In the Heart of the Heart of In Rainbows

By Scott B. 



I'm an amazing husband, which is why I found myself waiting for my wife at the Atlantic Terminal, umbrella in hand as a cudgel against the gathering clouds. We had a general time to meet, nothing specific, but I thought I'd text her anyway to see if she was above ground yet. That's when I heard the voice.

The words themselves were scraps of dialogue from unwritten plays. They were the faint hisses of scattered genetic code sliding across wooden floors and reassembling hastily in corner piles, forming Tristan Tzara poems. And the sound of the voice made even less sense. It was uncomfortably human, and incredibly performative. The equation was complicated but the answer simple: this was a crazy woman trying to talk "normal". I didn't even have to look up from my phone.

"You came here to make a phone call?"
"Yes, I came to the subway to make a phone call..."

I looked at her now. She was wearing the uniform of the female homeless. A stocking cap and large coat. She had a Jamaican accent that when i try to replicate now comes out as sounding like an incredibly exotic Irish Brogue.

"Who you calling?"
"My wife."
"Give me some of her money."
"What? No."
"Why not?"
"I just got out of the Army. I don't have any."
"Well then to hell with you and to hell with the motherfucking Army..."
"I agree with at least half of that."

An awkward silence. Our conversation had hit an impasse, and for a moment I was worried that she had grown bored with me.

"Take my hat," she decided suddenly, removing it from her head.
"No, no. But thank you."
"Put it on your umbrella then," she reached out in order to slide the hat over my umbrella handle. I pulled back.
"No..."
"Make it look more human."
"No, sorry. I have to go now."

And I left. But not without appreciating that this woman very well could have replace Thom Yorke as, if not the singer, then at least the lyricist for Radiohead.

My wife arrived. As we walked home the clouds eventually loosened and broke apart before they disappeared. I looked at my umbrella, and even without a hat it looked a little more human.

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Good Morning from OYIT, May 19, 2009

By Ingrid

Is it sunny out today? I wouldn’t know, because in my heart it is gray and overcast. It is also gray and overcast in my eyes because I have cataracts and it’s never sunny when you have cataracts. I’m saving up to have them removed. Anyway, I knew it was going to be “one of those days” when I dropped my deodorant this morning as I was applying it and it drew a white line all the way down my black business-casual suit. If I’d had a Mentos©, it would’ve dawned on me to take the deodorant stick and draw stripes all up and down myself, making it look like I was wearing a fashionable pinstriped suit instead a black business-casual suit with one dorky deodorant stripe down it. Unfortunately, a burglar broke into our house last night and stole my Mentos© supply and most of the money I’d been saving for cataract surgery. But chin up, OYIT readers! Just because I’m having “one of those days” doesn’t mean you have to suffer the same fate. I’m sure this something good about this day…I just don’t know what it is yet.


The Mentos© Commercial



Seriously, who was the team that worked on this commercial?! Get me this team! Brilliant!

Student-Made Film of the Day: Middleman

This short film was made by some of my friends and acquaintances in Springfield for the SATO 48 film festival. They had to make it in 48 hrs and….I don’t know, there were some other things they had to do. The point is that I love it, and every time I watch it my heart swells with pride for my ancestral homeland. For those of you who live in big, fancy cities like NYC, DC, or Nixa, this may not be so impressive. But in Springfield it is hard to find an amateur film with great acting and great script.



Radiohead covers Portishead



The only collaboration that I can think of that would’ve been better than this one is if Joni Mitchell covered Britney Spears, which will never happen. Partly because Joni has chain-smoked her voice into oblivion, and partly because she dropped out of the music scene 30 years ago and probably doesn’t even recognize the relevance of Britney Spears in today’s (or 1997’s, as it were) music scene.

On This Day in 1944...

...Chewbacca, or rather, the actor who played Chewbacca, was born. Happy Birthday, Peter Mayhew! I'm sorry you had to go through life being 7 ft 3 inches tall and looking not very different from the tall, hairy alien you once played in a sci-fi trilogy.

I feel better! I got to share three of my favorite videos and a pic of Chewbacca. Who cares if they fired me at work for only having one pinstripe on my suit? I hope you all have a great day!

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Open Letter to Dean, my Next Door Neighbor

By Bryan

Dean,

You're pretty new around here, and I know we've only exchanged casual “hellos” in the hallway on the way to the washing machine, and I know I only know your name because I heard you introducing yourself to Dave, but seriously: stop with the fucking Radiohead.




Honestly, do you listen to anything else? You've lived here two weeks and aside from you talking to your girlfriend on the phone (by the way, I'm totally on your side with the whole pet horse thing. I mean, seriously? A pet horse? Who the fuck does she think she is, the Duchess of Cornwall?) all that's ever come from your side of the wall has been vague moaning and whining against the harmonic background of some kind of Krautrock rip-off. And all I'm saying is there are some days where I'd rather not hear that.

Take, for example, Thursday. You don't know this, but I work for a large multinational company (the kind you hear about in many of your favorite Radiohead songs!) with a lower-level management position. Because of this, my life is full of monotony and gentle soul-crushing on a daily basis. Thursday was particularly awful: see, those of us who have real jobs (how exactly does that record store stay open when its hours are 12-7, Tuesday through Thursday, 1-5 on Sunday? And the one time I went in there there was a section for Italian House, a section for proto-punk, even a section for something called screamo, but then there was something like three records in your jazz section and one of those was some used Steely Dan album) have to deal with things like fax machines, and florescent lighting, and corporate passwords, and keycards, and basically mountains of bullshit just to get from point A to point B in a corporate metaphysical sense. I won't bore you with details, but on Thursday one of those pieces in the chain fell apart, creating a lot more work for me, and a pretty miserable day all around. (Have you ever had to use a keycard just to take a shit, Dean? Do you know the indignity of realizing, as your keycard fails, that your natural bodily functions are restricted by a piece of plastic on a belt clip? I don’t wish that upon you, no matter what droning echos from your bedroom.)

So when I got home, all I wanted to do was have a bite to eat, watch some TV, and go to bed. But, when I climbed the stairs to my bedroom, guess what I heard? Well, you know, because you were listening, too: Thom Yorke yodeling into my ear about how miserable my life is. Guess what Dean? I already know! I knew when I got home and didn't need to be reminded again! I mean, Christ, can't you at least play some earlier stuff? Before the Bush White House when they at least weren't making me want to slit my wrists all of the time? Do you know what I'd kill to hear "Creep" blast out from my east wall some day?

But no. You play an endless shuffle of Kid A, Amnesiac, and Hail to the Thief. Oh, and by the way, your MP3 of "I Might Be Wrong" is corrupted. Are you fucking deaf or something? The audio goes out every three seconds. I've figured out the only thing worse than hearing Radiohead every second: hearing Radiohead every other second. So, what is it, Dean? Are you too good for OK Computer? Do you have something against The Bends? Do they not set the right mood for you? And what mood are you trying to set, exactly, every single night? Are you trying to muster up the courage to finally do it? I don't know if you can Baker Act someone over something like this, but I'm willing to try. I'd rather think it was a cry for help than something you actually enjoy doing every night.

So, Dean, in closing, cut this shit out. And don't forget that wall goes both ways. For some reason, I have several Yoko Ono records lying around, and a copy of Metal Machine Music. Don’t push me.

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