Ask away - but no, I don't dig the crazy frog

I have no idea if this will actually generate anything, but figured it could be fun, as I've seen it on some other spaces and has wound up being really interesting.

I'm turning this over to you for the moment. You being anyone who comes across this space. Technically it's supposed to include three questions, but I'll bring it down to one - or how ever many you feel like asking. You can ask anything you want and I'll post my completely honest answers accordingly.

I've done this a couple of times in the past with little response, but damned if I'm not optimistic about round three. Consider this the one chance to make me answer what you want to know. Post questions in the comments section and we'll go from there.

In other news. Beth introduced me yesterday to the craze that is the "frog ringtone." "Axel F" by Crazy Frog is the ringtone-turned-dance-single that beat out Coldplay for the number one spot on the UK singles chart. We listened to the ringtone. And the song. And watched the video. And I must ask this:

What was the creator on when he thought of that?

Admittedly, we had it in our heads for much of the rest of the day. But I could just imagine being in London and suddenly hearing that "Brrrrrrrrrooooooom" cut through the air, with more than a hundred Londoners reaching into bags and pockets for their mobile to see if they're ringing.

I'll take my homemade "Stretch" ringtone, thanks.

And, finally, in still other news. W. Mark Felt has supposedly said that he is/was Deep Throat.

A novel notion

I threw the ten of clubs onto the pile and held up my two remaining cards. "Trivia." I pointed my hand at Mewes, the guy who reminded me so much of Kevin Smith's Jay that I couldn't help but refer to him accordingly.

"Give me two names this guy called Michelle tonight."

"Jen and Sarah," K said, just as Mewes exclaimed, "Matilda and Mary!" Fair enough, one card each and I was VP again.

We moved to the back porch after Mewes accepted that he was once again the asshole. It was late, despite our attempts at ignoring clocks with beers, cocktails and cards. Everyone else in the neighborhood seemed to have given up for the night.

I liked being here, surrounded by trees and the thrill of being in an unfamiliar space. I hadn't been to Maine since I was too young to remember. K said it wasn't really the Maine of stereotypes, prompting me to jokingly refer to this part of the state as "New Hampshire Lite." But whatever it was, I was enjoying it.

Mewes made an offhand, drunken remark that sent me to the porch step in laughter. As our giggles tapered off, he looked at me. "Where did you come from?"

"Our girl's a writer," Michelle said as we went through the chain of events and friendships that had led me to this house. There were years of backstory, so we gave the synopsis. I mentioned that I was, among other things, a writer who wanted to pen a novel as soon as I figured out what the story should be.

"Write about this, man," Mewes said with a grandiose sweep of hands. He took in the sight of black branches on royal blue sky, rustling leaves and a multitude of cars parked in the driveway. "Up late, lots of beers and everyone's getting ready for the day ahead."

Profound moment aside, he headed back in for his beer.

The weekend would make for an amusing read - for me, at least. An expanding cast of characters made their mark, worthy of a paragraph or several pages. It would include music and dancing before blue-light-swathed band members in a brick and hardwood space. A caboose and the bagels that came from it. Cape Codders and catchup conversation until sunrise followed by missed exits and the return home in time for bagpipes at a holiday barbecue.

It would be a good story. Maybe Mewes had a point.

Hot damn.

I haven't had my full first name sung out to me in years.

I needed tonight.

What it is.

He was drinking Red Stripe, and the bottle bounced up and down as he leaned to his right to engage in conversation.

He was standing next to me on my right. One would have thought I would fight to keep that space on the floor, after the multitude of "what if" scenarios I'd laughed over before.

Instead, I turned to my left and tapped M on her shoulder. "You want a drink?" She nodded and I made a brief trip to the bar. Corona for her, vodka cranberry for me. The bartender smiled as I left an extra tip. I wanted karma to keep looking out for me.

I returned to my spot, handed M her bottle. Sunk my lime wedge into the crimson drink and used the straw to trap the fruit beneath the ice. When I looked back to my right to see how the conversation had progressed, he turned and leaned toward me slightly.

Krackel-clunk. He toasted the glass bottle against my plastic cup. Quick smile.

It felt like an understanding. It was a pleasure to be in his company, and I was comfortable standing nearby. He seemed cool. Quiet. I liked that I wasn't overwhelmed by him; I loved that I wasn't unnervingly impressed.

But I hadn't gone there for him and I wasn't going to stand idily by. I had quietly, casually made it clear that I felt comfortable enough around him to walk away.

Cheers.

An Exercise - 2

TIRED TECHNOLOGY: Our second challenge was to raise the contestants' "geek cred." We wanted to hear about fond memories regarding obsolete technologies used and loved by our remaining 11 contestants without it turning into "who had the most obscure toy" but a competition to create the most compelling and entertaining post.

"Can we look at him?"

I smiled and nodded as I reached down to open my backpack. The thin, turquoise binder was kept in the same place each day, as I wound up pulling it out to show others each morning during homeroom. The only thing that changed was the thickening mass of photo album pages between the covers.

"Here he is."

Jennifer leaned over my shoulder as I turned to the front page, and we titled our heads upon taking in the wide eyes and dimpled chin. Sigh, sigh.

"He's so cute," Jennifer breathed.

Jonathan Gregory Brandis, born April 13, 1976 in Connecticut. Mother Mary, father Greg. Only child, got his start in commercials and moved out to California. "Neverending Story 2," "Ladybugs," "Sidekicks." And now, "seaQuest DSV."

The scrapbook documented several months of my collection cultivation. BOP magazine, BB (Big Bopper - better pinups) - I'd even forayed into "16" and "TeenBeat" territory. And I didn't like those magazines. But I wanted pictures and articles on Jon.

He was the eighth grade class crush - each of the girls sighed over him. We arrived at school each Monday morning ready to discuss the previous night's "seaQuest" episode and even went so far as to pass around the "sQ" novels that had been published. We had it hard.

I had every article or photograph of him I could find. Until Jenn reached into her backpack this morning. "Do you have this?"

She pulled out a folded piece of thick glossy print (creaselines across his face? Horror!). I judged from the texture that it must be a Bop or BB shot - no other magazine used such nice stock. She paused for a moment, then unfolded.

He lay on his stomach, his chin resting on folded hands. The blue of his shirt and the background brought out the color in his eyes, and his hair was the color of sand, cut into the long, bowl-cut style he used during "sQ"s first season. His smile was small and closed.

He looked absolutely gorgeous. I'd never seen such a great shot of him.

"Wow, he looks so cute," I said, leaning forward. "Where did you find it?"

"Just around," she replied offhandedly. Bitch wasn't going to tell me. I closed my scrapbook in annoyance.

"Well, can I scan it into my computer? I'd love to have a copy."

"Sure, she replied. "But I need it back tomorrow."

I tucked the photo into the binder, being sure to unfold and place it flat.

After class and practice, I pulled the photo out and set it on the desk next to my family's computer. The scanner lay next to the keyboard, off-white plastic the side of an ice scraper. I picked it up, turned it over and checked the button on the left side to make sure it would work. The red light on the scanner sparkled.

I turned on the Commodore computer, waited for it to load and finally opened the drawing program. Selected scan. I felt so technicolgically savvy. No one else I knew had a scanner.

I positioned the scanner on the top left corner of Jon's photo and clicked the button with my thumb. Slow, steady stroke downward. My hands slightly shook, but I made sure not to stop until I reached the bottom of the image. Thumb off the button, look at the screen.

Nice - this pass with the scanner caught Jon's eye. This was going to be easy.

Fourteen passes with the scanner later, I realized I wasn't going to be able to keep my own copy of Jonathan perfection. I couldn't line up the scans, so the left side of Jonathan's nose wasn't in the same place as the right side. The blotchy black and white scan made his skin look sallow, his hair too dark to discern.

It just wasn't working. I hadn't the technology to make the duplication happen. I'd just have to try to find the magazine.

The next day, I gave Jennifer the photo back.

"How'd it work?" she said with a forced casual smile.

I shrugged. "You know, I was going to do it, but then I really looked at the photo," I began, looking back through my collection of images. "And it's actually not that great a picture of him. He kind of looks weird, don't you think?"

She leaned back over the photograph. "He does?"

"Totally. His eyes are doing something strange. I decided I'll just keep the ones I have of him. I like those better."

The bell rang and I hoisted my bag onto my shoulder. As I prepared to enter the hallway, I turned back. Jennifer was frowning as she looked at the photo. I chuckled and headed to class.

An exercise - 1

Beth discovered the site for "The Ultimate Blogger" this evening and, naturally, made sure to make me aware of it. Basic premise for those less link-prone: A series of "assignments" judged in a series of eliminations. Think "Survivor: Blogdom."

While I can't be considered for the actual competition, I thought the premise was interesting and have decided to do one entry a day, following the assignments. Thought it would be interesting to see what I come up with. So, that said, here's the first assignment. And let me preface my post with the fact that this was damn difficult - but necessary - to write.

VAPID VITTLES: We started off the competition referencing some of the worst blog-posts out there; the ones about food.

Popping the pill had been no problem, the same process undertaken the previous four nights. No side effects had surfaced yet, although I was looking forward to the next night's venture into Adams Morgan. Caroline had told me I was completely safe drinking alcohol on this medication and, in fact, would gain an advantage: instant lightweight!

Nestled under the covers of my bed, I realized I wasn't tired. Read a book. Did some writing. Felt unusually warm, so got out of bed to turn on the fan. Thought about calling a friend until I realized it was after midnight. Finally, with a resigned sigh, I turned off the lights, rolled over and closed my eyes, hoping the rest of my body would take the hint.

Then I tried to swallow.

Two years later, and I've still little to compare the sensation to. It started as a tickle in my throat. Within what felt like seconds, it became a sore throat, a swelled throat and, as I tossed and turned, a boa constrictor wrapped around my neck. I turned the light back on and sat up in panic.

In a couple of minutes, I wasn't going to be able to breath. My cheeks were flushed, my forehead burned and my mouth was completely dry. I wasn't going to be able to breath.

(I should note that my one persistent fear has been strangulation. And here I was, about to inadvertently suffocate myself. Great.)

I picked up the phone and dialed. Two rings before a muffled voice picked up on the other end.

"Muhm? I cand swallowe. I thdind der's someding wrong wid me."

"What's wrong?" As if I could carry on an in-depth conversation at that point - and as if she would understand anything I was saying.

I muddled through a muffled synopsis. Something was wrong with my medicine. It hadn't done this before. My roommates were asleep, I was going to die on the phone with my mother and I was scared shitless.

"Have you tried drinking some water?"

Actually, no. Good idea.

I kept the phone cradled against my ear as I walked into the bathroom and turned on the light. My face was pale, save a red splotch on each cheek. My eyes looked unusually bright and wide as they stared back at me.

"Muhm, I'm really freaded oud."

"Drink some water."

I did. It went down, but accomplished nothing. It only made my throat burn worse.

"Did you take too much of your medication tonight?"

"Doed id madder righd now? I did whad she told me do do. I thind I need do go do da hodpidal."

I crawled back into bed, wishing my mother was in the room with me so she could hold my hand. I'd missed home before, of course, but tonight realized how distant her voice sounded on the other end of the conversation. She couldn't get to me now if she wanted to - and she wouldn't get to me now that I needed her to.

This is when the tears came.

"Shh, it's going to be fine," she said in her special mother voice. "Do you have any popsicles?"

"Dno. I thind maybe my roommades do." Why the hell would I have one of those? I didn't eat that kind of stuff anymore. Apples were dessert. Healthy, natural fruit. None of that artificial sugar shit.

"OK, listen to me." She spoke slowly and deliberately. I wanted to tell her that I was suffocating, not losing my hearing, but realized I'd have to repeat myself numerous times before she could decipher my words. Not worth the effort. "Go into the kitchen, get a popsicle and come back to bed. Eat it and you'll feel better. If you don't, call me back. Actually, if you do, try calling me back before you go to sleep. I'll wait up."

"Oday."

"I love you. You'll be alright. Be calm. Call me back."

I hung up and began crying harder. I couldn't have a popsicle. It was after 9 p.m.

Ah, there's the rub. In order to counteract this reaction to the medication, I needed to eat more food than I'd expected that day. But I was taking the medication because I was scared to death of eating more food.

I hadn't exercised extra that day. I wouldn't be able to exercise more the next day because I was going out that night. Unless I went out a little later. Or woke up extra early.

I decided to not eat the popsicle. I rolled over and forced my eyes closed.

Half a minute later, I was creeping through the dark hallway, across the living room - tripping over the damn armchair for the upteenth time - and into the kitchen. I sighed upon seeing the box of frozen fruit bars.

Hey, it was all natural. Frozen strawberries and juice. This wouldn't kill me.

I scurried back through the darkness and jumped into bed. Unwrapped the fruit bar and stared at it a moment before taking a bite. If I was doing this, I would get it over with as quickly as possible.

I felt the cold ice move down my throat, past the scratches and the dull ache. But it didn't do anything to make the pain go away. Another bite, followed by another, until I was left with only a wooden stick.

For five minutes, I cried the hardest yet. It hadn't helped and now I had all these unnecessary calories in my body.

Finally, the realization. My throat felt slightly better. I cleared my throat tentatively. My voice sounded husky, but improved.

I dialed the phone. "Mom, it's me. I'm OK. And sorry. Sleep well. I love you."

"Call me tomorrow. I love you. Bye."

"Bye."

I placed the phone carefully on the nightstand, turned out the light and rolled over.

I'd just do an extra 50 crunches the next morning.

Count to ten.

I made my parents take me to Dr. December*. I remember screaming and crying, the jagged sensation of pain in my right arm. I was hurt and I needed my doctor and my parents to take care of me.

I don't remember the actual checkup, but my father tells me that I was a shrewd one. When the doctor asked me to move my arm to see if it hurt, I lifted my left arm straight to the sky. When he stopped laughing and asked me to move my right arm, I refused, cried some more and asked my dad to hold my hand.

He wrapped my arm in an ACE bandage and sent me home, where I lay on the couch in glory. My right arm was propped on a pillow, trusty Baby-Baby (my favorite doll) nestled in the crook of my left arm. My mother and father were attending to me, and the little mass of human that had invaded my territory six months earlier finally wasn't the center of attention.

I was three years old and I'd just pulled my first large-scale jealous sibling diva fit. Petty? Of course. But I was so offended and incredulous about a perceived snub that I needed to do something to make my presence known.

Twenty-one years later, I watch as yellow parcels are handed out throughout the room. Their contents are trite, but they take on increased significance because I am one of the few to not receive one. Suddenly, the cheap mass of plastic and metal becomes more important than the sum of their parts.

I'm offended and incredulous about a perceived snub. And, much to my surprise, I feel a desire to throw a fit and make my presence known.

I decide to go for a walk instead. As I'm now responsible for covering the cost of delusional doctor's visits.

*His name was actually Dr. Ecember, but a three-year-old's logic naturally results in a new, calendar-friendly name.

The Engine Driver

And I am a writer, writer of fictions
I am the heart that you call home
And I've written pages upon pages
Trying to rid you from my bones
- The Decemberists

Unavoidable Entendre

Sometimes the situation arises in which one realizes any attempts at describing an event is going to involve phrases that could be misconstrued. When faced with this conundrum, one can either choose not to follow through with the description or one can embrace the snicker potential.

That said, I was one of hundreds of people who wound up on their knees for Colin Meloy last night.

I wasn't feeling well yesterday evening and had decided not to attend The Decemberists show at Higher Ground when the clock hit 9 and I was hit by an overwhelming need to not waste my already-purchased ticket. I walked out of my apartment with the announcement to my flatmates that I would be home by 10.

And returned at about 11:15, holding an Instant Live copy of the performance and raving about the set.

So much for extra sleep.

A jam during "The Chimbley Sweep" brought the drummer to the mic, Colin to the drums, the upright bass to the electric bass, the electric bass to the upright and the violinist to her knees in the middle of the stage to pick at the guitar with her teeth in true rock violinist form. After everyone reclaimed their places on the stage, they followed her suit and descended to their knees. And then the front row, the second row and the third row knelt. We all followed their lead - which is why I found myself in the unexpected (EVER) position of kneeling on the floor at a show. As the tempo picked back up, the crowd jumped back up, screamed and danced about.

Hope it was as good for them as it was for me. Mmmhmm.

Mind the beat and the book

White hat, white shirt, white jacket, white skirt, white shoes. The brightness contrasted the drab gray sidewalk and dark skies. Small and slightly stooped with age as she approached the club I was entering, I assumed she was walking to her home on one of the side streets nearby. I turned back to climb the first of several sets of stairs.

Leaning against a wall on the second floor, I bobbed my head in time to the familiar verses that I'd never before heard live. As I sang along, a mass of white caught my eye and I turned to see her cross in front of the stage. I noticed J also following her progress with his eyes - he seemed as surprised and pleased as I. I lost track of her for a few minutes until I saw her descend down the stairs.

After the set and a series of hellos, toasts and congratulations, I moved to the first floor, where I saw her sitting alone on a bench, directly below the space on which I'd been dancing moments before. She was reading the Bible and nodding her head in time to the beats pulsing from upstairs. I passed quietly.

During another pass, she continued to read, but also danced in a circle by the bench. Her shoulders were swaying back and forth, I imagined, at nearly the same rate her eyes moved across the page.

We'd waved to the taxi a few hours later when she walked up to us. "Did you girls have a good evening?"

We looked at each other in surprise. "Yes, ma'am, thank you." Recitations like well-trained schoolchildren.

Mrs. Jones said she was glad we'd enjoyed ourselves. She asked where we were from and said she hoped we would have a fine weekend. Our replies during this brief exchange were short and succinct, with "ma'am" tacked on to the end of every phrase. The courtesy came naturally in her presence.

She raised a hand only slightly weakened by age and walked away, rounding the corner as we began to smile in surprise.

Double Shots

And the Zig-Zag Tour comes to a close.

My mind is tempted for fuse the weekend's various components into the span of a single day. B explained how "It's hard to be a gangsta with a basket on your bike" shortly before The Brunettes delivered their last song with Olsen twin masks and then Blake threw grapes and apples into the crowd shouting, "THE PEOPLE NEED FRUIT!" And we capped the night off with the world's most comfortable armchairs in an impossible-to-find club.

Now that I'm sitting in one place, with nowhere I need to be for the rest of the day, I marvel at what one can fit into two and a half days when one throws common sense logic to the wind.

Two Bushwalla performances Friday, Rilo Kiley Saturday, Rilo Kiley Sunday. The entire weekend passed in bundles of two, and I found myself relying on adrenaline and double-shot lattes to get through it all.

I'll say that B is fabulous, I'm still singing a Christmas-y song, Rilo Kiley in my hometown brought me joy and the inclusion of "Pictures of Success" and "A Better Son/Daughter" brought a fitting end to the madness.

And that there are a few more shots on my Flickr - and I'm exhausted.

Zig Zag

It's when you find yourself with anecdotes galore that you realize you've neither the time nor desire to stop the swirl of sights and sounds long enough to get it all down.

Rilo Kiley's at Avalon tonight - coincidentally, I shall be there as well...

27

My parents are celebrating their 27th wedding anniversary today. On every May 20 since I was in high school, I've spent at least a snippet of the day trying to imagine how things were back in 1978 - how my mother felt as she looked into the mirror wearing her wedding gown, what my father was thinking as he saw her walking down the aisle.

I am, of course, never able to really succeed in this challenge. It all becomes a series of snapshots in my mind - those photographs I stared at over and over when I was little, looking through their brown leather wedding album. But I think about it nevertheless, smiling myself while thinking of their posed grins. Mom's smile beams in these photographs, while Dad's closed-mouth smile looks ready to burst.

They were both so happy that day - and my mother sounded happy (albeit a little incredulous) when I called to wish them a happy anniversary this morning.

"I can't believe it's been this long," she said.

Ah, love.

In other news. I find it amusing to think of where I was a year ago today - in Boston for Jason Mraz's "Tour of the Curbside Prophets." This year, I'm preparing to go to Massachusetts for another SD musician. Good times are almost guaranteed.

And how about that "CSI" finale? Sweet Jesus, that was incredible.

Happy Friday...

Yeah yeah yeah

We sat at a metal table in the sunshine, sipping our iced lattes and relaxing. We were recounting our professional hours when B put her latte down and looked at me with wide eyes.

"I sent you the BEST story today!" she exclaimed. "I can't wait for you to see it!"

"Ooooookaaaaay," I replied, having been out and about all morning. "Are you going to give me a hint?"

"It's about how you're a yuppie." Admittedly, she phrased this differently. But that was the basic message. Me. Yuppie.

I replied in the only way any proud individual could.

"I so am not!"

She smiled smugly. "If you blog."

"Shit."

"If you listen to The Postal Service and The Arcade Fire."

"Uh oh."

"If you saw 'Garden State' three times in the theater."

Three strikes. I was out.

And thus I slunk back to work, logged into email and read the offending (well, no, actually pretty damn funny) story.

For the record, however, I couldn't afford NYC rents, as the article states, and go to these rock shows.

I spend too much of my money on the rock shows to be able to afford that kind of rent.

Whoops.

My normal Massachusetts-related anecdotes are in short supply, as I've been Boston-trip-less for the longest span in months. I'll be back in the city during the first weekend in June (on my agenda: stopping by the Gaiety site, candlepin bowling - contact me for details, and a concert - whee!), but that will mark over a month, maybe even five or six weeks, since the last time I navigated my car onto 93.

Never fails.

Massachusetts Friday night, back to Vermont for Rilo Kiley on Saturday.

Ryan next weekend in Portsmouth.

Weekend plans are beyond intriguing. Now I just have to wait until the weekend actually arrives...

Pretty much.

I planned to take both of the posts I wrote earlier in the day and consolidate them into a single post, under the umbrella theme of my loss of English comprehension.

Then I accidentally deleted the first post before said consolidation could occur.

Fitting, no?

Things have been strange. Not bad, not sensationally grand, but strange. Communication with others has proven more difficult as of late than I might normally expect - I tend to be good at chatting with people. Not this tripping-over-words mass of person I've been since Sunday. It's a little unnerving, and I'm not sure of its cause. Grace has never been my particular strong suit, but I've always had at least enough to get by.

I realize, of course, that most of my latest musings have been music-related and, while that's a theme throughout most of the e-thinking I've done here in the past, it's really the main subject these days. I'm not sure of how I feel about it.

On one hand, I'm thrilled to have so many things to look forward to, so many experiences to capture. But I imagine one must wonder what the hell else is going on with me. Are shows really it?

My normal Massachusetts-related anecdotes are in short supply, as I've been Boston-trip-less for the longest span in months. I'll be back in the city during the first weekend in June (on my agenda: stopping by the Gaiety site, candlepin bowling - contact me for details, and a concert - whee!), but that will mark over a month, maybe even five or six weeks, since the last time I navigated my car onto 93. Normally I'd be going stircrazy by now, but it's felt pretty good to be busily moving through the weeks in my now hometown. It all falls under my efforts to make the most of where I am now - a place currently shrugging off the embrace of college students and colder weather. Like countless other twentysomethings, I am ready to reclaim the downtown with my post-collegiate contemporaries and have begun staging blissful reunions with the cocktails and locations I normally avoid during the academic year. This city town is a completely different entity when the three schools roll into lethargic summer sessions - and I enjoy it infinitely more.

Work is work, as it always is. And it shall remain a shadowy figure in my writings, as I'm wise enough to not mention it in the day-to-day stories. But I continue on as always - and I deem that sufficient enough for you to know.

I'm preparing to renew my lease on the multi-colored apartment I've made with my two flatmates, thus marking the first year since high school in which I will not be moving to a new space. I hadn't realized how accustomed I'd grown to the annual shift in scene until I realized it would not be occurring this year. It really does feel like home, and I'm determined to bring shelves, paint and other renovations to the place.

But these are all continuous things/issues/whatever in my life, the things I might make reference to on occasion, but rarely devote my full attention. Really, the music scene is the ever-shifting entity - and it continues to improve on a near-daily basis. I'm happily thinking of how it will be to see Coldplay in Montreal in August, with the opening act of Rilo Kiley (Rilo Kiley twice in months? Delightful!), and preparing to make my way to the HG box office to pick up another round of tickets (Decemberists, Ben Lee, perhaps Improv Asylum). I feel that roadtrips to new locations could be in my future in the coming months, particularly after the Philly close call that prompted my mother (who I foolishly thought of as a voice of reason) to say with surprise, "You're not going? Screw it, go and have a crazy weekend!"

The federal government won me over today with a check from Uncle Sam, and I'm putting it in the bank, earmarked for a otherwise unexpected roadtrip somewhere this summer. Music-related, but other than that, I've yet to determine precisely what the details will be. I'm open to suggestions.

And that's that, really. I'm doing well and I've been keeping myself moving. And it appears that, with this, I may have strung together my first coherent string of sentences in several days.

Go figure.

Raffle, anyone?

My father is putting the finishing touches on the 5th Annual RMH Golf Tournament, the proceeds of which will go to benefit the Ronald McDonald House of Burlington. The tournment will be held on May 23, at which point, winners will be drawn for the annual raffle.

Raffle, you say?

Yes, I reply.

Among the assortment of local business gift certificates and whatnot, lucky winners can be drawn for:

- Two tickets to Fenway Park, to see the Boston Red Sox take on Cincinatti on June 13
- An autographed Trot Nixon baseball
- Two tickets to the Pocono 500 NASCAR race

I'm launching a short (week-long) e-campaign for those interested in buying tickets or otherwise helping a good cause. Are you interested?

Tickets are $2 when purchased individually or 3 for $5.

A chance to see the Sox for $2 and helping out a good cause?

Hello.

Contact me if you're interested in helping out and we can work things out. Thanks to anyone who helps!

Notown Philly

Congratulations, kids - some of you have played a role in the most random start to a week in V history. The whole series of unexpected events began while I was unconscious at 4 a.m. this morning, as B discovered that one of the only things on television at that time is "The Fresh Prince of Bel Air."

Be prepared, Philadelphia becomes a theme here.

I became aware of the bizarre nature of the day upon logging onto my email and discovering a "friend request" from one of those online networking sites I know and love so dearly. I get a number of these on a regular basis, mainly from musicians hoping I check out their sound, but this one was from an actor - namely, the actor who provided the highlight of my 20th birthday with a surprise email (after my then-director informed him that he was my favorite member of the traveling troupe that had just returned to town for a couple of shows). This also makes him the actor with whom I played phone tag during both of my ACTF festivals before meeting up after a performance of "Romeo & Juliet."

Then I notice a particularly interesting vistior (or, rather, domain name) to this little space here. To that visitor, I say this: can I come work with you?

THEN I decide to see if I can rearrange things in June, as I decide it's time to make my first visit back to Maine since I was too young to really remember. Averi, Todd "Would you like me to spill your drink too?" Martin and Syd. I'm still playing around with this idea.

I decide to call my newest concertgoing partner in crime to see if she'd be game for a trip to Maine and whine about the lack of Bushwalla that will be in my life this week. Can I go to a show Friday? "Only if he's opening for the Ryan Montbleau Band at Higher Ground."

And then, I hear of a show that I would normally hop into the car and make a crazy roadtrip down for. A show in Philly. A show that would make for endless misadventures of the best variety.

That occurs on the same night my favorite national band will be playing in my hometown for the show I have been thrilled about for months and for which I have a gaggle of friends coming together.

Thus rendering the crazy road trip moot.

It's going to be an incredible weekend that I want to arrive as quickly as humanly possible. But the fates have to throw something my way, reminding me that no matter how much I plan, how much I am looking forward to something, there's always the chance of something else that I have to say no to.

Fucking fates.

But overall, I've felt a change in the air as of late. I feel as if there's something exciting around the corner, waiting to arrive. As if I should walk around saying "It's all HAPPENING," because the forces coming together for something grand.

I'm just not sure of what it is just yet. And I've never been good at being patient.

Be there in my stead.

Bushwalla

May 19
Western Front
343 Western Ave, Cambridge

At the Roots Rock Hip Hop show
Hosted by L.A./Boston band Libra Project
9:30 bushwalla
Cover: $5
Ages: 21
Doors: 9pm-1:30am

Just sayin'

Consider this a Casa de Racca pop quiz question.

Of the three members of Casa de Racca (B, C and V), which was the only flatmate to NOT do any of the following over the course of a Saturday:

A) Walk into a room and exclaim, "Damn Chad! I have him stuck in my head and I can't get him out!"
B) Decide to see what audio wonderment awaited when one plays both the audio player on Averi's website and myspace - at the same time.
C) Follow that up with one song - in a round.
D) Spend an avid amount of time reading the message board.
E) Break the contended silence of dinner preparation with "I fell asleep at the wheel the other night - DA DA DUNAH."
F) Sit down at the dinner table with "How 'bout those Averi fans, eh?"
G) Serve as DJ for a musical journey down memory lane by playing "Flutter," "Mouth Full of Sand," and the opening six seconds or so of "For Better Or Worse" - on repeat so one could hear the door slam numerous times.
H) Exlaim "IT SOUNDS LIKE HE'S WEARING TAP SHOES!" after repeats of previously mentioned intro.
I) Find it necessary to play "Bitches Ain't Shit" (both the original Dr. Dre version and Ben Folds' cover) to get song from aforementioned Boston band out of one's head.

If you answered "C," you would, surprisingly, be wrong. If you answered "B," you obviously either don't know my flatmates at all or are in need of more of an introduction.

If you answered "V," may I say, "Liar. There's no way you thought I wouldn't do any of these, because I've been pegged the silly band fan of this household." Then I'd pause for a moment and say, "Thank you, now do you see how I've gotten the bad rap as the silly band fan of this household?"

The only thing I would possibly admit to, in this case, is being guilty of association. As in associating with such knuckleheads, endearing as they may be.

Well, that and to the fact that I did wind up dancing across the kitchen as the karaeoke rendition of "MFS" was being performed.

In other news. After threatening us all weekend, the rain finally descended early this afternoon, with the sudden burst and perpendicular descent of movie set rain. I suddenly found myself scampering to my car, the dots of precipation on my trench coat becoming streaks and, ultimetly, splotches of darker-colored fabric. Had I not been carrying a bag of items I'd have preferred to keep dry, I probably would have slowed my pace and enjoyed the feeling of the water. Spring showers are not the kind that get me down.

It's subsided for the most part as I write this, but the sight of hazy gray skies and dripping ledges has convinced me to stay indoors until the festivities that drove me outside in the first place. I was reminded today of how difficult it is to select a card for someone you don't know particularly well - but want to impress with wit and candor so there remains a chance that you can get to know the person better. Hmm. Conundrum. I think I handled it appropriately.

Lewis Black performed at the Flynn last night - started off ranting about the state's questionalbe cell phone signal capabilities and went from there. Amusing to be sure, downright hysterical a couple of times and overall worth the price of admission. I don't understand the point of someone warming up the crowd and then breaking for intermission, but perhaps that's just me. I still found myself giggling and grinning throughout, so who am I to question?

For now, a rented movie ("Stage Beauty"), t-shirt making project (it had been too long and it seems an appropriate day for it - fun with iron-ons! I know, suchadork) and the preparation of my famous-to-a-select-few favorite summer dish.

Ah, Sunday.

(NOTE: I'm going to have details for three concerts in Boston this week posted as soon as I get the details. I know they're lined up for Wednesday, Thursday and Friday - and that they are concerts that San Diego music scene-loving fools will not want to miss. Bushwalla. Venue unknown to me at the moment.
The last-minute nature of these shows and the fact they fall in the middle of the week - with the exception of Friday, which is already known as "Ryan Revelry Day" in Vermont - means this SD music scene-loving lass will not be able to attend. Which is why I yelled in my car upon hearing the news yesterday and why I considered just how impossible it would be to leave work, drive to the show, sleep for maybe 3 or 4 hours and then drive back to Vermont for work the next day (with this coming weekend, I had to deduce that that might, in fact, kill me).
But if enough others go - and you'll want to - perhaps I'll feel like I'm there in spirit. Or I'll just spend portions of Wednesday and Thursday night playing "Sessions" and pretending I'm there. Whatever.)

And this is why...

...I love Cameron Crowe.

Looking for something else, I happened across C^2's official site this afternoon. Upon examination (as I'm a bit of a Cameron Crowe junkie), I find the online journal he kept for the filming of "Elizabethtown," a movie I've been anxiously awaiting for months upon end.

Something happens in that hall of trees. Call it the music, or just the growing internal life of Orlando as Drew, but in one take this young actor’s whole working life seems to take a leap. It’s one of those breathtaking moments you dream of in a movie – and I hope I’m not jinxing it by writing this – but watching it, a whole raft of feelings start to well up. I can feel my dad, my own family, all the intentions of the script, start to come together. And when the take is over, Orlando bounds back with a soul full of oxygen and excitement and pride. He knows it, too. It’s a truly great moment, and we move onto the bridge. More greatness follows. I can’t help it, some tears squirt out as I watch Orlando walk proudly back down the bridge. Looking around, I’m not the only one dabbing tears.

This is why Cameron Crowe is an amazing filmmaker, writer, music-lover - this is why I always look forward to seeing his work, reading his old stories and following his process.

This entire journal is just incredible. Check it out if you get an opportunity.

Neah.

I spend my days with words, I spend my evenings with words and I spend the time in between trying to come up with words.

So let's say the wordsmithing proves particularly difficult on a given day. And there's not enough time in the evening to play around with the language. I just decide to say screw it, cut my losses for the day and catch up on my Tivo-ed television after I go for a walk.

Where do I decide to go to get away from the word-induced annoyances of the day?

Bookstore.

Where I buy a novel about writing a novel. And Christopher Durang plays.

Can't win.

I can still smell butterscotch toffee

It seems predetermined - the second week of May will involve a second-floor club, an abandoned one-drink policy and walks home that suddenly shift direction.

French fries eaten with forks taste better at midnight and my car karaeoke deliveries of Blues Traveler harmony finally paid off. And, while it started out with groans of "this is how it started last year," I woke up this morning feeling just fine. It started out the same, but with a different ending. Thank God.

Although the scent of butterscotch toffee lotion had persevered through three sets, drinks, karaeoke, sleep AND a long shower.

Damn you, Simpson.

Here goes.

I consider this the first of several leaves to be turned over.

I had been regarding tomorrow as a Big Day, but I'm kicking things into gear a little earlier than I'd expected. This afternoon was marked by a move away from something that I can't exactly say I've loved, but has been a consistent part of my life for, well, a long time.

So I said goodbye to that as I stood in the first warm rain of the year. And I can say that it felt grand.

On June 12, I will treat myself to this. (See "Power to the loveful.")

In early July, I will treat myself to this. (See green.)

And so on and so forth. Rewards, baby.

I'm coupling this with my blossoming pattern of going for (at the moment, decidedly wimpy) runs and other wise life decisions. And as I tackle each of these challenges, I'll move on to a new one. Maybe I'll be able to kick some other less-than-ideal habits as well.

Baby steps.

The calm

I'm off to get coffee, take a deep breath and then dive into a day that will likely race by until early evening. At that point I will consider getting some more coffee, take a deep breath and dive into a night that will likely race by until I make my way home.

Wish me luck.

In other news. I somehow completely missed the fact that Steve Poltz is going to be at the Paradise Lounge on Friday night. I half-considered a whirlwind trip to be able to finally see him perform, but then remembered my whole "being sensible" attempts and regretfully set that aside.

However, I encourage anyone who can go to do so. His music makes me laugh. In a good way. And anyone who writes a song called "I Killed Walter Matheau" and covers TLC's "Waterfalls" is damn good in my book.

I will also readily accept phone calls from this performance. Hint, hint.

And, finally. It's been over a year now (haha) since Averi performed in Burlington. Residencies are great and all, but pretty impossible for the working types to make the trip to a show. How about a date in northern Vermont or a weekend show that one could actually get to without having to take off a day of work or whatnot?

Hmm. Ponder that, get back to me or tell me who to write. Thanks.

On this date in history...

At this point one year ago, I had a headache, no idea of when or where the show was taking place and little inkling that a two-day hangover would set in the next day.

This was right before things moved from strained to downright awkward, but well before the emails showed me I needed to stop trying to figure people out.

It seemed appropriate, I decided, that we should celebrate the realignment of performers, venue and concertgoers with a shot of Red Death. B and I strolled over to the bar and placed an order for a pair of them.

"Does that have Jagaermeister in it?" We quickly changed plans. Kamikaze shot, it is.

The bartender placed shot glasses on the counter as she and I chatted about the opening set, the lineup difference and what changes a couple of years could make. It had felt strange to be back here in this environment, with more backstory and knowledge. The headlining band was pretty decent, fun to dance to, and that the lead singer had gone around the club introducing himself was a nice touch.

We turned back to the bar to see three shots waiting patiently. Hmm. A quick glance to the left and we saw the musician who had been filling in for the missing member of the opening band (the band we'd come to see) for the past several weeks. With a smile and an introduction, we offered him the shot. He took it with a smile, we toasted and we tipped them back.

We'd planned on one shot. Single. Solitary. No more for our needing-to-be-up-in-the-morning selves.

But it winds up getting a little hazy from here on in.

Conversation with him was easy. He was outgoing and funny, and we were ready to laugh. When he heard that we weren't new to his temporary bandmates, we began trading anecdotes about shows, musicians we enjoyed, Boston, Vermont, whatever. The conversation became that much easier when he returned the favor and bought the next round. The third round was on me, the fourth was on the other band member who seemed to appear out of nowhere, chat with me briefly and disappear.

By this point, the bartender was serving our shots with large glasses of water. We were goofy drunk, laughing about the lake and the fact that D was quickly becoming one of our favorite members of the band. He needed to become a permanent member, we decided. B marched over to several of the other band members to enlighten them. I remained at the bar, refusing to look at the musician with whom I'd originally hoped to chat. He was the only to not briefly join our little party.

The evening seemed to stretch on for hours upon end until the headlining band wrapped up their epic-length set (we discovered the next day that we drank much faster than we'd thought) and it was time to go. We made our way to the stairs and began to descend when I realized I'd never said goodnight to the musician I'd wanted to talk to. I turned carefully and marched back up the stairs.

(I don't remember this. I was told about it the next day, as we both sipped water, recounted the evening and pieced together the bits we each had forgotten.)

We went back down the stairs and out the door, deciding to go for a walk toward the lake. We changed direction upon realizing it would take quite a walk to get there and instead walked back past the club and toward home. I fell at some point, tearing a small hole in the knee of my jeans that were, from that night on, dubbed Kazi Jeans. We made it back to the apartment mostly intact and collapsed in our respective rooms. The logical action of drinking water was too difficult, so I fell into vodka-soaked sleep knowing it was going to hurt the next morning.

And hurt it did.

The best of times, and worst

I'll sit and stare at an empty notebook for several hours, starting and stopping a story over and over again. The flatmates that witness these evening exercises in patience and tenacity grow accustomed to the sounds that emerge - the angry scratch of a pen scribbling over abandoned words, followed shortly thereafter by the flip of the notebook page. For some reason, a clean page seems more condusive to writing something that will stick. I'll use these marred pages later - I'm not quite as wasteful as it sounds - but I'm not one for jumping all over a page while reading a draft.

When I'm fully alert, I doubt my instincts. I'll want to change a word or a phrase a few sentences after I put it on paper and then the flow is lost. I forget the concept of editing later and just getting the thoughts out. A hiccup in the process screws that process over.

Frustrated, I'll ultimately give up for the night, cursing myself all the while for imagining myself a writer. I'll recall snippets of an essay on writing that left me incensed because the author said that if the writing doesn't come easy, don't do it because you're not a writer.

(At these moments, of course, I conveniently forget all of the other quotes on writing out there that state how difficult it is for everyone. This is a self-doubting, self-pitying mood that allows no attempts at commiseration.)

So at this point, I'm angry, tired, frustrated and ready for sleep. I toss my notebook onto the pile of others next to my bed and crawl beneath the covers, turning my body toward the wall and away from the offending notebook. I turn off the lamp and close my eyes.

And lie there. Thinking about what I've been trying to write. Watching little stories play out in my mind and realizing I'm doing the writing without the notebook. I haven't the energy to doubt myself, so the words finally come.

I turn on the lamp, roll over and pick up the notebook. I'll lean on my left elbow and place the notebook on the pillow and start scribbling away. The phrasing is unpolished, and I might scribble out a word or two, but I realize I have to get as much of it down as I can before this bit of weary ambition drains out of me.

It's only when either my hand starts to ache or my eyes start to close that I'll regretfully put the notebook back on the floor, turn off the lamp and again close my eyes. Hoping as I drift to sleep that I'm able to pick back up where I left off.

I know I'll be tired in the morning (and subsequently reset my cell phone alarm clock to play the snippet of "Stretch" every ten minutes for the hour and a half I'd intended for an early-morning run and languid preparation for the day), but I finally feel like I'm accomplishing something. It's working.

A memory, a winner and a problem

One
My original copy of the mp3 had been lost among the shuffle of computers and hastily-burned and misplaced CD-RWs full of music files. By the time I might have thought to find a new copy, my New Mayer aversions had disuaded me to even think about seeking his music out. I was being innundated on the radio, why seek it out on my own?

But I smiled fondly upon hearing the plucky intro and husky vocals last night. I'd asked him about this recording.

He was describing David Gray and the manner in which the music touched him. I leaned forward and rested my elbows on the table as he described the final lines of "Say Hello Wave Goodbye." "When he gets to that," he said, breaking into song to sing my favorite line, "it just gets you right here. He's amazing." He tapped his hand against the chest over his heart. "So you're a fan of his too? What's your favorite song?"

"Mmm..." So many to choose from. "'Sail Away?" Nope. 'Shine.'"

"'Shine!'" He crossed his hands over his chest and nodded approvement. "You're an old school fan! I like it."

"Now, I know you covered 'Babylon,'" I said, prompting him to chuckle and stretch out his legs. The chair was already placed back from the table so his ridiculously long legs were able to stretch out. "People couldn't stop talking about it."

A slow smile spread across his lips, and I had to force myself to think about something other than how good-looking he was. "It was kind of a one-time thing," he said. "See, most of the time, with covers, I don't even go near songs that someone just put out. It's a respect thing. And David just put 'Babylon' out, but when you hear it, you just know it's an instant classic. It's going to be around for the long term. So I gave it a shot."

"How'd it work out?"

"He can do more for it than I can, that's for sure." The three of us - Michelle, John and I - laughed. "But I still do it during soundcheck every once in awhile. Who knows, maybe I'll have to bring it out tonight." I grinned as he wiggled his eyebrow.

After the conversations about Count Chocula and "Your Body is a Taco Stand" - and after he insisted that I tell him just how I found his music on Napster ("The one time being narcissistic paid off," I commented), Michelle and I stood by the bar. We'd planned to wait outside until the doors opened, but Steve told us to stick around - John had put us on the list, so we could hang out and relax until showtime.

As we discussed our relief over a successful interview, the amusing anecdotes that had come from it and exclamations of "Holy shit, I couldn't believe how hot he was as he walked toward us," I heard familiar guitar notes and whipped my head toward the stage. John was watching us with a smile and chuckled as my eyes lit up. I mouthed "thank you" and blew him a kiss as he continued to effortlessly pluck away at that intro.

Two
I was able to keep my laughter to a minimum as I ordered my batch of tickets, only remarking that my 12-year-old cousin had better LOVE ME for this.

I bit my lip as Beth made her ticket request and felt my face turn red with the laughs I supressed until we walked out of the box office.

"Hold on, I've got to make a call," I said, chuckling on the sidewalk. I dug my cell phone out of my bag and dialed.

"Mom? Hey. You know how I joked about getting front row tickets for KC & the Sunshine Band and The Village People so you could throw things on stage? Well, funny story..."

Beth laughed as my mother delightedly groaned on the other end of the phone call. "Well, we WAITED to order them! We didn't think it would be front row, but you can't really pass that up," I said brightly into the phone. "Concert rules. Don't say no to the front row."

The laughter continued as Beth and I walked up the street. She had tickets to the two-family "Mother-Daughter Fest 2k5" in her bag. I had tickets to "Best Cousin Ever Fest 2k5" in mine. We had just semi-voluntarily gone out of our way to buy tickets to Clay Aiken (August 29) and Disco Night (September 2). I decided that our response was one resultant from being in shock.

"I'm praying that there are good shows right before and after that week," Beth said.

"Higher Ground had better not let us down. 'Cause we look like real winners today," I replied.

Three
I sat down at my computer and began to type and hum to myself. "Bitch can't hang with the streets..."

Damn you, Beth. And damn you, Ben Folds.

It had started to plague her earlier this morning, after an attempt to "start off the morning right." The piano melody weasled its way into her head, leaving her humming the chorus over and over throughout the day, she told me.

"It's such an offensive song. It really is," she lamented as we walked down the street during our lunch break. "But it's hilarious because it's Ben covering Dr. Dre and he makes it sound pretty!"

I laughed at her because my busy morning had prevented me from even thinking of the song.

But upon my return, it hit me. "It's real conversation for your ass..."

This was going to be a problem.

Quote of the night

M Squared describing what the scene will be like when B and I go with her to KC & the Sunshine Band AND (yes, there's more!) The Village People:

You'll be seeing all these older ladies shaking their booties around. Consider it a chance to look into the crystal ball for when you two go to see John Mayer when he's performing in a wheelchair.

Yep. Pretty much. Shake your groove thang...

This 'n' That

Wednesday's excursion to Metronome for Syd, Todd Martin and Matt York has the potential to bring together quite the motley crew of people. If you know what's good for you (that being the chance to be around similarly-minded music knuckleheads ready for fun), be sure to be there. And be there early - 6:30 start. It's going to be a good time.

Let's get it out of our systems at the onset, shall we? Repeat after me: V, you are suchadork. No, not just "dork." Suchadork. This is one of the few times I'll allow such sentiments, one of the even rarer occasions when I'll actually agree with you. My defense? I don't have an iPod yet.

Now that that's out of the way, I'll begin. Thanks to my continuous patronage with my wireless phone company, I abandoned my trusty cell phone for a newer, niftier model. With camera/video capabilities I don't really need but are amusing to play with - not to mention a reason to abandon the often cringe-worthy electronic bips trying to pass for cellphone ringtones (hey, I love some of 'em, but have you ever listened to the Ringster version of "The Remedy"? Or worse, "No Such Thing"?).

See, I've been known to be a bit of a ringtone junkie. I held off from the downloading craze for a long time, as I knew I'd get sucked in. Then, sure enough, I take a look at Ringster and next thing I know, I've got tones ranging from "Fraggle Rock" to Frou Frou. With "Rock the Casbah," "Whip It" and Matt's "Sad Songs" somewhere in the middle. It got ugly.

One would think, therefore, that the possibility of actual TrueTone rings would terrify me. Imagine all that money going down the drain, just so I can have a Sony-approved snippet of Tori's "Wednesday" or Ray Lamontagne's "Trouble." Both of which happen to be available, for the record.

Instead, I've eschewed most of the available ones (with the one exception of Jeff Buckley's "Last Goodbye" because, well, it's Jeff Buckley, dammit) and have begun to tap into the (equally addictive) process of creating my own. Thank you, creators of Audacity.

Earlier this afternoon, I was making a mini-sized bag of kettle corn in preparation for settling into my empty apartment with a movie (as the weather outside was London-calibar drizzle), when I started subconsciously humming along with Ryan Montbleau's "Stretch," the dulcet sounds of which were coming from the living room. After a couple of seconds, I realized what I was doing, dropped the bag onto the counter and raced through the open doorframes.

"Shit, that's my PHONE!"

The musicians to have made the list thus far are hardly any surprise: Ryan, Averi, Mraz, and Peter.J ("Gin & Juice" - haha!). And, of course, others will come, as I'm enjoying myself working with the audio files and coming as close to sound engineering (admittedly, a far, far cry from it) as I've been since the college theater days. As I hunch over the computer, snipping off fractions of seconds, I'm asking myself again why I never studied more sound engineering and production. And making a note to pick my film major, audio minor college student brother's brain about it. Love it.

Meanwhile, my parents decided to join the cellular world and have just received their first non-Trak (ugh) phone. Which means I've been training them on how to use it; which makes for some amusing-in-retrospect conversations.*

So conversations on the cellular topic during my weekend jaunt home were largely:
V: Hey! I can bypass the whole Get It Now thing by downloading an audio editing program! I'll be able to edit down mp3s, convert them to MIDI and email them to my phone!
Mom: That's great, hun. Now how do I turn this thing on?
(Dad always tries to learn about the new technology, especially after he knows I've become versed enough in it to explain it to him. My mother, however, has no desire to learn about the "gadgets" I enjoy. I believe the cell phone's address book will be the extent of her foray into cellular technology.)**

I'm pleased to report, however, that after some slight technical difficulties (the powers that be at the wireless company screwing up their activation, which only required an hour on the telephone and some stern tones of voice from yours truly), my entire family is now in the 21st century. Cell phone city. Huzzah, huzzah.

To think that I loathed the very concept of cell phones at this time five years ago.

In other news. Yesterday evening was composed of strong oak beams and a large spoke-wheeled window, ducks waiting on the other side of the glass-paneled door and a crackling fireplace. The mist and fog on the mountaintop made the outside world resemble the English moors more than a New England resort, but we each remarked at different points throughout dinner about what a striking backdrop it provided.

A party with people seemingly slightly younger than I was being held in the loft, which we finally decided must be a college graduation gala. Occasional chants could be faintly heard over the pleasant din of glasses and silverware, and we laughed throughout a leisurely meal. Warm honey oat bread, raspberry vinagrette dressings and meals commended and enjoyed by each of their owners. Coffee (tea for one) and dessert - a slice of cake with rasberry and chocolate drizzle for the girls to share, a raspberry ice cream truffle for the lone male (and for the sampling girls).

Leisurely, relaxed and perfect, my mother deduced as she sipped her coffee. "This was great, guys," she said with a smile. "Plenty of time to eat, talk and everything was fantastic. Thank you!"

She was the one being celebrated, so such a favorable response to the trip up Killington served as icing on the proverbial cake.

And to complete the family-focued component of the weekend? My brother took on the Nazis in Boston this afternoon - I received a phone call, in which he described the crowd of several hundred counterprotestors who beat the other group to the Sam Adams statue and later outpowered the white supremacists (very few, he reported) who actually tried to protest.

"Way to go, kid!" I said happily.

"Yeah, it was good to see the way it panned out," he replied. "Yay for lots of people who don't suck!"

Indeed.

*I worked in my college's user support center for four years. I thought I knew how to communicate patiently and effectively with those less read in the electronic/computerized world. But when coaching my father over the telephone through how to attach image files to email includes the following:
V: OK, now where did you save the images to when you transferred them from the camera onto the computer?
D: Where it told me to.
V: And where was that? Desktop? My pictures?
D: I don't know. Shouldn't it just come up for me right away?
You try keeping your voice completely even. Seriously. If you can do it, I'll hook you up with my dad and I'll buy you a drink of gratitude.

**As I finished writing this post, my phone rang (I sang along to Ryan again). I picked up to hear the following: "Hi, it's your mother." Calling from Massachusetts, where they traveled today to visit family. "Can you call your father and tell him your brother missed the train so he's driving to Grandma's? I have no idea of what that number is." I laughed and relayed what I'd just been writing. She burst into laughter and said my assessment of her cell phone intentions was just right.

Freitag

It was an unexpected delight to flip through the pages of a music magazine and discover that a friend of mine from the Kennedy Center days (part deux) has written several articles included in the latest issue. Skyscraper, Issue 18. Check it.

The weekend awaits. I await. It's time for this week to come to a close already.

Bulletins

- Yesterday, as a pair of 12-year-old arms were thrown around my waist, I was reminded of how nice it feels to have someone face suddenly light up upon seeing me. It's hard not to grin a little wider throughout the day when you know someone is that happy to be in your presence.

I was also reminded, however, of just how happy I am to know that the trials and angsty tribulations of the pre-teen years are far, far behind me. The trials and angsty tribulations of the twentysomething years can be equally frustrating, but at least in a more mature manner. Most of the time.

- After a brief, uncharacteristic foray into headline-loving concertdom two weeks from now, I will spend a weekend in June back in familiar territory: going to shows for the openers. The Shore opening for Blue Merle (who I've been chastized before for not having seen yet) on 06.04., followed by Ben Lee (aka stand-on-the-car-hood-and-wave-to-police-during-the-encore boy) opening for Aimee Mann on 06.05.

- Lewis Black next weekend. What more needs be said?

"I can see myself in you"

My sides hurt, my lungs hurt and I was gasping for air. Tears pouring down my face.

The dramatic interpretation performed before me required deft and speedy transition, as the one-person show featured two characters looking at the situation from decidedly different points of view. Beth jumped up for a moment, then fell down to the floor. Back up, back down. She finally collapsed onto the floor in a fit of giggles matching my own.

"That - was - absolutely - brilliant!" I choked out between laughter bursts. I wiped the tears from my eyes as I continued to snicker.

I couldn't recall precisely when or how the idea initially surfaced, but we'd each been threatening to dive into the 20-odd pages of printed lines and lyrics for days. Perhaps it was the sangria that gave us the final push. Regardless, "American Idol" played in the background as we each sat on a couch, stack of papers shuffled in front of us, spiral notebooks on our laps.

It was a quiet process broken only by snickers and exclamations of "oh my god." We both scribbled into our notebooks, aided by lyrics ripe for the mix and match process of picking.

The idea? Create conversations using only the available lyrics. Play around, see what comes out of it.

We each wrote two. Amusing as hell. But B's stole the show. Every lyric from a different song, coming together to form a hilarious, innuendo-laced conversation.

Which drove me to tears.

B took her bow and fell back into her couch. "He's just so angsty."

Random observation

During my tour-leading days in the district-city, I led my lovable little groups into the crypt, where a series of models of the building were displayed in sequence.

Pierre Charles L'Enfant had described the hill on which we were standing as "a pedestal waiting for a monument," I told the various sets of (mostly) attentive ears. And thus, the monument-building had found its rightful place.

There were many times during my time there that I would pause outside one of the endless "front doors," staring out at the plaza in front and mall beyond. I wanted to be sure that I took time to appreciate the view from the pedestal that widened so many people's eyes.

The concept returned to me this afternoon, as I paused at a stop sign while driving through my little town-city. My car was perched at the top of one of the many steep hills, the street ahead sloping down to ultimately reach the lake below. The surface of the water was speckled with waves, but still enough to create a warped mirror image of New York State in the distance. I could see two contrasts of pale blue sky and slate blue mountains.

I take a status check glance at the lake at least once a day during my travels, checking to see if it looks rough or smooth and thus gauging the weather's temperament. I've taken in some gorgeous water views from this perch on the hill, but I can't recall any other instances in which I've seen that clear a reflection on the water.

It made me feel happy to know of this different kind of pedestal and to have the opportunity to appreciate the view it offers.

Bueno

The "Last-minute Odds and Ends Shopping List"
- Red Wine
- Fruit
- Large pitcher
- Chicken
- Green Pepper

In the middle of the wine section at our local neighborhood supermarket conglomerate, Beth and I walked along countless shelves of wine bottles. Shiraz, syrah, zinfandel, cabernet, merlot, cabernet sauvignon, pinot noir.

"What kind do we need?"

I leaned down to look at the label of one bottle of Thirsty Lizard. An appropriately parched reptile held a wine glass while half-climbing a rock. Taste be damned, part of me just wanted that bottle in my home. "Um, the recipe said red. Didn't specify." I picked up the bottle, stared at it wistfully for a moment before setting it back down. "I thought I saw one recipe say Zinfandel, but it didn't specify red or white. And white zinfandel is pretty red on its own, so I don't know." I half contemplated calling Chuck at home to ask which variety he thought would be best, as he's the Casa de Raca wine conosseur.

We'd planned on celebrating Cinco de Mayo, but my pattern of unpredictable hours struck again, rendering me unavailable during prime Cinco celebration time. Rather than abandon the plans, we decided to move it up a day. Quatro de Mayo or, as I preferred, Cinco de Mayo (Observed).

Excited, I decided to apply my culinary skills for the event. DIY Chipotle and, a first for me, home-made sangria.* How hard could it be? Pour in wine, add fruit, sit overnight, serve and revel.

In my eagerness, I hadn't considered the 45 million varieties of red wine. Apparently neither did the recipe writers I found online. Bastards.

The merlot was a no-go - none of us were particular fans of it. The wine I'd brought home previously was no longer there - a pity, as we'd all enjoyed it immensely. Chianti just made me laugh, thinking of "Silence of the Lambs." Several potential bottles were eliminated strictly on the basis of the meal suggestions on the labels. Bacon-wrapped steak fillets? Pepper-crusted steak with pesto? Too much imagination, people.

Beth chuckled while looking at one particular bottle, so I made my way to look over her shoulder. Letters resembling a ransom note. This could be promising.

"It says 'Yo.' On the label. But I can't read much else."

"This is great!" I paused to read on. "OK, this is intense. This bottle has intimidated me. I don't know if we can take it on. At least, not in sangria."

Others had bits of prose and poetry, but didn't bother to inform a potential consumer on the wine's particular notes. I was thrilled to read of Jacob's trip into the mountains, wine-makers. Tell me what the damn thing tastes like. Bye bye.

We finally selected a chianti - I'm facing down my Hannibal Lecter demons - and made our way home, where I would later slice my fruit, pour dark red wine all over it in the pitcher purchased for the occasion and realize, per usual, that I'd forgotten one item on my list (the cruicial Chipotle component of green pepper). The sangria waits for us now to return after a long day's work for some siesta-styled celebration.

*Not to be confused with the Pimp Punch, the incredibly potent hot pink concoction of alcohol, soda and a massive amount of fruit consumed during a certain spring celebration senior year of college.

Save these for a rainy day

Since the Majority of Me

Since the majority of me
Rejects the majority of you,
Debating ends forwith, and we
Divide. And sure of what to do

We disinfect new blocks of days
For our majorities to rent
With unshared friends and unwalked ways,
But silence too is eloquent:

A silence of minorities
That, unopposed at last, return
Each night with cancelled promises
They want renewed. They never learn.
- Philip Larkin

Solace and Pain
I'm so confused by what I have and what I want,
But I can't stand alone without your help
I'm afraid of the truth that I might find
when I look inside myself,
But I can't stand alone without your help
And what once gave me solace, now only gives me pain
I over estimated your emotions again
How easily we can fool ourselves
and see things that just aren't there
Tangle up our emotions until it seems that people truly care
It's been out of my hands now for so long
and there's nothing I could have done
And jealousy's an emotion that I'll have to learn to overcome
And what once gave me solace now only gives me pain
I overestimated your emotions again
Distance and silence, how do they make you feel?
Well they hurt me.
- Matt Nathanson

Sleep, you rogue

After a long, laborious day, I am ready to curl up under my covers with the girliest of girly girl cooling eye masks and some Jeff Buckley, a smattering of Jason Mraz and maybe a little Damien Rice.

Sleep neither would nor could elude me tonight if it tried. I'm completely certain of it.

I earned it. And I will sleep well.

I can deal with this.

I don't like early mornings, but I do like those that stretch languidly into what feels like an extra unexpected hour. Time and consciousness enough to actually carry on a conversation and pick up coffee and a croissant. The thought of "early in, early out" and contemplation over whether it will actually apply to the day.

I'm not sure what prompts this less-than-typically-sour Monday mood, but I have to wonder if the fact that I began a serious writing project plays a part. I eschewed my notebook for the laptop yesterday (this never happens during a major writing project) and I worked through a chapter and a half before deciding to call it an evening.

Sleep, however, was fleeting. I was either reading or staring at the clock until at least three o'clock this morning. So I finished "Sammy's Hill," the chick lit I'd begun reading earlier in the day. Verdict: Passingly enjoyable. Particularly amusing for those who do or have worked in the political realm. DC anecdotes amused me, and memories of HGC (professional eye candy, DC version) and 4 p.m. happy hours (and forgotten 8 p.m. phone calls) were certainly brought to the surface.

A Tomkat Production

"OK, we've got 'Rain Man,' 'Jerry Maguire,' 'The Gift' and 'Wonder Boys.' Let's do this."

Saturday had a drizzly and dreary temperment, offering no enticement for outdoor activity. The recent news from Rome had left us incredulous and, I have to admit, a little creeped out. These two factors combined to create a seemingly natural inclination to lounge and laugh away the time with the Tomkat Movie Marathon.

Now, I've watched "Top Gun" many a time. I've sighed over Tom Cruise's toothy grin and I've certainly appreciated the, ahem, fine things he has brought to the big (and, subsequently, small) screen during his career.

But to learn that he, a 42-year-old, is romancing Katie Holmes - my generation's much-beloved Joey Potter - just seems more than a little wrong. Might not be May-December, but at least May-early October. I've got to think she watched The Blue Scene on repeat a few too many times.

We wanted to understand it a bit and joke about it a lot. The associate at my nearest Blockbuster informed me that we were far from the only ones - there's actually been a rash of old school Tom Cruise movie rentals this week, mostly rented by people about my age. I asked her if people had also been picking up Katie Holmes movies, but apparently we were among the only to actually demonstrate equal-opportunity viewing.

Since many of TC's movies were already out, I returned to my waiting flatmates with a film from when he was KH's age ("Rain Man" circa 1988) and the last film in which he was incredibly good-looking ("Jerry Maguire"). The two Holmes films were the only I could find, and there was the added bonus of my already strong love for "Wonder Boys."

And thus we settled in. A break after "Wonder Boys" for a trip to the grocery store for snacks. Applause for Dustin Hoffman during "Rain Man" and the expected exclamations of "Uh oh!" for a short time after. We realized just why we'd never heard of "The Gift" and, as the minutes crept into Sunday morning, chuckled sleepily during the familiar moments in "Jerry Maguire."

The viewing fellowship disbanded partway through the final movie, as we started to yawn, strech and retreat to our beds. I finally succumbed to sleep during the morning after scene in Dorothy's kitchen. I smiled once more at Ray (oh little Jonathan, did you really have to grow up?), turned off the lights and made my way to my room.

Shortly before rolling over and drifting off, I thought about whether Tomkat Day had helped my understanding at all.

Nope. Still 42 and nowhere near as captivating as he used to be. But at least I was able to remember just why I crushed on the fellow as a youngster. And it was about time I saw "Rain Man."

Good enough.