freshly hosed driveway might be the first thing I'd hope for, but I explained to my boyfriend that this could slightly, I mean maybe just a little, be a complete waste of his quality hygienic time.

I always feared settling for Mr. Right when I knew Mr. Clean could be waiting just around the corner.

When the house is spotless (be still, my fulfilled little heart) my boyfriend and I jump into the car and hide out for an hour or so.

During the first two weeks of "open houses" held at his place, we found this time to be magical; a date, if you will.

"Wanna grab coffee and hang out at the bookstore?" he'd ask.

We'd hold hands and I found enchantment in real estate.

Now, a few more weeks into it, our tune is changing.

"The Realtor just called; there's a showing in a half hour," he'll say.

"I'm beginning to hate her," I reply.

We scrub, polish, vacuum, fold and leave; we begrudgingly park two blocks away and wait it out.

May 4, 2006
I don't care for karaoke
Friends let friends ignore inhibitions to belt one out.

Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

My girlfriend was in town last week from L.A., bringing with her great detriment to both my punctuality at work and my liver.

We began on Monday night, and whittled down the week into one continuously hung-over nub.

We are both creative, but I choose tapping thoughts out over keys; with her, you never know what's next.
For the past few months she's mentioned gearing up for planning a one-woman act, which she will, one day very soon, perform in the city of angels.

She and I share lofty goals and a bent toward procrastination.

In L.A. she's surrounded by people in "the business" who provide for her needed inspiration and support.
She does perfect renditions of the Bad Seed and Gloria Swanson, and feels that if her L.A. friends perform, then she can, too.

For practice, she said she'd been frequenting karaoke spots in Venice Beach, singing "Brass in Pocket" and "Bungle in the Jungle."

This forced a question: What in the hell are you talking about?

I reminded her of how she broke into hives an hour before our junior-year production in high school, that the Mighty Oz had spoken years ago, and that she could not sing in public.

She replied, "Oh, but I can, and I do; it's fun throwing caution to the wind, ignoring my inhibitions and belting it out."

This I had to see.

My boyfriend and I met her for dinner; she said she needed to meet/converse with him before serenading.
After dinner we headed to a bar for my first-ever karaoke experience.

We were forced to listen to Vanilla Ice, Van Halen and a bunch of country songs I'd never heard while my friend waited her turn.

One sweet girl ready for her public embarrassment (yes, here I realize that at least she was trying, while I sat idly by dreaming up new pipedreams and drinking a Corona) told us that her eyelashes cost 98 cents, and that we should cheer "real hard" for her because she needed prize money for another tattoo.

Oh, wow.

Another woman sang "Proud Mary" without ever reading the monitor; the karaoke show-off.

My friend's two songs were great, and we cheered plenty.

After she finished she calmly said, "I must admit something: I lied. I'd never done that before."

In making us believe karaoke was "old hat" she calmly found the courage to try.

She is on her way to fame; I will, however, forever remain in the audience.

April 27, 2006
Creepy-crawly encounter
There was nothing itsy-bitsy about this eight- legged terror.

Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

Many early societal lessons watermarked my life: Mismatched socks are not for public display; elbows are never on tables; girls should have a healthy fear of spiders.

Growing up, I was taught that Granddaddy Long Legs were good, but that all other spiders deserved death by lethal indigestion.

I once sprayed half a can of poisonous spray on a hairy black beast and, still screaming, fled the room to let him die alone. How kindhearted of me.

This practice changed several years ago when a former, insect-friendly boyfriend convinced me that spiders are good.

In fact, in our first weeks of summer dating, every time he kissed me a spider appeared somewhere in the backdrop of romance.

Seriously.

We took this as a good omen.

To this day it would take a miracle, and about one million dollars, to get me to kill any bug.
I have changed my evil ways; this is not to say I'm not still afraid.

I was lounging and reading on my boyfriend's couch last week while he was at work.

In my peripheral vision a small shadow glided down from the ceiling. I stopped to look at the biggest, hairiest, best-legged spider I'd ever seen in my life.

In a faint whisper I spoke: help me.

He fell to the floor and I whimpered.

Gingerly, I climbed over the back of the couch and tiptoed to the kitchen to retrieve a glass in which to trap him.

Seconds later I returned but he'd vanished. Foiled! How could this happen?

I quarantined the sunken living room and kept a watchful eye out for my fuzzy friend from a safe, distant chair.

My boyfriend came home and (shocking) wondered what the hell I was doing.

"I'm catching a spider." (So obvious.)

"Catching a spider?" he asked (which I predicted he'd say). "Why not killing a spider?"

"Oh, didn't I mention? I don't kill spiders or bugs."

He probably would have preferred me repeating my dating history to this particular comment. But he laughed and said, "You're very weird" and helped me look for him (or her -- who knows?).

As we moved furniture and shook curtains the spider got larger in my memory.

"He was four inches, maybe five, with dangling long-legs . . . 12 or so."

We never found him.

That night I positioned a high-powered oscillating fan on the living room floor to keep Spidey contained. (I don't think they hunt human prey during windstorms.)

My boyfriend shook his head. Men needn't understand women; just love and tolerate.

April 20, 2006
Romance trumps 'the talk'
The right words negate even 16 hours of loneliness.

Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

What is black and white and every romance frequently has one? Answer: The relationship talk.

Women, rarely men, bring these to light when issues are, as we like to say, eating at us, or even slightly beginning to fester.

The cause of a needed talk can be severe or trifling, but women like getting to the bottom of things pronto; they enjoy "checking in" with the relationship and can put together dramatic discourse from nothing more than a couple of ideas and some glue.

I am, first and foremost, a communicator, so I'm often guilty of this practice.

With a few past boyfriends I used visuals for severe talks, like receipts I found for dinners and gifts I never received.

Visuals tend to make the talk -- and the evening -- a whole lot longer.

Recently I found myself saddling up for a heart-to-heart with my boyfriend; the topic: workaholism (of which I'm completely innocent).

His soul-crushing-Lexis-Nexis job was really the culprit, but I was geared up for a talk, and we were going to have one.

He invited me on a weekend business trip (yippee, a business trip!) to St. Louis so we could spend some time together.

Oh, that romantic corporate world -- they're always getting it right.

I agreed to go, thinking it'd be the perfect time for a chat.

He'd be stuck listening to me for four hours: idealism imitates reality.

He told me how happy he was that I came along, temporarily guilting me out of my semi-practiced speech.

I decided that a controlled environment along a stretch of highway with few rest stops wasn't a fair playing field; I'd save the speech for St. Louis.

I napped in the car.

When we arrived he dropped me off at our hotel saying, "I'll meet you here for cocktails and dinner."

But the corporate teeth had him in their clutches, and I spent the next 16 hours touring the city by myself.

I roamed the streets of downtown (this didn't take long); tested the hotel treadmill and the pool; ate lonely breakfast, lunch and dinner in the lobby bar.

Sitting outside reading a book, I text-messaged my boyfriend: Look under the arch . . . it's me.

He answered right back: I see you . . . and I just took your photo.

Oh, hell, any form of romance negates "the talk," and I'm a sucker for a corporate text message.

We drove back to Indy the next day having a very severe talk about where to have dinner.

April 13, 2006
Hoops, drinks and drama
On the evening of the NCAA finals, I dropped the ball.

Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

Basketball is in my blood; unfortunately I have a low resting pulse for such things.

My grandfather played basketball for the Hoosiers long ago, but I am the sorriest excuse for his legacy, ever.
People ask when and what position he played and I shrug saying, "Beats me, but his photo is up at Assembly Hall."

Musical instruments took over the hoop dreams of our immediate family; poor muscle-toned grandfather, he tried.

The night of this year's final NCAA game I was invited to Ruth's Chris Downtown by a group of guy friends.
I'd steered clear of the concerts on the circle, energy-sucking talk of basketball and tornadoes up till then.
I vacillated all day about going out, worried about finding decent parking and hair practicality during strong gusts of wind.

My friends, of course, had tickets to the game; I, of course, did not.

The evening carried more of a drinking theme for me, so I packed "going out" attire in my car just in case.
After work I made a split-second decision to meet them. Split-second decisions are my modus operandi.
Not wanting to drive home first, I parked across the street from the Bourbon Street Distillery and ever-so-slyly changed clothes in my car (modi operandi: the plural form).

I lagged behind a group of intramural-player-looking men, and we all made our way on foot through the streets of March Madness.

I was talking on my cell phone; I was looking pretty stylish; I was the only woman for miles and I was walking fast!

Hundreds of cars carrying fans filed into parking garages. As I stood ready to cross on Market Street, a young man ran up to me, before God and all basketball fanatics, yelling, "Miss! You dropped your purse!"
I was that girl, and not in the Marlo Thomas kind of way.

I was the dumb-phone-walking-talking blonde wearing really cute pants and not paying any attention to her surroundings. Sporting events are tough on me.

I clutched my purse, happy to still own a credit card.

At Ruth's Chris I found my friends and there we drank and took photos with friendly people wearing LSU clothing. (LSU was in the tournament?)

Later, leaving the women's restroom after a lipstick check, a woman clad in UCLA gear said, "Honey, is that your camera sitting on the sink?"

"Yes, ma'am, and I'm taking it and my fair weather attitude home now."
I learned of Florida's win on NPR the next morning.

Go Hoosiers.

April 6, 2006
A difference of opinion
Since when does a DJ take precedence over a live musician?

Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

When I'm not daydreaming or mind wandering -- and sometimes even when I'm doing these things in unison -- I'm listening to music.

Last weekend I dragged Love Interest to The Vogue again, qualifying him soon -- like, right this minute -- for my boyfriend.

He said he'll get me back once the Speedway opens, but I'm thinking he was kidding.

The Vogue should pin a medal on me, because except for the manager and the girl who works the front door, I must hold some kind of attendance record.

This time we caught Mike Doughty, of whom I've been a devoted stargazer since his Soul Coughing days.
INtake said the show began at 8 p.m. To skip the advertised opening band, a reasonable deduction was we should arrive around 9:30 p.m. I'd been through this a few times before.

Arriving and purchasing tickets at the door, we learned the show began at 7:30 p.m. We were then told: "Welcome, and by the way, Mike Doughty is almost finished, but you're more than welcome to stay for Tease." (Lucky us.)

The rhythm that was gonna get the Vogue got the Vogue a long time ago, in that South Beach-wannabe kind of way (present staff was grandfathered in).

Translation: Weekend concerts end here by 10 p.m.

Dance clubs are unique and all, but concert attendees in their right minds wouldn't think a Saturday night act would end before Law & Order did; hence, friends I ran into at the show said they'd seen no more than five Mike Doughty songs, either.

Our bad for not arriving for the opener? I think not. After four songs, Doughty thanked everyone for coming.
As if the sand wasn't already kicked in our faces, the sound guy switched on that crazy Conga beat just as the savvy, hey-I-can-even-play-an-instrument Mr. Doughty took the stage for an encore.

He stood patiently before a cheering audience, a mature version of his former irreverent self. (He once publicly scolded me for flash photography, but I don't hold grudges.) When the house music failed to cease he shrugged and left the stage.

Venues represent the heart of a city for traveling bands and, wow, Indy really showed this guy a great time.
For minutes equaling five, the same number of songs I would hear this particular evening, the dance music relinquished and Doughty played one last song.

Trip the light fiasco.

When it was over the live music lovers, baffled, left as the clubbers increased in masse. A bad night for The Vogue, but I'll be back . . . oh, I'll be back.