The prospect of a Mets-Tigers world series... well, it actually makes me want to watch.

If I am the Commander-in-Chief of my life, then I guess it would be appropriate to deliver a State-of-the-Jessie every year on my birthday. Well, everyone, the Jessie is stressed out. Goodnight, and thanks for coming. God bless.

I am a year older, a milepost in which I constantly discover new facets of meaninglessness. This year it meant lots of people being unduly sweet to me and an excuse to throw a party. So for those 36 hours my birthday was rich with import, but as for the age thing, well... so what. 24 is a good number, I guess. It adds up to 6, and it's divisible by many things. It's a full 2 years away from the terrifying "late-20s" designation. So, sure. Why not.

Perhaps significantly, I passed my birthday minute (12:59 PT, in case you care) on a fabulously misguided bus tour of Madison. The mischievous Friday the 13th forces at work? Having gone to the pharmacy, I found myself attempting to take a new bus route home to my apartment, and though I won't belabor the details, let me be clear that I'm not exaggerating when I tell you that I spent 90 minutes on a series of buses. For what should have been a 20-minute ride home. Through various false assumptions and generally ill-informed choices on my part, I wound up navigating an entirely useless circle around the city that took me to places I will probably never go again. And since I managed--I think for the first day since I've been here--to be without iPod, book, or cell phone for this voyage of discovery, I had ample time to contemplate the irony of passing my birthday minute driving useless loops around the university.

I use the word irony, because I am currently driving myself crazy over my academic future. Though I am nothing if not an obsessively self-assessing person, I am in a new place, which means new features to my madness. It all more or less boils down to the following series of realizations:

1.) I don't want to be a journalist (brilliant job, Jessie, enrolling in J-School).
2.) I am an academic; there's absolutely no fighting it.
3.) I should get a Ph.D.
4.) The Communications department does some lovely things.
5.) I am interested in none of them.

It's well and good for my friends in Communications to tell me that the department is incredibly flexible (it is) and that I can study almost anything I want under its guise (I can), but two facts remain: The first is that at some point a communications Ph.D. requires quantitative research. The second is that even if I find a way to get around all the crap I don't like in the department, my future career will be in Communications. So, whatever. It doens't matter right now, because I'm getting a free master's degree and tons of great experience (teaching, being a grad student, etc.). But I can't help feeling that while everyone around me is moving toward an end goal, I am moving away from one.

Aside from righteously depressing self-evaluation and mistaken buses, I had a lovely birthday weekend. Kevin and I threw a mostly-successful party with a fire and lots of snacks. And in other related activities, my office-mates up in Vilas provided cake and a giant Orlando Bloom poster, who they managed to make picking his nose (you had to see it). Erinn made me a Boston cream pie (my favorite of all pies), and I got lots of wonderful presents from her, Kevin, and my mom.

Mark Danielewski came to Madison the day before my birthday for a reading/signing. And the day after my birthday, Andrew Bird was in town for a show. Perhaps augmenting my self-reflection was the arrival of these two creative geniuses who are so clearly doing what they are meant to do with their lives. You look at them and you just know it. And I think I envy the certainty I perceive in this, even though it probably doesn't exist for them. Or maybe it does.

Danielewski may be moving into dangerous territory with the experimentality of his books. House of Leaves toed the line to perfection, but I've found myself disinclined to read Only Revolutions. Listening to him read made me think I should get the audio version. It's hard to read a book so dependent on sound. I've skimmed passages and not even been able to get a handle on the umbrella narrative. But his reading made me want to try.

The last time I saw Andrew Bird I thought he was one more highball away from going completely unhinged. But this time he expressed his obvious musical genius in a coherent way, which for him is still pretty fucking nuts. He's a classically-trained violinist who writes delirious apocalyptic songs and whistles like an effing train. His whistle might even be stronger than his singing voice, which is impressive. He plucks, bows, and smacks his violin, plays the guitar, sings, and whistles, creating loops with pedals at his feet. It's incredible to watch one man with virtuostic mastery of multiple instruments actually create full sound on stage in front of you. And from the sound of the new songs he played, his forthcoming album will be a return to the style of Eggs, which makes me happy in the pants.

A nice wrap-up would be great, but I'm fresh out. So to close this birthday ramble, I give you more pictures, this time closer to home.

This is one of the little sidewalks running through our apartment complex. We live on the second floor of that building on the right. The squarish part sticking out is our sunroom; the bay windows are one-half of our living room. If you were to keep walking though this little alley and cross the street on the other side, you'd come very quickly upon Lake Mendota.

This is the coffeeshop just down the block from my apartment (see those brick buildings on the right?) where I spend most of my weekends.





These are the Blues Brothers dancing gaily inside the coffeeshop.









Stay tuned for actual pictures of the inside of my apartment.