My hair was still grown-for-graduation long and I wore my then-obscure John Mayer shirt. A friend remarked that the guy with short dark hair reminded her of me, "only in male form." Our group sang along to Phil Collins and U2 covers before I blanked on the words to my favorite song. We later moved to a townhouse where I played flipcup with Schmirnoff Ras and Sprite and realized I had a bit of a playful crush.
It doesn't surprise me in the least that it's been three years since. In truth, it feels as if it was much longer ago than that.
4.30.2005
4.29.2005
Ear candy conundrum
As posted on the site of my favorite local (as in homestate) nightspot:
INDIE ROCK ALIVE AND WELL IN BURLINGTON!
Over the next month, we are proud to welcome Rilo Kiley, Nada Surf and Brunettes (May 21), The Decemberists (May 24), Make/Believe with Ghosts of Pasha (May 16) and Sleater-Kinney (June 21).
Thanks for the announcement, but I'm already well aware. My wallet has already started to tell me so. But I suppose I should be thankful - now that this scene is waking up, it saves me gas money and allows me to be more selective with why I venture to Boston.
Let's give it up for good music coming to me, instead of the other way around! Huzzah, huzzah.
Speaking of, I found myself in a paradoxical situation last night. Also HG. Ryan Adams and the Cardinals, with Rachael Yamagata opening (thank you, concert lineup gods). Let me get out of the way the fact that I found Rachael to be great. I'd almost forgotten how much I enjoy her raw, throaty voice - I reminded myself to dust off "Happenstance" and give it another listen. Particular highlights: "These Girls," "Reason Why." Both struck a chord in my over-analytical soul.
But Ryan comes on after a long set change and I realize I'm torn. He has the loveliest voice, one of the most enjoyable male singing voices I have ever heard live. I'm talking ear candy here, people - a smooth, gorgeous tone easily contorted into growl, falsetto, twang or all-out rock wail. But most of the time? Just smooth and delightful. None of the albums in my Ryan Adams collection quite captured his vocal abilities.
You'd think he wouldn't need to try to do anything other than let the music stand on its own. But the downside of this obvious strength is his perceived desire to demonstrate a self-depricating, cynical nature. Perhaps it's not persona - maybe it's just the way he is. But it came across as if he was trying too hard to be that ironic, angsty hipster guy. And I didn't really buy it - and I'm a cynic-loving fool.
Fatigue and the promise of early morning professionalism prompted me to leave early - turns out there was only about another 20 minutes of performance after I departed. Depending on who you choose to believe, Ryan decided after I left (and during the performance of "Wonderwall" - dammit) to either politely ask the audience to quiet down so others could enjoy the song or angrily told the audience that it had been rude and sucked all night. As I said, I wasn't there to hear it and offer my own take. I have a feeling, however, it was a combination of the two.
He had been babbling throughout the performance and had turned on several occasions to members of his band, waving his hands and exlaiming something about the audience of which only snippets were faintly caught with his microphone. And he had been taking swigs from his bottle of wine onstage.
The thing that remains interesting about Ryan, however, is the fact that he has transformed himself on several occasions throughout a relatively short "mainstream" (I use the term as loosely as possible) career. He's done the alt-country, the rock, the obscure singer-songwriter and now the rockabilly. I wouldn't go so far as to say he's re-invented himself, but he keeps things interesting and I walked into the performance unsure of what I was going to hear. Turns out I enjoyed the music enough - that said, I'm more of a "Love is Hell" or "Rock N Roll" girl - but wished he could have just put the "I'm Ryan Adams, I disappoint people every night" jokes to bed early.
That said, the ultimate question - would I go to see him perform again? Yes. Mainly for the potential for either brillance or utter disarray.
In other news. I received the most amusing (in a good way) compliment today.
"You always look so urban when I see you."
Granted, this is coming from the same person who paid me a huge compliment the other day - one that involved music, writing and location. A compliment that, upon hearing of it, competely made my day.
INDIE ROCK ALIVE AND WELL IN BURLINGTON!
Over the next month, we are proud to welcome Rilo Kiley, Nada Surf and Brunettes (May 21), The Decemberists (May 24), Make/Believe with Ghosts of Pasha (May 16) and Sleater-Kinney (June 21).
Thanks for the announcement, but I'm already well aware. My wallet has already started to tell me so. But I suppose I should be thankful - now that this scene is waking up, it saves me gas money and allows me to be more selective with why I venture to Boston.
Let's give it up for good music coming to me, instead of the other way around! Huzzah, huzzah.
Speaking of, I found myself in a paradoxical situation last night. Also HG. Ryan Adams and the Cardinals, with Rachael Yamagata opening (thank you, concert lineup gods). Let me get out of the way the fact that I found Rachael to be great. I'd almost forgotten how much I enjoy her raw, throaty voice - I reminded myself to dust off "Happenstance" and give it another listen. Particular highlights: "These Girls," "Reason Why." Both struck a chord in my over-analytical soul.
But Ryan comes on after a long set change and I realize I'm torn. He has the loveliest voice, one of the most enjoyable male singing voices I have ever heard live. I'm talking ear candy here, people - a smooth, gorgeous tone easily contorted into growl, falsetto, twang or all-out rock wail. But most of the time? Just smooth and delightful. None of the albums in my Ryan Adams collection quite captured his vocal abilities.
You'd think he wouldn't need to try to do anything other than let the music stand on its own. But the downside of this obvious strength is his perceived desire to demonstrate a self-depricating, cynical nature. Perhaps it's not persona - maybe it's just the way he is. But it came across as if he was trying too hard to be that ironic, angsty hipster guy. And I didn't really buy it - and I'm a cynic-loving fool.
Fatigue and the promise of early morning professionalism prompted me to leave early - turns out there was only about another 20 minutes of performance after I departed. Depending on who you choose to believe, Ryan decided after I left (and during the performance of "Wonderwall" - dammit) to either politely ask the audience to quiet down so others could enjoy the song or angrily told the audience that it had been rude and sucked all night. As I said, I wasn't there to hear it and offer my own take. I have a feeling, however, it was a combination of the two.
He had been babbling throughout the performance and had turned on several occasions to members of his band, waving his hands and exlaiming something about the audience of which only snippets were faintly caught with his microphone. And he had been taking swigs from his bottle of wine onstage.
The thing that remains interesting about Ryan, however, is the fact that he has transformed himself on several occasions throughout a relatively short "mainstream" (I use the term as loosely as possible) career. He's done the alt-country, the rock, the obscure singer-songwriter and now the rockabilly. I wouldn't go so far as to say he's re-invented himself, but he keeps things interesting and I walked into the performance unsure of what I was going to hear. Turns out I enjoyed the music enough - that said, I'm more of a "Love is Hell" or "Rock N Roll" girl - but wished he could have just put the "I'm Ryan Adams, I disappoint people every night" jokes to bed early.
That said, the ultimate question - would I go to see him perform again? Yes. Mainly for the potential for either brillance or utter disarray.
In other news. I received the most amusing (in a good way) compliment today.
"You always look so urban when I see you."
Granted, this is coming from the same person who paid me a huge compliment the other day - one that involved music, writing and location. A compliment that, upon hearing of it, competely made my day.
4.27.2005
Theater of the absurd
This is why I don't do early mornings. Or, from a different perspective, perhaps this is why I should do early mornings more often.
I've no problem whatsoever with a random discussion or moment. Sometimes they prove to be the most entertaining - or at least, noteworthy - portions of a day. But when my entire consciousness has been composed of such experiences, I have to wonder if the world somehow slipped off-kilter in my sleep.
Nothing particularly bad to note, just strangely different. Conversations that started out with an anecdote or expression that flew at me from some completely unexpected place. The surprising speed with which my car's oil change and inspection were completed this morning, with the shock that I was only able to get through two David Sedaris short stories while I waited. A child acting particularly strangely as I passed on the street. The pure absurdity of ordering a salad and being handed a monster-sized bowl crammed full of ingredients that don't quite seem right when I taste them. Whipped cream bubbling in a manner almost reminiscent of dry ice when I decide to treat myself to a hot chocolate (to counteract the healthiness of the salad, natch). Realizing I'm not quite phrasing things the way I normally would while talking on the phone.
It leaves me wondering if some grand catastrophe is lurking behind a corner, from which I will be able to follow a trail of kooky hints back to the fact that maybe I shouldn't have gotten out of bed this morning. The fact that I've an appointment involving my hair and scissors this evening leaves me particularly unsettled. Will this seemingly innocent trim leave me with a bald head or mohawk?
I'd have to wonder the reaction were I to cancel the appointment on grounds of the day's vibe. Hmm.
I've no problem whatsoever with a random discussion or moment. Sometimes they prove to be the most entertaining - or at least, noteworthy - portions of a day. But when my entire consciousness has been composed of such experiences, I have to wonder if the world somehow slipped off-kilter in my sleep.
Nothing particularly bad to note, just strangely different. Conversations that started out with an anecdote or expression that flew at me from some completely unexpected place. The surprising speed with which my car's oil change and inspection were completed this morning, with the shock that I was only able to get through two David Sedaris short stories while I waited. A child acting particularly strangely as I passed on the street. The pure absurdity of ordering a salad and being handed a monster-sized bowl crammed full of ingredients that don't quite seem right when I taste them. Whipped cream bubbling in a manner almost reminiscent of dry ice when I decide to treat myself to a hot chocolate (to counteract the healthiness of the salad, natch). Realizing I'm not quite phrasing things the way I normally would while talking on the phone.
It leaves me wondering if some grand catastrophe is lurking behind a corner, from which I will be able to follow a trail of kooky hints back to the fact that maybe I shouldn't have gotten out of bed this morning. The fact that I've an appointment involving my hair and scissors this evening leaves me particularly unsettled. Will this seemingly innocent trim leave me with a bald head or mohawk?
I'd have to wonder the reaction were I to cancel the appointment on grounds of the day's vibe. Hmm.
4.26.2005
Never-ending
T.S. Eliot said "I measure out my life with coffee spoons." One could track my life as of late by following the trail of ticket stubs.
I am, in theory, trying to demonstrate financial restraint. This has begun to clash, however, with my "Rarely say 'I can see 'em next time' because you may not get another chance" policy (see: Elliott Smith). The shows I might normally ration out over the course of a year are racing toward me in a cluster - and I've been in a ticket-buying frenzy, hardly the picture of fiscal responsibility.
I'm not complaining, per se. Sure, it leaves me writing about music all the time. Indeed, I might want to be putting a little more into my back account, a little less into the venues'. But I'm a fidgety mess when a show comes into town (or, I should say, into New England) and I'm not doing all I can to get to it. I'm supposed to be there.
That said. The Decemberists are slated for Higher Ground in May. The Tuesday after the Ryan Montbleau Band/Rilo Kiley weekend. With Willy Mason, the Paradise LaMontagne opener, scheduled to also appear.
And yes, I will be there.
I am, in theory, trying to demonstrate financial restraint. This has begun to clash, however, with my "Rarely say 'I can see 'em next time' because you may not get another chance" policy (see: Elliott Smith). The shows I might normally ration out over the course of a year are racing toward me in a cluster - and I've been in a ticket-buying frenzy, hardly the picture of fiscal responsibility.
I'm not complaining, per se. Sure, it leaves me writing about music all the time. Indeed, I might want to be putting a little more into my back account, a little less into the venues'. But I'm a fidgety mess when a show comes into town (or, I should say, into New England) and I'm not doing all I can to get to it. I'm supposed to be there.
That said. The Decemberists are slated for Higher Ground in May. The Tuesday after the Ryan Montbleau Band/Rilo Kiley weekend. With Willy Mason, the Paradise LaMontagne opener, scheduled to also appear.
And yes, I will be there.
4.25.2005
Spoiled rotten
Amazing how relative it can all be.
Two weeks ago, as the temperature approached 50: Hell yes! I'm ready to spend all my time outside! Hello sandals and linen skirts - about time I was able to twirl around in the gorgeous, warm sunshine!
Today, as the temperature lingered around 50: What the hell is this crap? So damn cold. Can't warm up. Keeping my jacket on - and I'm busting out the sweater tomorrow. I thought this was goddamn spring. Where's my cup of steaming hot coffee?
Oh well.
Two weeks ago, as the temperature approached 50: Hell yes! I'm ready to spend all my time outside! Hello sandals and linen skirts - about time I was able to twirl around in the gorgeous, warm sunshine!
Today, as the temperature lingered around 50: What the hell is this crap? So damn cold. Can't warm up. Keeping my jacket on - and I'm busting out the sweater tomorrow. I thought this was goddamn spring. Where's my cup of steaming hot coffee?
Oh well.
4.24.2005
Themes, Mattys and That Guy
"If you had to pick one song as your theme song, what would it be?"
Our tile-topped table was covered with a Saturday afternoon's worth of stuff. Two purses lay kitty-cornered, an umbrella perched by the bright flowers-and-stripes handbag. Three small plastic cups with straws - two now empty, the third half full with raspberry smoothie. A fourth, larger cup contained a few remaining sips of iced tea, but the ice was slowly melting, creating a paler shade of the previously amber liquid. Six or seven empty brown packets of Sugar in the Raw lay in a haphazard pile nearby. Each was torn open lengthwise, and one now stood upright like a skewed tent.
Two stacks of paper across the table - each composed of notebook paper stapled into groups of five or six pages. The pile on the left had gradually grown smaller than its counterpart on the right - Michelle had been productive during this foray into Cambridge.
My notebook waited in front of me, about four lines of a story written and subsequently crossed out in blue ink. I was also working through the afternoon, in my own creatively diligent manner.
"The theme from 'Knight Rider!'" Tom exclaimed. He smirked and chewed on a wad of paper that had, in its previous incantation, served as his straw wrapper. He twirled his straw, creating an iced tea whirlpool that picked up sugar granules off the bottom of his cup. "David Hasselhoff! Yah!"
He began to hum the theme, bobbing his head for emphasis, while Michelle and I turned to gawk at each other. Sure, the potential for random replies was high with Tom, but Hasselhoff? We waited a beat before laughter set in.
"Okaaaaay, 'Knight Rider' for Tom," Michelle said mid-snicker. She turned to me. "And yours?"
I pondered, while Tom suggested that I continue the Hasselhoff theme with "Baywatch." The idea was shot down immediately. "Oh! There's a Matt song, but I can't remember the name of it."
"Great! That song by that guy!" Tom cackled. "I LOVE that one!" I reached to my right and slapped the back of his head while Michelle continued to laugh.
"It has this one line. Don't even THINK about it" - that was for Tom, as he'd opened his mouth to heckle more - "about shedding the comfort fiction provides. And it is otherwise fabulous. So that's mine. You?"
She smiled. "A Better Son/Daughter," she said proudly. I nodded my head in approval as Tom looked confused.
"Whose song is that?"
"Wait for it," I said, already turned to my black bag. I pulled out a long yellow strip of paper and held it in front of him. "Rilo Kiley. As in, band being seen next month!"
Tom looked at the ticket and smiled. "Ah yes. Rilo Kiley. Not that you're excited or anything."
"Nope, not at all," I deadpanned, placing the ticket safely back in its place.
He turned to look at the saucer-like paper lanters suspended from track lighting. They glowed yellow against the bold orange wall. He looked at me out of the corner of his eye and smirked. "Yeah, but Hasselhoff's better."
***
That Guy was sitting directly in front of us. Matt had been mocking him all evening long.
"Hey, party of one. Shut up," he said as he tuned his guitar. That Guy - or Gavin, as he'd introduced himself to the audience - laughed uproariously and slapped his own knee. Granted, I was laughing too - at him - but my position as Girl Behind That Guy made me feel almost guilty by association. Who brought the obnoxious drunk guy? Not me, I wanted to call out.
I felt old in this crowd. Four years had passed since the last time I sat in a college space for an acoustic Matt performance - back when I was a student. Yet here we were, back at a small liberal arts college. A night of unplugged music. Special guest Matt Nathanson, relatively unknown singer-songwriter-quipster. Full circle, with the exception of realizing just how far removed from the college days we'd grown.
Michelle tapped my arm and leaned over to whisper. "I wouldn't want to be a student now. Would you?" I shook my head.
Matt, however, showed consistency. Still witty and quick with the comment or comeback. He was prefacing "Bent," explaining that the woman about whom the song was written had only recently learned that she was the source material. "So this is about a woman who's not very happy with me right now," he said. A girl in the front row let out the expected, "Awwww."
"Nah, it's alright. Fuck it," he shot back with a quick shrug. I burst into laughter.
A few songs later, he found himself fielding an outpouring of requests. He paused to hear the calls before tuning up again. "Here we go," he said.
Michelle turned to look at me with surprise when I gasped. "This is it!" I hissed. "That song! My theme!" I hadn't expected to actually hear it, but I sang along to "I shed what escape my fiction provided."*
------------------
Anyway. To those readers still in college or younger, please do me a favor. If you don't know REM - Michael Stipe and company - LISTEN TO "LOSING MY RELIGION." Matt ended his regular set with a cover of the song and I realized, with the appropriate amount of shock, that some - and by some I mean a good portion - seemed as if they'd never heard the song before. As if they thought it was a MN original. I understand that the younger folk may not know music I grew up with, but REM?!? Wow.
Matt debuted "What You Need," a work-in-progress that I'm already really enjoying. I love when musicians are brave enough to test unfinished material - all the more so when it's already good. It's fun to be able to follow the song's growth. Thanks to the wonder of tapers, it's already available for listening pleasure. Download here and listen to it imagining Matt stomping the ground and really wailing upon the "Shut up" lyrics. Also imagine me listening with a dropped jaw.
Matt also teased "Such Great Heights." My Postal Service-loving self was appropriately pleased.
And finally. M, T and I enjoyed Buddha's Delight - the original restaurant in an elevated new location - and sat by windows overlooking the Gaiety. Blue scaffolding was in place along the side of the building, with windows boarded up. The far side of the building had already been torn apart, with jagged edges visible along the side. Tom told us that the view on that side of the building reveals a glimpse into the building, as the structure stands cut open, passersby able to stare right into the heart of the building.
I took a picture of the Washington Street view, but did not venture over to the side T described. If the building still stands next time I'm in town, perhaps I'll take a look. But I'm not sure about whether or not I actually want to see it.
Let's give it up for progress! Bah.
*"All Been Said Before," from "Not Colored Too Perfect"
I am held together by clothes pins and tension, a wealth of
odds and ends
I'm dazzling like the neon street signs hiccuping off and on
again all night long
I've got magazine friends and enough jealousy to lose them
But I know this has all been said before
I shed what escape my fiction provided
I lived a lifetime inside of my shelter and thought it about time
to see outside it
And I believed it was easy, stupidly thought I could just get up
and walk away
I've got illness hugging me like skin and I'll shed it clean until I
can taste the oxygen.
Our tile-topped table was covered with a Saturday afternoon's worth of stuff. Two purses lay kitty-cornered, an umbrella perched by the bright flowers-and-stripes handbag. Three small plastic cups with straws - two now empty, the third half full with raspberry smoothie. A fourth, larger cup contained a few remaining sips of iced tea, but the ice was slowly melting, creating a paler shade of the previously amber liquid. Six or seven empty brown packets of Sugar in the Raw lay in a haphazard pile nearby. Each was torn open lengthwise, and one now stood upright like a skewed tent.
Two stacks of paper across the table - each composed of notebook paper stapled into groups of five or six pages. The pile on the left had gradually grown smaller than its counterpart on the right - Michelle had been productive during this foray into Cambridge.
My notebook waited in front of me, about four lines of a story written and subsequently crossed out in blue ink. I was also working through the afternoon, in my own creatively diligent manner.
"The theme from 'Knight Rider!'" Tom exclaimed. He smirked and chewed on a wad of paper that had, in its previous incantation, served as his straw wrapper. He twirled his straw, creating an iced tea whirlpool that picked up sugar granules off the bottom of his cup. "David Hasselhoff! Yah!"
He began to hum the theme, bobbing his head for emphasis, while Michelle and I turned to gawk at each other. Sure, the potential for random replies was high with Tom, but Hasselhoff? We waited a beat before laughter set in.
"Okaaaaay, 'Knight Rider' for Tom," Michelle said mid-snicker. She turned to me. "And yours?"
I pondered, while Tom suggested that I continue the Hasselhoff theme with "Baywatch." The idea was shot down immediately. "Oh! There's a Matt song, but I can't remember the name of it."
"Great! That song by that guy!" Tom cackled. "I LOVE that one!" I reached to my right and slapped the back of his head while Michelle continued to laugh.
"It has this one line. Don't even THINK about it" - that was for Tom, as he'd opened his mouth to heckle more - "about shedding the comfort fiction provides. And it is otherwise fabulous. So that's mine. You?"
She smiled. "A Better Son/Daughter," she said proudly. I nodded my head in approval as Tom looked confused.
"Whose song is that?"
"Wait for it," I said, already turned to my black bag. I pulled out a long yellow strip of paper and held it in front of him. "Rilo Kiley. As in, band being seen next month!"
Tom looked at the ticket and smiled. "Ah yes. Rilo Kiley. Not that you're excited or anything."
"Nope, not at all," I deadpanned, placing the ticket safely back in its place.
He turned to look at the saucer-like paper lanters suspended from track lighting. They glowed yellow against the bold orange wall. He looked at me out of the corner of his eye and smirked. "Yeah, but Hasselhoff's better."
***
That Guy was sitting directly in front of us. Matt had been mocking him all evening long.
"Hey, party of one. Shut up," he said as he tuned his guitar. That Guy - or Gavin, as he'd introduced himself to the audience - laughed uproariously and slapped his own knee. Granted, I was laughing too - at him - but my position as Girl Behind That Guy made me feel almost guilty by association. Who brought the obnoxious drunk guy? Not me, I wanted to call out.
I felt old in this crowd. Four years had passed since the last time I sat in a college space for an acoustic Matt performance - back when I was a student. Yet here we were, back at a small liberal arts college. A night of unplugged music. Special guest Matt Nathanson, relatively unknown singer-songwriter-quipster. Full circle, with the exception of realizing just how far removed from the college days we'd grown.
Michelle tapped my arm and leaned over to whisper. "I wouldn't want to be a student now. Would you?" I shook my head.
Matt, however, showed consistency. Still witty and quick with the comment or comeback. He was prefacing "Bent," explaining that the woman about whom the song was written had only recently learned that she was the source material. "So this is about a woman who's not very happy with me right now," he said. A girl in the front row let out the expected, "Awwww."
"Nah, it's alright. Fuck it," he shot back with a quick shrug. I burst into laughter.
A few songs later, he found himself fielding an outpouring of requests. He paused to hear the calls before tuning up again. "Here we go," he said.
Michelle turned to look at me with surprise when I gasped. "This is it!" I hissed. "That song! My theme!" I hadn't expected to actually hear it, but I sang along to "I shed what escape my fiction provided."*
------------------
Anyway. To those readers still in college or younger, please do me a favor. If you don't know REM - Michael Stipe and company - LISTEN TO "LOSING MY RELIGION." Matt ended his regular set with a cover of the song and I realized, with the appropriate amount of shock, that some - and by some I mean a good portion - seemed as if they'd never heard the song before. As if they thought it was a MN original. I understand that the younger folk may not know music I grew up with, but REM?!? Wow.
Matt debuted "What You Need," a work-in-progress that I'm already really enjoying. I love when musicians are brave enough to test unfinished material - all the more so when it's already good. It's fun to be able to follow the song's growth. Thanks to the wonder of tapers, it's already available for listening pleasure. Download here and listen to it imagining Matt stomping the ground and really wailing upon the "Shut up" lyrics. Also imagine me listening with a dropped jaw.
Matt also teased "Such Great Heights." My Postal Service-loving self was appropriately pleased.
And finally. M, T and I enjoyed Buddha's Delight - the original restaurant in an elevated new location - and sat by windows overlooking the Gaiety. Blue scaffolding was in place along the side of the building, with windows boarded up. The far side of the building had already been torn apart, with jagged edges visible along the side. Tom told us that the view on that side of the building reveals a glimpse into the building, as the structure stands cut open, passersby able to stare right into the heart of the building.
I took a picture of the Washington Street view, but did not venture over to the side T described. If the building still stands next time I'm in town, perhaps I'll take a look. But I'm not sure about whether or not I actually want to see it.
Let's give it up for progress! Bah.
*"All Been Said Before," from "Not Colored Too Perfect"
I am held together by clothes pins and tension, a wealth of
odds and ends
I'm dazzling like the neon street signs hiccuping off and on
again all night long
I've got magazine friends and enough jealousy to lose them
But I know this has all been said before
I shed what escape my fiction provided
I lived a lifetime inside of my shelter and thought it about time
to see outside it
And I believed it was easy, stupidly thought I could just get up
and walk away
I've got illness hugging me like skin and I'll shed it clean until I
can taste the oxygen.
Sun-streaked
Moments like this are few and far between.
I'm writing this from my apartment's sunroom. It's early on a Sunday evening, and light streaks through the tree branches outside and illuminates the hardwood floors and my bare legs. I've propped my feet onto the sea green ottoman, as I'm resting after my first (read: embarrassingly short) outdoor run of the season. The endorphins were great during that one brief spurt, but now I'm feeling tired and, resultingly, all the more determined to get back into the running routine I abandoned before. There will be a lot of running this spring and summer.
The porch windows are open, with a cool breeze lightly stirring the hair around my face. I've got a glass of water, some music and a notebook - everything I need. It's the first time this weekend - first time in many weekends, actually - that I'm alone with nothing I either have or feel an inclination to do. Instead, I simply note the way the sunshine casts shadows onto the floor, the chirping of the birds and the rustle of the trees are accompanied by the creaks of sunroom windows that have withstood many years of use. It is a Sunday evening, with the promise of a week's worth of work approaching, but the sun has yet to set and I feel I can cling to the weekend a little longer. I have time to while away the time and play around with the best way of describing the events of the weekend (to follow shortly). And I'm surprising myself with the realization that, for once, there's nothing more I'd rather do than just sit here in peace.
I'm writing this from my apartment's sunroom. It's early on a Sunday evening, and light streaks through the tree branches outside and illuminates the hardwood floors and my bare legs. I've propped my feet onto the sea green ottoman, as I'm resting after my first (read: embarrassingly short) outdoor run of the season. The endorphins were great during that one brief spurt, but now I'm feeling tired and, resultingly, all the more determined to get back into the running routine I abandoned before. There will be a lot of running this spring and summer.
The porch windows are open, with a cool breeze lightly stirring the hair around my face. I've got a glass of water, some music and a notebook - everything I need. It's the first time this weekend - first time in many weekends, actually - that I'm alone with nothing I either have or feel an inclination to do. Instead, I simply note the way the sunshine casts shadows onto the floor, the chirping of the birds and the rustle of the trees are accompanied by the creaks of sunroom windows that have withstood many years of use. It is a Sunday evening, with the promise of a week's worth of work approaching, but the sun has yet to set and I feel I can cling to the weekend a little longer. I have time to while away the time and play around with the best way of describing the events of the weekend (to follow shortly). And I'm surprising myself with the realization that, for once, there's nothing more I'd rather do than just sit here in peace.
4.22.2005
A not-so-guilty pleasure
"This coming from the owner of 'Justified.'"
Saturday nights were showers and blowdryers, mascara and high-heeled black boots. Dark slim bootcut denim with black shirts, white polo collars optional. Rose-stained lips worked best with minimal jewlery, while cell phones were charged and tucked into purse pockets.
The sampled intro filtered into bathrooms, where Diet Coke and Bicardis rested on countertops next to hairbrushes. It would be cued just before the next-to-last lookover. One more toss of hair before congregating in the hallway.
Before it was overplayed, before the Bally's commercials, it was the irrepressible kickoff to a night of debauchery. Track 6 each Saturday. "I fucking LOVE this song!" Raise the glass, shake the ass. Start getting excited about the evening ahead.
Adams Morgan, vodka crans and chance encounters would come later, as would the cover charges, Pizza Mart and cab rides home. But during that last half hour at the apartment, dancing, rum and Justin were all we needed.
----------------
In other news. The V Honorary Bostonian Tour continues this weekend. Special musical guest: Matt Nathanson. V Tour sponsored by: Saturn cars, the International Coffeegrowers Association, Nikon, the Commonwealth of Massachusetts and Buddha's Delight.
this is a song about a shirt that you just love. it's your favorite shirt and you wear it all the time, which means, in the natural progression of things, it starts to get ... tighter. and it clings and becomes so tight that it's squeezing your chest until it's going to kill you. so, naturally, you have to cut off the shirt. but you're left with these scars where the shirt used to be. and the shirt is a lying asshole! - 2.4.04
Saturday nights were showers and blowdryers, mascara and high-heeled black boots. Dark slim bootcut denim with black shirts, white polo collars optional. Rose-stained lips worked best with minimal jewlery, while cell phones were charged and tucked into purse pockets.
The sampled intro filtered into bathrooms, where Diet Coke and Bicardis rested on countertops next to hairbrushes. It would be cued just before the next-to-last lookover. One more toss of hair before congregating in the hallway.
Before it was overplayed, before the Bally's commercials, it was the irrepressible kickoff to a night of debauchery. Track 6 each Saturday. "I fucking LOVE this song!" Raise the glass, shake the ass. Start getting excited about the evening ahead.
Adams Morgan, vodka crans and chance encounters would come later, as would the cover charges, Pizza Mart and cab rides home. But during that last half hour at the apartment, dancing, rum and Justin were all we needed.
----------------
In other news. The V Honorary Bostonian Tour continues this weekend. Special musical guest: Matt Nathanson. V Tour sponsored by: Saturn cars, the International Coffeegrowers Association, Nikon, the Commonwealth of Massachusetts and Buddha's Delight.
this is a song about a shirt that you just love. it's your favorite shirt and you wear it all the time, which means, in the natural progression of things, it starts to get ... tighter. and it clings and becomes so tight that it's squeezing your chest until it's going to kill you. so, naturally, you have to cut off the shirt. but you're left with these scars where the shirt used to be. and the shirt is a lying asshole! - 2.4.04
4.21.2005
Hypothetical
Suppose I said I unintentionally half-lied.
Suppose I thought I saw something good and was intrigued. I went to lengths to confirm my initial suspicions and, subsequently, ignored an ever-increasing body of evidence that would contradict said suspicions. It was just a series of midadventures, I rationalized - missed connections, bad timing, busy lives. It wasn't actually that I'd been wrong.
That just as I was ready to be tell myself that I had, in fact, been incorrect, I was given another glimpse and suddenly realized that I'd been right after all. There's no way I could have been wrong - the evidence was finally turning in my favor. It was important to me to be able to affirm my perceptions and to, perhaps, rebuild the bridges that had somehow fallen into disrepair.
That it mattered to me.
But suppose the glimpse was fleeting. Replaced, in fact, by even more conclusive evidence contrary to my initial thoughts. And I ignored it once again. I rationalized that it must be me. Or that there was so much going on beneath the surface that just couldn't be made apparent. Any number of theories were presented.
Suppose I said I realized some time back that it wasn't me. That there wasn't the depth I thought there was. That what I'd seen and ignored for so long did not need to be analyzed or interpreted - it was what it was.
Suppose I said I was wrong. And what angered me most about it was not that the other was flawed or otherwise failed to live up to expectations. What angered me most was that I had to admit that I had somehow screwed up, duped myself or had otherwise been incorrect.
And suppose I decided to try writing about it, but wound up unable to figure out what to say.
And suppose that I realized that my assurance that I did not hate and wished only the best, wasn't as accurrate an assessment as I thought at the time.
Suppose I thought I saw something good and was intrigued. I went to lengths to confirm my initial suspicions and, subsequently, ignored an ever-increasing body of evidence that would contradict said suspicions. It was just a series of midadventures, I rationalized - missed connections, bad timing, busy lives. It wasn't actually that I'd been wrong.
That just as I was ready to be tell myself that I had, in fact, been incorrect, I was given another glimpse and suddenly realized that I'd been right after all. There's no way I could have been wrong - the evidence was finally turning in my favor. It was important to me to be able to affirm my perceptions and to, perhaps, rebuild the bridges that had somehow fallen into disrepair.
That it mattered to me.
But suppose the glimpse was fleeting. Replaced, in fact, by even more conclusive evidence contrary to my initial thoughts. And I ignored it once again. I rationalized that it must be me. Or that there was so much going on beneath the surface that just couldn't be made apparent. Any number of theories were presented.
Suppose I said I realized some time back that it wasn't me. That there wasn't the depth I thought there was. That what I'd seen and ignored for so long did not need to be analyzed or interpreted - it was what it was.
Suppose I said I was wrong. And what angered me most about it was not that the other was flawed or otherwise failed to live up to expectations. What angered me most was that I had to admit that I had somehow screwed up, duped myself or had otherwise been incorrect.
And suppose I decided to try writing about it, but wound up unable to figure out what to say.
And suppose that I realized that my assurance that I did not hate and wished only the best, wasn't as accurrate an assessment as I thought at the time.
Not so much
"Hi, it's me." He spoke as if I should already know the voice. I did, actually, but only because I'd just spoken with him - again - an hour and a half before. And he'd left a message earlier than that.
"Hi. I'm sorry, to whom am I speaking?" There is a select few who are worthy of "It's me" recognition when they call this number. The rest are expected to be polite and greet with a name.
"Oh." He sounded disappointed. "It's Mike. We spoke earlier?"
No shit. "Oh, hey Mike. What can I do for you?" I cradled the phone between my ear and neck, continuing the scribble onto my notepad. There was no reason for him to be calling me again. I'd already set everything up that I needed to, and I thought I'd made it clear that I wasn't willing to engage in casual chitchat.
"Well, I was just thinking as I was driving home from work. I was worried that I sounded rude on the phone when I called you before," he said, stammering a bit. I raised my eyebrows in surprise. If anything, I'd been the one to come off as abrupt, cooly asking for the information and declining the breakfast invitation. Again.
We had both sat in a crowd earlier in the week, laughing and drinking coffee with the rest of the patrons. He kept trying to speak to me and I humored him politely, but there was something that made me uncomfortable - probably that he never seemed quite comfortable in his own skin. You'd think with nearly four decades of practice, it wouldn't be a problem.
He'd called me when I'd returned to my desk later that day and asked if I was, by any chance, single. Everyone whipped around with grins when they heard me reply that I was flattered, but I had a boyfriend.
He'd offered to help with setting up another project. He offered to meet up with me and drive me out to the location, which I wasn't familiar with. I politely replied that I would just get the directions and call the other gentlemen myself, thank you. I thought to myself about how there was no way in hell I was going to be in a car alone with him.
And thus Tyler, my strong, ex-college-football-player boyfriend with a heart of gold but serious jealousy and anger management issues, was created.
And now he was still talking about how he thought he'd been rude.
"I just wanted to call and apologize about it. I hope you didn't take offense or anything."
"No worries," I replied. "I didn't think you were rude at all. The thought never even crossed my mind."
"I felt bad about it."
"Don't, Mike."
Pause. "So I'll see you next week, when you're in town?"
I bit my lip. I didn't want to be mean. He'd helped me out with the project and I appreciated it. But I didn't understand what part of "No, I'm not interested," he couldn't grasp. I didn't want to have to spell it out. You. Me. No way in hell.
Redirect. "Thanks for your help with everything. I appreciate it."
"Oh. Well, OK. I'll talk to you soon, then."
"Have a good day, Mike."
"You too." Pause. "OK. Bye."
I hung up and exhaled. I was sure he was harmless. Well-intentioned.
But there was still something nagging at me, and I felt uncomfortable.
--------
Name has been changed
"Hi. I'm sorry, to whom am I speaking?" There is a select few who are worthy of "It's me" recognition when they call this number. The rest are expected to be polite and greet with a name.
"Oh." He sounded disappointed. "It's Mike. We spoke earlier?"
No shit. "Oh, hey Mike. What can I do for you?" I cradled the phone between my ear and neck, continuing the scribble onto my notepad. There was no reason for him to be calling me again. I'd already set everything up that I needed to, and I thought I'd made it clear that I wasn't willing to engage in casual chitchat.
"Well, I was just thinking as I was driving home from work. I was worried that I sounded rude on the phone when I called you before," he said, stammering a bit. I raised my eyebrows in surprise. If anything, I'd been the one to come off as abrupt, cooly asking for the information and declining the breakfast invitation. Again.
We had both sat in a crowd earlier in the week, laughing and drinking coffee with the rest of the patrons. He kept trying to speak to me and I humored him politely, but there was something that made me uncomfortable - probably that he never seemed quite comfortable in his own skin. You'd think with nearly four decades of practice, it wouldn't be a problem.
He'd called me when I'd returned to my desk later that day and asked if I was, by any chance, single. Everyone whipped around with grins when they heard me reply that I was flattered, but I had a boyfriend.
He'd offered to help with setting up another project. He offered to meet up with me and drive me out to the location, which I wasn't familiar with. I politely replied that I would just get the directions and call the other gentlemen myself, thank you. I thought to myself about how there was no way in hell I was going to be in a car alone with him.
And thus Tyler, my strong, ex-college-football-player boyfriend with a heart of gold but serious jealousy and anger management issues, was created.
And now he was still talking about how he thought he'd been rude.
"I just wanted to call and apologize about it. I hope you didn't take offense or anything."
"No worries," I replied. "I didn't think you were rude at all. The thought never even crossed my mind."
"I felt bad about it."
"Don't, Mike."
Pause. "So I'll see you next week, when you're in town?"
I bit my lip. I didn't want to be mean. He'd helped me out with the project and I appreciated it. But I didn't understand what part of "No, I'm not interested," he couldn't grasp. I didn't want to have to spell it out. You. Me. No way in hell.
Redirect. "Thanks for your help with everything. I appreciate it."
"Oh. Well, OK. I'll talk to you soon, then."
"Have a good day, Mike."
"You too." Pause. "OK. Bye."
I hung up and exhaled. I was sure he was harmless. Well-intentioned.
But there was still something nagging at me, and I felt uncomfortable.
--------
Name has been changed
4.20.2005
Poor Lieutenant Dan
To: CSI: NY writers
From: V
Subject: "Killer Outfit"
Sirs and Madams -
This evening, I happened across a repeat of your February 16 episode, "'Til Death Do We Part." A recently converted "CSI" franchise viewer, I decided to dust off my deduction skills and watch the episode, which focused, per usual, on two separate fatalities.
In the most intriguing, a bride collapsed as she approached the alter to marry her betrothed. She simply appeared to faint and, subsequently, die. Cease to be. Kick the bucket. Head to that big bridal shop in the sky.
Whodunnit investigation insues.
You had me going for awhile, esteemed writers. I was convinced that the maid of honor and groom had used the wedding dress for a pre-ceremony dalliance. Then I thought that the father had wanted to stall the autopsy so as to reduce the chance of his involvement in the murder being discovered. I thought you were mixing things up a bit, and I was into the plot.
Shortly before a commercial break, I jokingly commented to my flatmate that the episode premise was strikingly similar to a horror story I read as a youngster. "There's no way they'd actually go there, though," I said confidently, explaining that it dealt with a girl preparing for a big school dance. She died in her dress because it had been sold to a consignment shop after being stolen off a corpse shortly before burial. She was killed by formaldehyde poisoning, a result of surface contact.
"But they wouldn't take an urban legend included in 'Scariest Stories You've Ever Heard,'" I laughed.
Sirs? Madams? Still with me here? Because apparently I am not the only reader of "Brenda's New Dress," a story included in "SSYEH, Part II."
As a fellow writer, I implore you to please utilize plot devices not available to chldren at the age of nine. Get creative here, folks! I know it can be tiring, cranking out idea after idea. But the old embalming-fluid-in-the-dress-lining trick?
You're better than this. Or, at least, Gary Sinise deserves something better than that.
Most sincerely,
V
From: V
Subject: "Killer Outfit"
Sirs and Madams -
This evening, I happened across a repeat of your February 16 episode, "'Til Death Do We Part." A recently converted "CSI" franchise viewer, I decided to dust off my deduction skills and watch the episode, which focused, per usual, on two separate fatalities.
In the most intriguing, a bride collapsed as she approached the alter to marry her betrothed. She simply appeared to faint and, subsequently, die. Cease to be. Kick the bucket. Head to that big bridal shop in the sky.
Whodunnit investigation insues.
You had me going for awhile, esteemed writers. I was convinced that the maid of honor and groom had used the wedding dress for a pre-ceremony dalliance. Then I thought that the father had wanted to stall the autopsy so as to reduce the chance of his involvement in the murder being discovered. I thought you were mixing things up a bit, and I was into the plot.
Shortly before a commercial break, I jokingly commented to my flatmate that the episode premise was strikingly similar to a horror story I read as a youngster. "There's no way they'd actually go there, though," I said confidently, explaining that it dealt with a girl preparing for a big school dance. She died in her dress because it had been sold to a consignment shop after being stolen off a corpse shortly before burial. She was killed by formaldehyde poisoning, a result of surface contact.
"But they wouldn't take an urban legend included in 'Scariest Stories You've Ever Heard,'" I laughed.
Sirs? Madams? Still with me here? Because apparently I am not the only reader of "Brenda's New Dress," a story included in "SSYEH, Part II."
As a fellow writer, I implore you to please utilize plot devices not available to chldren at the age of nine. Get creative here, folks! I know it can be tiring, cranking out idea after idea. But the old embalming-fluid-in-the-dress-lining trick?
You're better than this. Or, at least, Gary Sinise deserves something better than that.
Most sincerely,
V
Top story
He was sweet, in a lost puppy sort of way. I'd often root for him while observing him in action, but he often just kept to himself. I thought I saw on occasion a glimpse around, looking to see if anyone was going to come to talk to him.
"Oh come on!" I'd call out to the television. "Go play with him! Someone go be nice!"
And then I found myself in the same room as him on a Wednesday morning. The rest of the crowd was bustling about in the middle of the room. Camera flashes, big grins, promises of a better tomorrow and whatnot. I had to admit that it was exciting and a little heady to be there, getting my photo op with someone I'd known of for so many years, but it was a bit overwhelming.
I wanted to step back and watch it all unfold for a few moments. It appeared he did too.
He stood in the corner, near the door, his hands folded in front of him politely. He was watching the others carry on, but made no effort to get in the middle of it. He'd already said his peace, posed for his photographs. He was just there for moral support now.
I smiled politely as I approached and stood next to him against the wall. He nodded with a smile and asked how I was doing.
"I'm well, sir, thank you," I said. I introduced myself and shook his hand (much more weathered than I had expected). "It's such a pleasure to meet you."
We chatted about our hometowns, as his neighbored my own, and he asked if I was enjoying my time there. I naturally replied that I was and he said it was a great experience for anyone from "back home." He was a little bumbly in his conversational skills, as if he knew what to say to someone he didn't know, but wasn't overly practiced. I liked that about him.
And then we just stood there. He didn't feel the need to chat about nothing like everyone else tended to do. We both contentedly watched from our places - not on the sidelines, but not in the middle of the game. Just close enough to understand the potential of what was unfolding.
I still have the photo from meeting the other guy, but I think more often of the short conversation with this man.
"Oh come on!" I'd call out to the television. "Go play with him! Someone go be nice!"
And then I found myself in the same room as him on a Wednesday morning. The rest of the crowd was bustling about in the middle of the room. Camera flashes, big grins, promises of a better tomorrow and whatnot. I had to admit that it was exciting and a little heady to be there, getting my photo op with someone I'd known of for so many years, but it was a bit overwhelming.
I wanted to step back and watch it all unfold for a few moments. It appeared he did too.
He stood in the corner, near the door, his hands folded in front of him politely. He was watching the others carry on, but made no effort to get in the middle of it. He'd already said his peace, posed for his photographs. He was just there for moral support now.
I smiled politely as I approached and stood next to him against the wall. He nodded with a smile and asked how I was doing.
"I'm well, sir, thank you," I said. I introduced myself and shook his hand (much more weathered than I had expected). "It's such a pleasure to meet you."
We chatted about our hometowns, as his neighbored my own, and he asked if I was enjoying my time there. I naturally replied that I was and he said it was a great experience for anyone from "back home." He was a little bumbly in his conversational skills, as if he knew what to say to someone he didn't know, but wasn't overly practiced. I liked that about him.
And then we just stood there. He didn't feel the need to chat about nothing like everyone else tended to do. We both contentedly watched from our places - not on the sidelines, but not in the middle of the game. Just close enough to understand the potential of what was unfolding.
I still have the photo from meeting the other guy, but I think more often of the short conversation with this man.
Different April
I hesitated. It was that "Do I? Don't I?" moment.
He'd offered to get me tickets for the play and laughed when I replied that I already had my seat reserved. Make sure to say hello, he said warmly over the telephone. It'll be good to see you this time around.
I was standing outside after the final curtain call, surrounded by most of my still newly-assembled group. A couple of the others had decided to head back to the hotel, while the rest wanted to meet him with me and discuss what we'd just seen. He was standing within eyesight, talking to another cast member by the curb.
His baseball hat and shorts made me chuckle, as I realized I'd tricked myself into assuming he always walked around in some form of costume. The only other time I'd seen him in off-stage garb had still required him to be, well, on stage.
I sucked it up and walked over, smiling as I approached. He looked at me with a polite smile and, as I began to speak, grinned.
"Hey! You made it!" he said, surprising me as he reached in for a hug. "It's so great to see you. How's the trip going?"
We chatted briefly, much easier than I'd expected, while my friends stood nearby, waiting to approach. We were laughing over last year's missed encounters, that we'd played phone tag nearly every day that week without being able to speak in person. When he asked again about the experience this time around, I beckoned to the group and introduced them.
I worried we were taking up too much of his time, but he seemed excited to be able to chat with everyone about the performance, the theater, the city. He'd attended the same festival years before, so he asked what we all thought of it, with our particularly unique perspective. I briefly explained to the rest that we'd gotten in touch the year before, touching upon the surprise birthday email my director had arranged and the "what the hell, let's see what he says," email I sent shortly before making the first trip.
I left out the fact that I used to sit in the audience those four times his troupe performed back home, smiling with an eye candy crush sort of grin.
We realized it was getting late, we'd been standing outside for longer than we'd realized and that most of us still had pieces to write before the night ended. The rest of the group thanked him for his time and he confidently shook their hands while thanking them for attending.
"If you guys aren't busy at the end of this whole thing, let me know, maybe I can get some people together and we can all go out. It'll be fun." He winked at me. "She's got my number, so have her give me a call."
They smiled happily and moved off. I gave a quick hug, promised to call and said how great it was to be able to hang out for a bit.
"I'm so glad it worked out this time," he replied. "Give me a call later on in the week. It'll be fun. And enjoy yourself!"
As we walked back to the Metro, they thanked me for introducing me and chatted about how nice he was.
He really was, wasn't he?
He'd offered to get me tickets for the play and laughed when I replied that I already had my seat reserved. Make sure to say hello, he said warmly over the telephone. It'll be good to see you this time around.
I was standing outside after the final curtain call, surrounded by most of my still newly-assembled group. A couple of the others had decided to head back to the hotel, while the rest wanted to meet him with me and discuss what we'd just seen. He was standing within eyesight, talking to another cast member by the curb.
His baseball hat and shorts made me chuckle, as I realized I'd tricked myself into assuming he always walked around in some form of costume. The only other time I'd seen him in off-stage garb had still required him to be, well, on stage.
I sucked it up and walked over, smiling as I approached. He looked at me with a polite smile and, as I began to speak, grinned.
"Hey! You made it!" he said, surprising me as he reached in for a hug. "It's so great to see you. How's the trip going?"
We chatted briefly, much easier than I'd expected, while my friends stood nearby, waiting to approach. We were laughing over last year's missed encounters, that we'd played phone tag nearly every day that week without being able to speak in person. When he asked again about the experience this time around, I beckoned to the group and introduced them.
I worried we were taking up too much of his time, but he seemed excited to be able to chat with everyone about the performance, the theater, the city. He'd attended the same festival years before, so he asked what we all thought of it, with our particularly unique perspective. I briefly explained to the rest that we'd gotten in touch the year before, touching upon the surprise birthday email my director had arranged and the "what the hell, let's see what he says," email I sent shortly before making the first trip.
I left out the fact that I used to sit in the audience those four times his troupe performed back home, smiling with an eye candy crush sort of grin.
We realized it was getting late, we'd been standing outside for longer than we'd realized and that most of us still had pieces to write before the night ended. The rest of the group thanked him for his time and he confidently shook their hands while thanking them for attending.
"If you guys aren't busy at the end of this whole thing, let me know, maybe I can get some people together and we can all go out. It'll be fun." He winked at me. "She's got my number, so have her give me a call."
They smiled happily and moved off. I gave a quick hug, promised to call and said how great it was to be able to hang out for a bit.
"I'm so glad it worked out this time," he replied. "Give me a call later on in the week. It'll be fun. And enjoy yourself!"
As we walked back to the Metro, they thanked me for introducing me and chatted about how nice he was.
He really was, wasn't he?
4.19.2005
testiculos habet!
B16! B16! B16!
Ladies and gentlemen, we have a Pope.
We now return you to your normal sinful ways.
Ladies and gentlemen, we have a Pope.
We now return you to your normal sinful ways.
The Rain in Spain
I have a small assortment of words that I say with some random sort of inflection. It's not an accent, because it's not a regular thing. I can be speaking completely normally one minute and then, BAM! Random word comes out sounding funny. I've always had it. Kind of a strong, stereotypical Chicago accent-like thing.
Which makes absolutely no sense, as I've neither been to Chicago nor have any family from Chicago.
I blame my father, partly, for this. He grew up in Massachusetts, with family members that all speak with a Boston accent. He, however, wound up with this strange mix of Boston, New York and something completely different we haven't been able to figure out. We always used to tease him about it, prompting him to exclaim, "It's just a Boston accent!"
"Um, no."
"Well, it's just the way I TALK!"
Well, now I have a funny thing about the way I speak. Thanks, Dad.
The accent issue creeped up again during my senior year of college, when I finally had a chance to put the bad British accent I spent years practicing to use. A production of Stoppard's "Arcadia," in which I was cast as Chloe ("She's old enough to vote...on her back*"). We performed with the accents. I was able to really work on mine and do my damndest to make it sound authentic.
When the play ended, I didn't want to give it up.
So, with that backstory, I'm awake ungodly early again this morning. I'm chatting with people and then I hear it:
"What's your accent?"
"Pardon?" I prepared for the worst.
"We were talking about this after the last time we saw you. Are you or your family from England?"
"Um, no."
"Did you ever live there?"
"Nope."
"Oh. Well, we had all said it sounded like you had a faint accent. We figured it must have been British."
I tried to keep a straight face, but the laughter just refused to hold off.
-------
In other news. Photos from both rounds of Fenway fun (more than those on the Flickr site) are available for viewing. Click right on the link to the right that says "Photography."
I know. Clever link title. I do what I can.
Which makes absolutely no sense, as I've neither been to Chicago nor have any family from Chicago.
I blame my father, partly, for this. He grew up in Massachusetts, with family members that all speak with a Boston accent. He, however, wound up with this strange mix of Boston, New York and something completely different we haven't been able to figure out. We always used to tease him about it, prompting him to exclaim, "It's just a Boston accent!"
"Um, no."
"Well, it's just the way I TALK!"
Well, now I have a funny thing about the way I speak. Thanks, Dad.
The accent issue creeped up again during my senior year of college, when I finally had a chance to put the bad British accent I spent years practicing to use. A production of Stoppard's "Arcadia," in which I was cast as Chloe ("She's old enough to vote...on her back*"). We performed with the accents. I was able to really work on mine and do my damndest to make it sound authentic.
When the play ended, I didn't want to give it up.
So, with that backstory, I'm awake ungodly early again this morning. I'm chatting with people and then I hear it:
"What's your accent?"
"Pardon?" I prepared for the worst.
"We were talking about this after the last time we saw you. Are you or your family from England?"
"Um, no."
"Did you ever live there?"
"Nope."
"Oh. Well, we had all said it sounded like you had a faint accent. We figured it must have been British."
I tried to keep a straight face, but the laughter just refused to hold off.
-------
In other news. Photos from both rounds of Fenway fun (more than those on the Flickr site) are available for viewing. Click right on the link to the right that says "Photography."
I know. Clever link title. I do what I can.
4.18.2005
Rally and whine
I'm trying to rally, but my body's railing against me.
The problem is that I've been rallying for a week. Mustering those last bits of energy for whatever it is that I need to do. Whether it be work or activities rationalized as much-needed and much-deserved play.
Truth is, I've got nothing left to rally. I've crammed hours, events, miles and adrenaline into too short a time that I extended too long. And the physical portion of myself is tactlessly informing my mental portion of that by refusing to function.
I don't get sick, after all. I might get a slight headache. I might have a cough. And yes, on very rare occasion, I might get a delayed and magnified hangover. But all out body-not-working kind of sick doesn't happen to me unless I really wear myself out too much.
But I have to rally, whether it be entirely psychological or not. Because I neither expect nor desire sympathy for "I've been just doing way too much lately."
Beyond that, when I'm feeling under the weather, I begin to think about anything that will take my mind off the general malaise I am feeling.
I start thinking about conversation ended with a short, cold "Take care" instead of the "What the fuck is your DEAL?" I talked myself out of. And I start thinking about almost missing being disappointed by it all.
I start thinking about how I kept looking around for a familiar face and had to stop myself before I felt disappointed in not seeing it anywhere.
I start thinking about people who expected me to explain myself when we both knew there was no way I'd be heard with any consideration of my point of view.
I start thinking about how I've experienced a number of doubletakes lately, in which I have to stop and stare for a moment to be sure that this chance he isn't the he I saw last during an Easter dinner.
All things not worth my time when I'm fully with it, let alone when I'm fuzzy-headed and prone to being too honest for my own good.
The problem is that I've been rallying for a week. Mustering those last bits of energy for whatever it is that I need to do. Whether it be work or activities rationalized as much-needed and much-deserved play.
Truth is, I've got nothing left to rally. I've crammed hours, events, miles and adrenaline into too short a time that I extended too long. And the physical portion of myself is tactlessly informing my mental portion of that by refusing to function.
I don't get sick, after all. I might get a slight headache. I might have a cough. And yes, on very rare occasion, I might get a delayed and magnified hangover. But all out body-not-working kind of sick doesn't happen to me unless I really wear myself out too much.
But I have to rally, whether it be entirely psychological or not. Because I neither expect nor desire sympathy for "I've been just doing way too much lately."
Beyond that, when I'm feeling under the weather, I begin to think about anything that will take my mind off the general malaise I am feeling.
I start thinking about conversation ended with a short, cold "Take care" instead of the "What the fuck is your DEAL?" I talked myself out of. And I start thinking about almost missing being disappointed by it all.
I start thinking about how I kept looking around for a familiar face and had to stop myself before I felt disappointed in not seeing it anywhere.
I start thinking about people who expected me to explain myself when we both knew there was no way I'd be heard with any consideration of my point of view.
I start thinking about how I've experienced a number of doubletakes lately, in which I have to stop and stare for a moment to be sure that this chance he isn't the he I saw last during an Easter dinner.
All things not worth my time when I'm fully with it, let alone when I'm fuzzy-headed and prone to being too honest for my own good.
Out of Left Field
The ball floated in a lazy arc that Renteria wouldn't be able to nab in time for the first out, let alone to convert into a double play. I gripped the lip of the all in front of me as I watched Edgar reach up, let the ball slap into his glove and quickly pump to Millar waiting at first. Tom and I cheered wildly after making sure to exhale. We'd seen similar plays before - hell, we'd both executed them countless times before - but this vantage point appeared to really skew the appearance of physics.
The cold - which would ultimately numb my hands and leave me with a husky voice and sore throat - had yet to set in. Tom and I were too busy gawking to feel the cold anyway, as we were following the game with the fervor of 7-year-olds. The park stretched out before us - aged green walls, brilliant green grass illuminated by blazing stadium lights.
We'd walked around the entire park before reaching the stairs for Green Monster seats - Tom laughed as he followed my lead. I maintained that I wasn't used to thinking about this side of the field - we generally tended to find ourselves on the right side of the park - so the perspective necessary was foreign to me. He replied that I just had a lousy sense of direction. I countered by saying I just wanted to see as much of the damn park as possible so SHUT UP. He burst into laughter and gave me a hug.
I chuckled to myself, thinking of how his face would be when he discovered that his name would go up on the scoreboard for happy birthday wishes. That's what he gets for teasing me.
(T subsequently wrote about this evening - the peanuts, Ortiz's grand slam and taking in the game with me. It made me cry. I'm glad he enjoyed himself too.)
Click on the photo to see my fun with a camera.
The cold - which would ultimately numb my hands and leave me with a husky voice and sore throat - had yet to set in. Tom and I were too busy gawking to feel the cold anyway, as we were following the game with the fervor of 7-year-olds. The park stretched out before us - aged green walls, brilliant green grass illuminated by blazing stadium lights.
We'd walked around the entire park before reaching the stairs for Green Monster seats - Tom laughed as he followed my lead. I maintained that I wasn't used to thinking about this side of the field - we generally tended to find ourselves on the right side of the park - so the perspective necessary was foreign to me. He replied that I just had a lousy sense of direction. I countered by saying I just wanted to see as much of the damn park as possible so SHUT UP. He burst into laughter and gave me a hug.
I chuckled to myself, thinking of how his face would be when he discovered that his name would go up on the scoreboard for happy birthday wishes. That's what he gets for teasing me.
(T subsequently wrote about this evening - the peanuts, Ortiz's grand slam and taking in the game with me. It made me cry. I'm glad he enjoyed himself too.)
Click on the photo to see my fun with a camera.
4.17.2005
Fenway Tip #245
If you happen to find yourself standing on top of the Green Monster during a night game in April, WEAR GLOVES.
The weekend was fantastic, but now I have a cold. Which means I'm sniffly, sneezy, coughy and husky voicey. Last night, tears were streaming down my face during "Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again." My parents told me after that they thought it was amazing to see how moved I was by the performance.
I had to inform them that I wound up crying because I was trying so hard to hold off a coughing fit until the number ended and the applause would drown out the sound.
But that the song was great too.
But yeah. The Sox made me sick. So now it's time for drugs and sleep. A more lucid weekend recap (fun with photos included) will come tomorrow.
The weekend was fantastic, but now I have a cold. Which means I'm sniffly, sneezy, coughy and husky voicey. Last night, tears were streaming down my face during "Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again." My parents told me after that they thought it was amazing to see how moved I was by the performance.
I had to inform them that I wound up crying because I was trying so hard to hold off a coughing fit until the number ended and the applause would drown out the sound.
But that the song was great too.
But yeah. The Sox made me sick. So now it's time for drugs and sleep. A more lucid weekend recap (fun with photos included) will come tomorrow.
4.15.2005
Hat and tickets? Check.
I'm sure this morning's sunrise was beautiful. Rose and ambers peeking over a stretch of indigo mountains, brick buildings glowing copper in the halflights, speckled with golden window reflections.
But, for the first time in a few days, I happily missed this demonstration of nature's beauty and rejuvenation. I was curled up beneath sheets and a comforter, for all intensive purposes completely dead to the world.
I've nothing against sunrises, beyond a really lousy sense of timing. And I marveled at the North Shore dawn on Wednesday. I smiled through bleary eyes at the Vermont version yesterday. But there was no way in hell you were going to find me taking in another sunrise today.
Amazing how 8 a.m. can feel like noon in an improper context.
My brother's 22nd birthday is today. I have no idea how the baby of the family suddenly reached his second palindrome year. I've recalled here my memories of his birth before (see here if you're curious), so I'll refrain from doing so again, as 22-year-old memories don't tend to change a hell of a lot. But I will say I'm wishing him a very happy start of his birthday.
"Start" because I'll be able to wish him a happy birthday evening in person, as we stand in Fenway and clamor for home run balls from Ortiz. Look for me - I'll be the one on top of the Monster with a Red Sox hat on. Can't miss me.
I laugh as I write that, considering that I said something along similar lines before heading to the park last October and then received calls during the rally from NESN viewers (and family member) commenting on my decision to put on a jacket midway through the event.
Here's to hoping Wells is able to lower his ERA.
But, for the first time in a few days, I happily missed this demonstration of nature's beauty and rejuvenation. I was curled up beneath sheets and a comforter, for all intensive purposes completely dead to the world.
I've nothing against sunrises, beyond a really lousy sense of timing. And I marveled at the North Shore dawn on Wednesday. I smiled through bleary eyes at the Vermont version yesterday. But there was no way in hell you were going to find me taking in another sunrise today.
Amazing how 8 a.m. can feel like noon in an improper context.
My brother's 22nd birthday is today. I have no idea how the baby of the family suddenly reached his second palindrome year. I've recalled here my memories of his birth before (see here if you're curious), so I'll refrain from doing so again, as 22-year-old memories don't tend to change a hell of a lot. But I will say I'm wishing him a very happy start of his birthday.
"Start" because I'll be able to wish him a happy birthday evening in person, as we stand in Fenway and clamor for home run balls from Ortiz. Look for me - I'll be the one on top of the Monster with a Red Sox hat on. Can't miss me.
I laugh as I write that, considering that I said something along similar lines before heading to the park last October and then received calls during the rally from NESN viewers (and family member) commenting on my decision to put on a jacket midway through the event.
Here's to hoping Wells is able to lower his ERA.
4.13.2005
Breakneck
You count out the days and watch with delight as the numbers tick off one by one. It seemed close at a month, then a week. Now it's four, three, two, one.
And, at one, you want to hold the clock. Don't let it be that day quite yet. Despite whatever lay ahead - whether grandiose or dreadful - it can't possibly be as vivid, as charged as what continues to charge your imagination. The brightness of it can't be tinged by reality already, because you're having too much fun coming up with what could be.
But the day arrives and the countdown is converted to hour form. You draft lists of possibilities, casually look around for a familiar face as you walk on crowded streets downtown. You begin to break the day and afternoon into units of activity which will best provide a diversion between Now and Then. You rush to make sure you have enough time, then realize you need to stretch things out and kill the time you didn't anticipate.
Sangria proves a brilliant way to pass the time.
When the hours become minutes, you force yourself away from thinking about It and start thinking about Them. The others who will be joining you for the event. You sit at a full-length pane of glass and watch others walk by.
"Yes." The girl walks up the street. Small handbag, dark-rimmed glasses, jubilant smile. She'll be there.
"No." Carrying a backpack and a laptop. Too much baggage.
"Yes. But because of her. He doesn't want to, but he's playing the good boyfriend." He tries to force away a scowl as they pass, holding hands.
"Yes, but he's trying to downplay the fact that he's as excited as she is. He made sure to buy the tickets so they got the best possible seats." They are both beaming and quickly moving by.
"No, no, no, no, no." As a group meanders past.
Your friend sips coffee. "Do you think we'd be pegged as Yes's or No's?"
You pause to think about it. "No's if they just saw us sitting here. Yes's if they listened to us for five minutes."
The game ascends to the next level - Yes or No, with Yes's broken down into T or M. Reason for attending.
With less than a half hour, you join the flow of pedestrians and walk through the spitting snow/sleet/rain to the theater. Two buses parked out front, trailed by a van with California license plates. You find your tickets, hold them out and are welcomed into the small, low-ceilinged lobby. You both want to see where you'll be sitting, and enter the performance space. You present your tickets, you are told to move closer and ask the next usher. Again and again until you look at the two acoustic guitars, microphone and monitor that wait for use from their place ahead and to your left. About six rows away - and a close six rows.
You both sit in your seats to take in the view and start to laugh with delight. You take off your jackets and lean back in the chairs. The lights go black, a spotlight appears cast against the black curtain and a spiky-haired figure emerges with a grin.
And now you're standing at North Station at quarter past eleven. The event sped along before your eyes with the same speedy pace, and it is now moving just as quickly into your memory.
You remind yourself to write about the reflection of her hands in the glossy sheen of the piano. The smile that spread across your face as you sang along with your favorite of his lyrics. Where their eyes were directed when they spoke. The laughter that came from your row when the chorus you'd jokingly sung for two days actually coursed through the speakers. The songs you'd appreciate more now that you've experienced them live.
You await the arrival of your ride and rub your hands over your arms to try to warm up. The sparkle of the previous anticipation has been replaced by its duller, cloudy counterparts - the promise of an early morning and a long drive.
But you have a rendition of "Happy Phantom" stuck in your head.
And, at one, you want to hold the clock. Don't let it be that day quite yet. Despite whatever lay ahead - whether grandiose or dreadful - it can't possibly be as vivid, as charged as what continues to charge your imagination. The brightness of it can't be tinged by reality already, because you're having too much fun coming up with what could be.
But the day arrives and the countdown is converted to hour form. You draft lists of possibilities, casually look around for a familiar face as you walk on crowded streets downtown. You begin to break the day and afternoon into units of activity which will best provide a diversion between Now and Then. You rush to make sure you have enough time, then realize you need to stretch things out and kill the time you didn't anticipate.
Sangria proves a brilliant way to pass the time.
When the hours become minutes, you force yourself away from thinking about It and start thinking about Them. The others who will be joining you for the event. You sit at a full-length pane of glass and watch others walk by.
"Yes." The girl walks up the street. Small handbag, dark-rimmed glasses, jubilant smile. She'll be there.
"No." Carrying a backpack and a laptop. Too much baggage.
"Yes. But because of her. He doesn't want to, but he's playing the good boyfriend." He tries to force away a scowl as they pass, holding hands.
"Yes, but he's trying to downplay the fact that he's as excited as she is. He made sure to buy the tickets so they got the best possible seats." They are both beaming and quickly moving by.
"No, no, no, no, no." As a group meanders past.
Your friend sips coffee. "Do you think we'd be pegged as Yes's or No's?"
You pause to think about it. "No's if they just saw us sitting here. Yes's if they listened to us for five minutes."
The game ascends to the next level - Yes or No, with Yes's broken down into T or M. Reason for attending.
With less than a half hour, you join the flow of pedestrians and walk through the spitting snow/sleet/rain to the theater. Two buses parked out front, trailed by a van with California license plates. You find your tickets, hold them out and are welcomed into the small, low-ceilinged lobby. You both want to see where you'll be sitting, and enter the performance space. You present your tickets, you are told to move closer and ask the next usher. Again and again until you look at the two acoustic guitars, microphone and monitor that wait for use from their place ahead and to your left. About six rows away - and a close six rows.
You both sit in your seats to take in the view and start to laugh with delight. You take off your jackets and lean back in the chairs. The lights go black, a spotlight appears cast against the black curtain and a spiky-haired figure emerges with a grin.
And now you're standing at North Station at quarter past eleven. The event sped along before your eyes with the same speedy pace, and it is now moving just as quickly into your memory.
You remind yourself to write about the reflection of her hands in the glossy sheen of the piano. The smile that spread across your face as you sang along with your favorite of his lyrics. Where their eyes were directed when they spoke. The laughter that came from your row when the chorus you'd jokingly sung for two days actually coursed through the speakers. The songs you'd appreciate more now that you've experienced them live.
You await the arrival of your ride and rub your hands over your arms to try to warm up. The sparkle of the previous anticipation has been replaced by its duller, cloudy counterparts - the promise of an early morning and a long drive.
But you have a rendition of "Happy Phantom" stuck in your head.
Summary
Any attempts at coherency need be saved for the rest of the day.
Boston, snowy. Winter, bitch. Sangria, divine. Guessing game, good. Seats, amazing. Matt, good. Tori, good. Show, great.
Early morning, bad. Long drive, bad.
V, sleepy. Trip, worth it.
Boston, snowy. Winter, bitch. Sangria, divine. Guessing game, good. Seats, amazing. Matt, good. Tori, good. Show, great.
Early morning, bad. Long drive, bad.
V, sleepy. Trip, worth it.
4.11.2005
Snapshot of frazzlement.
The original post has been removed by the author, on the grounds that it demonstrated either a definite need for coffee or a definite need to never consume coffee again. Either or.
Kudos to Mariano Rivera for having a sense of humor. Particularly since that humor probably won over some Boston fans who hoped he'd get pissed.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is likely to be the last time you find me praising a member of the New York Yankees. Savor the moment, any New York baseball-loving readers out there.
I prepare to embark on a Boston misadventure with no idea of what I'll be hearing from one Ms. Amos tomorrow night. But judging from the patterns in her setlist (or, one should say, lack of pattern), that she played "Winter" and "Tear in Your Hand" this evening indicates that I shouldn't expect to hear either tomorrow night. Which means my "Winter" streak is likely to continue (one of my favorites, but she played it at neither of my previous shows) and my "Tear in Your Hand" streak could come to an end (she played it at both of those previous Tori ventures).
(Beth just surprised me, coming out of her room. I read her the setlist and her face fell at the inclusion of "Winter." Or, rather, as she put it after I went through the setlist, "I'd have put with up 'Space Dog' without question if it meant hearing 'Winter.'")
But she hasn't played "Gold Dust" yet. I refuse to hope (more than this little iota) that it emerges. And I have no idea what my reaction would be were it to. Hmm. But the thing about a Tori show (in my limited experience) is that one should never have any ideas about what one could experience at a Tori show.
Matt's been pretty consistent in his setlists (which is what happens when you have only 25 minutes to win over a new audience - go with what's likely to work best), so I'm looking forward to one of my favorite lines in song ("I'll forget about you long enough to forget why I need to" in "I Saw") and singing the chorus to "Answering Machine."
And that whole wandering around Boston bit. As we all know I'm rather fond of that, as well.
Kudos to Mariano Rivera for having a sense of humor. Particularly since that humor probably won over some Boston fans who hoped he'd get pissed.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is likely to be the last time you find me praising a member of the New York Yankees. Savor the moment, any New York baseball-loving readers out there.
I prepare to embark on a Boston misadventure with no idea of what I'll be hearing from one Ms. Amos tomorrow night. But judging from the patterns in her setlist (or, one should say, lack of pattern), that she played "Winter" and "Tear in Your Hand" this evening indicates that I shouldn't expect to hear either tomorrow night. Which means my "Winter" streak is likely to continue (one of my favorites, but she played it at neither of my previous shows) and my "Tear in Your Hand" streak could come to an end (she played it at both of those previous Tori ventures).
(Beth just surprised me, coming out of her room. I read her the setlist and her face fell at the inclusion of "Winter." Or, rather, as she put it after I went through the setlist, "I'd have put with up 'Space Dog' without question if it meant hearing 'Winter.'")
But she hasn't played "Gold Dust" yet. I refuse to hope (more than this little iota) that it emerges. And I have no idea what my reaction would be were it to. Hmm. But the thing about a Tori show (in my limited experience) is that one should never have any ideas about what one could experience at a Tori show.
Matt's been pretty consistent in his setlists (which is what happens when you have only 25 minutes to win over a new audience - go with what's likely to work best), so I'm looking forward to one of my favorite lines in song ("I'll forget about you long enough to forget why I need to" in "I Saw") and singing the chorus to "Answering Machine."
And that whole wandering around Boston bit. As we all know I'm rather fond of that, as well.
4.10.2005
Bypass
I don't want to jinx things, but this needs to be noted.
There's been no clear transition period here. Winter just seems to have slunk off with its tail between its legs, replaced by a triumphantly swaggering spring. Ice on the lake? Seems like it vanished overnight, as royal blue waves are rippling away as if they were never covered. My wool coat didn't even have an opportunity to enjoy the season's last hurrah.
Not that I'm complaining. In the least. Trust me.
I've always said autumn is my favorite season - I certainly stand by that sentiment. But this is my favorite time of year. I can feel the warmth energize me, and everyone is strutting about with sandals and baseball caps to block the sun from their eyes. I'm no exception, as I've happily begun training my feet to get used to the feel of sandal straps and finally took my Sox cap off the shelf and back onto my head.
Feels glorious.
Speaking of the Red Sox, it should be no surprise to anyone that I can already offer an opinion on "Fever Pitch." The Casa de Racca threesome took to the theater on Friday night, capping off an evening of coffeeshop, chess and peppermint tea with a film.
Alright, that sounds far too refined for us. Truth? Coffeeshop was grand, particularly since tea always tastes better when it's prepared for you. Beth and I teamed up to take on Chuck at chess (outcome: well, we won with a brilliant trap, but would have lost had C realized our king was a sitting duck. I consider it a draw and look forward to being able to dust off my chess skills again soon). And then we gawked over Jimmy Fallon (well, B and I did) and the Red Sox (well, C and I did).
The movie? Predictable story, of course, but you know that going in. But it's adorable. Anyone with a crush on Jimmy leaves with an even larger one, and I found it hilarious to watch clips of last season and realize I still agonized over trailing the Yankees and grimaced at the 19-8 ALCS game (Beth's comment: "Ah, we were in Washington for that. V's response: "Yes, and I, at least, was drinking because of that.")
The overly zealous Red Sox fan stereotype was only humorously lampooned, balanced by great summaries of what it is to be a fan of the team. But for those Hornby, Arsenal fans out there, the only similarities to the book and, I'd imagine, the original film (that I want to see) is the title and sports passion. That's it.
It was a perfect thing to see to make me realize that in less than a week, I'll be in the ballpark cheering on the team. Part of the most absurd week ever, actually. I'm thrilled at the lineup - Tori/Matt, Red Sox, "Phantom," Red Sox - but am fully aware of the fact that I will be lucky to be conscious and standing a week from now.
So I should really take a moment now to enjoy the calm before the craziness.
There's been no clear transition period here. Winter just seems to have slunk off with its tail between its legs, replaced by a triumphantly swaggering spring. Ice on the lake? Seems like it vanished overnight, as royal blue waves are rippling away as if they were never covered. My wool coat didn't even have an opportunity to enjoy the season's last hurrah.
Not that I'm complaining. In the least. Trust me.
I've always said autumn is my favorite season - I certainly stand by that sentiment. But this is my favorite time of year. I can feel the warmth energize me, and everyone is strutting about with sandals and baseball caps to block the sun from their eyes. I'm no exception, as I've happily begun training my feet to get used to the feel of sandal straps and finally took my Sox cap off the shelf and back onto my head.
Feels glorious.
Speaking of the Red Sox, it should be no surprise to anyone that I can already offer an opinion on "Fever Pitch." The Casa de Racca threesome took to the theater on Friday night, capping off an evening of coffeeshop, chess and peppermint tea with a film.
Alright, that sounds far too refined for us. Truth? Coffeeshop was grand, particularly since tea always tastes better when it's prepared for you. Beth and I teamed up to take on Chuck at chess (outcome: well, we won with a brilliant trap, but would have lost had C realized our king was a sitting duck. I consider it a draw and look forward to being able to dust off my chess skills again soon). And then we gawked over Jimmy Fallon (well, B and I did) and the Red Sox (well, C and I did).
The movie? Predictable story, of course, but you know that going in. But it's adorable. Anyone with a crush on Jimmy leaves with an even larger one, and I found it hilarious to watch clips of last season and realize I still agonized over trailing the Yankees and grimaced at the 19-8 ALCS game (Beth's comment: "Ah, we were in Washington for that. V's response: "Yes, and I, at least, was drinking because of that.")
The overly zealous Red Sox fan stereotype was only humorously lampooned, balanced by great summaries of what it is to be a fan of the team. But for those Hornby, Arsenal fans out there, the only similarities to the book and, I'd imagine, the original film (that I want to see) is the title and sports passion. That's it.
It was a perfect thing to see to make me realize that in less than a week, I'll be in the ballpark cheering on the team. Part of the most absurd week ever, actually. I'm thrilled at the lineup - Tori/Matt, Red Sox, "Phantom," Red Sox - but am fully aware of the fact that I will be lucky to be conscious and standing a week from now.
So I should really take a moment now to enjoy the calm before the craziness.
4.09.2005
Connect the dots
I'm doing away with the ellipses.
I used to think of it as romantic, in my own grammar-loving sort of way. A series of dots that mark a thought trailing off into unknown spaces. The ellipses was mysterious and left me wondering, imagining what other thought could have followed.
But a conversation of ellipsies, I've discovered, is the worst to have. Oversaturated by them, the whimsy has been stripped away to reveal what the three little dots really are.
Omission. The very name for the dots should serve as a warning. Derived from the Greek word elleipsis. "To fall short."
The ellipses, my friends, is a cop-out approach to communcation. And I don't have any reason to deal with cop-out conversations anymore.
I'm more of a dash kind of girl. Multiple thoughts brought together. Not omitted, not left dangling off into air. Too much, rather than too little.
In other news. It's a jeans and sandals day. Flip-flop smacks against brick streets traveled by other barefoot-wannabes enjoying the sunshine.
"Are you enjoying the day?" a stranger asks.
"How could you not?" is your reply.
I used to think of it as romantic, in my own grammar-loving sort of way. A series of dots that mark a thought trailing off into unknown spaces. The ellipses was mysterious and left me wondering, imagining what other thought could have followed.
But a conversation of ellipsies, I've discovered, is the worst to have. Oversaturated by them, the whimsy has been stripped away to reveal what the three little dots really are.
Omission. The very name for the dots should serve as a warning. Derived from the Greek word elleipsis. "To fall short."
The ellipses, my friends, is a cop-out approach to communcation. And I don't have any reason to deal with cop-out conversations anymore.
I'm more of a dash kind of girl. Multiple thoughts brought together. Not omitted, not left dangling off into air. Too much, rather than too little.
In other news. It's a jeans and sandals day. Flip-flop smacks against brick streets traveled by other barefoot-wannabes enjoying the sunshine.
"Are you enjoying the day?" a stranger asks.
"How could you not?" is your reply.
4.08.2005
"And the other one..." OR "Four"
I sat at the bar one night, listening to a singer-songwriter I know perform with his new-ish band. I was laughing goofily with a friend when I was surprised to note that my reaction to the music was being observed from the stage.
It was a rather neat realization - although I suddenly realized I should behave myself so it didn't seem as if I wasn't enjoying it.
I'm the pain in the ass listener. The more I enjoy an artist, the more I invest - whether it be time, mileage, money or interest. Generally some mixture of them all. I'm just not a light listener and I want to feel some form of connection. So I do my research and whatnot.
With that comes an increase in expectation. If I'm putting this much into the music, whoever is up on stage sure as hell ought to put in an effort. I'll give praise when it's due, but I'll criticize just as readily. I'm hard to satisfy, I know, but I just see no point in blind idolatry.
It usually works out well enough - it is extremely rare that any of those I remark upon discover these observations. I admit that I used to daydream about a Howie, John or Jason happening across descriptions of performances from an off-stage perspective, reading about what I had to say and, perhaps, thinking about it. Maybe doing something differently the next time around, or smiling at the recollection of something that struck and moved a stranger.
Because most of my favorites have fallen under this scrutiny at one point or another. Some were abandoned, others put aside for a time, while others, for whatever reason, remained constant and in regular circulation.
But then Matt Nathanson comes along and screws my whole theory up.
Four and a half, maybe five years of listening, but I realized yesterday that I have never doubted him. Each time I hear him or prepare to see him live, I start to grin and imagine what I'm going to experience. What the hell is going to come out of his mouth this time.
I attribute this lack of normal tendancies to the fact that I instinctively feel he is more grounded and centered than the others. There's less need to worry that he will A) foray into bad pop cheese with a penchant for musical masturbation, B) embrace rock star, tour bus life so much that it affects his performace, C) develop an inflated ego before his time or D) fall head over heels in love with his own cleverness.
Maybe it's that he joked that even God was against him the first time I saw him perform. Or that his songs don't make him sound like a committment-phobic, angst-riddled, self-proclaimed poet. Or that he's married. That he covers 80s rock anthems and gets everyone to sing along. Or the fact that I feel he needs someone to serve as his walking disclaimer. Who knows.
He just makes it apparent each time I see or hear him that in listening to his music, I've made a rock-solid investment. And his sound and performances have never let me down.
Matt is the one I don't want to selfishly keep to myself. I've grown guarded and wary of "big breaks" after watching several stars rise. But with Matt, I still root for him to make it big because he's deserved the break for years. He hasn't quite gotten there yet, but he keeps going, rocking out for those of us in on the secret and writing irreverent journal entries that regularly reduce me to giggles.
I don't quite understand why he's still not "there" when I want him to reach that point as much as I do; whereas many of the ones I feared would be tarnished by fame have already spent too much time gawking at the sight of their names in lights.
It was a rather neat realization - although I suddenly realized I should behave myself so it didn't seem as if I wasn't enjoying it.
I'm the pain in the ass listener. The more I enjoy an artist, the more I invest - whether it be time, mileage, money or interest. Generally some mixture of them all. I'm just not a light listener and I want to feel some form of connection. So I do my research and whatnot.
With that comes an increase in expectation. If I'm putting this much into the music, whoever is up on stage sure as hell ought to put in an effort. I'll give praise when it's due, but I'll criticize just as readily. I'm hard to satisfy, I know, but I just see no point in blind idolatry.
It usually works out well enough - it is extremely rare that any of those I remark upon discover these observations. I admit that I used to daydream about a Howie, John or Jason happening across descriptions of performances from an off-stage perspective, reading about what I had to say and, perhaps, thinking about it. Maybe doing something differently the next time around, or smiling at the recollection of something that struck and moved a stranger.
Because most of my favorites have fallen under this scrutiny at one point or another. Some were abandoned, others put aside for a time, while others, for whatever reason, remained constant and in regular circulation.
But then Matt Nathanson comes along and screws my whole theory up.
Four and a half, maybe five years of listening, but I realized yesterday that I have never doubted him. Each time I hear him or prepare to see him live, I start to grin and imagine what I'm going to experience. What the hell is going to come out of his mouth this time.
I attribute this lack of normal tendancies to the fact that I instinctively feel he is more grounded and centered than the others. There's less need to worry that he will A) foray into bad pop cheese with a penchant for musical masturbation, B) embrace rock star, tour bus life so much that it affects his performace, C) develop an inflated ego before his time or D) fall head over heels in love with his own cleverness.
Maybe it's that he joked that even God was against him the first time I saw him perform. Or that his songs don't make him sound like a committment-phobic, angst-riddled, self-proclaimed poet. Or that he's married. That he covers 80s rock anthems and gets everyone to sing along. Or the fact that I feel he needs someone to serve as his walking disclaimer. Who knows.
He just makes it apparent each time I see or hear him that in listening to his music, I've made a rock-solid investment. And his sound and performances have never let me down.
Matt is the one I don't want to selfishly keep to myself. I've grown guarded and wary of "big breaks" after watching several stars rise. But with Matt, I still root for him to make it big because he's deserved the break for years. He hasn't quite gotten there yet, but he keeps going, rocking out for those of us in on the secret and writing irreverent journal entries that regularly reduce me to giggles.
I don't quite understand why he's still not "there" when I want him to reach that point as much as I do; whereas many of the ones I feared would be tarnished by fame have already spent too much time gawking at the sight of their names in lights.
Cherry blossom canopy
You can't discern whether she is happy to be there or not. The lilting piano against heavy strings gives away little beyond that this moment is fleeting and it hurts her. You have no idea if the pain is bittersweet or sharp.
The song corresponds with the charm that matches the sticker that marks the spot on the map that was my home. Many charms of varying shapes and designs were packed into the boxes, but the umbrella rattled out of my box and into my palm as I sat on a bench by the fountain on a Tuesday.
The umbrella fused an otherwise chance series of coincidences into a chain between a musician and a listener. It established her wistful song as my Washington theme. An uncertain heroine trying to announce her presence in a place she was subconsciously preparing to leave.
I was here...
I pulled on the umbrella as it threatened to snap away in a windgust. We were soaked, the umbrella was doing us no good, but I was determined not to lose my grip on the purple handle. I was being dragged by the wind down the street into Georgetown.
The surreal nature of the afternoon had already prompted fits of laughter, and they resumed as we sought temporary sanctuary in a corner bookstore.
"That was her bus."
"No, it wasn't. The duffel bags didn't look anything like what she would have. More like a soccer team."
"I didn't mean it was actually her. But it would be funny to pretend."
"What if it was?"
"But it wasn't. Soccer team."
"Right."
"But it would be hysterical."
"Why would a soccer team stay at the Four Seasons?"
We laughed and ran back into the rain for another walkby. I left the umbrella dangling from my wrist.
Gaslights glow in the street (flickering past); Twilight held us in her palm as we walked along...
The applause continued as she began the next song, and I happily brushed a strand of hair from my face as I looked about the arena. A hand grabbed at my shoulder.
"Listen!"
I tilted my head and took in the delicate notes for a moment before my eyes widened in understanding. I drew a quick intake of breath and stared at the auburn head six rows in front of me.
I knew I was being watched, and tried to keep my cheeks from burning. But the music was soaring and then she was singing it and I wanted to sing along but she sounded so beautiful and my throat suddenly felt so tight -
And the tears were falling before I had an opportunity to hold them back. I spent the next four minutes stinging, watching a blurry swirl of light and red hair as the composer of my theme performed it live for the first time.
I was here...
The song corresponds with the charm that matches the sticker that marks the spot on the map that was my home. Many charms of varying shapes and designs were packed into the boxes, but the umbrella rattled out of my box and into my palm as I sat on a bench by the fountain on a Tuesday.
The umbrella fused an otherwise chance series of coincidences into a chain between a musician and a listener. It established her wistful song as my Washington theme. An uncertain heroine trying to announce her presence in a place she was subconsciously preparing to leave.
I was here...
I pulled on the umbrella as it threatened to snap away in a windgust. We were soaked, the umbrella was doing us no good, but I was determined not to lose my grip on the purple handle. I was being dragged by the wind down the street into Georgetown.
The surreal nature of the afternoon had already prompted fits of laughter, and they resumed as we sought temporary sanctuary in a corner bookstore.
"That was her bus."
"No, it wasn't. The duffel bags didn't look anything like what she would have. More like a soccer team."
"I didn't mean it was actually her. But it would be funny to pretend."
"What if it was?"
"But it wasn't. Soccer team."
"Right."
"But it would be hysterical."
"Why would a soccer team stay at the Four Seasons?"
We laughed and ran back into the rain for another walkby. I left the umbrella dangling from my wrist.
Gaslights glow in the street (flickering past); Twilight held us in her palm as we walked along...
The applause continued as she began the next song, and I happily brushed a strand of hair from my face as I looked about the arena. A hand grabbed at my shoulder.
"Listen!"
I tilted my head and took in the delicate notes for a moment before my eyes widened in understanding. I drew a quick intake of breath and stared at the auburn head six rows in front of me.
I knew I was being watched, and tried to keep my cheeks from burning. But the music was soaring and then she was singing it and I wanted to sing along but she sounded so beautiful and my throat suddenly felt so tight -
And the tears were falling before I had an opportunity to hold them back. I spent the next four minutes stinging, watching a blurry swirl of light and red hair as the composer of my theme performed it live for the first time.
I was here...
4.07.2005
No basis
I tried to imagine how I would feel in her situation, but I had no basis point on which to begin.
She stood at the pulpit, clutching a teddy bear she looked down at often. She was crying, as were most of those assembled. But she took a ragged breath, looked up, and then spoke in a clear voice that was amplified throughout the space.
He wasn't a hero because he died, he was a hero because of how he lived before.
She and others had described him so vividly that I felt like I had my own memories of his laugh and smile. I tried to capture each word as she recalled a conversation by the lake the previous October. I kept looking up, however, to try to burn into my mind the way her face looked as she remembered it - whether she looked off into the distance or down at the bear.
For the record, it was down at the bear.
When everyone gathered downstairs, I met a grandfather, a mother, stepfather - and then her. We looked at each other - two women the same age but coming into the introduction from as divergent paths as possible. I smiled awkwardly and thanked her for her words. I offered my condolences and told her I was thinking of her.
She took my outstretched hand and thanked me.
She had a strong grip, but the frailest of fingers.
She stood at the pulpit, clutching a teddy bear she looked down at often. She was crying, as were most of those assembled. But she took a ragged breath, looked up, and then spoke in a clear voice that was amplified throughout the space.
He wasn't a hero because he died, he was a hero because of how he lived before.
She and others had described him so vividly that I felt like I had my own memories of his laugh and smile. I tried to capture each word as she recalled a conversation by the lake the previous October. I kept looking up, however, to try to burn into my mind the way her face looked as she remembered it - whether she looked off into the distance or down at the bear.
For the record, it was down at the bear.
When everyone gathered downstairs, I met a grandfather, a mother, stepfather - and then her. We looked at each other - two women the same age but coming into the introduction from as divergent paths as possible. I smiled awkwardly and thanked her for her words. I offered my condolences and told her I was thinking of her.
She took my outstretched hand and thanked me.
She had a strong grip, but the frailest of fingers.
4.06.2005
The first of many.
To: Red Sox
From: V.
Re: Today's game.
If I'd known all I had to do was ask nicely, I would have asked for a win on Sunday.
Thank you and I shall see you next week.
XOXOXO,
V.
From: V.
Re: Today's game.
If I'd known all I had to do was ask nicely, I would have asked for a win on Sunday.
Thank you and I shall see you next week.
XOXOXO,
V.
"Just like Natalie."
Michelle, consider this the sucky, mishmash post you so amusingly requested. Just kind of worked out that way.
Funny that I posted a Natalie Imbruglia reference yesterday and I see this posted on le petit hiboux today.
I tried not to laugh. Failed. Tried again, failed again. So bloody funny.
For those who don't trust me enough to blindly click away, it's karaoke for the deaf, performed by HBO Comedy's The Hollow Men. While viewing it, I had a ridiculous flashback to jumping on beds while performing an interprative dance to Blink-182's "Dammit."
Ah, good times.
In other news. Terry Francona is in the hospital after suffering from "tightness in the chest" this morning. Upon reading the Boston.com article, I realized I had no idea that this was a recurring problem for Terry. I, like the legions of other Sox fans, will be sending positive vibes to New York this afternoon.
And wouldn't it be lovely if the team won one for the manager? You know, their first win of the season? Hmm? I'm loving that the season has begun. I'm thrilled with the realization that I'll be at Fenway in slightly more than a week. But I'd be even more giddy with a win today...
It was one of two surprises waiting for me on the Globe site today. Huh.
And finally. I'm welcoming spring with a linen skirt and sandals. And loving every second I spend in the sunshine. Now I just have to figure out what I did with my 70s-fabulous-but-I-swear-I'm-only-wearing-them-once-yeah-right sunglasses...
Funny that I posted a Natalie Imbruglia reference yesterday and I see this posted on le petit hiboux today.
I tried not to laugh. Failed. Tried again, failed again. So bloody funny.
For those who don't trust me enough to blindly click away, it's karaoke for the deaf, performed by HBO Comedy's The Hollow Men. While viewing it, I had a ridiculous flashback to jumping on beds while performing an interprative dance to Blink-182's "Dammit."
Ah, good times.
In other news. Terry Francona is in the hospital after suffering from "tightness in the chest" this morning. Upon reading the Boston.com article, I realized I had no idea that this was a recurring problem for Terry. I, like the legions of other Sox fans, will be sending positive vibes to New York this afternoon.
And wouldn't it be lovely if the team won one for the manager? You know, their first win of the season? Hmm? I'm loving that the season has begun. I'm thrilled with the realization that I'll be at Fenway in slightly more than a week. But I'd be even more giddy with a win today...
It was one of two surprises waiting for me on the Globe site today. Huh.
And finally. I'm welcoming spring with a linen skirt and sandals. And loving every second I spend in the sunshine. Now I just have to figure out what I did with my 70s-fabulous-but-I-swear-I'm-only-wearing-them-once-yeah-right sunglasses...
And that's how I'll choose to remember it.
She stared at the computer screen and pursed her lips.
"Anything?" She turned at the sound of the voice at the doorframe.
"Nah," she said as she logged off. She slapped her hands on her knees and rose from the chair.
"What do you actually like about..." she began, gesturing to the monitor.
She didn't have a ready answer and stopped to think about it. Nothing tangible, she thought with a sigh. She shrugged her shoulders and walked into the foyer to get her backpack. She called over her shoulder while unzipping the bag.
"When is the class tomorrow? I have to figure out when I'm seeing my brother..." She paused, sensing the eyeroll behind her. "I don't know. There's just a good person there. OK?"
***
The desk and chair were your typical metal and wood affairs, pieces that had grown rickety with semesters of use. She assumed students needed cushions for the seat during the academic year, as her lower back always began to ache after only a couple of hours sitting.
The off white walls looked yellow in mid-afternoon light that passed through two filters - first through leafy branches outside, then through dust-speckled windows. A small box fan whirred in the corner as it tried to cool the room, but succeeded in little more than rustling thin white sheets on a creaky metal-framed twin bed. On occasion, a small dust bunny would shift on the old wooden floor. Neither she nor the staff had made an effort to sweep the floor. She wasn't going to be there long enough to be concerned; to them she was a fleeting summer guest who should be too focused on the work to care about dust. She just wore her sandals and it worked out fine.
Despite the discomfort, she was sitting on the desk chair. The Dave Matthews Band CD she'd purchased several hours earlier had been accompanied by a DVD, and she was enjoying the built-in luxuries in the computer she'd purchased for the trip. She'd never had her own DVD player before.
She periodically glanced away from the screen to the open window. The college campus setting was familiar and disjointed at the same time. A few months prior, she'd been one of the older ones, nestled in a townhouse. Now she was re-relegated to the dorms, one of the few students among a group of professionals. When she was busy and didn't have time to think about it, she moved along with energy and enthusiasm. She hadn't been lying to everyone at home, she was loving the experience.
But it was her one day off and she had nothing to do. The other members of her program were catching up on sleep, having lacked the preparation for the experience she'd gained in New Hampshire and Washington.
It was her first opportunity to process this surreal environment, and her first chance to feel alone.
She turned back to Dave and company for a few minutes before jumping at the shrill sound of her cell phone's ring. She quickly glanced at the screen and picked it up immediately after seeing the Boston area code. Must be one of her best friends, she thought with a smile. We'd joked about sharing a brain, but Jesus. She'd managed to pick right up on the loneliness. Thank God someone had been thinking of her - she'd needed to know that.
She pressed a buttom and placed the phone against her ear. Her voice echoed in the small, sparse room.
"Hello?"
She was pleasantly surprised.
***
She clicked send, then checked the message for typos (she knew doing so after the fact was pointless, but always did it anyway). She straightened the Red Sox beanbag figurine next to her monitor and turned off the computer.
"All done," she said, first at the dark screen, then at someone across the room.
She didn't want to admit that she'd been wrong, but she was ready to work on it.
"I'm heading out if you're set."
"Sure, have a good night."
"You too. See you tomorrow." She flicked off the light switch, lifted her backpack to her shoulder and left.
"Anything?" She turned at the sound of the voice at the doorframe.
"Nah," she said as she logged off. She slapped her hands on her knees and rose from the chair.
"What do you actually like about..." she began, gesturing to the monitor.
She didn't have a ready answer and stopped to think about it. Nothing tangible, she thought with a sigh. She shrugged her shoulders and walked into the foyer to get her backpack. She called over her shoulder while unzipping the bag.
"When is the class tomorrow? I have to figure out when I'm seeing my brother..." She paused, sensing the eyeroll behind her. "I don't know. There's just a good person there. OK?"
***
The desk and chair were your typical metal and wood affairs, pieces that had grown rickety with semesters of use. She assumed students needed cushions for the seat during the academic year, as her lower back always began to ache after only a couple of hours sitting.
The off white walls looked yellow in mid-afternoon light that passed through two filters - first through leafy branches outside, then through dust-speckled windows. A small box fan whirred in the corner as it tried to cool the room, but succeeded in little more than rustling thin white sheets on a creaky metal-framed twin bed. On occasion, a small dust bunny would shift on the old wooden floor. Neither she nor the staff had made an effort to sweep the floor. She wasn't going to be there long enough to be concerned; to them she was a fleeting summer guest who should be too focused on the work to care about dust. She just wore her sandals and it worked out fine.
Despite the discomfort, she was sitting on the desk chair. The Dave Matthews Band CD she'd purchased several hours earlier had been accompanied by a DVD, and she was enjoying the built-in luxuries in the computer she'd purchased for the trip. She'd never had her own DVD player before.
She periodically glanced away from the screen to the open window. The college campus setting was familiar and disjointed at the same time. A few months prior, she'd been one of the older ones, nestled in a townhouse. Now she was re-relegated to the dorms, one of the few students among a group of professionals. When she was busy and didn't have time to think about it, she moved along with energy and enthusiasm. She hadn't been lying to everyone at home, she was loving the experience.
But it was her one day off and she had nothing to do. The other members of her program were catching up on sleep, having lacked the preparation for the experience she'd gained in New Hampshire and Washington.
It was her first opportunity to process this surreal environment, and her first chance to feel alone.
She turned back to Dave and company for a few minutes before jumping at the shrill sound of her cell phone's ring. She quickly glanced at the screen and picked it up immediately after seeing the Boston area code. Must be one of her best friends, she thought with a smile. We'd joked about sharing a brain, but Jesus. She'd managed to pick right up on the loneliness. Thank God someone had been thinking of her - she'd needed to know that.
She pressed a buttom and placed the phone against her ear. Her voice echoed in the small, sparse room.
"Hello?"
She was pleasantly surprised.
***
She clicked send, then checked the message for typos (she knew doing so after the fact was pointless, but always did it anyway). She straightened the Red Sox beanbag figurine next to her monitor and turned off the computer.
"All done," she said, first at the dark screen, then at someone across the room.
She didn't want to admit that she'd been wrong, but she was ready to work on it.
"I'm heading out if you're set."
"Sure, have a good night."
"You too. See you tomorrow." She flicked off the light switch, lifted her backpack to her shoulder and left.
4.05.2005
Suspension of disbelief
He told us to call him Pete, as A.R. was only his professional name. I smiled from my seat in the audience, thrilled that I was actually in the same room as the playwright whose work left me in tears the previous summer.
The subject turned to "Love Letters," and I inched forward in my seat, anxious to hear his thoughts on the piece.
He chuckled to himself as he seemed to recall a memory.
"I'd finally purchased a computer and was trying to figure out how to use the word processor program," he said slowly. "I started typing out a letter, just to get used to the program, the keyboard. One led to another and I realized that I was starting a dialogue between two characters. I continued it and made it into a play. And that play was 'Love Letters.'"
My jaw dropped slightly, much as I tried not to let it.
"So yes. I wrote the play because I was getting used to working with a computer."
I chuckled with the rest of the group, but remained amazed. The play that made me laugh before it made me cry was originally a typing exercise? I didn't know whether it confirmed his brilliance or made me feel like I'd been suckered.
I bought the play this weekend and reread it for the first time since the summer I discovered it. Even with this backstory in my mind (and, for confirmation, in the playwright's introduction to the collection), I was equally moved by the play. Once again, I thought of how I wanted to see a production - and that it was one of the few plays I'd actually want to be in.
You know what I think is wrong? These letters. These goddamn letters. That's what's wrong with us, in my humble opinion ... I don't know. All I know is you're not quite the same when I see you, Andy. You're really not. I'm not saying you're a jerk in person. I'm not saying that at all. I'm just saying that this letter-writing has messed us up. It's a bad habit.
Sorry, sweetie, but it looks like the telephone wins in the end.
I highly recommend it. And the collection I bought includes "The Golden Age," which I'd never read before and just fell in love with. One of those plays that you can tell reads better on the page than it would on the stage, but what a read indeed.
No, I didn't mean to rhyme that much.
Gurney just makes me smile. And laugh, thinking that my introduction to his work came with the swagger and strut of a mesmerizing actor who seemed the modern day incarnate of James Dean...
"Everyone has a festival story."
----------
In other news. During yesterday's sleeping in, lounging around, reading and otherwise resting, I rented "Closer." Big surprise, I know. But that's irrelevant.
The point? Read the play. The movie was fascinating, although I was right about Natalie. But I yelled at the television at the end.
The subject turned to "Love Letters," and I inched forward in my seat, anxious to hear his thoughts on the piece.
He chuckled to himself as he seemed to recall a memory.
"I'd finally purchased a computer and was trying to figure out how to use the word processor program," he said slowly. "I started typing out a letter, just to get used to the program, the keyboard. One led to another and I realized that I was starting a dialogue between two characters. I continued it and made it into a play. And that play was 'Love Letters.'"
My jaw dropped slightly, much as I tried not to let it.
"So yes. I wrote the play because I was getting used to working with a computer."
I chuckled with the rest of the group, but remained amazed. The play that made me laugh before it made me cry was originally a typing exercise? I didn't know whether it confirmed his brilliance or made me feel like I'd been suckered.
I bought the play this weekend and reread it for the first time since the summer I discovered it. Even with this backstory in my mind (and, for confirmation, in the playwright's introduction to the collection), I was equally moved by the play. Once again, I thought of how I wanted to see a production - and that it was one of the few plays I'd actually want to be in.
You know what I think is wrong? These letters. These goddamn letters. That's what's wrong with us, in my humble opinion ... I don't know. All I know is you're not quite the same when I see you, Andy. You're really not. I'm not saying you're a jerk in person. I'm not saying that at all. I'm just saying that this letter-writing has messed us up. It's a bad habit.
Sorry, sweetie, but it looks like the telephone wins in the end.
I highly recommend it. And the collection I bought includes "The Golden Age," which I'd never read before and just fell in love with. One of those plays that you can tell reads better on the page than it would on the stage, but what a read indeed.
No, I didn't mean to rhyme that much.
Gurney just makes me smile. And laugh, thinking that my introduction to his work came with the swagger and strut of a mesmerizing actor who seemed the modern day incarnate of James Dean...
"Everyone has a festival story."
----------
In other news. During yesterday's sleeping in, lounging around, reading and otherwise resting, I rented "Closer." Big surprise, I know. But that's irrelevant.
The point? Read the play. The movie was fascinating, although I was right about Natalie. But I yelled at the television at the end.
Massachusetts Avenue
I was handed the most beautifully created caramel skim latte and marvel at the lovely convergence of black and white into, well, caramel.
"It's changed since you found out," she says as she blows the steam rising from her takeaway cup of hot cider. She's sitting with her back to the window, oblivious to the mass of cars passing by the coffeeshop.
"Yep," I reply before taking the first sip from my pint glass (Pint glass! Of coffee! I love Central Square, I love coffee, concerts and Saturday evenings!).
"It's subtle, but the change is there. Someone who knows you, someone who's been reading for a long time? They can see the exact entry where it changes."
"The one after I found out," I offer.
"Yes. And you didn't write about finding out."
"Like I usually would." This latte is divinity in a glass.
"Exactly. Which is understandable, of course. Because that changes things."
"It does. It did, actually. Because you know I would have written about finding out shortly after finding out."
"You usually do." She blows more steam. I notice she had maybe taken two sips of her hot drink and then remember that she likes her hot drinks cooler than I.
"But by writing about finding out, I would be describing finding out and then that would give away more than I want to." I appreciate the fact that we can make references that would make no sense whatsoever to the uninitiated observers. Good friendship is composed of infinite obscure references.
"But by not writing about finding out, you're letting finding out affect what you let out. I don't blame you, I'd probably do the same thing. But I just noticed."
"I'm working on it. It's just hard. I'm used to knowing that I know the ones I know and I don't know the others. And then one of the others..."
"...becomes someone you know." Knowing nod.
"Exactly. And saying whatever about whatever suddenly becomes that much more difficult. Makes me wonder who else could be."
"How do you feel about that?"
"Torn."
"Much like Natalie?"
"Just like Natalie. I mean, I though it could happen, but I thought I'd feel differently about it."
"How so?"
"I thought I'd get answers."
"And you're not?" I arch my eyesbrows as I look across the table. "No, you're really not. So do you think you still will?"
I stare at the wall beside me. Mocha-colored wainscoting.
"And there," she says, taking a long sip of her now-tempered cider, "is the dilemma. You don't think you're going to learn anything new. But you don't want to think you won't. So you're just going with it and aren't going to stop anything."
I sip my latte silently for a few moments. "Part of me wishes I didn't know. Part of me is glad that I do. Part of me thinks that there's some reason why it feels like a big deal, but part of me thinks I should just write it off and be done with it."
She smiles.
"I know it sucks," she replies. "Change of subject. Lovely wall, isn't it? I've always love wainscoting, haven't you?"
I've never been a fan of it myself.
"It's changed since you found out," she says as she blows the steam rising from her takeaway cup of hot cider. She's sitting with her back to the window, oblivious to the mass of cars passing by the coffeeshop.
"Yep," I reply before taking the first sip from my pint glass (Pint glass! Of coffee! I love Central Square, I love coffee, concerts and Saturday evenings!).
"It's subtle, but the change is there. Someone who knows you, someone who's been reading for a long time? They can see the exact entry where it changes."
"The one after I found out," I offer.
"Yes. And you didn't write about finding out."
"Like I usually would." This latte is divinity in a glass.
"Exactly. Which is understandable, of course. Because that changes things."
"It does. It did, actually. Because you know I would have written about finding out shortly after finding out."
"You usually do." She blows more steam. I notice she had maybe taken two sips of her hot drink and then remember that she likes her hot drinks cooler than I.
"But by writing about finding out, I would be describing finding out and then that would give away more than I want to." I appreciate the fact that we can make references that would make no sense whatsoever to the uninitiated observers. Good friendship is composed of infinite obscure references.
"But by not writing about finding out, you're letting finding out affect what you let out. I don't blame you, I'd probably do the same thing. But I just noticed."
"I'm working on it. It's just hard. I'm used to knowing that I know the ones I know and I don't know the others. And then one of the others..."
"...becomes someone you know." Knowing nod.
"Exactly. And saying whatever about whatever suddenly becomes that much more difficult. Makes me wonder who else could be."
"How do you feel about that?"
"Torn."
"Much like Natalie?"
"Just like Natalie. I mean, I though it could happen, but I thought I'd feel differently about it."
"How so?"
"I thought I'd get answers."
"And you're not?" I arch my eyesbrows as I look across the table. "No, you're really not. So do you think you still will?"
I stare at the wall beside me. Mocha-colored wainscoting.
"And there," she says, taking a long sip of her now-tempered cider, "is the dilemma. You don't think you're going to learn anything new. But you don't want to think you won't. So you're just going with it and aren't going to stop anything."
I sip my latte silently for a few moments. "Part of me wishes I didn't know. Part of me is glad that I do. Part of me thinks that there's some reason why it feels like a big deal, but part of me thinks I should just write it off and be done with it."
She smiles.
"I know it sucks," she replies. "Change of subject. Lovely wall, isn't it? I've always love wainscoting, haven't you?"
I've never been a fan of it myself.
Outbox
To: Flatmate
Subject:Let's face it...
...you knew as well as I that I wouldn't go to sleep
before finishing the book. That said, I write this at
1:56 a.m., with (and I'm serious about this) a black
thumb from the pages.
It was good. But I learned a valuable lesson.
When I write my first novel, I'll have it published,
tweak it and then have it re-published so it appears
on the NYT Bestsellers list for EONS and captivates
a world.
Yep, that's my plan.
K, g'night.
V.
Subject:Let's face it...
...you knew as well as I that I wouldn't go to sleep
before finishing the book. That said, I write this at
1:56 a.m., with (and I'm serious about this) a black
thumb from the pages.
It was good. But I learned a valuable lesson.
When I write my first novel, I'll have it published,
tweak it and then have it re-published so it appears
on the NYT Bestsellers list for EONS and captivates
a world.
Yep, that's my plan.
K, g'night.
V.
4.03.2005
"There's always a MOMENT."
Required (well, suggested) reading for tonight's post: Closer, Patrick Marber*
Two hours after I finished reading the play, I watched the Sox trail the Yankees, 6-1 in the bottom of the sixth. With two outs, my eyes widened and moved to the vase of flowers across the living room.
Was that why I got it?
I remembered lying on the grass in July, staring at the clouds while I listened to the argument in the distance. I winced as her voice rose and his words became a series of unfinished sentences. James, there for my moral support, squeezed my hand as she started to shout.
I was tired of it. I didn't want to be part of it anymore, but I didn't feel like there was a way to get out of it. The whole distorted mess of confusion had fused together into an unyielding series of conflicts. It was a drama in which we found ourselves with leading roles.
But we liked it. We needed to feel important. And much as I tried to ignore this at the time, I realize now that I really could have broken away from it. I chose not to, instead plunging in more deeply. And as her voice became more shrill, there was a small part of me that actually felt good about it. She was scared of me and what I could do. I had gotten to her and screwed things up, just as she had ruined it all for me before.
We all claimed to be friends. We were a group of smartass college kids home for summer in a small town and we were all brilliantly dysfunctional as a gang. But the truth was that we hated each other. Each of us wanted to hurt everyone else more than they hurt us. It's the only explanation for why it continued as long as it did - two summers and nearly three semesters of distance-dulled torment.
She and I each wanted to use his affections to hurt the other and win the competition. He wanted us to hate each other because of him. The brothers just wanted to pick sides and cheer us on. And she and I both wanted him to pay for it all.
It was the only time I have ever felt I had a rival - the only time I competed for the affections of a guy. And it wasn't worth it in the least.
We all lost. I spent nights in front of my computer, crying at the vicious messages sent to me from unknown sources - and I missed out on months getting to know the bystander who eventually became my closest friend. She went off into a series of troubles, only some of which, I think, stemmed from this particular chaos. He lost two years and a lot of trust from a relationship with the woman he'd eventually marry.
Once I dug my way out of it, I realized I was fine. I hadn't cared about any of the particular players after all. They were just there the same time I was - and I'd been naive in thinking we were well-intentioned.
But I still tensed up when my flatmate and I ran into her last fall. She was behind us as we walked downtown, and she called out my friend by name. I froze when I heard the voice; her eyes were similarly wide and frightened as we engaged in polite, slightly strangled conversation. When the silence arrived, she scurried off, looking back once as she turned the corner.
I know I learned from it, but I, like everyone else involved, wound up with scars. I hate to think about it. I've taken the lessons learned and tried to ignore the context in which they came. But I wonder if that's why I have such a hard time trusting; why I build these stupid walls.
And I wonder if that's why I'm wondering now if I was an 18-year-old Anna or Alice. And hoping that I'm just being too hard on myself; that I was actually neither.
*I should note that I've not seen the film version. Although that will likely change tomorrow. It's really a brilliant, mindfuck kind of play that I highly recommend reading. But I don't see how Natalie Portman could really nail the Alice role. Sorry, I like her, but it's true.
Two hours after I finished reading the play, I watched the Sox trail the Yankees, 6-1 in the bottom of the sixth. With two outs, my eyes widened and moved to the vase of flowers across the living room.
Was that why I got it?
I remembered lying on the grass in July, staring at the clouds while I listened to the argument in the distance. I winced as her voice rose and his words became a series of unfinished sentences. James, there for my moral support, squeezed my hand as she started to shout.
I was tired of it. I didn't want to be part of it anymore, but I didn't feel like there was a way to get out of it. The whole distorted mess of confusion had fused together into an unyielding series of conflicts. It was a drama in which we found ourselves with leading roles.
But we liked it. We needed to feel important. And much as I tried to ignore this at the time, I realize now that I really could have broken away from it. I chose not to, instead plunging in more deeply. And as her voice became more shrill, there was a small part of me that actually felt good about it. She was scared of me and what I could do. I had gotten to her and screwed things up, just as she had ruined it all for me before.
We all claimed to be friends. We were a group of smartass college kids home for summer in a small town and we were all brilliantly dysfunctional as a gang. But the truth was that we hated each other. Each of us wanted to hurt everyone else more than they hurt us. It's the only explanation for why it continued as long as it did - two summers and nearly three semesters of distance-dulled torment.
She and I each wanted to use his affections to hurt the other and win the competition. He wanted us to hate each other because of him. The brothers just wanted to pick sides and cheer us on. And she and I both wanted him to pay for it all.
It was the only time I have ever felt I had a rival - the only time I competed for the affections of a guy. And it wasn't worth it in the least.
We all lost. I spent nights in front of my computer, crying at the vicious messages sent to me from unknown sources - and I missed out on months getting to know the bystander who eventually became my closest friend. She went off into a series of troubles, only some of which, I think, stemmed from this particular chaos. He lost two years and a lot of trust from a relationship with the woman he'd eventually marry.
Once I dug my way out of it, I realized I was fine. I hadn't cared about any of the particular players after all. They were just there the same time I was - and I'd been naive in thinking we were well-intentioned.
But I still tensed up when my flatmate and I ran into her last fall. She was behind us as we walked downtown, and she called out my friend by name. I froze when I heard the voice; her eyes were similarly wide and frightened as we engaged in polite, slightly strangled conversation. When the silence arrived, she scurried off, looking back once as she turned the corner.
I know I learned from it, but I, like everyone else involved, wound up with scars. I hate to think about it. I've taken the lessons learned and tried to ignore the context in which they came. But I wonder if that's why I have such a hard time trusting; why I build these stupid walls.
And I wonder if that's why I'm wondering now if I was an 18-year-old Anna or Alice. And hoping that I'm just being too hard on myself; that I was actually neither.
*I should note that I've not seen the film version. Although that will likely change tomorrow. It's really a brilliant, mindfuck kind of play that I highly recommend reading. But I don't see how Natalie Portman could really nail the Alice role. Sorry, I like her, but it's true.
4.02.2005
Mango Margaritas, et al.
With my mind on magaritas, margaritas on my mind...
The server dropped our plates, so last night's Mexican debauchery was on the house. After splitting three pitchers of margaritas among the three of us (you do the math), we were more than easy to satisfy with apologies. The non-existant bill made it all the better. Congratulations, folks of Mexican restaurant, your kindness just won you soon-to-be repeat business. Drop our plates any time you wish.
It was the first genuinely warm Friday evening of the year, and downtown streets were thronged with people equally anxious to get outside and enjoy evening air finally above freezing temperatures. The restaurant was full of patrons raising glasses to their lips and, in one case, falling backwards in chairs mid-conversation (no, that wasn't at our table, thank you very much). We laughed and drank and discovered the marvel that is the mango margarita (my new favorite, as raspberry sulkily descends to second place).
After a lengthy dining experience, we walked around, buzzing and giddy to be able to play outside again. Laughter was infectious, conversation alternated between the in-depth and fanciful. We weren't ready to say goodnight to Friday yet, so somehow wound up walking out of a bookstore with bags of new reading material (Beth's observation: "Some people pass out. Others cause mayhem. We buy books while buzzed. Go figure"), including, in my case, the results of perusing the theater section. My own copy of "The Invention of Love" (I still curse myself for not taking up Clint's offer to attend the DC performance during my first national ACTF) an A.R. Gurney three-play collection ("Love Letters" remains one of my favorite plays) and, in fiction, "Get Shorty" and a Nick Hornby-assembled collection of short stories that features a story by Colin Firth. Amazingly, I decided not to pick up Beck's new album because I didn't want to spend too much. Hmm.
On the walk home, we made our predictions about whether the Pope had passed away during our evening revelry. Beth and I both said yes, Chuck said no. We decided to put a wager on it and, upon arriving home, discovered that he continued to cling to life. So Beth and I had to do a shot each. My B52s were deemed a success.*
As I laughed and walked through the evening, occasionally breaking out into a round of "Na na na na na na na na"s from "Catch My Disease," I realized that this is what I've been waiting for - the opportunity to feel young, happy and among friends. And while I continue to work on changing some of the particulars in my life, I felt for the first time in awhile as if I would be content with this for a bit, if nothing else changes in the immediate future. It's all about making the best of things from time to time.
And with margaritas, friends and the promise of continued entertainment for the duration, I can come up with something quite nice to make of it.
*Considering my previous post, the latest on myspace and this reference, I feel the need to clarify that I have the utmost respect for the now deceased pontiff. While I am technically a non-practicing Catholic, John Paul II is the only Pope I've ever known and an extraordinarily resilliant one at that. I have come as close as I ever really come to praying on several occasions during the last few days - always hoping for a peaceful death for him after the sacrifice and suffering he has undergone.
The server dropped our plates, so last night's Mexican debauchery was on the house. After splitting three pitchers of margaritas among the three of us (you do the math), we were more than easy to satisfy with apologies. The non-existant bill made it all the better. Congratulations, folks of Mexican restaurant, your kindness just won you soon-to-be repeat business. Drop our plates any time you wish.
It was the first genuinely warm Friday evening of the year, and downtown streets were thronged with people equally anxious to get outside and enjoy evening air finally above freezing temperatures. The restaurant was full of patrons raising glasses to their lips and, in one case, falling backwards in chairs mid-conversation (no, that wasn't at our table, thank you very much). We laughed and drank and discovered the marvel that is the mango margarita (my new favorite, as raspberry sulkily descends to second place).
After a lengthy dining experience, we walked around, buzzing and giddy to be able to play outside again. Laughter was infectious, conversation alternated between the in-depth and fanciful. We weren't ready to say goodnight to Friday yet, so somehow wound up walking out of a bookstore with bags of new reading material (Beth's observation: "Some people pass out. Others cause mayhem. We buy books while buzzed. Go figure"), including, in my case, the results of perusing the theater section. My own copy of "The Invention of Love" (I still curse myself for not taking up Clint's offer to attend the DC performance during my first national ACTF) an A.R. Gurney three-play collection ("Love Letters" remains one of my favorite plays) and, in fiction, "Get Shorty" and a Nick Hornby-assembled collection of short stories that features a story by Colin Firth. Amazingly, I decided not to pick up Beck's new album because I didn't want to spend too much. Hmm.
On the walk home, we made our predictions about whether the Pope had passed away during our evening revelry. Beth and I both said yes, Chuck said no. We decided to put a wager on it and, upon arriving home, discovered that he continued to cling to life. So Beth and I had to do a shot each. My B52s were deemed a success.*
As I laughed and walked through the evening, occasionally breaking out into a round of "Na na na na na na na na"s from "Catch My Disease," I realized that this is what I've been waiting for - the opportunity to feel young, happy and among friends. And while I continue to work on changing some of the particulars in my life, I felt for the first time in awhile as if I would be content with this for a bit, if nothing else changes in the immediate future. It's all about making the best of things from time to time.
And with margaritas, friends and the promise of continued entertainment for the duration, I can come up with something quite nice to make of it.
*Considering my previous post, the latest on myspace and this reference, I feel the need to clarify that I have the utmost respect for the now deceased pontiff. While I am technically a non-practicing Catholic, John Paul II is the only Pope I've ever known and an extraordinarily resilliant one at that. I have come as close as I ever really come to praying on several occasions during the last few days - always hoping for a peaceful death for him after the sacrifice and suffering he has undergone.
4.01.2005
PopeWatch
Throughout the day:
"He is still holding on. Clinging, I believe, is the most-used expression for it."
"What's the latest?"
"Nothing...wait! CNN reports that Italian media reports that he died."
"Wow. The Pope died."
"The tryptech is complete. Schiavo, Purdue, the Pope."
"Who would have thought those three would be together?"
"Wait - now Reuters is saying he's not dead. Mistake. Misunderstanding. Something."
"Oh. So he's not dead yet."
"Nope. He feels happy."
"How do you know he's not dancing around in his apartment to the Spice Girls?"
"Oh, dear God. Image. Thanks."
"Any word?"
"They redacted the death announcement. Vatican's saying he's still alive. People in the square. Lot of praying."
"Where are we at with JP2?"
"No one knows, but no one's said he's dead yet."
"Here's the latest - they're saying the Pope is still clinging to life."
Everyone's keeping one eye on the television or Internet news sites. People will go about their day-to-day for a few minutes and then revert to the PopeWatch. Everyone wonders when it'll happen. Some are sighing when I comment on how this will be my first Pope death.
"26 years of JP2. 24 years of V. You do the math."
"24. Jesus Christ."
So many around the world remain fixated on the light in two apartment windows in Rome...
"He is still holding on. Clinging, I believe, is the most-used expression for it."
"What's the latest?"
"Nothing...wait! CNN reports that Italian media reports that he died."
"Wow. The Pope died."
"The tryptech is complete. Schiavo, Purdue, the Pope."
"Who would have thought those three would be together?"
"Wait - now Reuters is saying he's not dead. Mistake. Misunderstanding. Something."
"Oh. So he's not dead yet."
"Nope. He feels happy."
"How do you know he's not dancing around in his apartment to the Spice Girls?"
"Oh, dear God. Image. Thanks."
"Any word?"
"They redacted the death announcement. Vatican's saying he's still alive. People in the square. Lot of praying."
"Where are we at with JP2?"
"No one knows, but no one's said he's dead yet."
"Here's the latest - they're saying the Pope is still clinging to life."
Everyone's keeping one eye on the television or Internet news sites. People will go about their day-to-day for a few minutes and then revert to the PopeWatch. Everyone wonders when it'll happen. Some are sighing when I comment on how this will be my first Pope death.
"26 years of JP2. 24 years of V. You do the math."
"24. Jesus Christ."
So many around the world remain fixated on the light in two apartment windows in Rome...
Per tradition...
Oh what a shame that your
pockets did bleed on St. Valentine's
And you sat in a chair thinking
"Boy I'm such a Prince!"
Well life's a train that goes
from February on day by day
But its making a stop on April First
And you will believe in love
And all that its supposed to be
But just until the fish start to smell
And you're struck down by a hammer...
This morning, as I drove downtown, same as always, I waited behind several cars preparing to turn. A SUV approached and, I noticed with shock, a large white dog with a shaggy coat was more than half hanging out a rear passenger window. Its legs were pumping and, I realized, it was in the process of climbing/jumping OUT OF THE MOVING CAR. And it was attached to a long red leash.
It finally fell/lept to the ground just as the car passed on my left side and I shrieked, thinking somehow the dog would wind up bouncing off my car and getting hurt. It came damn close, but handed on its feet. The driver didn't notice at first, so the dog tried to keep up with the car, as it was still connected to the leash that was obviously connected to something inside.
The driver stopped about 15 feet after, getting out of the car and shooing the dog into the back. It looked like its right hind leg had been injured, as it was limping slightly. Driver got the dog inside, looked sheepishly about, then climbed back inside and drove off quickly. The drivers of cars around me stared with jaws dropped as much as my own.
Seriously. I coudn't make this stuff up.
pockets did bleed on St. Valentine's
And you sat in a chair thinking
"Boy I'm such a Prince!"
Well life's a train that goes
from February on day by day
But its making a stop on April First
And you will believe in love
And all that its supposed to be
But just until the fish start to smell
And you're struck down by a hammer...
This morning, as I drove downtown, same as always, I waited behind several cars preparing to turn. A SUV approached and, I noticed with shock, a large white dog with a shaggy coat was more than half hanging out a rear passenger window. Its legs were pumping and, I realized, it was in the process of climbing/jumping OUT OF THE MOVING CAR. And it was attached to a long red leash.
It finally fell/lept to the ground just as the car passed on my left side and I shrieked, thinking somehow the dog would wind up bouncing off my car and getting hurt. It came damn close, but handed on its feet. The driver didn't notice at first, so the dog tried to keep up with the car, as it was still connected to the leash that was obviously connected to something inside.
The driver stopped about 15 feet after, getting out of the car and shooing the dog into the back. It looked like its right hind leg had been injured, as it was limping slightly. Driver got the dog inside, looked sheepishly about, then climbed back inside and drove off quickly. The drivers of cars around me stared with jaws dropped as much as my own.
Seriously. I coudn't make this stuff up.
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