In the off-chance that a civil war or other form of skirmish erupts in the middle of the night all around me, I can say with certainty that I will not be wise and duck my head, hoping against hopes that it all goes away shortly. Nor will I be brave and attempt to creep away undetected.

I will sit up suddenly, eyes wide and try to seek out the source of the noise. I know this because I awoke Monday morning to the sound of machine gun fire and occasional mortar explosion and reacted in just the manner I've described.

Thank you to my father, uncle and the creative team behind "The Great Raid," the DVD both were watching Monday with the volume seemingly cranked to 11. And thank you to my mother, who seemed shocked that my ability to sleep deeply kept me blissfully unconscious through several cinematic skirmishes and remarked that she "was sure you'd wake up during that first big explosion."

I'd fallen asleep on the couch late Christmas night, watching "Wag the Dog" to cap a relatively blissful, peaceful holiday. "White Christmas" viewing (for the first time no less - and I call myself a Bing Crosby fan?), laughter, a couple of travels and all. Peaceful.

As I sleepily (and angrily) huffed my way into the kitchen for coffee, I realized the holiday was decidedly over. Damn war movies.

But it was time. My brother remarked that the holiday weekend was the best ever, and I'd be inclined to agree with him. While holiday relaxation is never truly relaxed*, it was nice - a balance between running around to see loved ones not within the walls of Casa de Grandma and chill time.

At one point, my brother and I lounged alone in the living room, he working out lines on his electric bass, I sprawled on the floor, half-dozing, half-listening to the iPod sounds coming through the new speakers my parents gifted to me. I skipped ahead to "Thunder Road," and we both mouthed along the words, smiling as Springsteen belted out the chorus.

Then we went back into the other room and resumed catapulting** Swedish fish at people. Heh.

* Beth and I were discussing the nature of the holiday weekend last night, as we sprawled on couches, utterly exhausted. We decided that, while it's always nice to be able to sit and relax with family and friends, it's not your turf and it's really not your time. You've bequeathed yourself to family for several days and you wind up, of course, wrapping the guys' presents because they plead inability and making sure the older women in your family aren't going completely mad with the preparation of holiday meals and looking out for everyone else. Is it fun? At the end of the day, you realize it certainly is. But it can never truly be relaxing.

** I sincerely hope you've all seen "Monty Python and the Holy Grail." If you haven't, stop reading and go watch it now because you should have seen it years - nay, decades - ago. And if you have (thank goodness), think French castle. THAT catapult. My brother's favorite gift this year, hands down. Some may say small things for small minds, but I maintain that our fascination with the small piece demonstrates a creative, hands on focus on physics. Or something.

Somewhere in New York's subway system (where I inexplicably found myself with cell phone service), I receieved a phone call from a friend in which he relayed a phone number I was meant to call. A 217 number.

"It'll explain everything," he said as I expressed my utter confusion. Whether the confusion was over the number, the phone call or the fact that my phone was working will remain a question for the ages. "I'm super stoked for you to call it."

I hung up and began to dial, curious about what kind of "everything" this call was going to address. And, just as I dialed the final number...

I woke up. Still dark outside. I nestled back into my pillow and closed my eyes. I was just about to fall back asleep.

Which is, of course, the precise moment when my alarm went off.

So I'm left tired, curious and disgruntled. Because I was given a phone number that promised to explain everything, and I didn't get to find out what everything meant.

And, as Internet research reveals, the phone number that might explain the meaning to life is a number out of Illinois.

Apparently life is much easier to comprehend when you're coming at it with a Decatur point of view.

------
As today launches my weekend of holiday travel - and the fact that it is, after all, Christmas Eve Eve, I wanted to take a moment to wish you and yours happy holidays, whatever holidays those might happen to be. Or even if you don't celebrate holidays. Hey. You're cool. Thanks for reading.

Travel safe if you're traveling, have fun and, for those in snowy regions similiar to my own, keep warm.

And to those in warm climates?

I'm jealous.

Be well and take care.

Christmas came early!

Matt Nathanson
01-20-06
Burlington, VT
Matt is bringing New Year love to Vermont with a solo acoustic show at the Ira Allen Chapel...

There are the You Should Really Go shows. There are the Not To Be Missed shows. And then there's the I Can't Wait To See What the Hell Nathanson Is Going To Say In a Chapel kind of show.

I'll leave you to figure out into which category this will fall. In the meantime, I'll be brushing up on my Warrant and Twisted Sister.

There are some things that you just don't do.

You don't drag old ladies out of cabs just so you can get a ride that little bit faster.

You don't walk around in the snow barefoot.

You don't walk away from the Red Sox to sign a contract with the Yankees.

It's simply not DONE.

Say what you will, but I am fully aware of the fact that I'm not a grown-up Red Sox fan. When it comes to that team, I am still the embodiment of childlike enthusiasm.

Knowing that I'm going to go to Fenway on a game day makes me wake up with a grin on my face that morning. I've been known to yell at the television when I watch games. I follow the stats during the season; I follow the hot stove discussions during the winter.

And I stop rooting for any player when they walk away from Boston and sign with New York. Example? December. 1992. Wade Boggs is my favorite baseball player (he plays third base, at that point I play third base. A natural favorite player selection.) He signs with the Yankees. In my mind, he stops being Wade Boggs, ultimate Hall of Famer. He just becomes another Yankee.

Boggs? Oh yeah. Him. Yeah, he used to be good.

So here we are. December. 2005. Johnny Damon is not my favorite player - not even close - but I've been enjoying his role as a Red Sox leader. I view him as an essential component of the ever-dwindling Boston team.

He signs with the Yankees.

It's not as quick a switch this time, admittedly, as I've developed stronger language than when I was, you know, 12. So there's a lot of cursing involved today.

But ultimately? He'll cut off the hair, he'll don the pinstripes and, in time, he'll become just another Yankee.

But until that happens, I'll curse a lot. And not just at him. Or at the Sox front office, who continue to convey the sense of utter chaos that's ruining any prospects we have left for next season. Because they should have signed him sooner (sound familiar? Oh wait. We've learned nothing since Theo left. Go us.) and should have swallowed their pride in order to make it happen.

At the general absurdity of it all. To say no to $40 million over four years, for the sake of sticking with the team that made you a baseball icon. $10 MILLION A YEAR.

Loyalty is a big thing with me. I'm a fan of the lifers - the players who stick with their teams throughout their careers, the ones in which there's no question what hat you'll wear when you're immortalized in the Hall of Fame.

I know that there's a big gap between $40 million and $52 million. But at that point, does it really matter? Why face the wrath of the fans who fell in love with you just so you can make some more money that you'll never be able to spend?

Of course we're pissed off. And while I have to laugh as I commiserate with fans who are calling Damon "The Devil" today, I get why they're also swearing him off, just as we've sworn off everyone else who has made the choice to switch over to the arch rivals.

It's juvenile, of course. But this is baseball. Juvenile behavior is inherent and, therefore, justified. Because if you stop to think about it and be mature about what you're discussing, you take the wonder of the game right out of the equation.

You realize that you're talking about love for a group of guys for whom you scrimp and save so you can buy overpriced tickets and marked-up beer and watch them try to hit or field really little white balls.

So screw maturity. I embrace my immature, baseball-loving side.

And I'll continue to wind up pissed off when a player does one of the things that everyone knows you just don't do.

Mark the calendars, particularly if you live in Massachusetts (or, as is my case, are traveling to the area for holidays):

Those interested in either extending their Christmas-y celebrations or, in my case, preparing to kick off the new year early should make a trip over to Boston on the evening of December 29 (that would be a week from Thursday, for my calendar-challenged friends).

Chad Perrone & Friends, including Tides and Mister Vertigo.
Dec. 29, 9 p.m.
Felt
Washington Street, Boston
www.livemusicboston.com

Have you heard Chad's solo material yet? If not, go here, take a listen and be impressed. And with the addition of Tides (one of the area's top, in my opinion, up-and-coming bands) and Mister Vertigo (very fun, very talented), this makes for a not-to-be-missed evening.

Which means, of course, that you shouldn't miss it. Tell all your friends, acquaintances, even that next-door neighbor you've never properly introduced yourself to. Round up a crew of concertgoers. Make the trip. Swing on by. Say hi to me. Enjoy the music.

And then make note of what a good time you had, so you make the trip again come February. As a certain gypsy MC funk troubador, known and loved by many as Bushwalla, will be rocking the joint with the one and only Todd Carey on February 23.

Plug, plug? You bet. And you'll thank me after the fact.

The disbelief and snickers grew to tear-inducing, sides-aching laughter as the phone was passed around the room. As each of us spoke into the phone, the tinny sounds coming from the earpiece grew louder and more distinct for those listening in. It was starting to dawn on her, but she wasn't going to give in without a hilarious fight.

She thought we were all in on a joke of epic proportions. We'd gotten together for a party and hadn't invited her. Something, anything other than the reality that she had forgotten to come back to campus.

Absolutely forgotten.

After speaking to each of us and letting us tease her for a few moments - frankly, we each felt we'd earned the right to do so - she got off the phone so she could throw together some items for the first week of classes and get someone to drive her back. Immediately.

She'd just been relaxing at home and watching some Martha Stewart.

That was how Lexi was. She found misadventures - and if she didn't, they found her. Which gave her the opportunity to laugh with a booming voice that turned into a cackle when you really got her going.

For a few years, I had a hard time thinking of the memories, just because they made me fast-forward to this date.

It's been five years.

Today, I realize that I don't hurt when I think of her anymore. I'm back to being able to think of her life without those memories being laced so tightly to her death. I'm not sure when the process adapted to allow that, but I'm thankful that it did. I miss her, of course, but it's different now.

I just wish more of you could have been able to know her and be in on the stories.

Because the day she forgot to come back to school? That was pretty damn hilarious.

I just want it to get here already. The holiday. Relaxation time.

Ha. So I'd said.

Less than a week until Christmas and I realize I'm facing:
- Baking, Round Two (after a shockingly successful trial run that leaves me questioning key character traits as a result)
- Birthday celebrations
- Holiday celebrations
- The last of the gift purchases
- Wrapping
- The Label Game-ing*
- Packing
- Traveling

The holiday can take its sweet time. Really. Don't rush on my account. Please.

An extra day or two? No problem. My pleasure.

*The Label Game was born in the late 90s, after my mother decided that there still needed to be a sense of wonderment involved with the post-S.C.-era gift distribution process:

To: The Recipient
From: Someone Who Somehow Ties In To the Nature of the Gift, So Recipient Can Try To Guess Gift Prior To Unwrapping

An easy example:
To: V
From: Lloyd Dobbler
Gift: A DVD of "Say Anything."

Each member of the family works hard to come up with something that balances obscure references with the desire to give the recipient a fighting chance at guessing what's inside. You really have to know your audience in order to make the game work. I could, for instance, make reference to Kurosawa in a gift for my film school student brother, but go more in a John Wayne direction for my father. Perhaps a "How I Met Your Mother" reference for Mom that would make my brother scratch his head.

Everyone loves to struggle with it. Often, one member of the family will call another, asking, "Does this make sense to you?" We brainstorm together and laugh at the befuddled expressions on our loved ones' faces come Christmas Day.

It makes for a fun time. And the tradition has begun to spill over into other family circles. Beth informed me that her family has adopted the tradition and is likewise agonizing/cackling over the possibilities.

Heheheheheheh.

The holidays make you do crazy, uncharacteristic things.

Such as braving the crowded parking lots and even more crowded stores in order to get that one last thing you need to make someone you care about realize just how much you really love them. Somehow, that box set of music* will do the trick, whereas a simple, "Hey, I think you're the bees' knees" won't.

Such as baking, which any longtime reader will know is about as uncharacteristic for yours truly as it gets.



And, of course, including a photo of yourself from when you were a wee lass, so as to segue into the annual trimming of the tree process.

I traveled to my parents' house yesterday, where I conducted some of those necessary last-minute holiday tasks. Upon learning that I would be in town, my parents asked me to help them trim the tree. They hadn't done so yet, and, as my mother said to me, it wasn't quite the same if one of The Kids wasn't around to help out and laugh over the annual ornamental unveiling.

As the residents of my flat are restricted from ornaments on The Disco Christmas Tree (see Flickr for the groovy, hilarious image), I was pleased to be able to deck the halls and all of that good stuff.

There are two types of tree decorators, I've found. Those with the matching set trees and those with the mix-n-match designs. My family is a posse of mix-n-matchers. Each year, my parents get an ornament representing the year for them, and my brother and I each get one for us, similarly sentimental. The tree, therefore, is more a collection of memories than a clear and consise set of bulbs and lights.

We have four ornaments that my grandmother (paternal) put on her tree each year. The "First Christmas Together" ornament, circa late 70s, then the Baby's First Christmas ornaments (my parents got a little carried away with mine - I think we counted three from 1980 as my mother and I went through the boxes) and then the various and sundry guessing game pieces. A whale watch when Tom went on a field trip in thrid grade. A country store from the year my parents made the move to Vermont. A girl ready to swing a baseball bat the year I received my first all-league honors. A tie-dyed Santa the year Tom and I went to Woodstock. A turtle representing my role in "Arcadia," a hockey player the year Tom saw his first Bruins game.

It was a good thing I was around this time, as my mother would pull a piece out of the box, look it over and try to guess the memory.

"Who made this one?"

I looked over at the gold bulb with paint rings. "Tom."

"And this one?"

"Tom."

"And how about this?"

"Oooh! Me. That was the year we made them at Girl Scouts."

And so on.

As the Christmas music played, my mother and I sang along (I refrained - mostly - from dancing) and, just as the holiday CD ended, placed the last ornament on the final branch.

We sank into the couches and curled up with blankets as the lights flickered and caught the metallic sheen of a random piece.

"Looks good."

Mom smiled. "This looks great."

A happy marriage and a family's worth of memories on display. How could it not look lovely?

*Item detail changed to protect the gift recipients.

"That was, by far, the single most random night of 2005," I said, leaning back into an overstuffed armchair covered with crimson velvet. Beth laughed and sipper her coffee as we pieced back together that night and others that would make the list for Top Moments of the Year.

Oddly enough, I realized that most of the memories involved getting lost in some manner. Um. Yes. Anyway, that said:

A side street bar with side street conversation to match - a Hall & Oates video marathon on the television elicited memories and anecdotes from our unexpectedly created group. A French Canadian man attempted to join the conversation with inquiries about Vermont and the offer for substances that we declined with polite straight faces that later melted into laughter. Drinks and conversation seemed to come naturally, although my Driver status relegated me to water. I didn't mind, as I was too busy laughing and chatting.

Montreal streets later formed a maze of one-way roads and impossible turns, which left me near tears asking for directions "back to the States" from seemingly anyone who didn't speak English. Canadian candy was purchased by my commiserating friend as a kindly soul's eyes twinkled with amusement when he pointed me in the right direction - which required me to perform nearly every illegal driving device one could imagine at 2 a.m.

As the utter absurdity of the evening spiraled into surreal lunacy, I laughingly yelled into a phone held up in the backseat. The person on the other end was of absolutely no use to me, and I was as ready to heckle absolutely anyone who wasn't going to get me out of the city. I squealed with delight as I pulled the U-turn needed to get me onto the street on which I could hightail it back to my native land.

Chivalry was dead - I would receive no navigational assistance from the individuals on the other end of the phone receiving a play-by-play of our misadventures - but I didn't need it, dammit. I was one member of a group of independent women who just happened to have extraordinarily questionable navigational skills.

Blame Montreal. That's what I did.
October

I couldn't get from Storrow to Mass Ave. My brother was on the phone, guiding me down a series of streets that also led me toward the blimp that hovered over Fenway.

I knew precisely where I needed to go. I knew right about where I was. But getting from point A to point B was impossible and I was officially pissed off. When he led me onto Commonwealth, I thanked him profusely and bid him goodnight.

Later, I was feeling badly. Kind of. I was spending as much time watching the Red Sox battle the Yankees on television as I watched the bands performing on stage in the crowded lounge. I'd traveled to hear the music, but this distraction couldn't be helped - it was the final regular season weekend in Boston. Yes, life continued outside the green walls of Fenway, but everyone outside seemed intrinsically drawn to the events transpiring within.

Over the din of optimistically cynical baseball voices, I saw the band I'd most looked forward to seeing. When the game had ended with a win, I was able to focus - at least somewhat - on the clever, happy-go-lucky California vibes coming from the stage. I bought two albums for two reasons - the first that I wanted to finally have a collection of their songs on acetate, the second that I felt half-guilty for paying attention to everything around me other than the music.

But I'd known, walking in, that it was to be a night prone for distraction. I'd known as soon as I greeted my friends watching the game through the windows of the pub next door.
October

I wasn't supposed to be able to see Manny's back. The field wasn't supposed to be visible from this screwy angle. The wind wasn't supposed to whip into my face as fiercly as it was, and hot dogs were not supposed to be so incredibly gigantic.

Tom leaned against the railing next to the foul pole along the third base line. He was grinning, seemingly as confounded by the experience as I. For all the times we'd imagined what the view was like up here, as often as we'd stared above the green wall as youngsters and imagined home runs coming straight at us, I don't think either of us actually thought we'd get to see what the angle was like. He was cold. I was cold. But the cold didn't matter. Early season baseball, and the white uniforms of our team glowed beneath the blinding lights. The grass was an eerie green and the sky was just shifting from indigo to black.

He laughed as I pointed toward the scoreboard, where his name was listed among other happy birthday wishes.

He told me this was a great start to his twenty-second year.
April

He was quiet, but witty. If you leaned over to talk to your friend, you might miss the next quick turn of phrase. So we all kept as silent as could be.

When he sang, the voice filled the void where background chatter would typically be. A little husky, the voice complimented the raw lyrics and sound that had pushed $12 ticket prices up to $100 on the street. From my space by the side of the stage, I saw dropped jaws and dazed smiles in the first few rows. One girl, about my age, leaned back against the boyfriend who stood behind her, eyes closed in utter contentment.

The silent electricity in the room built throughout the set, despite the temporary releases of applause after each song. As he finished his set and prepared to say goodnight, Ray Lamontagne bowed. The water he held in a bottle against his chest spilled onto the floor, and he closed his eyes. Seemingly embarrassed, as if that little slipup would turn the crowd against him.

As his bassist patted his back and led him offstage, Ray didn't seem to realize that that humility made the crowd love him all the more.
January

I jumped up from my seat.

"WHAT GAME ARE YOU WATCHING?!? GOD!" I joined a chorus of thousands screaming at black and white-striped dots on the field seemingly miles below.

Dad looked up from the small hand-held television on which he was watching the instant replays. He laughed.

And he thought I'd be bored at a football game.
October

When the alarm goes off at 5 a.m., there's a second in which you want to rethink your plans.

Forget that you'd driven down to New York for this early morning wakeup. Forget that you'd laughed and joked about it with the friends who had come together from here and there.

The one thing that comes to your mind is that which we all say in unison.

"Damn you, Jason."

The July humidity is laced with an early morning city chill, and the sky has not brightened enough to cast the streets with the normal sunlight. The flourescent tinge remains, making concrete glow orange and the bright lights from the plaza look all the more bizarre.

L walks down the walkway by the stage first, then myself, then K. Each feeling intirely conspicuous, aware of the fact that the stage and the cameras are all right there. I realize that I'm trying not to look over at that which I've gone out of my way to be there to see.

Absurd. I turned and grin at the stage, laughing that I'm hearing "Wordplay" live, I'm up before dawn, I'm in New York and this is The Today Show.
July

The phone rang as I prepared to leave.

"What are you doing?"

Nothing in particular. Odd, as it was the one day of the year that historically proved bizarre, random and entertaining.

"Well, I was thinking."

Okay...

"Averi's playing on Killington tonight."

Uh huh...

"And I kind of want to go. I'll drive. You game?"

Pick me up in front of the building.

An hour and a half of laughing and traveling through the darkness. He and I never wind up crossing paths enough, so there's always plenty to catch up on. How we're doing, what we want to do, how life's treating us...

And then we're there, at the small club I swore after last time I wouldn't go back to. But it feels different this time. I'm just there with a friend for a random show I would normally never attend.

It was just the day. Anything and everything happens on the second. Don't question. Just smile, sing along, and above all else, do not think about how tired you'll be the next morning.
February

I walked back into the club, having left a voicemail for Beth to listen to after she left the Montbleau show in Vermont. I walked up a short set of stairs, then walked along the bar to the small collection of chairs and tables against the wall.

The star of the evening sat on a tabletop, positioned directly below a wall light that seemed to almost resemble a headpiece. It would have been fitting, as he looked the part of a master storyteller, a group of smiling listeners forming a ring around him.

He was smiling. He smiled a lot. Everything was new and exciting, it seemed. The focus on positivity was strong, and it carried over to everyone else. They smiled back, they chatted, they welcomed the tales.

As I returned to the group, I paused. A single figure stood between me and the rest of the assemblage, and he was dancing, seemingly oblivious to everything else. Just moving, grooving, doing his thing undisturbed.

I had to stand there for a moment and take in this comfortable rag-tag group. I smiled. This moment just summed the whole evening up just right.
May

I'm about to brush my teeth as Beth walks through the door and asks me how I'm doing.

"Weird dream," I reply.

"Weird dream? How so?"

The rest of it comes out in garbled bits of toothbrush-speak.

"I was at this show. In a church."

Brush, brush.

"Sometime before or after I worked with Ben Kweller at a record shop. Where we flirted a lot - I know, I don't get it either - and spoke of this rocket ship we were set to travel on with a bunch of other people."

Brush, brush.

"Which was a really cool ship because as you took off, you stood on this balcony-like thing, waving to everyone as you shot into space. Slowly shot into space. And mashed potatoes were somehow involved."

Brush, brush.

"So anyway, we're all at this show. In the church. We were there, sitting on a mattress that had been placed on the floor, resting our chins against the railing of the balcony. Because we were on the balcony. And Mraz was performing. With quite the hideous hairdo. Somehow, at some point, he decided to let the band play, and next thing I know, he's sitting by us on the mattress, watching the show. He gave me a hug. A really good one, actually."

Brush, brush.

"So the show's fun. Chill. We leave, but I have to run back into church after the show. I'd lost my shoes. And I run into Jason, and this time I mean I really run right into him, inside the church, because I'm looking for my shoes. I'd been wearing my running shoes. Don't know why. Don't ask."

Brush, brush.

"I'd asked if he'd seen my sneakers, and he said no. Why? Was I looking for some shoes?"

Brush, brush.

"And I stuck out my foot, showed him my sock, and then he said 'Oh.' He'd ask around."

Brush, brush.

"And then I woke up."

Brush, brush.

"Oh, and we were somewhere in Quebec at the time. The subway signs and everything else was all in French."

I swished, spit, and washed off my toothbrush before looking up at the perfectly perplexed look on Beth's face.

She tried to come up with a thought. I spared her.

"Exactly."

Some nights, when you get home late and your stomach is growling but you haven't the energy to make a really late-night dinner and you realize you've run around all day long for what feels at the end of the day as if it was to no avail, you need to just take a second.

Take a second, eat potato chips with ketchup, drink a Diet Orange Sunkist, watch "Gilmore Girls" despite the fact that it's a repeat because you know it'll make you laugh regardless...

And just breathe.

I commence breathing...now.

After I get a little extra ketchup.

Classic lightbulb moment.

Despite the shopping and list-making that was a major component of the weekend, it hasn't felt like Christmas season. Acutely aware of the two-week window between Now and Then, I'd been so focused on getting ready for the holiday that I hadn't focused on enjoying the season.

I wound up discussing Christmas music this evening and, naturally, mentioned Bing Crosby.

BING. Lightbulb.

Bing Crosby. A key, unwavering component of Christmas. Each year growing up at my parents' home, when the time came to decorate the tree, my mother played two records. First, Alvin and the Chipmunks for my brother and I. And then "Bing Crosby Sings Christmas Songs" for her. I grew up listening to her listen to Bing's take on the standards - as she started out humming along and wound up harmonizing by the time "I'll Be Home For Christmas" (Track 7) kicked in.

I'd dance about, doing my best to steer clear of the boxes of ornaments, when "Christmas In Killarney" (which remains my favorite Christmas song) kicked in. She'd laugh and tell me I was forbidden to touch anything until the song ended. I couldn't care less - I was happy with the song, my laughing mother and the holiday to come.

B and I poured the glasses of wine left over from dinner and cued up the seasonal music. Beth looked to see my reaction upon playing "Christmas In Killarney" first.

I set down my glass on the coffee table and quickly set in. Heels kicking about, quick spins, a breathless laugh as I sang along.

How grand it feels to click your heels
And join in all of the jigs and reels
I'm handing you no blarney
The likes you've never known
Is Christmas in Killarney
With all of the folks at home

She soon joined me, jumping about the living room until I clicked my heel against the leg of the couch and fell onto the cushions - amazingly, just as the song came to a close.

And then it felt like Christmas.

Sometimes it feels as if events transpiring around you are elements of necessary backstory that will come to play greater roles within the near future. They're hardly significant enough to bring to light, but you have a hunch that you might be making note of them a little later in the game.

Foreshadowing, if you will.

Every generation has its bad boy pinup. The poster child for affliction and misunderstood angst, the one that makes youngsters swoon and wait for the next bumbling attempt at character insight and depth.

Truth is, most of these characters (as they tend to be seen in television or film) are just pretty faced void of the depth. The titles of "a modern-day James Dean" are made and the little girls swoon and look for broken boys of their own to try unsuccessfully to fix. Only the real life broken boys lack the advantage of Hollywood writers scripting their lines.

It's happened time and time again, having reached the point of blatant cliche.

I could blame Jordan Catalano - er, Jared Leto - for so much. So, so much.

And lo and behold, he will be in my fair city of residence tonight. And I will be infinitely amused to be there as well.

Pick a memory from my life. Odds are good that somehow, at least in a fringe sort of way, a U2 song could be connected to it. Perhaps more so than any other band, if not simply because of the fact that the Irishmen's music has been around the whole time.

So the experience of actually attending a U2 show for the first time was a bit on the surreal, walk-down-memory-lane kind of side. Which creates a multi-level sort of evening.

On one level, the lights, the sound, the sights of the band members actually there, performing for me - and, well, 20,000 other people, of course.

On the other, the realization of just how much a band I've always liked on a cursory level has been woven into things without my realization.

And to a seemingly random assortment of things. Prom ("With or Without You"), getting ready for a night out in D.C. ("Elevation"), various trips to various locations (most of "The Joshua Tree," "Yahweh," "Sometimes You Can't Make It On Your Own" and "City of Blinding Lights"), school ("Pride"), concerts by other artists who busted out the covers ("One," "Where the Streets Have No Name," "With or Without You"), just feeling on top of the world ("Mysterious Ways") or below it entirely ("Stuck In a Moment You Can't Get Out Of.")

Cheesy? You bet. But I'm a strong proponent for the belief that the bands that truly affect you often wind up having that effect from time to time.

So there I am, six rows from the top of the Corporate Mad Libs Center, watching the stage light up with more lights than I ever thought I'd see at a performance, observing musicians with iconic names performing the songs I've heard countless times through countless sets of speakers. I'm standing, dancing, singing along at the top of my lungs because I can ever-so-faintly hear Beth and the guy behind me doing the same thing, and I know that it's just what we've paid to be able to do.

To sing, to dance, to holler out our approval and to see what else they decide to surprise us with.

And I realize that this sensory overload is well worth the price of admission.

And then the other shoe drops.

It's difficult to hear someone say no. But not as difficult as hearing someone tell you that they would have said yes were it based on your merit alone. That something completely out of your control - or, rather, something that your drive set into motion, but was otherwise out of your control - determined your fate.

Most difficult, however, is trying to play it off as if you're not, at least for a moment, completely devastated by the news.

But, in fine tradition, I'll brush it off and bounce back. And the first bounce will include Boston, brunches and Bono.

Not too shabby.

As I drove home, cell phone cradled to my ear, I smiled into the darkness. It had really only hit me at that moment.

"How am I? I'm doing really well. I've had a red-letter day."

Title this "Changing, Remaining the Same"

It didn't feel fair, the prospect of picking sides.

But then the implied ultimatum was there, waiting to be read between the lines of sharp words and would-be boldfaced text. You are with him or you are with us. All of you. Pick.

I quietly chose. I wrote out an honest collection of words, read over and spell-checked once before it was sent. And I realized I'd chosen.

You want me to? Fine. I pick him.

I would have anyway, despite my efforts to downplay the decision. Everyone knew. But I resented them for making the decision that easy. It was supposed to be difficult.

Particular chunks of the old are being maintained for continuance, with little regard for the pieces that have been unceremoniously erased. There's seemingly little consideration about how we'll feel about seeing the old repackaged with new - same words, new voices.

I know I'll make the slightest of efforts - no more going out of my way - to see how it works out. Once. If it's convenient to me.

The fact that I feel so little of the enthusiastim and zest I've grown accustomed to is the biggest surprise of all.

The collective is now neither shiny and new nor familiar and comfortable. I'm not as bright-eyed and ready to be dazzled.

***
In other, sarcastically unrelated news: you needn't "quote yourself." Boldface accomplishes little. And dashes, if necessary, often work much better than ellipses.

Just sayin'.

It was winter when we bought the tickets.

I was asleep when Beth knocked on the door and said something then relatively indiscernable. I heard "Boston" and "U2," so mumbled something that apparently sounded like some form of confirmation.

When I woke up and wandered out of my room, thinking that I'd dreamt it all, Beth informed me that we had U2 tickets. For December.

This was March.

Each month, I've checked in to make sure the tickets are still safe and accounted for. Admittedly, I've also checked to see how much they're going for on eBay, but that's just because it's fun to play around with the idea of paying a chunk of rent with a ticket.

For the record, they're going for a lot.

Nine months have gone by. The FleetCenter printed out on the tickets has been transformed into the single most annoying name possible for a Boston building - TD Banknorth GARDEN*. Children could have been conceived and born during this span. And now Sunday approaches with the promise of Bono, The Edge, Larry and Adam.

I've never seen U2 live, and it feels as if the band is one of those you need to see at least once in your lifetime. The number of memories that have been linked to the band's discography - from youth to teenagedom, college to this relative adulthood - is pretty shocking when I take a step back to think about it.

We joked and groaned when the tickets arrived in the blank white envelope.

"It'll be WINTER AGAIN when we actually use these! That feels so far away!"

And yet here it almost is.

*There was one Garden. They tore it down to build this new place. Ahem.

Roo: Look, mama, look! A kite!
Kanga: Oh, my goodness! It's Piglet!
Winnie the Pooh: [being dragged behind Piglet] Happy Windsday, Kanga. Happy Windsday, Roo.
Roo: Can I fly Piglet next, Pooh?

Two days before December. 65 degrees. I would be skipping my way down the city's streets, did I not half expect to be blown away by blustery bursts of wind mid-skip...

Happy Windsday, dear readers.

Music: Red House Painters, "Between Days"

I'm eliminating entities in my life. Those that don't show some form of reciprocation are on the chopping block.

I need to figure out which to keep and which to lose.

I'm tired. I'm being selfish. And, frankly, I don't care.

Perhaps I'm subconsciously starting the annual year in review process. I'm taking a look at the picture I present and realizing that some of the angles are off - much of the energy that went into the creation of the picture may have been misused.

I know I'm attempting to amend a character trait - and that doing so is often futile - but I'm not willing to continue caring and, subsequently, feeling slighted or hurt.

A couple of items have already been striken from the list. A few more are being mulled over. Ultimately, I'll be able to have whittled down the list to things I can really put energy and passion into.

In the long run, I'm going to be better for it.

How does the country song go? And why do I remember it?

Jose Cuervo, you are a friend of mine
I like to drink you with a little salt and lime
DId I kiss all the cowboys?
Did I shoot out the lights?
Did I dance on the bar?
Did I start any fights?

Jose and I reunited on Saturday night. One brief, dazzling evening of pulsing lights, dancing and debauchery.

On Sunday, I decided to reinstate my anti-tequila-shot stance. It's not just a break. Jose Cuervo and I have broken up.

I don't like getting drunk. I don't enjoy the feeling of losing control, and I hate the next day hangover. So you can imagine how I felt yesterday, as I suffered the fourth worst hangover in V history.

A breakup. No chance of reconcilliation.

"If we close our eyes as we walk up and then open them, real quick, at the same time, it'll be just like they just lit it."

We laughed and sipped our beers. We'd put in the effort - we met up at a corner along the pedestrian downtown and wove our way through throngs of people, strollers and puffy winter jackets.

The tree waited at the top of the street, positioned in a manner that would allow the church steeple to peek out over the top from any angle from which you viewed it. It was dark, but the small stage constructed before it was drenched in spotlights - stage lighting, television news lighting and the flickering flashes of cameras.

The annual Christmas musical segue into tree lighting, and we were standing against the brick building walls, underneath canopies and behind a post. In the cold. And, in my case, without a hat or gloves. With twenty minutes until lighting time.

The tree would be lit for a solid month, and we'd have plenty of time to ooh and aah in a less crushing environment.

Drinks? Dinner? Brewery? Lovely. My kind of way to celebrate the start to the holiday season.

As we pushed back - against the natural flow of bodies - the Christmas songs coursed through speakers up and down the street. Floppy woolen hats bounced atop heads in time to the beat.

I hadn't attended a large-scale tree lighting in years, and this extravaganza was my first Burlington demonstration of holiday spirit. But with the new snow and the fact that I'd barely started adding a scarf to my relatively lightweight jacket, the sight of sleighbells, holly, ribbons and lights was more than a little jarring.

When did the holidays sneak up on us?

E looked equally surprised. As we excused and pardoned and ooh-sorry-ed our way through the crowd, listening to "Winter Wonderland," I tapped her shoulder.

"Would it be bad of me to rush the stage yelling, 'NOT YET'?"

She laughed. "That would be awesome."

Funny, how one's mind can work in completely different ways when one's in a different type of setting.

I'm a visual driver. Once I've driven somewhere once, I generally know precisely where I'm going and have little or no problems.

(How I navigate when I've never been somewhere is a topic for another time.)

The drive to and from the family get-togethers in Massachusetts is no problem, as I've been traveling those roads, whether in the driver's seat or as a passenger, since I was five. I don't know much of Andover or Lawrence or whatnot - hell, not even much of Middleton beyond the block on which I lived - but I know those roads.

At 5:46 this morning, however, I was playing a numbers game I'd never played before.

114. 125. 495. 93. 89. Don't trust yourself to know the turn at sight. Trust the signs.

And, for the record, I did almost miss a turn. Hey. I was tired.

Thanksgiving was a similar blur of numbers. Temperatures, times, pieces of silverware, scoops of the ice cream T had brought with him from work (which he had made himself, might I add) to accompany the variety of pies. Driving times coupled with movie start times...numbers, numbers, numbers.

And I joke that I became a writer because I was lousy at math.

But it was an enjoyable holiday, certainly worthy of the traveling that required a 5 a.m. wakeup this morning. Regardless of what else may be happening in our respective lives, Thanksgiving, like Christmas, remains consistent. There will be six of us. We'll be at my grandmother's house. My grandmother, mother and I will fuss in the kitchen trying to get everything set. Football will be on in the living room. My brother will, at some point, fall asleep on the couch. He will convince me to try eating Tofurkey. I'll give it a shot and then quickly reach for the turkey. The group will talk about the Red Sox and movies and whatever else comes along. We'll good-naturedly bicker and tease and everything will work out the same way it always does. Year after year.

They might be exasperating from time to time, and certainly as quirky as any other groups of relations you'll come across, but as I sat at the table and looked at the hub of people with whom I meet up each holiday, I had to grin.

It might be a screwy little family, but dammit, it's mine.

In other news: Go see "Rent."

So.

Averi sent out an email announcing that the band will be continuing without Chad.

I'm duly noting that here.

So.

There will be no speculation, no discussion about what might have happened here. Not my place.

But my friends and I have noticed that things seemed different the last few shows we attended. I think a number of people probably did.

But one observation. Regardless of what may have occurred, the email sent out to fans could have - should have - been handled more diplomatically. You see announcements describing the disintigration of a musical collaboration from time to time, and a common thread among them is the strong face put forward to the listeners. Decision to go separate ways, wish X the best...

You don't generally see members of a band send out what amounts to a bitch-slap to the departing member(s).

I've listened to Averi for a long time now. I'd plan to continue doing so. And I plan to listen to Chad.

What I've always appreciated so much about the Averi guys is a sense of courtesy and appreciation that, I've found, characterizes each of the guys in the band. All five.

The email? Wildly out of character from what I've grown accustomed to. And, to be honest, I find the tactics used to be quite ill-advised.

It's surprising to see it played out this way. Email to the mailing list, posted right on the website, on the "About Averi" on the myspace...just wow.

Be angry. But don't completely tarnish the image of a collaboration that lasted for years. Or, at least, don't let that show too obviously.

I'm really disappointed with how this all appears to be panning out.

Does anyone else remember the simplesimon mailings?

I recently came across a mention I'd made to a mailing a few years ago and, in the natural progression of things, went back over poetic musings sent long ago by a largely anonymous author to equally anonymous readers. If you happened across the site - I can't recall how precisely that came to be for me - you had the opportunity to sign up for posts from somewhere within New York.

I did. And just as I'd start to forget the simplesimon existed - or each time I began to assume the author had ceased with the venture - another mailing would be waiting for me in my inbox. Ready for consumption and, if I desired (and I often did), contemplation.

A smile came across my face as I saw the title of "today could be."

I loved those mailings, this one in particular.

people want to read stories
and poems and see movies and
they want them to be about
love and finding love and loving
love and losing it

and they tell their stories
and give people these labels
"the one that got away," that's
one, and the names and faces
correlate with an idea that
someday love will find them
drinking tea at night
when they've already given up looking

so they pretend to give up looking
and they tell themselves,
"i guess i am just one of the sad ones"
and they tie nooses around their necks
swallow too much of something or other
the things they use to kill them

or they will walk around with a glazed face
waiting for the person who recognizes those eyes
to come and step up to them
in the idle highway of the unexpected evening
The Night When Everything Changed:
so they keep markers by their calendars
so the box can be marked immediately,
as soon as the chance comes to do so,
The Day That Everything Changed.

*****
In other news. Tomorrow will be a flurry of writing, errands, battling the snowfall and, finally, a holiday-prompted excursion back onto highways that will lead me to Massachusetts, family and, schedules permitting, friends.

Mother Nature, I thank you in advance for your cooperation.

But I wanted to be sure to wish you a very, very happy Thanksgiving.

To be filed under "Self-Explanatory":

I'm talking on the phone as I drive down the highway. M is at her home, typing away on the computer as we chat. I can hear the keys clicking away wildly. She chuckles.

M: It's funny that you said that, E just IM'ed me the same phrase, about something different.
V: E? Like E, E?
M: Yes, that E.
V: Tell her I said hi!
M: (Laughing) I am doing so right now.
V: Tell her I wanted to know if she wants to get coffee tomorrow.
M: She does.
V: Excellent!
M: She wants to know where.
V: Pooh Corner.
M: Wha-
V: Hey, J's calling me! Leave a message, J!
M: J? Yay!
V: He left a message. I'll have to call him back.
M: Tell him I said hi!
V: I will!

I live in Vermont. E lives in Vermont. M, the messenger, lives in Massachusetts.

I love friends as technologically-dependent as I.

***
(NOTE: To understand the following, I recommend you view Howie Day's "She Says" video, if you haven't already. Available here.)

To: Howie Day
From: V
Re: "When she says she wants some other video..."

I watched as the wind blew back the jet black hair above your brooding face. You jump into the waves as the setting sun blazes yellow and orange in the background, and you emerge from the surf, water dripping from your backlit frame. A young woman, impossibly beautiful, waits for you on shore, perhaps living, perhaps a ghost.

(Get it? GHOST? Do you get it, Howie? It kills me, kills me. Oh, wait. Kills me? HA! I can't stop the punny! OK, back to the storyline.)

You stare into her eyes. It's a dark, smoldering gaze laced with lust, with pain, with disbelief and with uncertainty.

Oh, the passion and the angst, drawn together into one stormy package. Squeal, squeal, sigh, sigh.

So. I'm sorry, Howie. Was I supposed to take that compilation of cliches and questionable acting seriously?

And, more importantly, did you???

(ANOTHER NOTE: Let it be stated, outside the framework of my teasing, that I did appreciate two aspects of the "She Says" video. Any shots that featured HD performing on the highway overpass completely worked. Loved them. Well done. And the grin on HD's face as he turned to jump off the roof/pier/whatever that was into the water - I remember that grin. It's the prankster grin. Hadn't seen it for awhile. Good call to bring it back again. Made me smile. When I wasn't busy smirking.

Hey. I just expected something...else. I've listened to that song as it grew from live to the Blue EP to Australia to SATWN to the various radio remixes...and I said for far too long that I'd just have to marry the man who plays and sings that song for me. I thought he'd just do something a little less...done before...for a song that's been his signature for more than a half decade. Note to musicians: you don't need ornate concept videos when a simple song works so well. Work with the song. Don't try to overpower it. You'll lose.)

Oh, me.

Well, it's normally, "Oh, you." Friends and family who obligingly listen to me prattle on about the latest idea, endeavor or scheme. V has something else up her sleeve, V has something else that she wants to do, somewhere else she wants to be.

Oh, me. Ever the optimist, ever determined, ever driven.

I can't keep still. Not in a fidgety, bounce-in-my-seat manner. More "relax? What is this concept you speak of?" I need to be doing, planning, seeing something so I, as a result, have something to look forward to. Something that will lift me out of whatever stasis I find myself in if I spend too much time looking around and not enough time looking forward.

I'm not an optimist, I'm a cynic. Because if I don't have something else I'm doing, there's not going to be anything around me to keep me from feeling as if I'm not getting anywhere and won't be anything.

Because that's what I'm convinced I'll realize if I don't focus on something else.

I couldn't sleep last night, despite the fact that my eyes felt so heavy that the fatigue burned behind my eyes as I stared up at the ceiling.

I thought of sitting, shivering on a cement stoop during a January night. It was cold; my coat wasn't cutting down on the chill as I waited for him to finish his thought. But I was fascinated by what might follow.

He paused to light another Marlboro Red, spinning on one heel as he inhaled. The bottom of his leather trench coat twirled around to heavily flap against his leg. He breathed out and regarded me through the thin wire-framed glasses he'd aquired sometime during the previous year.

"It's a little intimidating, actually. You know what you want and you're so focused on it that you block out any doubt or uncertainty. It feels like you're just checking off items on some list as you go along," he said. "But you're so happy as you're doing it that the intimidation doesn't register right away. You draw people to you, with that smile and joy. You really are one of those rays of sunshine."

I smiled and chuckled. It was sweet and I wasn't laughing at him, but I knew he was mistaken.

"I know it sounds cliched, but it's true! You don't realize it, do you?" He joined in my laughter before he crossed the walkway to stand next to my stoop seat. I looked up at him and didn't say anything.

He knew I didn't.

"Well, you are."

As I tried to fall asleep and quiet the frustrated rumbles of discontent in my mind, I wondered what's happened to him since.

Hell, I wondered what's happened to me.

I dreamt last night that I traveled to Memphis. I didn't tell anyone I was going, I just drove to the airport, bought a ticket and went.

As I took in the sight of the skyline and the Mississippi, I set my iPod to play one of my favorite Rufus Wainwright songs.

Then came hallelujah sounding like mad Ophelia for me in my room living...

And when I got off the plane and reached a terminal dripping with Elvis-inspired decorations, I asked for directions to the zoo.

What's more alarming - that Kevin Smith brought Jay and Silent Bob to "Degrassi" or that I was so excited to rent the two-episode DVD?

It's a toss-up, I know.

The frightening thing is that the episodes are brilliant. Irreverent, witty, chock full of Canadian jokes and self-deprecation - the only thing missing was a Jason Lee cameo.

But we did get Canadian ninjas, so that nearly makes up for it.

I am a Kevin Smith junkie. Like countless others in my generation, I have spent years giggling or outright guffawing at the crude jokes laced into surprisingly savvy social commentary. "Chasing Amy" remains my favorite Smith movie; my crush on Lee has continued despite the bad hair and moustache of "My Name is Earl."

A two-stint episode on the Canadian version of "Fifteen" should hardly have left me shaking with laughter, but thoroughly amused I was. Smith did his homework and fit fanciful lunacy into existing storylines and character relationships. He made Jay and Silent Bob fit in and stand out, and he even allowed to the bittersweet cliffhanger endings the show is known for.

And he even still managed to rag on Affleck.

I don't know what was being smoked when the idea originated, but as Smith made fun of "Mallrats," I was ready to shout out my approval.

Oh wait. That's right. I did.

Music: Tristan Prettyman, "Love, Love, Love"
- 1:30 p.m.

I was in second grade when Ryan Curtis, a fourth grader, jumped feet-first onto the other end of the see-saw. I didn't see him prepare for the jump, but I remember gripping worn wooden handlebars until my hands burned as I shot up into the air. I never let go, even as I landed awkwardly on the beam and slammed my head on top of my right hand. I bruised my chin and cut my lip.

The recess monitor alerted my teacher to what had just passed, and she hurried out to bring me back into school and clean me up. She handed me the carton of chocolate milk I was supposed to drink during snack later that morning, as there wasn't an ice pack handy and the milk was still cold. She had wrapped a paper towel around it and told me to press it against my mouth.

It would help, she said, and it did. I was able to stop crying and I was fine by the time my classmates returned to their desks.

I remember that Ryan had been laughing as I was led away, but I have no recollection of him from that point on. My trust had been broken and I told myself that I would never forgive him. So he simply ceased to exist to me. He just disappeared.

I'm surprised to see you, but happy. Things feel right now, as you and I each know that the other is here for this. We've been there so many other times that it's almost expected.

I wave and smile brightly, but you return the gesture with much less gusto. I imagine you thinking that you're not willing to come off as fake or shallow like I do, that you're being honest and I'm not.

But you're mistaken. Of course it's jarring, I won't deny that. I've grown used to not seeing you and I almost forgot, in a way, that you were still going through days and weeks. That we both made our ways here - to the same part of here, even - is a bit of a shock; naturally, I feel somewhat awkward.

I have no intention of walking over to you to say hello, much as I think you expect me to. It would be the polite thing to do, to say hi and exchange strained chitchat. I'm well, you're fine, we've each been working and keeping busy. Same old, same old, you know.

But I can't be bothered to lie for the sake of courtesy. You don't know, and it hasn't been the same as it always has been. And I don't want to share it with you, nor do I want you to share your new developments with me. Neither of us deserves to know about the other.

There are new people in my life now, people you will frankly, likely never meet. They've listened to me laugh and cry and tell stories, much like how you used to. And I know their stories, much as I used to know yours.

I thought of you sometimes, but after a bit, I just stopped. I prefer to think of you as you were when I knew you. I almost forgot that you were continuing on, same as me.

It might be cold of me, but I just prefer to forget about you existing as someone I don't know. The person I once knew well is gone.

I don't feel a need to look back to see you again. I looked over once, that was enough. There's a gap in the crowd, and I'm going to walk away with my friends.

But it really was good to see you. I'm glad you made the trip.

Music - Ani Difranco, "Good, Bad, Ugly"
- 12:45 p.m.

It's practically a textbook example of a Non-Day. That is, were a Non-Day to ever find its way into a textbook.

It doesn't feel like a Friday. Nor any day, really. Much like that random episode of a television series you love, when the contents of the episode have no relation to anything else that's happened during the season's storyline.

(The one that comes to mind most vividly is the post-Sept. 11 episode of "The West Wing." Remember that? "Isaac and Ishmael"? Great storytelling device. Standout episode. But the actors explained prior to its airing that the episode was stand-alone, that it had no relation whatsoever to the season that would begin the following week.)

I floated my way to the car this morning. Snow was on the ground, but it took half a minute for that to register with me. Didn't seem quite right. The parking lot was oddly void of cars when I arrived. Downtown streets? Also sparesly populated. People seemed listless, disconnected. As did I.

Maybe it's simply perception. Perhaps I'm just overtired. But it seems as if yesterday and tomorrow will probably link back together into a reasonable series of events, but today is just hanging out in a misty sort of Other.

So I'm going with it and thinking about things I wouldn't normally think about.

The thought had stuck in my head some time ago, but for some reason, it came to the forefront recently, and I've been trying to tell myself to let it work itself out of my head.

But, in classic form, it's not working itself out, so I decided to see what comes of it.

So today, I decided to make some calls, establish some contact and see if this crazy idea I have actually appeals to anyone else who might benefit from it. See what happens.

If not, no worries. But if so, it could be work out remarkably well.

So hey. Let's see.

"Who knows where thoughts come from? They just appear."

Music: Matt Wertz, "Comfort"
- 2:55 p.m.

When I should be sleeping, I decide instead to play around with this. Logic? I can't find it either.

But I'm digging the new layout. So hey.

Commenting format has had to change, due to the fact that dear Blogger doesn't seem to like it when I cheat on it with a BlogSkins layout. My apologies, but I'm thinking the new commenting system might (in theory, I hope) be easier for those with AND without Blogger accounts to comment.

Hint, hint.

I'm also working on getting the archives up and running - as for now, they aren't cooperating, but I'll work on that shortly. (UPDATE - fixed! Hurrah!)

You know, when I'm not supposed to be, well, sleeping.

Music: Paddy Casey, "Rainwater"
- 12:55 a.m.

Crows' Nest

I'd brought my camera to Higher Ground on Tuesday, but left it at home the night after. The battery was low, I was going to be running late in arriving - no need to bring something I'd wind up not using. Practical, I thought to myself as I searched for a spot within a sea of cars outside the venue.

As I stood in what I like to call The Crows' Nest for the first time, with an absurdedly amazing view of the show, I wondered why the hell I'd decided to start being practical at such an impractical time.

The camera phone just didn't cut it.



Ahem.

The two food drives, when added together, equalled a rousing success for RFAR. I believe the totals were in the 1,250-1,500 pound range. Most of which was gathered last night as I was frantically trying to finish up the day's tasks and get to the venue, which made me feel guilty, but I was still happy to celebrate with the RFAR posse I'd been able to help work with as much as I could.

So many people were willing to help out and donate something - it made me feel not quite so convinced that apathy rules the world these days.

Or, at least, I felt that way for a moment or two. I'm looking forward to the opportunity to continue working with the organization, so I keep on getting that natural high.

And, with the last notes of "Jesus on the Radio" (no mics, band lined along the front of the stage - is this becoming a pattern? Matt Nathanson, Averi, Guster...who next?), the Fall Concert Season came to a close.

Two and a half weeks before U2, a show that has been looming ahead of us for so long that it feels impossible that it could be approaching, and, to the best of my knowledge, no concerts between now and then.

I'm psyched. I'm going to relax. At home. With the exception of Thanksgiving on the North Shore, I'm not taking roadtrips, not going to shows until December. The batteries need recharging. People can come to me.

That said, it was a hell of a way to end the season. Viva la Guster...

Good, Bad, Ugly

There's been a particularly lingering crush, and it's bothering the hell out of me.

He is a pain in the ass. Opinionated and stubborn, he likes to be the one doing the talking, doing the explaining. He seems accustomed to people hanging on every word he says. He talks when he feels like it, not necessarily when others want to talk about something. Yes, he can be charming and sincere and seemingly thoughtful, and yes I find myself happy when I'm in his company, but these demonstrations occur on his timetable, not necessarily others. He can forget about things that are important to other people. He hears what he wants to and expects a grin and sheepish apology to make up for being incorrect.

Granted, I could say many of those things about myself. And therein lies part of the problem. The guy reminds me so much of myself sometimes that I wonder if I'm incredibly narcissistic or a sucker.

Whatever it is, I still think he's pretty amazing. And that, in turn, pisses me off.

As I said my goodbyes and shook some hands with a smile recently, I realized that it was nice to be able to say hello and introduce myself to people I'd never before met. To establish, if only for a beat, the reality that a few Yous and I exist in the same place at the same time. And we were all aware of that for a moment, through eye contact, a smile and some chitchat.

It was very nice. But that was it. And I realized, as I said goodnight with a wave over my shoulder, that this realization brought both good and bad news.

The good? I'm not quite as susceptible as I'd thought to those particular kinds of men. And that's not why I've found myself with a crush that I'm starting once again to force myself to shake off.

The bad? Apparently I just have really exasperating taste in men.

One quick note (and one quick photo)...

...before I go to sleep.



"Rainy Day." That's all I'm saying about that, as it should speak volumes about my thoughts on Guster's performance this evening.

Come Downstairs and Say Hello

Guster!
Higher Ground!
Tonight!
Food drive!
Exclamation points!

Bring your canned food items - if you've got tickets. 'Cause this baby, which is guaranteed to be one kooky fun time, is soooooooooold out.

A red letter day

I half-imagine that "Blister In the Sun" is about to start piping through the apartment at any instant.***

I was tired and a little blue last night. I headed off to sleep with a hug for my flatmate accompanied by thanks for joining me on a weekend jaunt that left us both feeling a bit thoughtful and worn out.

I awoke and felt right away as if the day was going to be a good one. Why? No idea. It just would be.

Favorite outfit? Of course I'll rock it. Hair? Cooperative, as it naturally would be. Softest scarf known to mankind, a gift given over the weekend? So it's not particularly cold out. Screw it. I'm going to rock it anyway because I like how it feels. Everything I need? Seemingly laid out for me on the dining room table.

Good things are on the way today. I'm going to have a smile on my face, the sun's going to shine and that's just how it'll be.

I've danced my way though the morning and am ready to moonwalk out the door and sing my way through the drive.

*** Ten points to whomever correctly identifies the reference.

Encore?

I'm not quite sure of what to say. A lot of thoughts this weekend, not sure about what words to put with them...

May 1, 2002:

and then there's averi. those little punkass creeps...alright, i can't even type that without laughing. averi was wonderful. averi is wonderful.

Full circle, in many respects. Because as I walked with Beth, Michelle and Maura to my car so we could head to the Skybar last night, I realized I was cursing Averi again. Those bastards made me cry at the Avalon.

And I don't cry at shows. Not that kind of girl.

I thought I was home free. I'd made it through watching the band take the stage and look a bit dazed at the size of the crowd. No problems during most of the songs I'd heard countless times. Made it through "Despondent" and Michael's sax solo that always makes me catch my breath.

It was, of all things, during "Flutter." Cliched, I know. The Boston song. The "aw shucks" song. The song I've teased and been teased about. The first song I listened to when I got home from the party after that first show.

And there I am, standing about seven rows back from the stage at Avalon. I hear that first goddamn chord and BAM.

Tears in eyes. And when you're trying to play it as if you're not just about to cry and you're wearing eye makeup that's going to run and your friends are going to see because they've been watching you watch the band...

Bastards. Punkass creeps, indeed. And yet, as I did cry (and just a tear, might I add, in the sentimental sort of way, not the Tori "Gold Dust" kind of way), I started laughing myself silly.

It was foolish, it was dopey and it didn't last long because I forced myself to resume singing along to the music. The show was an allout explosion of energy, and I spent most of the time sending that energy right back - dancing, singing along and otherwise letting myself just rock out to it.

But that moment was there and I went with it because I was thinking of how much had changed since that first Burlington show. What hadn't changed was my delight at being able to be in the audience, enjoying each moment.

And how proud of them I felt.

***

Speaking of being proud, the feeling carried over (albeit in an extraordinarily different way) to Somerville. Avalon had been packed for Averi, the Skybar was full with people celebrating Andrew's CD release. The man of the hour (er, evening) moved from group to group as the final few tracks off "Natural History" were piped through the speakers, and I was able to give the huge congratulatory hug I'd so hoped to give.

I couldn't help but feel happy as to have made the cross-town trip when the album ended, the audience burst into rounds of applause and A stepped on stage to give the clamored-for speech.

***
We fell into armchairs and onto couch cushions after walking through the front door.

"How was the day? How was the show?"

Grunts of response. Good. Busy. Which one? I quickly curled up into a ball on a chair and rested my head against the armrest. I closed my eyes and listened to the conversation through still-ringing ears.

And, for the record, they're still ringing a bit.


(Click to go to the Flickr. Per usual.)

Ponder This

I'm not used to having company for the drive down to Massachusetts. But as we let the scanning radio create a ridiculous medley of talk, static, hip-hop, country and rock - and laughed our way through the better part of three states - I remembered just how much i dug having a traveling partner in crime.

After I mortified myself by remembering the words to Tracy Lawrence's "Check Yes or No" shortly after crossing into Massachusetts, we found some Genesis and old school Madonna on a station. We sang, we danced, we reminisced. And, as the DJ cut in to announce the station's call lettes, frequency and genre, Beth turned to me to ask the question of the night:

"When did the music we grew up listening to become CLASSIC ROCK?"

A recap of the last few days

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Yeah. That about sums it up.

In theory, as long as I haven't lost my mind, trip to the Commonwealth this evening. Get thee to Avalon tomorrow evening, then get thee to Skybar tomorrow night. Trust me.

Same, different.

Those who choose to participate in National Novel Writing Month should be allowed at least one full day every week to do nothing but write.

Last night, I attempted to set aside the paragraphs I'd been working on and go to sleep. It didn't work, so I figured I'd write a little more and then go to sleep.

At 1 a.m., I forced myself to stop writing, turn off my playlist of Tristan Prettyman and Mieka Pauley and go to sleep. But actual sleep came closer to 2. I think.

Tired. Coffee. Still thinking about what I want to be writing.

So it goes.

Other than stressing over the phrasing and character introduction, things have been pretty much same as usual. I find I'm really listening to music more than usual - that is, focusing on the lyrical construction and the moods created by specific songs. And artists I don't usually include in my regular rotation. After downloading a number of tracks from her website, Mieka's proven to be particularly inspiring during this writing process, much to my surprise and delight. There's a lot of Blu Sanders playing these days. Jonathan Richman. The Damnwells. Some old school Billy Joel here, some Griffin House or Amos Lee there.

Keeping it interesting.

And I'm looking forward to getting down to Boston this weekend. Averi at Avalon with some of the girls - Michelle, Beth and Maura. If all goes the way I hope, a dash over to Somerville after that show to congratulate Andrew on his CD release. Catching up with Thomas and whatever else comes up. A quick weekend, but a good one. I think.

And that's really it from here. Fascinating, I know.

Or something.

To Be Filed Under "Subtle"

SWLLC's "Acetate" has been in very regular rotation the last couple of days.

I wonder why.

The iLife

"Do you have it in black?"

And with that, I became one of the Pod People.

As I sit here writing, a collection of Beatles tracks are being uploaded to my new, shiny, black iPod video. The 30GB model, supposedly with room for 7,500 songs, which means that even I won't have to worry for some time about using up all of the available space.

A birthday/Christmas/Boxing Day/Insert Holiday Here gift from my parents, the iPod has been on my wishlist for years, although I never actually took the step toward purchase. Amusingly enough, it's only with some gadget like this that my economical/Washington shows itself again. When I objected to my mother's announcement that I was to decide between black and white, she gave me her Patented Parental Gaze.

"You've wanted one of these for how long now? And you only turn 25 once."

So there it is. I'm a Podder now. Ready to block out the world at will by simply plugging in the white earbuds and shuffling between my random options for musical escape.
-----
I stretched out on the loveseat. My mother sat on the couch, my father lay on the large pillow on the floor. It was the first time the three of us had watched "The West Wing" together since perhaps the Washington visit when we found the crew filming exterior scenes.

This was The Live Debate Episode. A chance to watch Jimmy Smits and Alan Alda working in real time and a chance to see which of the Candidates I Wish Were In Office Now would come out on top.

There was one commercial break. As the screen faded to black:

V: What do you think so far?"
D: I'm confused. They're not actually SAYING anything of significance, they're just going back and forth and getting ready to fight.
V: This is different from real debates how, precisely?
M: It's true. Debates are nothing but circuses, to see who trips up and who is able to keep it relatively together.
D: Hmph. Josh would be freaking out right now.
V: Josh would be drinking.
M: Josh would be drinking a lot.
D: Who do you think is winning the debate?
V: Santos.
M: At the same timeVinick.
V and M look at each other in surprise
V: You can't be serious.
D: Kind of like real debates, huh?

Pot. Kettle. Black.

Beth was trying to decide how many of the live Tori releases to buy. Six available (the last being the Corporate Mad Lib Pavilion show this summer). Buy all six and get various "special items."

"I'm just saying," I said, "that I don't know how much you'd listen to them. That's a lot of live Tori music. That said, I'm one of the fools who went out and pre-ordered Jason's album because I wanted to support him, even though I knew I wouldn't be crazy about the album."

"And you like it now," she replied, laughing.

"PARTS OF IT." This clarification was key. "Select songs."

About 15 minutes later, my phone rang and I laughed my way through a conversation. After saying goodbye, I called out to her.

"Funny that we mentioned Jason."

"Why?"

"My mother. Parents were at a music store and she wanted to know if I had the collector's edition of 'Mr. A-Z.'"

"You don't, right?"

"Nooooooo..." She waited for the punchline. "But they're picking it up for me and giving it to me for a birthday present when I see them tomorrow."

She raised her hands in victory. "I'M BUYING ALL SIX!"

Get thee to a show next weekend...

I received this from a friend and wanted to bring it to your attention, Dear Readers:

*******MARK YOUR CALENDARS! WITH A MARKER!********

It would be amazing if you could come and join me for my CD release show on Saturday, November 12th @ Skybar in Somerville, MA (for those not close, it's right next to Boston).

This will be your ONLY chance to get hold of a copy of my latest CD, Natural History, at a show. This album is the result of 2 years of work, and I'm really proud of it. I'll be playing the entire CD that evening, and you'll get a free copy at the door. (By the way, the CD packaging looks incredible... full of goodness) If you forget what it sounds like, check out the myspace page for delicious samples.

I'll also be joined that evening by some totally amazing bands. First, AJ Edwards will be opening the show. Then, Ray Hendricks will be playing full band from 9 until 10. Then, from around 11 'til midnight plus is Jude Nemo with his band Schwenk. You don't want to miss these guys, they rock some socks.

So, this will be a very special event. I'm really excited to share my music with you guys, and I'm giving it away FO FREE with admission. I'll see you there! Feel free to hit me up on myspace to let me know if you are coming.

le detailes:

Andrew Sutherland's
CD RELEASE and LISTENING PARTY
NATURAL HISTORY
**Skybar**
518 Somerville Ave (about 3 blocks from Porter Sq)
Somerville, MA
with JUDE NEMO (11pm) / RAY HENDRICKS (9pm) / AJ EDWARDS (8pm)
21 +
admission $7
Free CD at the door
*********
As someone who spent much of her childhood listening to Andrew creations, I highly recommend you check out this shindig. I'm going to be working double duty that evening (as Averi is headlining the Avalon that night), but I'll be racing over to Somerville pretty much as soon as Averi ends its set. Andrew is good people and he creates really lovely music.

It's saying something if my parents both individually asked me to buy a CD for them because they're so proud of Andrew releasing a CD...you can check out Andrew's work by clicking right here.

Good times await for you, should you attend!

A thank you

I could tell you about how my birthday started out with a phone call just as the clock switched over to midnight, and how the second line on my cell phone beeped at 12:01.

I could talk about how red my face became when Beth stopped by my office and presented me with flowers and a balloon.

Or how my parents surprised me by driving to Burlington and taking me out to lunch.

Perhaps I could mention the emails, blog comments (including P Squared! Thank you!) and myspace notes that people sent with the hopes of making me smile - and how each individual succeeded.

I could describe dinner with most of my favorite Burlington people, enhanced by the laughter and the margaritas I'd been dreaming of all day.

And I could mention sipping coffee as Beth and I shared a plate of chocolate falling (birthday) cake, taking a phone call from Michelle and passing the phone back and forth across the table to laugh.

But instead, I'll quote something from three years ago:

i have something about birthdays (well, mine, anyway), where i always look forward to them, but also wind up dreading them. what can i say? i'm overly dramatic and always wind up thinking birthdays are this huge thing and spend time thinking about the point of my life i'm at...yadda yadda. so no matter how nice a birthday is, at some point, i will be mildly depressed and introverted. it's by no means a reflection on the people i'm with or what i'm doing and it passes quickly.

And I'll simply say that I bucked the trend this year. Thanks to those who made it one of the most enjoyable birthdays I've had in a long time.

A long time ago, in a place a few states away...

The baby was due on Oct. 7. Were it a boy, it would be named Brian Patrick. A girl? Jennifer (just like every third baby girl born in 1980) or Wendy (egads).

Apparently, the baby, very much a female, wasn't keen on any of the names suggested by her parents. So she decided to give them an extra few weeks to come up with something better.

Which is why, I believe, she waited until November 3 to make her appearance. The tired new mom and dad named her something else, something a little more unique. And it turned out that this name suited her well.

A valuable lesson was learned that day - hold out for what you want. And two of my key personality traits were identified: a tendancy to run late and a fierce stubborn streak.

Self-sufficient

Turn a weakness into a positive. That's what they say in the seminars and practicums and, I'm sure, during the on-line help sessions designed to help you get what you want.

My various professors always clucked their approval when I tried my hand at the spin factor.

I'm very self-sufficient. While a team player, I sometimes feel the best way to help a team at the time is to do something effectively, lead by example instead of spending time explaining how it should be done. Because of this, I have a tendancy of taking on perhaps a bit more than I should. While I get it all done and do it well, I'm working on helping rather than doing. And asking for help when I need it.

I do things on my own. Quiet, certainly. But fiercy independent. I've no problem going to a movie on my own if no one else wants to go. I'm fine working on a project or a piece independently. I roll my eyes when someone explains that they want to do something, but can't because X doesn't want to.

You want it? Get it. You enjoy it? Do it.

I want something, and there isn't much time to work with. The time's not a problem. I can deal with that - the need to produce something quickly usually works in my favor.

The stumbling block is that I am entirely incapable of accomplishing the task on my own. I'm required to solicit the cooperation of others.

And the others I need to speak with are not cooperating. Whatsoever.

You wonder why I'm an independent person?

Simple. Because when you count on others, the others wind up fucking up all of your plans.

Speaking of writing...

It's November. Which means National Novel Writing Month, an endeavor I have thought about trying and tried, depending on what year of its existance you're talking about.

This year, I'm buckling down and writing. There will be a novel written by yours truly by Dec. 1.

Whether it's good or not? Ah, let's not deal with details. It'll be written. And that's pretty groovy.

So if you see a random snippet of something resembling writing that sounds completely fictional posted on here at various times this month?

Odds are good it's what I'm working on. So be kind. But honest.

About damn time I got some of these stories out of my head and onto some form of a page, eh?

Backlash

Oh, Dan Shaughnessy, you might have a gig I would kill for (Globe columnist covering the Red Sox), but I do not envy being you today.

The Globe's message board's are tearing into the mop-haired columnist everyone loves to read as much as they love to hate. Smarmy at times, over-confident always, Shaughnessy's columns have the seasoned tone of someone who has spent years following what goes on within Fenway Park. He knows how things are going down and why - and he, in turn, brings that knowledge to his columns.

On Sunday, he wrote about the power struggle between Larry Lucchino and Theo Epstein. He wrote that Epstein's contract was taken care of, would be announced Monday, but that the negotiation process went too long and revealed too much about personnel dynamics.

Publicly, Theo always has talked about "mutual respect" regarding his relationship with dad Larry. They know that their silence produced considerable speculation and acrimony. Fans and media members have taken shots and taken sides. The Sox tomorrow will present a united front. It can still work. The only unfortunate aspect is that the embers will smolder for years to come. We know too much now.

Story runs Sunday. On Monday, Epstein announces that he's rejected the three-year, $4.5 million offer and will leave the Red Sox organization.

So now, as an acquaintance put it today, we're "totally fucked." Epstein's gone. Epstein's assistant is already in Arizona. Manny's begging to be traded (and, frankly, we're going to need to get rid of him and find some way to benefit in the deal) and things don't look so good with Damon's negotiations. Other names are marked with question marks. Mueller? Millar? Miller? We need to address significant concerns with the Sox bullpen, the defensive corners, at least two-thirds of the outfield and the fact that the team's median age, while traditionally on the high side anyway, is creeping up there and starting to show.

As the same acquaintance put it, "we're back in the Dark Ages. Worst timing you could possibly imagine."

Everything hits fans at once and they turn on Lucchino, who hasn't been the most popular guy anyway. And, just as quickly, they turn on Shaughnessy. The Boston Herald comments on the (always suspect, in my mind) relationship between the Globe and the Red Sox organizaiton (corporate ownership really bothers me sometimes), and suggests that Epstein decided to turn away from the deal because he was wrankled by Shaughnessy's column.

A key factor that ultimately soured Epstein on the job, according to sources close to the situation, was a column in Sunday’s Boston Globe which revealed too much inside information about the relationship between Epstein and his mentor, Larry Lucchino, and slanted the coverage in the team president’s favor. Epstein, according to these sources, had several reasons to believe Lucchino was a primary source behind the column and came to the realization that if this information was leaked hours before he was going to agree to a long-term deal, excessive bad faith existed between the two.

It's bad. I wouldn't have blamed Dan for working from home yesterday. And today.

Message boards are going nuts over this. Lucchino and Shaughnessy have been linked together by Sox fans' pure hatred, and they've been banished to hell numerous times. The Globe's "Official Theo Leaves Sox Thread" now features 103 pages of rants. Boycotts of the Globe, emails sent to Shaughnessy...

And let's face it, everyone had to expect this. Shaughnessy knows he writes for one of, and I think the, most rabid baseball fan bases in the world. When Epstein's resignation was announced, I knew everyone would look for blame. And I knew, having read Shaughnessy's column, that that would be brought up.

But even I was surprised by how vicious this is getting. And, it appears, Shaughnessy was as well. He wrote today about the Epstein news, the Herald articles and the ranting:

Blame me if it makes you feel any better, though it seems pretty ridiculous that Theo would break away from a man he worked with for 14 years because of a few lines he read in a column in the Sunday Globe ... It's certainly possible that Theo saw that version in the Sunday Globe and had second thoughts about a future of working with Lucchino. This was the popular version put forth last night on WEEI and in a Herald blog. Again, I choose to believe that Epstein is smarter and more mature than that. Much smarter. And much more mature.

It's a testament to how tied to the Red Sox Shaughnessy's writing has become, the fact that people are blaming him for the disintegration of the GM deal. And it's well-established that with backlash to something someone writes comes a little bit of backhanded pride - if someone's flipping out on you for something that you wrote and they can't point to something being factually incorrect, it means your writing is affecting people. Which can be a good thing.

But let's face it. Whether the column did affect things or not, Shaughnessy's going to have a tough time going out to dinner in Boston between now and at least the start of Spring Training.

And much as I would love to be able to make a living writing about what goes on around Yawkey Way, much as I appreciate what it takes to write about it and write it well?

I wouldn't want to be in his shoes today. Not even if you paid me with a championship ring.

The upper, upper, upper deck.

Theo. Theo, Theo, Theo, what are you DOING to me? I leave Massachusetts late this morning comforted by the knowledge that you signed for another three years.

I'm halfway through the trip from my parent's house to my home when I get a call informing me that you're leaving.

Bad boy. Very, very bad boy.

I know Larry could be a pain in the ass, but c'mon. This is your hometown team and you're its golden boy. We NEED you.

Rethink? Please?
-------
"I like that it's such an event when you go to a football game."

My father gestured to the cars and trucks that surrounded us in the parking lot. I'd certainly give him that - with the flags (American, Irish and Patriots, of course) and the beers and the grills and the 19-inch televisions with satellite dishes parked alongside cars, everyone was arriving in Foxboro ready to pregame.



A good thing, probably, as it was 4:30 in the afternoon and kickoff wasn't scheduled to start for four hours.

It was foreign to me, this preparation and collective anticipation. I'm used to riding the T to Kenmore, climbing the stairs and walking with the masses toward Fenway. Maybe a drink before heading in, definitely a Fenway Frank sometime during the game. Game ends, Red Sox have won and I'm back on the T among the crowds, moving to wherever I need to go. In and out, all things considered.

We'd arrived in Beverly early Sunday afternoon, and my mother immediately packed me up into the car and drove us to the grocery store so I could select the items I'd want my father and I to enjoy as we tailgated. The only problem was that I had no idea. I've never tailgated football games. I've never had a football team to tailgate. I've never grilled in a parking lot or packed up the cooler*.

She'd laughed at my dazed, more-than-a-little overwhelmed expression and helped me out. A little of this, a little of that. Not too crazy, but enough to keep us busy, warm and full come gametime.

And we did well. Food was good. The company we kept with the cars nearby was amusing as hell. The offers for food, beer, propane were flying around with ease and I found myself laughing as the car to our right (from Maine) realized it was my first Pats game.

"WELCOME! What took you so long???"

I didn't think explaining that I was a baseball and soccer girl would go over too well with this crowd, so I just laughed and thanked them for the welcome.



The game itself? Weird. Good, but weird. We were almost as high as one could get within Gillette Stadium, but I tend to get a kick out of those kinds of seats. They're fun, they provided a great view of the field, and I surprised myself by knowing what was going on throughout. I jumped up to cheer when things went well (not during the first half, of course), I yelled at the refs when I didn't agree with calls, and I thoroughly amused my father, with whom I had my first chance to spend some quality alone time in awhile. I don't think he was expecting to hear me hollering, "Take 'em down! Take 'em down! Tackle 'em! Kill 'em!"

And, like everyone else within the stadium, I cheered loudly when Tedy Bruschi made his first appearance of the season. And, well, every time the guy stepped onto the field. Football fan or not, that was incredible to be there for. His smile radiated up to our seats.



The Patriots came back in the fourth quarter to beat the Bills, thus leaving my Boston-area sports record undefeated, I was able to thank the fates for keeping me warm and happy during the game, and I realized that NFL football would join the ranks of hockey in my mind.

Not going to go out of my way to watch it. If it's TV, forget about it. But get me into the sports venue and watch me go nuts and have fun with it.

But man. I miss Fenway already...

*Exception being a couple of Dave Matthews Band concerts, but let's face it. That's different. Sandwiches and alcohol and that's pretty much it.