Let's take a moment to give a hand to Ben from Florida, the Burn This participant whose summer compilation found its way to my mailbox today.
The tracklisting:
1. Interpol - Say Hello To the Angels
2. Q and Not U - We Heart Our Hive
3. Rilo Kiley - The Frug (V note: My favorite Rilo Kiley song and one of my favorite songs overall. Ben had my delightful admiration at Track 3! Well done!)
4. Cake - Rock and Roll Lifestyle (V note: YES!)
5. Blur - Pork Life
6. Enon - Carbonation
7. Electric Six - Improper Dancing
8. Joy Division - She's Lost Control
9. Sicko - Ya Ya (live)
10. The Decemberists - The Legionnaire's Lament (V note: HUZZAH!)
11. Iron and Wine - Such Great Heights (V note: love this cover. Just love it.)
12. The Postal Service - Against All Odds (V note: Yes, the Phil Collins song. This is brilliant. I didn't even know it existed.)
13. They Might Be Giants - Tippecanoe and Tyler, Too (V note: Hahaha)
14. Blondie - Call Me (V note: Outstanding)
15. MC Paul Barman - Cock Mobster
16. MC Chris - Greek
17. Pulp - Common People
Ben of Florida has earned the gold star for the day. Yes, yes he has.
In other news, also musically related:
if you asked me back in february of 2000 if this would happen, i would have said absolutely not. yet here i am, looking at the dates for mayer's fall/winter tour. he's going to be headlining at the patriot arena on 11/29 (same venue as tori a few weeks earlier), and i had absolutely no desire whatsoever to see him perform live. (9.27.02)
funny to see pictures of rockstar mayer and laugh. shortly after this was taken, i bet he busted into his rap. pity - i was hoping to possibly see maroon 5 this summer. (4.12.04)
there's old mayer and there's new mayer. i love old mayer - the charming guy who philosophically discussed the creative essence of count chocula and chatted with me about our mutual love for david gray (and later played a bit of "babylon" for me during soundcheck). the guy who posed for a photo at paradise and said, "just say i started playing 'wanted dead or alive' and things got way out of hand."
new mayer is fine, i suppose, but i don't see what all the fuss is about. the overly polished "room for squares" didn't grab me (either version - aware or columbia), and i gave "heavier things" a chance. but i hated it. i probably wouldn't have found the one song i like on it, "wheel," had he not performed it at the spac show. when he performed that, i felt like i was watching old mayer. kind of.
so the two exist separately for me. but old mayer's taken on the role of someone you went to school with you might occasionally hear about every once in awhile. and you wonder how things are going with him, but that's about it. and this new mayer guy? never knew him, have no interest in starting now. (5.08.04)
The John Mayer Trio is scheduled to play Avalon on Oct. 11. And while I've made it clear that I have little desire to pay attention to New Mayer, I'm going to give New New Mayer a shot.
6.30.2005
6.29.2005
Walking on Sunshine
I don't write about work. General rule that I'm not really going to breach.
That said, I wanted to be sure to mark today as a Grand Day. E-mail me if you want details and I'll fill you in on a bit of unexpected recognition from a national source.
It made an already pleasant day all the more delightful.
I'm busting out the old expression for this one:
Revel...revelrevel...
That said, I wanted to be sure to mark today as a Grand Day. E-mail me if you want details and I'll fill you in on a bit of unexpected recognition from a national source.
It made an already pleasant day all the more delightful.
I'm busting out the old expression for this one:
Revel...revelrevel...
6.28.2005
Sour Caroline
I picked up the phone when it began to vibrate.
"Hello?"
"CAN YOU HEAR ME?" My mother's voice was slightly shrill, very excited. I could hear the roar of fans behind her.
"YES."
"I CAN BARELY HEAR YOU. DID YOU SEE WHO'S GOING IN?"
"No, who?" My flatmate and our guest were watching "Law & Order."
"FOULKE. WE ARE SOOOOOOOO SCREWED!"
Turns out we were. My mother's first venture to Fenway this season, and Foulkey gives up a grand slam with two outs, two strikes in the top of the ninth. The inning followed a five-run Red Sox sixth, but Keith got into his head. Again.
But I got the traditional family call during "Sweet Caroline," so I sang along and laughed with my mother, who sounded so excited to be there at the park.
Now, I find myself staring at "Extra Innings," watching the grand slam over and over. Can't not. But at this moment, Bronson's talking about his album and the CD release I have promised myself I can't go to. Middle of the week. Saving for New York.
Can't go.
I really can't.
But I reeeeeeeally want to...
"Hello?"
"CAN YOU HEAR ME?" My mother's voice was slightly shrill, very excited. I could hear the roar of fans behind her.
"YES."
"I CAN BARELY HEAR YOU. DID YOU SEE WHO'S GOING IN?"
"No, who?" My flatmate and our guest were watching "Law & Order."
"FOULKE. WE ARE SOOOOOOOO SCREWED!"
Turns out we were. My mother's first venture to Fenway this season, and Foulkey gives up a grand slam with two outs, two strikes in the top of the ninth. The inning followed a five-run Red Sox sixth, but Keith got into his head. Again.
But I got the traditional family call during "Sweet Caroline," so I sang along and laughed with my mother, who sounded so excited to be there at the park.
Now, I find myself staring at "Extra Innings," watching the grand slam over and over. Can't not. But at this moment, Bronson's talking about his album and the CD release I have promised myself I can't go to. Middle of the week. Saving for New York.
Can't go.
I really can't.
But I reeeeeeeally want to...
You Oughta Know Better
So let's do the math here. When "Jagged Little Pill" was first released, I was 14 years old. I was entering the world of boy girl parties with slow dances to "November Rain" (extended version, of course) and SYBs, boys decreed our crush-worthy Strapping Young Bucks. My friends and I loved the album, as Alanis was our first real female rocker. As the album became more popular and we grew older and earned drivers licenses, we rode in cars singing "Ironic" with dreams of pulling off the quirky look the Canadian songstress rocked so effortlessly.
The dissolution of my first real relationship led my 16-year-old self to blare "You Oughta Know" in my room as I cried. Alanis knew, man. She knew how much it hurt.
It wasn't a staple in the years that followed, per se, but the album - and "YOK" in particularly - always popped up at opportune times.
I rode in a car of sleep-deprived theater students returning to a festival as "YOK" pulsed through the speakers, and the co-ed group assembled screamed and head-banged every line until we were breathless and laughing.
A friend and I took a break from working on the college paper to complain about guys. We decided it would be cathartic to rock some Alanis. A coatrack stood in for Generic Wrong-doing Man, and we delivered one of the most heartfelt karaoke renditions of all time. We felt better and went back to work.
So a decade passes by, and Alanis decides to release the album again. Acoustic renditions of angsty rock songs; chamomile tea renditions of black coffee music. I know that, were I to buy the album, I would know every word to every song by heart.
But I won't test the theory. I've heard bits and pieces of the album during forays into Starbucks for caffeine cravings - such as this morning's slightly hungover excursion.
(I'm not even going to touch the issue of the Starbucks exclusive. That's a rant for another day. But I will note that Bob Dylan just announced his own Starbucks deal.)
I've heard proponents for this album make reference to the success of Gavin DeGraw's "Chariot: Stripped." While I haven't listened to GD's album in its entirety, I will say that I think it's an improvement over the original I already enjoy. But this isn't the same situation. Gavin released the new album, what, maybe a year and a half after "Chariot," which didn't take off right away anyway. And the instrumentation on Gavin's album obviously differs, but his style and his vocals don't go off in too much of a different direction. It's a slightly different take on recent music.
Alanis takes a completely different approach. Calmer. The rage that made her so popular in the first place is still there in the lyrics, but it's only a series of words now. She's downplaying the sensation of being angry. "So I was mad. But I can be happy, too. I'm engaged to Ryan Reynolds. I won. The guys of the past - take that, Dave Coulier! - lost. And I can focus on the artestry of the songs now."
Sorry, lady. When you're singing "And when I scratch my nails down someone else's back, I hope you feel it," you're ready to draw blood. If you don't feel that way anymore, great. I'm thrilled for you. So leave that album behind. Don't go messing with what worked so well.
Because I know there are going to be girls out there who have just had their hearts broken. They're going to want to yell and cry. There are going to be students who want to head-bang as they drive back to a hotel. There are going to be women who want to rock out to the music that they've loved for 10 years.
And I want them to have that resource, just like I did. But what if they pick up the wrong copy at the record store and listen to renditions completely lacking the rage that prompted their creation?
It would be ironic - don't you think?
The dissolution of my first real relationship led my 16-year-old self to blare "You Oughta Know" in my room as I cried. Alanis knew, man. She knew how much it hurt.
It wasn't a staple in the years that followed, per se, but the album - and "YOK" in particularly - always popped up at opportune times.
I rode in a car of sleep-deprived theater students returning to a festival as "YOK" pulsed through the speakers, and the co-ed group assembled screamed and head-banged every line until we were breathless and laughing.
A friend and I took a break from working on the college paper to complain about guys. We decided it would be cathartic to rock some Alanis. A coatrack stood in for Generic Wrong-doing Man, and we delivered one of the most heartfelt karaoke renditions of all time. We felt better and went back to work.
So a decade passes by, and Alanis decides to release the album again. Acoustic renditions of angsty rock songs; chamomile tea renditions of black coffee music. I know that, were I to buy the album, I would know every word to every song by heart.
But I won't test the theory. I've heard bits and pieces of the album during forays into Starbucks for caffeine cravings - such as this morning's slightly hungover excursion.
(I'm not even going to touch the issue of the Starbucks exclusive. That's a rant for another day. But I will note that Bob Dylan just announced his own Starbucks deal.)
I've heard proponents for this album make reference to the success of Gavin DeGraw's "Chariot: Stripped." While I haven't listened to GD's album in its entirety, I will say that I think it's an improvement over the original I already enjoy. But this isn't the same situation. Gavin released the new album, what, maybe a year and a half after "Chariot," which didn't take off right away anyway. And the instrumentation on Gavin's album obviously differs, but his style and his vocals don't go off in too much of a different direction. It's a slightly different take on recent music.
Alanis takes a completely different approach. Calmer. The rage that made her so popular in the first place is still there in the lyrics, but it's only a series of words now. She's downplaying the sensation of being angry. "So I was mad. But I can be happy, too. I'm engaged to Ryan Reynolds. I won. The guys of the past - take that, Dave Coulier! - lost. And I can focus on the artestry of the songs now."
Sorry, lady. When you're singing "And when I scratch my nails down someone else's back, I hope you feel it," you're ready to draw blood. If you don't feel that way anymore, great. I'm thrilled for you. So leave that album behind. Don't go messing with what worked so well.
Because I know there are going to be girls out there who have just had their hearts broken. They're going to want to yell and cry. There are going to be students who want to head-bang as they drive back to a hotel. There are going to be women who want to rock out to the music that they've loved for 10 years.
And I want them to have that resource, just like I did. But what if they pick up the wrong copy at the record store and listen to renditions completely lacking the rage that prompted their creation?
It would be ironic - don't you think?
Blonde & Blonder
The trucker hat is the wounded creature that hides in a dark crevice as it waits to die. Should some hapless individual approach the trucker hat, that person faces the possibility of death, injury or worse - the creature leaping onto the individual's head at a crooked angle. The creature then refuses to leave the person's head. It remains there, despite the risk of public humiliation facing the unfortunate victim of the hat attack.
Breakwaters. Last night, as the sun sank as a dazzling ball of orange, two of the trucker hat's latest victims sauntered in. Short, puffy layered skirts, tube tops and off-kilter trucker hats. The three of us stared as they passed - it was the train wreck impossible to turn away from.
"Oh my God," K said as they sank by a table and placed an order with the waitress. They showed their licenses. "They're legal. They're old enough to know better."
There were two hats - red and blue. I saw that the blue hat said "BLONDE." It was a DIY affair, as she had clearly written on the letters herself.
"This is painful," I said before bursting into laughter. A young girl, maybe 10 or 11, had just walked by the girls with a look of absolute disgust. Even the youth knew to just say no to those hats.
I couldn't see what the red hat said. I was scared to find out, but continued sneaking glances throughout the evening until I noticed B2 burst into laughter. "Did you see it?"
"No! What does it say?"
"BLONDER."
I suddenly felt embarrassed to be of the flaxen-haired variety.
Photographic evidence of this monstrosity will be added later in the day. I did, however, refrain from capturing the image of the man standing by the bar later on in the evening. The man who prompted us to say, "I don't think he's wearing any pants."
Lime-green Speedo and a orange t-shirt - which he stripped away as he walked along the dock later on.
I'm still trying to erase that image from my mind.
Breakwaters. Last night, as the sun sank as a dazzling ball of orange, two of the trucker hat's latest victims sauntered in. Short, puffy layered skirts, tube tops and off-kilter trucker hats. The three of us stared as they passed - it was the train wreck impossible to turn away from.
"Oh my God," K said as they sank by a table and placed an order with the waitress. They showed their licenses. "They're legal. They're old enough to know better."
There were two hats - red and blue. I saw that the blue hat said "BLONDE." It was a DIY affair, as she had clearly written on the letters herself.
"This is painful," I said before bursting into laughter. A young girl, maybe 10 or 11, had just walked by the girls with a look of absolute disgust. Even the youth knew to just say no to those hats.
I couldn't see what the red hat said. I was scared to find out, but continued sneaking glances throughout the evening until I noticed B2 burst into laughter. "Did you see it?"
"No! What does it say?"
"BLONDER."
I suddenly felt embarrassed to be of the flaxen-haired variety.
Photographic evidence of this monstrosity will be added later in the day. I did, however, refrain from capturing the image of the man standing by the bar later on in the evening. The man who prompted us to say, "I don't think he's wearing any pants."
Lime-green Speedo and a orange t-shirt - which he stripped away as he walked along the dock later on.
I'm still trying to erase that image from my mind.
6.27.2005
It's a good thing I love me my Red Sox
From a few weeks ago:
"Hi, this is B."
"Hey, it's me."
"Hey. What's up?"
Check out Higher Ground's calendar."
"I just did that yesterday."
"Do it again. I'll wait."
I heard her typing away before a pause. "WHAT?!?!?"
"I know."
"That's so excit-"
"No, it isn't."
"Why?"
"July 2."
"Red Sox."
"Exactly."
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO..."
We've made references to the experience since January - staring in disbelief as Ray LaMontagne hushed the Paradise crowd. We both have said we want to see him again. We both spoke of how amazing it would be to have him play Higher Ground.
He'll be at Higher Ground on Saturday. With Doughty opening.
We'll be in Boston to see the Red Sox take on Toronto.
That day was the first time I've ever contemplated selling a Red Sox ticket.
I came to my senses, of course, but I realized today that the show is a less than a week away (which also means I'm less than a week from my boys of summer - huzzah!). But I half-wondered how quickly I'd be able to find someone eager to sing along to "Sweet Caroline"...
----------
In other news. It also dawned on me today that I will be seeing DMB - for the first time since Summer '02 - in less than two weeks. And that I haven't even listened to the new album yet. Hmm.
I've always had a great time at Dave shows before and am looking forward to this. Moreso the show than the venue. I haven't heard particularly grand raves about Great Woods - oh, sorry, the Tweeter Center - lately.
Who has listened to the new album? What do you think? Is the majority of the album better than "American Baby"? (I hope so). What should I know about the venue (never been there before)?
"Hi, this is B."
"Hey, it's me."
"Hey. What's up?"
Check out Higher Ground's calendar."
"I just did that yesterday."
"Do it again. I'll wait."
I heard her typing away before a pause. "WHAT?!?!?"
"I know."
"That's so excit-"
"No, it isn't."
"Why?"
"July 2."
"Red Sox."
"Exactly."
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO..."
We've made references to the experience since January - staring in disbelief as Ray LaMontagne hushed the Paradise crowd. We both have said we want to see him again. We both spoke of how amazing it would be to have him play Higher Ground.
He'll be at Higher Ground on Saturday. With Doughty opening.
We'll be in Boston to see the Red Sox take on Toronto.
That day was the first time I've ever contemplated selling a Red Sox ticket.
I came to my senses, of course, but I realized today that the show is a less than a week away (which also means I'm less than a week from my boys of summer - huzzah!). But I half-wondered how quickly I'd be able to find someone eager to sing along to "Sweet Caroline"...
----------
In other news. It also dawned on me today that I will be seeing DMB - for the first time since Summer '02 - in less than two weeks. And that I haven't even listened to the new album yet. Hmm.
I've always had a great time at Dave shows before and am looking forward to this. Moreso the show than the venue. I haven't heard particularly grand raves about Great Woods - oh, sorry, the Tweeter Center - lately.
Who has listened to the new album? What do you think? Is the majority of the album better than "American Baby"? (I hope so). What should I know about the venue (never been there before)?
Cherry Lifesavers
My father put his gloved hand on his hip.
"You know better than that," he said good-naturedly. "Get in front of the ball!"
I flipped the softball from my glove to my hand and threw it back. Straight shot to the center of his chest. "Give me some credit. I'm out of practice!"
He intentionally threw back to the right, and I exaggerated my motion, stepping squarely in front of the ball. Thwap. The ball nestled itself deep into the leather webbing of my glove.
I'd brought the glove home with the hopes that he would be up for some catch. We hadn't played in at least a couple of years, probably longer than that. But we settled back into the rhythm of it right away. After about every ten throws, I'd take a few steps back, until the stretch of street between us was about where it would have been during high school. Missed catches were few, but they provided the opportunity to unleash an even longer throw.
When he was a new parent, my father promised himself that he would teach his daughter the fundamentals of ball. I was always proud to demonstrate the results.
My daddy don't raise no wussy softball girls. I was a ballplayer who was always willing to take a trip to the batting cage or play some catch. And I still throw like a boy.
"I haven't done this in a long time," he said, making a high catch and tossing it back.
"Me neither, obviously. But it feels good, doesn't it?" I caught the ball, turned and fired it right back. Thwap.
"Yeah." This one was going over my head. I jumped and barely snagged it. "Nice catch!"
"Thanks. Thanks for agreeing to play, I thought it would be fun." Another straight shot back.
"It is. We used to do this for hours." He held the ball for a moment, got the best grip and sent it back. Thwap.
"I'd never get tired of it." Another quick return.
"I wouldn't either. But then we'd get back inside and Tom would look at me and say, 'Hey, can I play?' And then we'd play for hours, too." This one did go over my head. I jogged down the street and called over my shoulder.
"Hey, you said you wanted kids who loved the game! You got your wish." My parents saw both their kids win championships in high school. My senior year softball team, Tom's junior year baseball team. And we saw at least one of our parents watching us play at every game. My father went to every game I played during that one year of college ball.
"That I did. I'm not complaining."
I turned to gauge the distance between us, reached back and sent a long shot back to him. There was one short bounce, but it landed squarely in front of him, landing right in his glove.
"Sorry!" I started to jog back.
"For what?"
"The bounce. I should have put more into it. It was a little wussy."
He laughed. "And here I was, ready to say, 'Nice throw.'"
The sunlight was beginning to dim, but there was still enough light to see the ball, so we kept throwing. If it started to get dark, we still had a neon yellow ball or two in the house.
He threw it back - harder. Thwap.
Oh, if that was how he was going to be, I'd stop holding back. Game on.
"You know better than that," he said good-naturedly. "Get in front of the ball!"
I flipped the softball from my glove to my hand and threw it back. Straight shot to the center of his chest. "Give me some credit. I'm out of practice!"
He intentionally threw back to the right, and I exaggerated my motion, stepping squarely in front of the ball. Thwap. The ball nestled itself deep into the leather webbing of my glove.
I'd brought the glove home with the hopes that he would be up for some catch. We hadn't played in at least a couple of years, probably longer than that. But we settled back into the rhythm of it right away. After about every ten throws, I'd take a few steps back, until the stretch of street between us was about where it would have been during high school. Missed catches were few, but they provided the opportunity to unleash an even longer throw.
When he was a new parent, my father promised himself that he would teach his daughter the fundamentals of ball. I was always proud to demonstrate the results.
My daddy don't raise no wussy softball girls. I was a ballplayer who was always willing to take a trip to the batting cage or play some catch. And I still throw like a boy.
"I haven't done this in a long time," he said, making a high catch and tossing it back.
"Me neither, obviously. But it feels good, doesn't it?" I caught the ball, turned and fired it right back. Thwap.
"Yeah." This one was going over my head. I jumped and barely snagged it. "Nice catch!"
"Thanks. Thanks for agreeing to play, I thought it would be fun." Another straight shot back.
"It is. We used to do this for hours." He held the ball for a moment, got the best grip and sent it back. Thwap.
"I'd never get tired of it." Another quick return.
"I wouldn't either. But then we'd get back inside and Tom would look at me and say, 'Hey, can I play?' And then we'd play for hours, too." This one did go over my head. I jogged down the street and called over my shoulder.
"Hey, you said you wanted kids who loved the game! You got your wish." My parents saw both their kids win championships in high school. My senior year softball team, Tom's junior year baseball team. And we saw at least one of our parents watching us play at every game. My father went to every game I played during that one year of college ball.
"That I did. I'm not complaining."
I turned to gauge the distance between us, reached back and sent a long shot back to him. There was one short bounce, but it landed squarely in front of him, landing right in his glove.
"Sorry!" I started to jog back.
"For what?"
"The bounce. I should have put more into it. It was a little wussy."
He laughed. "And here I was, ready to say, 'Nice throw.'"
The sunlight was beginning to dim, but there was still enough light to see the ball, so we kept throwing. If it started to get dark, we still had a neon yellow ball or two in the house.
He threw it back - harder. Thwap.
Oh, if that was how he was going to be, I'd stop holding back. Game on.
6.25.2005
Thousands of words
(Click on photos to go to more from yesterday evening and the Chew Chew at the waterfront)
6.24.2005
A common theme
It's always refreshing to read that other bloggers are going through the same things I am.
I've started writing about memories, I suppose, because writing about the present has become more difficult as of late. Krissa over at le petit hiboux summed it up quite well today, asking the question that has been popping up on various sites lately:
How can I get more personal without essentially telling people to not comment to me anything they read about, or without vetting it with Stuart first? How can I still blog if it's just going to be pat, neatly-tied-up-with-a-catchy-moral tidbits that bore me on other sites?
The tendancy to self-edit is a bitch. One that never even dawned on me back when I started on madderrain in 2000. I didn't care if I was remarking on how I did on a paper/exam or if I was describing the latest in a series of personal frustrations. I just wrote it. It's not like anyone actually read the thing.
Cryptic references began to slip in without my realization, but I still remained pretty faithful to the process of writing what I was thinking. Until about January, when I began a long, relatively intense series of correspondence with someone I'd discussed here. Some of it was favorable, a lot of it around that time wasn't. I was willing to stand by what I'd written, but never thought I'd have to defend it, as I hadn't expected him to read it.
Awkward does not even begin to describe how it felt. And I wanted to write about it. But the tables suddenly felt as if they'd turned. I couldn't write about it because that was what prompted it in the first place. I didn't want to seem hurtful - I wanted to show that I respected what he had to say. Besides, now that I knew he knew where the blog was, I knew he had an opportunity to gain insight in the coversation, whereas I didn't. It felt like an unfair advantage - or, disadvantage, I should say.
I haven't written much about him since, despite a desire to do so on several occasions. Is it that he won - that he'd convinced me not to write critical observations because he'd explained himself? Was it that I didn't really have much to say?
No, it was that I didn't want him to know that it affected me - and that I was suddenly scared of the idea of him seeing what I had to say. At its most effective, the writing here can reveal things about myself I might not normally throw into conversation. I'm not likely to walk up to someone I know passingly well and begin to discuss my fears or hopes.
I self-edited. I still do.
Sometimes my friends anger me. Sometimes a long friendship comes to a close and I'm upset about it. Sometimes I have no idea what someone I know was thinking. These should, in theory, be things I write about. Because writing about it helps me sort it out.
But they read and might not understand the context in which I'm trying to compose my thoughts.
I self-edit.
Am I chickening out by doing so? I don't know. Part of me says I am, but another part says I'm being wise about it. Not perpetuating already emotionally-charged situations.
So perhaps it's a little of both. By being wise, I am taking the easy route.
Am I compromising myself and what I try to do in my writing by doing this?
I'm not sure. But it's something to think about while I try recreating a moment from the past in story form.
I've started writing about memories, I suppose, because writing about the present has become more difficult as of late. Krissa over at le petit hiboux summed it up quite well today, asking the question that has been popping up on various sites lately:
How can I get more personal without essentially telling people to not comment to me anything they read about, or without vetting it with Stuart first? How can I still blog if it's just going to be pat, neatly-tied-up-with-a-catchy-moral tidbits that bore me on other sites?
The tendancy to self-edit is a bitch. One that never even dawned on me back when I started on madderrain in 2000. I didn't care if I was remarking on how I did on a paper/exam or if I was describing the latest in a series of personal frustrations. I just wrote it. It's not like anyone actually read the thing.
Cryptic references began to slip in without my realization, but I still remained pretty faithful to the process of writing what I was thinking. Until about January, when I began a long, relatively intense series of correspondence with someone I'd discussed here. Some of it was favorable, a lot of it around that time wasn't. I was willing to stand by what I'd written, but never thought I'd have to defend it, as I hadn't expected him to read it.
Awkward does not even begin to describe how it felt. And I wanted to write about it. But the tables suddenly felt as if they'd turned. I couldn't write about it because that was what prompted it in the first place. I didn't want to seem hurtful - I wanted to show that I respected what he had to say. Besides, now that I knew he knew where the blog was, I knew he had an opportunity to gain insight in the coversation, whereas I didn't. It felt like an unfair advantage - or, disadvantage, I should say.
I haven't written much about him since, despite a desire to do so on several occasions. Is it that he won - that he'd convinced me not to write critical observations because he'd explained himself? Was it that I didn't really have much to say?
No, it was that I didn't want him to know that it affected me - and that I was suddenly scared of the idea of him seeing what I had to say. At its most effective, the writing here can reveal things about myself I might not normally throw into conversation. I'm not likely to walk up to someone I know passingly well and begin to discuss my fears or hopes.
I self-edited. I still do.
Sometimes my friends anger me. Sometimes a long friendship comes to a close and I'm upset about it. Sometimes I have no idea what someone I know was thinking. These should, in theory, be things I write about. Because writing about it helps me sort it out.
But they read and might not understand the context in which I'm trying to compose my thoughts.
I self-edit.
Am I chickening out by doing so? I don't know. Part of me says I am, but another part says I'm being wise about it. Not perpetuating already emotionally-charged situations.
So perhaps it's a little of both. By being wise, I am taking the easy route.
Am I compromising myself and what I try to do in my writing by doing this?
I'm not sure. But it's something to think about while I try recreating a moment from the past in story form.
Necessary Redundancy
Cameron Crowe. Orlando Bloom. Two of my favorite cinematic phrases. Well established throughout the archives.
I've already mentioned how much I'm looking forward to the October release of "Elizabethtown," but only yesterday saw the seven-minute teaser for the film.
Brilliant.
Let it be October already.
I've already mentioned how much I'm looking forward to the October release of "Elizabethtown," but only yesterday saw the seven-minute teaser for the film.
Brilliant.
Let it be October already.
6.23.2005
Random Exercise In Memory
I should be saving these for a less-than-inspired day, but damn if I don't just feel like writin' and reminiscin'.
Ann-with-an-e, meet your Gilbert Blythe. Minus the whole romance and marriage aspect. Oh well.
I rested my elbows on the table and stared across its width to meet a pair of bright blue eyes. They were sparkling at me, laughing with me. They liked that I was firing it right back at their owner.
He was leaning back in an overstuffed purple leather armchair, eyebrows slightly raised as I countered the argument he'd just made. This routine had grown comfortably well-established - once we got going, we tended to dominate a discussion.
The facilitator of our group sat between us, at the head of the table. His head followed the volley of quips and comments with tennis-match precision. He was smiling at the demonstration. I wondered what he thought of my transformation. The shy, timid girl who learned in this building a year before had disappeared.
Experience and familiarity played a part in my shift from observer to participant, I was sure. But the group dynamic was the biggest change - and much of this I attributed to the sandy-haired fellow from Tennessee who became my biggest rival and favorite sparring partner the first day we met. I adored trying to prove him wrong, I loathed the constant struggle to keep up with his easy wit and I knew that I'd developed a ridiculous crush on the guy from the first moment.
During a mid-morning break from the discussion-turned-debate, we began to walk through the red velvet-carpeted halls and discuss Jeff Buckley. When we walked out to the fountains, I thought he'd take the opportunity to relax and spend some time on his own. I made my way to a sun-warmed ledge and sat down. The sparkling white marble, blue water and bright sun dazzled me all the more after spending hours in flourescent-lit rooms below ground. I could feel the knots in my back relax and, as I stretched my arms over my head, untie completely.
I grinned as he settled onto the bench next to me and continued the conversation. Buckley turned to Radiohead, which segued somehow to Faulkner and its natural progression to whiskey. The fountain turned into a walk, which turned into trying on horrible sunglasses at a nearby gas station during a soda/cigarette run. That I modeled a huge, Elvis-on-crack pair before someone I'd only recently met demonstrated my surprising level of comfort.
We settled back into the purple seats with smiles and waited a couple of moments before launching back into the debates. I realized the break confirmed something I'd been suspecting.
I still wanted to kick his ass at this competition. But I knew a runner-up place wouldn't be quite as unbearable this time around.
Although I'd still try my damndest to beat the cocky fellow.
Ann-with-an-e, meet your Gilbert Blythe. Minus the whole romance and marriage aspect. Oh well.
I rested my elbows on the table and stared across its width to meet a pair of bright blue eyes. They were sparkling at me, laughing with me. They liked that I was firing it right back at their owner.
He was leaning back in an overstuffed purple leather armchair, eyebrows slightly raised as I countered the argument he'd just made. This routine had grown comfortably well-established - once we got going, we tended to dominate a discussion.
The facilitator of our group sat between us, at the head of the table. His head followed the volley of quips and comments with tennis-match precision. He was smiling at the demonstration. I wondered what he thought of my transformation. The shy, timid girl who learned in this building a year before had disappeared.
Experience and familiarity played a part in my shift from observer to participant, I was sure. But the group dynamic was the biggest change - and much of this I attributed to the sandy-haired fellow from Tennessee who became my biggest rival and favorite sparring partner the first day we met. I adored trying to prove him wrong, I loathed the constant struggle to keep up with his easy wit and I knew that I'd developed a ridiculous crush on the guy from the first moment.
During a mid-morning break from the discussion-turned-debate, we began to walk through the red velvet-carpeted halls and discuss Jeff Buckley. When we walked out to the fountains, I thought he'd take the opportunity to relax and spend some time on his own. I made my way to a sun-warmed ledge and sat down. The sparkling white marble, blue water and bright sun dazzled me all the more after spending hours in flourescent-lit rooms below ground. I could feel the knots in my back relax and, as I stretched my arms over my head, untie completely.
I grinned as he settled onto the bench next to me and continued the conversation. Buckley turned to Radiohead, which segued somehow to Faulkner and its natural progression to whiskey. The fountain turned into a walk, which turned into trying on horrible sunglasses at a nearby gas station during a soda/cigarette run. That I modeled a huge, Elvis-on-crack pair before someone I'd only recently met demonstrated my surprising level of comfort.
We settled back into the purple seats with smiles and waited a couple of moments before launching back into the debates. I realized the break confirmed something I'd been suspecting.
I still wanted to kick his ass at this competition. But I knew a runner-up place wouldn't be quite as unbearable this time around.
Although I'd still try my damndest to beat the cocky fellow.
A warped view
Prompted by RS
My hair was tucked up into a baseball cap as I pulled the car into Josh's driveway. He laughed as he settled into the passenger seat and playfully reached for the hat.
"No!"
"You played."
"Maybe."
"You played."
Tom started cackling from the backseat. "Yeah, she did."
"Shut up. Maybe." I pulled the hat farther down onto my head, but a wisp of hair slid from beneath the cap and onto my ear. Josh's eyes widened as he noted the auburn color.
"YOU PLAYED!" He leaned over to wrestle the hat from my head. I fought him off for a moment before leaning against the window. "Fine. I played." I pulled the hat off, and my hair, Angela Chase Red, fell to my chin.
"Nice!" Josh said. I grinned. I liked my first real foray into temporary hair color - I'd just wanted to be a pain. I knew the hat wouldn't stay on for any of the trip to Northampton.
It was a long drive peppered with the driving poppy punk and swing we were expecting to hear live in a few hours. The three of us laughed as I drove, and Tom tried to conceal the pure giddiness he was overwhelmed with. Josh and I would enjoy the show, but Tom was the poster child for Warped Tour. He'd been counting down the days for well over a month.
I'd never been to a festival before, I'd never seen punk bands perform before and I'd never been on a roadtrip with Josh before. This was the summer that skewed so much, but also the first in a series of musical ventures with this core group of revelers. Tom would run off to obsess over his bands, Josh and I would begin to complicate a friendship. It was just how it worked.
This was '98, the third or fourth year of the festival, back when the Massachusetts stop was on the western side of the state. The lineup included a multitude of bands I no longer remember, as well as NOFX, Bad Religion, The Deftones, Rancid and - the band I most wanted to see - Cherry Poppin' Daddies. As we approached the fairgrounds, Josh reminded me of my promise to try crowdsurfing. I reminded him that I less promised as agreed so as to prevent him from throwing me into the sink at work - again.
It was hot and Tom immediately went for the free Yoohoo being offered. We then walked around the space, took in the stage locations and discovered, much to my delight, the tent area. Sublime videos played on big-screen tvs set up before inflatable chairs and couches. And there was AIR CONDITIONING.
I wound up spending a chunk of time there, relaxing, talking and discovering how many directions in which inflatable furniture can topple.
But the festival was fun. Hot, with bright sunshine falling onto dusty, baked dirt surfaces. The crowds, predominantely male, pulsed toward the respective stage at the start of each set, and I often found myself swept forward with them. Josh made sure to keep a steady hand on my back each time.
I was feeling confident enough to try crowdsurfing by the time CPD took the stage. Why I thought it made sense to crowdsurf at ska continues to puzzle me, but I received the boost from Josh and Tom, went up, looked onto the crowd below me -
And fell to the gravel ground. Josh tried to bite back his laughter as he watched me brush pebbles off my legs, but my laughter made it clear I was fine and worthy of teasing.
I didn't try crowdsurfing again for a year, until I knew some of the 250,000 gathered at that particular festival would catch me.
I sang along to "Ruby Soho" at the top of my lungs and pushed back away from the NOFX mosh pit Josh and Tom threw themselves into. I listened to head-bopping ska and harder thrash punk than I'd ever heard. Red rivulets of water ran onto my shoulders during a quick storm, but I wasn't nearly as badly off as the girl with the formerly hot pink bob nearby.
By the time we collapsed into the car for the trip back, Tom was nearly passed out in the backseat, in overwhelmed awe. "We're coming back next year, right?" he murmured as I steered the car back onto the Interstate.
Josh and I were trying to play things off like normal. No need to read between any lines. Right? But, that said...
He looked over at me and smiled. "You were pretty tough out there today. I saw you pushing people."
"Only to make sure they didn't squish me."
"It was good to see you fight back a bit."
I grinned. Yeah. We were definitely coming back next year.
My hair was tucked up into a baseball cap as I pulled the car into Josh's driveway. He laughed as he settled into the passenger seat and playfully reached for the hat.
"No!"
"You played."
"Maybe."
"You played."
Tom started cackling from the backseat. "Yeah, she did."
"Shut up. Maybe." I pulled the hat farther down onto my head, but a wisp of hair slid from beneath the cap and onto my ear. Josh's eyes widened as he noted the auburn color.
"YOU PLAYED!" He leaned over to wrestle the hat from my head. I fought him off for a moment before leaning against the window. "Fine. I played." I pulled the hat off, and my hair, Angela Chase Red, fell to my chin.
"Nice!" Josh said. I grinned. I liked my first real foray into temporary hair color - I'd just wanted to be a pain. I knew the hat wouldn't stay on for any of the trip to Northampton.
It was a long drive peppered with the driving poppy punk and swing we were expecting to hear live in a few hours. The three of us laughed as I drove, and Tom tried to conceal the pure giddiness he was overwhelmed with. Josh and I would enjoy the show, but Tom was the poster child for Warped Tour. He'd been counting down the days for well over a month.
I'd never been to a festival before, I'd never seen punk bands perform before and I'd never been on a roadtrip with Josh before. This was the summer that skewed so much, but also the first in a series of musical ventures with this core group of revelers. Tom would run off to obsess over his bands, Josh and I would begin to complicate a friendship. It was just how it worked.
This was '98, the third or fourth year of the festival, back when the Massachusetts stop was on the western side of the state. The lineup included a multitude of bands I no longer remember, as well as NOFX, Bad Religion, The Deftones, Rancid and - the band I most wanted to see - Cherry Poppin' Daddies. As we approached the fairgrounds, Josh reminded me of my promise to try crowdsurfing. I reminded him that I less promised as agreed so as to prevent him from throwing me into the sink at work - again.
It was hot and Tom immediately went for the free Yoohoo being offered. We then walked around the space, took in the stage locations and discovered, much to my delight, the tent area. Sublime videos played on big-screen tvs set up before inflatable chairs and couches. And there was AIR CONDITIONING.
I wound up spending a chunk of time there, relaxing, talking and discovering how many directions in which inflatable furniture can topple.
But the festival was fun. Hot, with bright sunshine falling onto dusty, baked dirt surfaces. The crowds, predominantely male, pulsed toward the respective stage at the start of each set, and I often found myself swept forward with them. Josh made sure to keep a steady hand on my back each time.
I was feeling confident enough to try crowdsurfing by the time CPD took the stage. Why I thought it made sense to crowdsurf at ska continues to puzzle me, but I received the boost from Josh and Tom, went up, looked onto the crowd below me -
And fell to the gravel ground. Josh tried to bite back his laughter as he watched me brush pebbles off my legs, but my laughter made it clear I was fine and worthy of teasing.
I didn't try crowdsurfing again for a year, until I knew some of the 250,000 gathered at that particular festival would catch me.
I sang along to "Ruby Soho" at the top of my lungs and pushed back away from the NOFX mosh pit Josh and Tom threw themselves into. I listened to head-bopping ska and harder thrash punk than I'd ever heard. Red rivulets of water ran onto my shoulders during a quick storm, but I wasn't nearly as badly off as the girl with the formerly hot pink bob nearby.
By the time we collapsed into the car for the trip back, Tom was nearly passed out in the backseat, in overwhelmed awe. "We're coming back next year, right?" he murmured as I steered the car back onto the Interstate.
Josh and I were trying to play things off like normal. No need to read between any lines. Right? But, that said...
He looked over at me and smiled. "You were pretty tough out there today. I saw you pushing people."
"Only to make sure they didn't squish me."
"It was good to see you fight back a bit."
I grinned. Yeah. We were definitely coming back next year.
P.S.
To: Phoenix
From: V
Subject: XOXOXOXOXO
From today's Defamer:
The best, though, was the reporter from the Boston Phoenix asking Tom Cruise if the fact that the aliens in the film have been on Earth for a million years waiting for the invasion resonated with him due to Scientology’s belief in aliens.
Tom sputtered for a few moments and got very visibly annoyed (he was otherwise in super-creepy cheerful mode the whole time) and denied the alien/Scientology connection, asked if the Boston Phoenix was a reputable paper and then listed about four Scientology books the guy should read to educate himself on the matter.
I was not able to see if Thetan-clear thugs took care of the reporter after the press conference.
You had me at aliens. I didn't think it was possible to love the Phoenix more than I already did.
From: V
Subject: XOXOXOXOXO
From today's Defamer:
The best, though, was the reporter from the Boston Phoenix asking Tom Cruise if the fact that the aliens in the film have been on Earth for a million years waiting for the invasion resonated with him due to Scientology’s belief in aliens.
Tom sputtered for a few moments and got very visibly annoyed (he was otherwise in super-creepy cheerful mode the whole time) and denied the alien/Scientology connection, asked if the Boston Phoenix was a reputable paper and then listed about four Scientology books the guy should read to educate himself on the matter.
I was not able to see if Thetan-clear thugs took care of the reporter after the press conference.
You had me at aliens. I didn't think it was possible to love the Phoenix more than I already did.
It's a Vicious Cycle
First things first. I've been rather lousy in posting birthday wishes for the last, well, month or so. Not that I haven't wished the wishes in person or over the phone or email or whatever, but hey. These things deserve notation. So, happy birthday to my May and June lovelies:
Peter J, Em, Mom (yeah, mentioned it already, but she's worthy of two), Lish, Elizabeth, Jason. And early birthday wishes to Michelle.
XOXOXOXOs to you.
Over the last couple of days, names from the past - my musical past, that is - have been popping up with a surprisingly increasing frequency.
Nearly four years after the fact, I thought to a September Saturday spent in the same building I'm in right now.
September 29, 2001 -
...and another day at the building tomorrow, during which i will be sitting there with the realization that paddy casey is playing just a few streets away at the waterfront...and my luck they'll have all the windows closed so i won't even be able to hear. ALL I WANT IS TO HEAR RAINWATER!!!!
I discovered yesterday (YESTERDAY!) that it was in fact Patti Casey, Vermont-based bluegrass and gospel musician. Whom I saw a couple of weekends ago. Not Paddy Casey, Irish singer songwriter who created such amazing songs as "Rainwater" and "Fear."
Oops.
January 29, 2001 -
so yeah. david gray is performing in burlington on april 26.
david gray is performing down the street from me on april 26.
i have been waiting for david gray tourdates forever already.
i am willing to go anywhere to see david gray.
david gray will be in burlington on the 26th.
i start competition for ACTF on april 25.
i will be in washington d.c. on april 26.
david gray will be in burlington on april 26.
WHAT THE FUCK!?!?!?!
this is my life.
*sigh*
but i might get to see him in virginia. a david gray concert will happen for me during this tour.
but come on. burlington???? too cruel.
I'm going to see Coldplay in Montreal on August 3. I'll follow that up with Ben Lee/Rufus/Ben Folds on August 5.
David Gray is playing Avalon on August 4.
*whimper*
------------
***The following is going to be composed of mostly dorky, Internet- and music-related content.***
I rarely post on message boards anymore, as they've been run over either with cliques or fanatical "teenies"*. I stop by the boards, I occasionally post something, but for the most part? I have a hard time wading through posts about Jason Mraz's girlfriend, what products Howie Day uses in his hair and whatnot.
Which is why I missed the first few posts about Averi on Mraz's board. K, one of the great people I've befriended from "the boards", laughed about it the other day when we met up for drinks, wryly remarking that she "was wondering when the hell you'd see the Averi thread and defend them." She'd seen that I'd found and commented on the subject that day.
I tried warning about this kind of thing on the Averi message board before - as I still cringe thinking of the reaction to an Averi thread I found on the HDTB awhile back - and I know that the big fans who posted on it were well-intentioned. But it prompted me to think about more tricks of the trade when it comes to promoting "your" band:
- Title your thread with something either straightforward or stupid. "____ rocks your brains out" or simply "______" (insert band name accordingly). While it's great for a band and its fans that the band has won awards/polls/recongition, it comes across as pompous to anyone who isn't familiar with the band. "Fine, if your band's so great, how come I never heard of 'em, huh?"
- Do not post in a message board's "Other Artists Discussion" if you've never posted on the board. Even if you just post something in a newbie section introducing yourself or saying hi, do whatever you must to ensure your name doesn't have "Posts: 1" next to it when you suggest a new band. Your band suggestion will likely be overlooked - or worse, labeled "spam" - because you haven't demonstrated any affiliation or interest in the artist to whom the message board is dedicated.
- Make what you write in the post sound off-the-cuff, not rehearsed. Using Averi as an example, I'd probably write something like the following on the Mraz board.
Hey, thought you guys might get a kick out of Averi. Five piece out of Boston, rock/pop sound with a saxophone (think back to the days of Aaron playing with Jason and the gang) to mix things up a bit. They just released their second album, "Drawn To Revolving Doors," in February and have been making their way around New England and the mid-Atlantic this year.
They've shared the bill with a bunch of artists I know people on here have discussed quite a bit - Gavin, Michael Tolcher, Guster, et al. - as well as MB20, the Goo Goo Dolls, BNK and the like. Even Sting.
Studio albums are good, but these guys rock live. Their website, www.averimusic.com, has all the touring details, so try to make it to a show! Five really cool guys who put on a great show. Check 'em out and let me know what you think.
- Check to be sure there isn't already a thread on the band on the board. This is what happened with theHDTB. People kept creating new threads to the point that the regulars said they were ignoring anything that had Averi's name in the title. It got ugly.
- Be prepared for people to bash your band. It happens. Perhaps someone was at an off show, perhaps it's not what fits into someone's musical perferences. I personally don't recommend trying to get people to change their minds. You've stated your opinion, they've stated theirs. Let the rest of the populance rule in.
- B&Ps of live shows work wonders...
[/soapbox rant]
*I don't care how old someone is, they can still qualify as a teenie. What precisely is this breed of fan? If you spend more of your time talking about how hot a musician is than how good the music is, you're a teenie. If you scream for, hypothetically speaking, "The Remedy" during a rarely-performed rendition of "Halfway Home," you're a teenie who is pissing off the non-teenies. If you're more concerned about trying to hook up with a member of the band than listening to the music, you're a slutty teenie. If you're more concerned about getting a photo with the musician(s) than saying hello to the musician(s), you're a teenie. If you post on message boards that you "totally luv _____, who is just the hotttest thing ever," you're most certainly a teenie.
Peter J, Em, Mom (yeah, mentioned it already, but she's worthy of two), Lish, Elizabeth, Jason. And early birthday wishes to Michelle.
XOXOXOXOs to you.
Over the last couple of days, names from the past - my musical past, that is - have been popping up with a surprisingly increasing frequency.
Nearly four years after the fact, I thought to a September Saturday spent in the same building I'm in right now.
September 29, 2001 -
...and another day at the building tomorrow, during which i will be sitting there with the realization that paddy casey is playing just a few streets away at the waterfront...and my luck they'll have all the windows closed so i won't even be able to hear. ALL I WANT IS TO HEAR RAINWATER!!!!
I discovered yesterday (YESTERDAY!) that it was in fact Patti Casey, Vermont-based bluegrass and gospel musician. Whom I saw a couple of weekends ago. Not Paddy Casey, Irish singer songwriter who created such amazing songs as "Rainwater" and "Fear."
Oops.
January 29, 2001 -
so yeah. david gray is performing in burlington on april 26.
david gray is performing down the street from me on april 26.
i have been waiting for david gray tourdates forever already.
i am willing to go anywhere to see david gray.
david gray will be in burlington on the 26th.
i start competition for ACTF on april 25.
i will be in washington d.c. on april 26.
david gray will be in burlington on april 26.
WHAT THE FUCK!?!?!?!
this is my life.
*sigh*
but i might get to see him in virginia. a david gray concert will happen for me during this tour.
but come on. burlington???? too cruel.
I'm going to see Coldplay in Montreal on August 3. I'll follow that up with Ben Lee/Rufus/Ben Folds on August 5.
David Gray is playing Avalon on August 4.
*whimper*
------------
***The following is going to be composed of mostly dorky, Internet- and music-related content.***
I rarely post on message boards anymore, as they've been run over either with cliques or fanatical "teenies"*. I stop by the boards, I occasionally post something, but for the most part? I have a hard time wading through posts about Jason Mraz's girlfriend, what products Howie Day uses in his hair and whatnot.
Which is why I missed the first few posts about Averi on Mraz's board. K, one of the great people I've befriended from "the boards", laughed about it the other day when we met up for drinks, wryly remarking that she "was wondering when the hell you'd see the Averi thread and defend them." She'd seen that I'd found and commented on the subject that day.
I tried warning about this kind of thing on the Averi message board before - as I still cringe thinking of the reaction to an Averi thread I found on the HDTB awhile back - and I know that the big fans who posted on it were well-intentioned. But it prompted me to think about more tricks of the trade when it comes to promoting "your" band:
- Title your thread with something either straightforward or stupid. "____ rocks your brains out" or simply "______" (insert band name accordingly). While it's great for a band and its fans that the band has won awards/polls/recongition, it comes across as pompous to anyone who isn't familiar with the band. "Fine, if your band's so great, how come I never heard of 'em, huh?"
- Do not post in a message board's "Other Artists Discussion" if you've never posted on the board. Even if you just post something in a newbie section introducing yourself or saying hi, do whatever you must to ensure your name doesn't have "Posts: 1" next to it when you suggest a new band. Your band suggestion will likely be overlooked - or worse, labeled "spam" - because you haven't demonstrated any affiliation or interest in the artist to whom the message board is dedicated.
- Make what you write in the post sound off-the-cuff, not rehearsed. Using Averi as an example, I'd probably write something like the following on the Mraz board.
Hey, thought you guys might get a kick out of Averi. Five piece out of Boston, rock/pop sound with a saxophone (think back to the days of Aaron playing with Jason and the gang) to mix things up a bit. They just released their second album, "Drawn To Revolving Doors," in February and have been making their way around New England and the mid-Atlantic this year.
They've shared the bill with a bunch of artists I know people on here have discussed quite a bit - Gavin, Michael Tolcher, Guster, et al. - as well as MB20, the Goo Goo Dolls, BNK and the like. Even Sting.
Studio albums are good, but these guys rock live. Their website, www.averimusic.com, has all the touring details, so try to make it to a show! Five really cool guys who put on a great show. Check 'em out and let me know what you think.
- Check to be sure there isn't already a thread on the band on the board. This is what happened with theHDTB. People kept creating new threads to the point that the regulars said they were ignoring anything that had Averi's name in the title. It got ugly.
- Be prepared for people to bash your band. It happens. Perhaps someone was at an off show, perhaps it's not what fits into someone's musical perferences. I personally don't recommend trying to get people to change their minds. You've stated your opinion, they've stated theirs. Let the rest of the populance rule in.
- B&Ps of live shows work wonders...
[/soapbox rant]
*I don't care how old someone is, they can still qualify as a teenie. What precisely is this breed of fan? If you spend more of your time talking about how hot a musician is than how good the music is, you're a teenie. If you scream for, hypothetically speaking, "The Remedy" during a rarely-performed rendition of "Halfway Home," you're a teenie who is pissing off the non-teenies. If you're more concerned about trying to hook up with a member of the band than listening to the music, you're a slutty teenie. If you're more concerned about getting a photo with the musician(s) than saying hello to the musician(s), you're a teenie. If you post on message boards that you "totally luv _____, who is just the hotttest thing ever," you're most certainly a teenie.
6.22.2005
Silver linings
- I've decided that I like Eric Hutchinson.
- The boy Montbleau and his band of merry music makers will be at Higher Ground in September. Big grins.
-------------
I never seriously considered the whole "Look at me, I'm at The Today Show" idea. It requires waking up early. And being in New York. Two things that don't come particularly easy to me.
That said, I am going to give it a shot in July. We've assembled a crazy crew of characters ready and willing to trek to the city to see some guy with a guitar and a band play some concert series. I am fully aware of the horde of people who will also be in attendance. I know damn well just how much coffee I'm going to have to drink to be at all coherent during those early hours - and throughout that day and into that evening, at which point the coffee is likely to be replaced with Red Bull and Vodka. It'll be an early morning and a late night, as we'll cap off the Broadway-free musical Saturday with some band at some club.
It's going to be a crazy venture, one that I'm looking foward to. So when faced with the bullshit of an annoying week, I can keep my eyes on an imaginary skyline.
- The boy Montbleau and his band of merry music makers will be at Higher Ground in September. Big grins.
-------------
I never seriously considered the whole "Look at me, I'm at The Today Show" idea. It requires waking up early. And being in New York. Two things that don't come particularly easy to me.
That said, I am going to give it a shot in July. We've assembled a crazy crew of characters ready and willing to trek to the city to see some guy with a guitar and a band play some concert series. I am fully aware of the horde of people who will also be in attendance. I know damn well just how much coffee I'm going to have to drink to be at all coherent during those early hours - and throughout that day and into that evening, at which point the coffee is likely to be replaced with Red Bull and Vodka. It'll be an early morning and a late night, as we'll cap off the Broadway-free musical Saturday with some band at some club.
It's going to be a crazy venture, one that I'm looking foward to. So when faced with the bullshit of an annoying week, I can keep my eyes on an imaginary skyline.
Pssst psst ssssss pssst
Whispers. They drive me nuts. Hate them. Loathe them.
I'm not talking about your standard asides - when you're in a crowded room and the background noise is pulsing so loudly that you couldn't hear the words unless they were softly spoken directly into your ear. Or the coy flirtation. Those are fine. Whispers, yes, but acceptable.
I'm talking about sitting in a room with a very small group of people, and two of the people start to whisper back and forth. So softly that you just hear the hiss of the s words and air wheezing through.
Pisses me off like you would not believe. All the more so when I thought I was carrying on a conversation with one of the whispering parties.
The whisper is rude because it invariably creates an awkward situation. If I'm speaking and the whisper kicks in, I feel out of line, continuing my end of the conversation. If my voice continues to dominate the space, the person being whispered to won't be able to hear the other individual. Which means the other individual will have to keep on whispering. It is my duty as a considerate human being to cease my talking to allow the whispered conversation to carry on.
So most often I'll stop. Pause. Silence fills the air, broken only by that hissing air. Most often, one or both of the whispering parties will give me an odd expression, surprised that I stopped my thought half-way through.
Do I continue? The moment has been broken - whatever I was saying suddenly seems all the less interesting. If I continue, it's only to try to play off the interruption. I will, of course, feel awkward about it and nonplussed about not being as interesting as I thought I was.
If I don't, it becomes an issue. Oh, V's mad that she was interrupted. Drama, drama, drama. "No, it's cool. You guys can go ahead." But wait - I'm not supposed to be in on the conversation. Would you like me to leave? Would you like to call me back when you're through? I can easily go wait in another room. If it'll be a lengthy discourse, I'm happy to go for a walk.
Inevitably, the whispers seem to occur most often when I'm already feeling snippy. Perhaps they wouldn't bother me as much on a better day. But when I'm already feeling down, the whispers make me want to pick up something and throw it against a wall.
IF YOU WRITE NOTES, I WON'T HAVE TO HEAR IT.
I'm not talking about your standard asides - when you're in a crowded room and the background noise is pulsing so loudly that you couldn't hear the words unless they were softly spoken directly into your ear. Or the coy flirtation. Those are fine. Whispers, yes, but acceptable.
I'm talking about sitting in a room with a very small group of people, and two of the people start to whisper back and forth. So softly that you just hear the hiss of the s words and air wheezing through.
Pisses me off like you would not believe. All the more so when I thought I was carrying on a conversation with one of the whispering parties.
The whisper is rude because it invariably creates an awkward situation. If I'm speaking and the whisper kicks in, I feel out of line, continuing my end of the conversation. If my voice continues to dominate the space, the person being whispered to won't be able to hear the other individual. Which means the other individual will have to keep on whispering. It is my duty as a considerate human being to cease my talking to allow the whispered conversation to carry on.
So most often I'll stop. Pause. Silence fills the air, broken only by that hissing air. Most often, one or both of the whispering parties will give me an odd expression, surprised that I stopped my thought half-way through.
Do I continue? The moment has been broken - whatever I was saying suddenly seems all the less interesting. If I continue, it's only to try to play off the interruption. I will, of course, feel awkward about it and nonplussed about not being as interesting as I thought I was.
If I don't, it becomes an issue. Oh, V's mad that she was interrupted. Drama, drama, drama. "No, it's cool. You guys can go ahead." But wait - I'm not supposed to be in on the conversation. Would you like me to leave? Would you like to call me back when you're through? I can easily go wait in another room. If it'll be a lengthy discourse, I'm happy to go for a walk.
Inevitably, the whispers seem to occur most often when I'm already feeling snippy. Perhaps they wouldn't bother me as much on a better day. But when I'm already feeling down, the whispers make me want to pick up something and throw it against a wall.
IF YOU WRITE NOTES, I WON'T HAVE TO HEAR IT.
6.21.2005
UK USA
The making of a great compilation tape, like breaking up, is hard to do and takes ages longer than it might seem. You gotta kick off with a killer, to grab attention. Then you got to take it up a notch, but you don't wanna blow your wad, so then you got to cool it off a notch. There are a lot of rules. - High Fidelity
The Summer Burn 2005 caught my eye a few weeks ago. With fond memories of receiving a postcard from Australia ("The other side of the WORLD!" my animated eight-year-old self proclaimed) as a link in a chain letter attempt (yes, Virginia, before the Internet, people actually used postal mail), I decided to sign up.
The short synopsis: You burn two copies of what you would describe as The Ultimate Summer Mix. You ship mixes to whatever addresses you are given. You likewise receive two mixes. There are over 1100 people signed up from all over the world.
So, having explained that backstory, I can say that I received my addresses today. Manchester, UK. Florida, USA.
Amusingly enough, my fellow mix-happy flatmate received her addresses. One UK, one Fl. Heh.
The task turns now to finalizing the track listing I've played around with. Add a couple, take out the one that's not feeling quite right. Burn. Print cleverly-designed cover art. Label. Ship.
Watch the mail.
Hope for Australia.
The Summer Burn 2005 caught my eye a few weeks ago. With fond memories of receiving a postcard from Australia ("The other side of the WORLD!" my animated eight-year-old self proclaimed) as a link in a chain letter attempt (yes, Virginia, before the Internet, people actually used postal mail), I decided to sign up.
The short synopsis: You burn two copies of what you would describe as The Ultimate Summer Mix. You ship mixes to whatever addresses you are given. You likewise receive two mixes. There are over 1100 people signed up from all over the world.
So, having explained that backstory, I can say that I received my addresses today. Manchester, UK. Florida, USA.
Amusingly enough, my fellow mix-happy flatmate received her addresses. One UK, one Fl. Heh.
The task turns now to finalizing the track listing I've played around with. Add a couple, take out the one that's not feeling quite right. Burn. Print cleverly-designed cover art. Label. Ship.
Watch the mail.
Hope for Australia.
We consulted our lists and laughed.
I read mine first. "So for you, I've got Tori, Ani-"
"I'd forgotten about Ani!"
"The Bens and Rufus and Cap Steps."
"And U2-"
"Oh God, how'd I forget about that?"
"-Lewis Black and Red Sox. And KC and the Sunshine Band."
"OK."
"And for you, there's Tori, Indigo Girls, Clay..."
"Coldplay."
"Yep. Coldplay. And there was that Averi show in New Hampshire."
"What Averi show?"
"Milly's."
"Ah, yes. I'd forgotten about that."
We looked at the lists of tickets purchased since November. These were the batch purchases - when we'd picked them up for the group and shrugged off settling the prices with, "We'll take care of them later. I still owe you for ______."
Settling was hilarious.
"OK. Indigo Girls and Coldplay just about cancel out U2. Well, we'll throw Averi in there to put me over." I crossed off the items with a dramatic flourish of red ink.
"Hahaha - OK."
"Tori and Tori are just about a wash."
"Clay and KC cancel each other out."
"Yep."
We figured out the totals and doublechecked our math. Beth looked up and gave me a grin.
"When you look at it this way, it really makes you think about how much money we spend on tickets."
"But look at it another way." I looked over the list. "We've purchased most of the big tickets remaining this year. This summer, at least. So it's really just that we've invested."
We burst into laughter. "Silver lining?"
"Yep."
------------------
Music news I've forgotten to post until now.
July 7. First show of this season's Battery Park free concert series. GLEN PHILLIPS. Revel with me now. Haven't seen him since the Higher Ground show in 2001. Can't wait. Did I mention that it's a free show? Yes. And outside near the lake. Come play.
The word on the street is that Matt Nathanson will be playing three shows at Paradise in October. I feel the need to say no more on this subject. You know I'll be at one, if not two of these performances.
I discovered an album waiting for me yesterday morning. The Post-It note said it was mine if I wanted it. It was Mike Doughty's "Haughty Melodic." THANK YOU.
I read mine first. "So for you, I've got Tori, Ani-"
"I'd forgotten about Ani!"
"The Bens and Rufus and Cap Steps."
"And U2-"
"Oh God, how'd I forget about that?"
"-Lewis Black and Red Sox. And KC and the Sunshine Band."
"OK."
"And for you, there's Tori, Indigo Girls, Clay..."
"Coldplay."
"Yep. Coldplay. And there was that Averi show in New Hampshire."
"What Averi show?"
"Milly's."
"Ah, yes. I'd forgotten about that."
We looked at the lists of tickets purchased since November. These were the batch purchases - when we'd picked them up for the group and shrugged off settling the prices with, "We'll take care of them later. I still owe you for ______."
Settling was hilarious.
"OK. Indigo Girls and Coldplay just about cancel out U2. Well, we'll throw Averi in there to put me over." I crossed off the items with a dramatic flourish of red ink.
"Hahaha - OK."
"Tori and Tori are just about a wash."
"Clay and KC cancel each other out."
"Yep."
We figured out the totals and doublechecked our math. Beth looked up and gave me a grin.
"When you look at it this way, it really makes you think about how much money we spend on tickets."
"But look at it another way." I looked over the list. "We've purchased most of the big tickets remaining this year. This summer, at least. So it's really just that we've invested."
We burst into laughter. "Silver lining?"
"Yep."
------------------
Music news I've forgotten to post until now.
July 7. First show of this season's Battery Park free concert series. GLEN PHILLIPS. Revel with me now. Haven't seen him since the Higher Ground show in 2001. Can't wait. Did I mention that it's a free show? Yes. And outside near the lake. Come play.
The word on the street is that Matt Nathanson will be playing three shows at Paradise in October. I feel the need to say no more on this subject. You know I'll be at one, if not two of these performances.
I discovered an album waiting for me yesterday morning. The Post-It note said it was mine if I wanted it. It was Mike Doughty's "Haughty Melodic." THANK YOU.
6.20.2005
Detour
That they shut down 93 for the evening seems perfectly appropriate. Every other time I drive through the city late at night, the highway is closed and I find myself bumper to bumper near Congress.
Fits in well with the other Every Other Theory.
"Ah, we should have taken Storrow to Mass Ave.," M says from her spot in the passenger seat.
"Yeah, probably. But our luck, they would have closed down Storrow, too."
"Touche."
It never fails. Each time I see the signs indicating a detour, I optimistically think the street traffic will be light and the turns clearly marked.
Foolish optimism. The angry red lights and honking horns remind me that I've been duped for the second time this evening. But at least we've time to talk.
Normally, I'd relish this opportunity. But as I start and stop my car, I realize I've little else to add to the conversation she's waiting for me to resume. I already laughed with a self-depricating cackle, I already wondered why the hell I was ready to cry. I already mentally wrote a terse note and already abandoned the idea of writing anything.
I start thinking of a conversation earlier in the drive. I'd already been angry, but I was already quick to defend. "Well, we didn't say anything either, now did we?"
"We drove for over an hour. We deserved it. And we waited around to say something, now didn't we?"
A few minutes later came a comment I couldn't counter. "I have no doubt that he would have said something to me if you weren't there too."
I wonder if she's right - and why it continues to matter to me - while I focus on the traffic.
Fits in well with the other Every Other Theory.
"Ah, we should have taken Storrow to Mass Ave.," M says from her spot in the passenger seat.
"Yeah, probably. But our luck, they would have closed down Storrow, too."
"Touche."
It never fails. Each time I see the signs indicating a detour, I optimistically think the street traffic will be light and the turns clearly marked.
Foolish optimism. The angry red lights and honking horns remind me that I've been duped for the second time this evening. But at least we've time to talk.
Normally, I'd relish this opportunity. But as I start and stop my car, I realize I've little else to add to the conversation she's waiting for me to resume. I already laughed with a self-depricating cackle, I already wondered why the hell I was ready to cry. I already mentally wrote a terse note and already abandoned the idea of writing anything.
I start thinking of a conversation earlier in the drive. I'd already been angry, but I was already quick to defend. "Well, we didn't say anything either, now did we?"
"We drove for over an hour. We deserved it. And we waited around to say something, now didn't we?"
A few minutes later came a comment I couldn't counter. "I have no doubt that he would have said something to me if you weren't there too."
I wonder if she's right - and why it continues to matter to me - while I focus on the traffic.
6.19.2005
Back
Yesterday I was able to hug an oversized cow, make fish face at aquatic creatures and otherwise trapse around in a childlike fashion with the best sibling/friend a person could hope for.
Oh, and take in "The United States of Leland." Which I recommend.
And big surprise - photography also played a factor. Click on the pictures below to go to the rest of them.
Oh, and I found this contrast interesting. Consider this a Before and After:
Oh, and take in "The United States of Leland." Which I recommend.
And big surprise - photography also played a factor. Click on the pictures below to go to the rest of them.
Oh, and I found this contrast interesting. Consider this a Before and After:
6.18.2005
Sarah is 26 and lives in Southie. She's taken six months off from her job at the publishing house to focus her energies on the novel that's been on her mind for several years. She's pretty sarcastic and doesn't tolerate rude behavior, but is definitely one of the sweetest cynics anyone would have the opportunity to meet.
I knew the little white lie wouldn't hurt - and it made me feel better about the conversation. B had invited himself over to my table while M was off trying to thaw her frozen T-shirt, and he was just staggering and leery enough to amuse me, but also make me slightly uncomfortable. Mental pleas for any gallant gents in the room to come save me had gone unheeded - so I had to take care of things myself.
He had been telling me (and M, when she returned) about his second ex-wife and how she had left him. He discussed the poetry he had written but was too self-conscious to tell anyone about. Anyone other than us, apparently. He realized partway through his next rambling story that he had no idea of who he was talking to.
"What's your name, anyway?" he said, peering at us with alcohol-hazed vision.
"I'm M."
"And you?"
"Sarah. Nice to meet you."
"Sarah. Sarah and M."
Sarah was actually born - er, created - during the district days. She hung out on the edges of every situation, available if safety called for her. (For the record, yes, it did call for her from time to time for whatever woman needed her.) I had pulled the Sarah card only two or three times since moving back. Sure, it wasn't necessarily a safety issue this time - B wasn't capable of anything even if he were to try - but I felt the need to dust her off.
"What was your drink?"
"Vodka cran."
"What's it taste like?"
"Well, B," I began, keeping a completely serious face. "If you took the taste of vodka and you took the taste of cranberry juice and mixed them together, that's what you'd get."
Sarah could be a bitch at times. But B wouldn't remember.
He looked over at M. "Your friend here's pretty smart. I can tell."
I gave a smile, swirled my straw and looked over my shoulder. Knights in shining armor...any time now..."Aw, thanks, B. That's nice of you to say."
After a few more minutes of chitchat - and the debut of his poem - B said he was going to drive home. We talked him down to walking home and he rose to say goodnight.
"It was good to meet you two," he said, slightly unsteady. "Sarah. M. Hope to see you around here soon. Have a good night."
"G'night, B," we said in chorus. He gave one more crooked smile and walked out.
I waited to take a sip of my drink, raise an eyebrow to the bemused smile across the table and spin my straw again. Then we burst into the chuckles that had been building up through the whole conversation.
See? I'd helped B out. Sarah was able to keep a straight face during a random encounter. V would have been laughing through the whole damn thing.
----------------
I relaxed yesterday afternoon. I spent a chunk of several hours in the Public Garden, laying in the shade of a tree with my camera, notebook and copy of "A Long Way Down."* The sun squinted through the branches above me and church chimes blended with the sound of rustling leaves and construction a block away.
It was the nicest several hours I've spent in a good long while - and I finally felt I was actually on vacation.
----------------
D made sure to say hello, and I learned that an bandmate's illness had forced them to cancel the headlining gig M and I had traveled to see. Ah, well, have to see them soon. I still wound up able to enjoy a pretty decent mango margarita, hear "Daffodils" live for the first time since that first show and cheer the Sox when they broke through the tie score in the bottom of the ninth.
But, man. Perhaps I should have remained in Sarah mode a bit longer, so as to not have cared at the end of the evening.
*Finished it later that afternoon. I recommend. Brilliant. LOVE NICK HORNBY.
I knew the little white lie wouldn't hurt - and it made me feel better about the conversation. B had invited himself over to my table while M was off trying to thaw her frozen T-shirt, and he was just staggering and leery enough to amuse me, but also make me slightly uncomfortable. Mental pleas for any gallant gents in the room to come save me had gone unheeded - so I had to take care of things myself.
He had been telling me (and M, when she returned) about his second ex-wife and how she had left him. He discussed the poetry he had written but was too self-conscious to tell anyone about. Anyone other than us, apparently. He realized partway through his next rambling story that he had no idea of who he was talking to.
"What's your name, anyway?" he said, peering at us with alcohol-hazed vision.
"I'm M."
"And you?"
"Sarah. Nice to meet you."
"Sarah. Sarah and M."
Sarah was actually born - er, created - during the district days. She hung out on the edges of every situation, available if safety called for her. (For the record, yes, it did call for her from time to time for whatever woman needed her.) I had pulled the Sarah card only two or three times since moving back. Sure, it wasn't necessarily a safety issue this time - B wasn't capable of anything even if he were to try - but I felt the need to dust her off.
"What was your drink?"
"Vodka cran."
"What's it taste like?"
"Well, B," I began, keeping a completely serious face. "If you took the taste of vodka and you took the taste of cranberry juice and mixed them together, that's what you'd get."
Sarah could be a bitch at times. But B wouldn't remember.
He looked over at M. "Your friend here's pretty smart. I can tell."
I gave a smile, swirled my straw and looked over my shoulder. Knights in shining armor...any time now..."Aw, thanks, B. That's nice of you to say."
After a few more minutes of chitchat - and the debut of his poem - B said he was going to drive home. We talked him down to walking home and he rose to say goodnight.
"It was good to meet you two," he said, slightly unsteady. "Sarah. M. Hope to see you around here soon. Have a good night."
"G'night, B," we said in chorus. He gave one more crooked smile and walked out.
I waited to take a sip of my drink, raise an eyebrow to the bemused smile across the table and spin my straw again. Then we burst into the chuckles that had been building up through the whole conversation.
See? I'd helped B out. Sarah was able to keep a straight face during a random encounter. V would have been laughing through the whole damn thing.
----------------
I relaxed yesterday afternoon. I spent a chunk of several hours in the Public Garden, laying in the shade of a tree with my camera, notebook and copy of "A Long Way Down."* The sun squinted through the branches above me and church chimes blended with the sound of rustling leaves and construction a block away.
It was the nicest several hours I've spent in a good long while - and I finally felt I was actually on vacation.
----------------
D made sure to say hello, and I learned that an bandmate's illness had forced them to cancel the headlining gig M and I had traveled to see. Ah, well, have to see them soon. I still wound up able to enjoy a pretty decent mango margarita, hear "Daffodils" live for the first time since that first show and cheer the Sox when they broke through the tie score in the bottom of the ninth.
But, man. Perhaps I should have remained in Sarah mode a bit longer, so as to not have cared at the end of the evening.
*Finished it later that afternoon. I recommend. Brilliant. LOVE NICK HORNBY.
6.15.2005
Repeat
June 2004 -
boston was grand, per usual. i've realized i make the trip down just about every two weeks - a pattern recently pointed out by several colleagues. in fine fashion, i'll be back in boston the weekend from next - enjoying the unbelievable lineup that is rufus/guster/ben.
per my new leaf, i will not spend any portion of that trip thinking about those unworthy of my time.
June 2005 -
LIAR!!!!
Whoops. Well, here I am, about to go again. In a kind of, sort of, not really sort of way. Regardless, viva la Bostonia! I'll be blowing a kiss to the skyline tomorrow.
My mother called me today. Mid-conversation:
M: Did you know that Averi's going to be performing on a cruise? I saw it in the Globe listings.
V: Yep. August 5.
M: A cruise, huh?
V: Go on. Say it. You know you want to.
M: Say what?
V: BOOZE CRUISE.
M: It's not a booze cruise.
V: Oh yes it is.
M: Really?
V: Yep. Booze cruise all the way.
M: And you're not going?
V: Nope. Already have plans.
M: Must be good plans. I would have thought you'd make sure to be on a booze cruise with Averi.
I think my mother was calling me a lush.
Vacation mode commences in 5...4...3...2...1...
Just kidding. A few more hours.
Then the countdown.
But before I go, might I encourage you to check out the latest IMN? I generally enjoy whenever J takes to the invisible mic, but this might be the best yet - prompting chuckles, laughs and all out guffaws.
(Yes, guffaws! Who would have thought?)
Best part, of course, features a song I've been known to sing aloud from time to time...
(Michelle, you in particular must check this out.)
boston was grand, per usual. i've realized i make the trip down just about every two weeks - a pattern recently pointed out by several colleagues. in fine fashion, i'll be back in boston the weekend from next - enjoying the unbelievable lineup that is rufus/guster/ben.
per my new leaf, i will not spend any portion of that trip thinking about those unworthy of my time.
June 2005 -
LIAR!!!!
Whoops. Well, here I am, about to go again. In a kind of, sort of, not really sort of way. Regardless, viva la Bostonia! I'll be blowing a kiss to the skyline tomorrow.
My mother called me today. Mid-conversation:
M: Did you know that Averi's going to be performing on a cruise? I saw it in the Globe listings.
V: Yep. August 5.
M: A cruise, huh?
V: Go on. Say it. You know you want to.
M: Say what?
V: BOOZE CRUISE.
M: It's not a booze cruise.
V: Oh yes it is.
M: Really?
V: Yep. Booze cruise all the way.
M: And you're not going?
V: Nope. Already have plans.
M: Must be good plans. I would have thought you'd make sure to be on a booze cruise with Averi.
I think my mother was calling me a lush.
Vacation mode commences in 5...4...3...2...1...
Just kidding. A few more hours.
Then the countdown.
But before I go, might I encourage you to check out the latest IMN? I generally enjoy whenever J takes to the invisible mic, but this might be the best yet - prompting chuckles, laughs and all out guffaws.
(Yes, guffaws! Who would have thought?)
Best part, of course, features a song I've been known to sing aloud from time to time...
(Michelle, you in particular must check this out.)
6.14.2005
Sugar High
You know what I'm talking about.
Think to that moment in "Empire Records" when Gina is so crazy happy to be up on the roof-top stage, singing with the band. The "Tiny Dancer" sequence in "Almost Famous," when everyone starts belting out Elton John, strictly for the sake of being in the moment with the music and loving that chorus. Nothing but the collective experience of sharing in the sound.
That was what the lead singer of Three 5 Human emoted as she sang the third verse to "Closer To Fine" with The Indigo Girls tonight.
The entire concert was good. Great, actually. But her excitement about being able to share the stage and add to the song was what earned my standing ovation tonight.
It was incredible, seeing someone so purely happy and content belting out the words.
Think to that moment in "Empire Records" when Gina is so crazy happy to be up on the roof-top stage, singing with the band. The "Tiny Dancer" sequence in "Almost Famous," when everyone starts belting out Elton John, strictly for the sake of being in the moment with the music and loving that chorus. Nothing but the collective experience of sharing in the sound.
That was what the lead singer of Three 5 Human emoted as she sang the third verse to "Closer To Fine" with The Indigo Girls tonight.
The entire concert was good. Great, actually. But her excitement about being able to share the stage and add to the song was what earned my standing ovation tonight.
It was incredible, seeing someone so purely happy and content belting out the words.
Storm before the calm
You have to earn a vacation, no matter how short it may be.
I'm tackling an impossibly large pile of tasks by focusing on the possibility of spreading out in a park with a copy of Nick Hornby's latest novel and the realization that I won't have to do anything I don't want to do...
Eyes on the prize, kids. Eyes on the prize.
p.s. Am I the only one who, upon having to walk on chalk art sidewalks, thinks for a second about the possibility of falling into the chalky world and dancing with penguins?
p.p.s. Indigo Girls tonight. Concert snuck up on me. Never seen them live. I hear they say, "Thanks, y'all!" quite often. This should be fun.
I'm tackling an impossibly large pile of tasks by focusing on the possibility of spreading out in a park with a copy of Nick Hornby's latest novel and the realization that I won't have to do anything I don't want to do...
Eyes on the prize, kids. Eyes on the prize.
p.s. Am I the only one who, upon having to walk on chalk art sidewalks, thinks for a second about the possibility of falling into the chalky world and dancing with penguins?
p.p.s. Indigo Girls tonight. Concert snuck up on me. Never seen them live. I hear they say, "Thanks, y'all!" quite often. This should be fun.
6.13.2005
And the jury says...
...that MJ lives free to be his bizarre self another day. Years from now, children will us where we were when we heard the Michael Jackson verdict. What were we doing? Who were we with?
Although I'm sure the memory will be burned into my mind and heart forever, let me record for the ages that I stood around a television with my peers. Passing around popcorn. Wondering why there was an Irish sign in the crowd outside - in fact wondering why there were any signs at all.
It's all about sharing - news, popcorn and a healthy dose of laughter.
Sarcasm? What's sarcasm? But I was serious about the popcorn.
Although I'm sure the memory will be burned into my mind and heart forever, let me record for the ages that I stood around a television with my peers. Passing around popcorn. Wondering why there was an Irish sign in the crowd outside - in fact wondering why there were any signs at all.
It's all about sharing - news, popcorn and a healthy dose of laughter.
Sarcasm? What's sarcasm? But I was serious about the popcorn.
Alas, Martin Sheen was nowhere to be found
Two years ago at about this time, I was blinking in the sunshine on the White House lawn. We sipped lemonade and water from glasses with the Presidential seal and nibbled on cookies and crackers held on white paper napkins with the seal embossed in gold.
(I half-wondered how much trouble I'd get in for brining a glass home as a keepsake. I decided to play it smart and take an extra napkin. It's packed away somewhere among my other mid-Atlantic momentos.)
It was bright, hot and humid, as the district's swamp weather had begun to assert itself, but I still wore my dark skirted suit. I could deal with feeling hot for the sake of demonstrating the proper decorum this reception called for.
I remember my heels clicking against marble floors in the lower hallways and the wood panels above. Red silk covered the walls of one room (Nancy had fun decorating), green brocade covered antoher set. Lincoln's portrait caused a stir, the idea of first children rollerskating in another room elicited giggles. I was most struck, however, by Kennedy's portrait as it hung near an alcoved staircase. By far the most impressive of the presidential portraits and positioned just as I'd like it - right by the stairs depicted in "Yankee Doodle Dandy" for Cagney's final shimmy.
I had to admit that I felt pretty proud to be in the building that was at that point next-to-impossible to visit. I imagined tourists and school groups standing at the fences, snapping photographs of the building and observing the guards positioned all around.
Two years later, I realize I don't think I'd want to go back and visit it again. I enjoy looking back on the headiness of showing my ID and being escorted out onto the lawn...
(I half-wondered how much trouble I'd get in for brining a glass home as a keepsake. I decided to play it smart and take an extra napkin. It's packed away somewhere among my other mid-Atlantic momentos.)
It was bright, hot and humid, as the district's swamp weather had begun to assert itself, but I still wore my dark skirted suit. I could deal with feeling hot for the sake of demonstrating the proper decorum this reception called for.
I remember my heels clicking against marble floors in the lower hallways and the wood panels above. Red silk covered the walls of one room (Nancy had fun decorating), green brocade covered antoher set. Lincoln's portrait caused a stir, the idea of first children rollerskating in another room elicited giggles. I was most struck, however, by Kennedy's portrait as it hung near an alcoved staircase. By far the most impressive of the presidential portraits and positioned just as I'd like it - right by the stairs depicted in "Yankee Doodle Dandy" for Cagney's final shimmy.
I had to admit that I felt pretty proud to be in the building that was at that point next-to-impossible to visit. I imagined tourists and school groups standing at the fences, snapping photographs of the building and observing the guards positioned all around.
Two years later, I realize I don't think I'd want to go back and visit it again. I enjoy looking back on the headiness of showing my ID and being escorted out onto the lawn...
"Hello Mum, how you doin?"
"Ugh. It's hot."
"I know. Here too."
"Don't want to do anything."
"Me neither. What are you doing?"
"Nothing. You?"
"Same."
"How's your upcoming week look?"
"Not bad, all things considered. Same old same old the first couple of days. And then vacation."
"Vacation? You never mentioned a vacation."
"Yes I did. You just didn't listen."
"Right. When do you have vacation?"
"Thursday and Friday. I'm going to Boston."
"We're going to be in Massachusetts Thursday. Well, leaving that day. We're going down Tuesday."
"To Grandma's? We should meet up! What time are you leaving? I can swing by and say hello or we can get Richardson's or something. It'll be fun."
"We're leaving early that morning. Your dad doesn't want to miss golf at Men's Night."
"Oh." Pause. "Well, I could head down Wednesday after work and spend the night with you guys at Gram's. I'd get there around 10ish."
"Well, we're leaving pretty early Thursday, so we don't want you to change your plans."
"Mom, the point of this vacation is that I have no plans. I've nothing to change."
"Your grandmother will be all worried if you're driving down alone that night."
"As opposed to driving down alone in the morning?"
"We'll see you at some point soon. It's fine."
"And Dad won't reconsider missing Men's Night once? So he can see his favorite - might I mention ONLY - daughter shortly before Father's Day?"
"Well, if you have all this spare time, why don't you come visit Sunday?"
"Hmm. I could maybe do that. I wouldn't be there for long, but I could stop by on my way back to Burlington. What are you guys up to then?"
"Well, your father's got the day off, he's playing golf. You could say hi to him from the green."
"I've been replaced by a set of golf clubs. Great."
"Hahaha."
"Well, you guys should get up here soon and visit me. I mean, you spend all this time in Massachusetts with your other child. Hehehe."
"It's not to be with my other child. Well, not that other child."
"What?"
"I'm having so much fun redecorating your grandmother's house."
"So my father has replaced me with a set of golf clubs and my mother has replaced me with a house?"
"Um, pretty much."
"Fabulous. Thank you. That's awesome. I'm going to go make a margarita now and drown my sorrows. Love you."
"You too, sweetie. Keep cool."
"You too. Bye."
"Bye."
-----------
In other, related news. I'm looking forward to being able to (finally) see Mr. Vertigo in concert during my time off - a little jaunt to New Hampshire is on the agenda for Friday. I'm pleased about it, as I've wanted to see the band for awhile. Check out the site for details.
I'm trying to keep my normal inclination to plan things and organize my minibreak to a minimum, so that I force myself to actually relax. It's a good idea in theory, anyway. Right now, I'm looking to The Tribe at The Cantab (seeing M perform Thursday will provide disjointed flashbacks to Rough Edges*), Mr. Vertigo, wandering the city, maybe a stop in Beverly and perhaps a beach.
I'm just going to let the pieces fall where they may.
But, in classic form, being so close to a little time off means the next couple of days are going to crawl by.
*Rough Edges (n.): 1. Group of college students with a passion for saying "Yes, and..." at all times, jumping into song in the middle of a circle and developing characters and situations one otherwise might never have known existed. 2. Improvisional comedy troupe.
"Ugh. It's hot."
"I know. Here too."
"Don't want to do anything."
"Me neither. What are you doing?"
"Nothing. You?"
"Same."
"How's your upcoming week look?"
"Not bad, all things considered. Same old same old the first couple of days. And then vacation."
"Vacation? You never mentioned a vacation."
"Yes I did. You just didn't listen."
"Right. When do you have vacation?"
"Thursday and Friday. I'm going to Boston."
"We're going to be in Massachusetts Thursday. Well, leaving that day. We're going down Tuesday."
"To Grandma's? We should meet up! What time are you leaving? I can swing by and say hello or we can get Richardson's or something. It'll be fun."
"We're leaving early that morning. Your dad doesn't want to miss golf at Men's Night."
"Oh." Pause. "Well, I could head down Wednesday after work and spend the night with you guys at Gram's. I'd get there around 10ish."
"Well, we're leaving pretty early Thursday, so we don't want you to change your plans."
"Mom, the point of this vacation is that I have no plans. I've nothing to change."
"Your grandmother will be all worried if you're driving down alone that night."
"As opposed to driving down alone in the morning?"
"We'll see you at some point soon. It's fine."
"And Dad won't reconsider missing Men's Night once? So he can see his favorite - might I mention ONLY - daughter shortly before Father's Day?"
"Well, if you have all this spare time, why don't you come visit Sunday?"
"Hmm. I could maybe do that. I wouldn't be there for long, but I could stop by on my way back to Burlington. What are you guys up to then?"
"Well, your father's got the day off, he's playing golf. You could say hi to him from the green."
"I've been replaced by a set of golf clubs. Great."
"Hahaha."
"Well, you guys should get up here soon and visit me. I mean, you spend all this time in Massachusetts with your other child. Hehehe."
"It's not to be with my other child. Well, not that other child."
"What?"
"I'm having so much fun redecorating your grandmother's house."
"So my father has replaced me with a set of golf clubs and my mother has replaced me with a house?"
"Um, pretty much."
"Fabulous. Thank you. That's awesome. I'm going to go make a margarita now and drown my sorrows. Love you."
"You too, sweetie. Keep cool."
"You too. Bye."
"Bye."
-----------
In other, related news. I'm looking forward to being able to (finally) see Mr. Vertigo in concert during my time off - a little jaunt to New Hampshire is on the agenda for Friday. I'm pleased about it, as I've wanted to see the band for awhile. Check out the site for details.
I'm trying to keep my normal inclination to plan things and organize my minibreak to a minimum, so that I force myself to actually relax. It's a good idea in theory, anyway. Right now, I'm looking to The Tribe at The Cantab (seeing M perform Thursday will provide disjointed flashbacks to Rough Edges*), Mr. Vertigo, wandering the city, maybe a stop in Beverly and perhaps a beach.
I'm just going to let the pieces fall where they may.
But, in classic form, being so close to a little time off means the next couple of days are going to crawl by.
*Rough Edges (n.): 1. Group of college students with a passion for saying "Yes, and..." at all times, jumping into song in the middle of a circle and developing characters and situations one otherwise might never have known existed. 2. Improvisional comedy troupe.
6.12.2005
My city-town is quirky. An entity unto itself, despite all of the claimed parallels I've heard of, with references to other areas I've yet to explore. And when I try to describe this little space to others, I find myself most often reminiscing about particular instances or events that seem to encapsulate what this city-town is.
The only problem is that it has so many funky sides to it that selecting one particular instance proves near-impossible. A simple answer to a seemingly simple question is one I've not yet found.
This afternoon, I parked my car in my downtown lot and walked down the slope of College Street to the waterfront. The lake was hazy, with humidity posing as fog that rose in front of greenery on the New York side. The heat weighed down heavy on my fellow pedestrians, who seemed envious of the bicyclists whizzing by. We rationalized that they were doing more work, but remained envious that at least they were generating a steady breeze for their travels.
The white tent was propped in the outcrop jutting toward the water, the faint sound of a mandolin growing louder as I approached. I felt a temporary relief from the heat beneath the shade, but quickly realized the difference in temperature was perhaps a couple of degrees. If we were lucky.
I found my friends on a grassy patch near the back and gratefully settled onto the ground to rest. The bluegrass was appropriately plucky but was countered with the female singer's smooth, throaty voice.
Applause after each song was difficult, as the grass that stuck to our damp hands (not to mention our sweaty legs) flew in small clumps mid-clap. But the music was worth it.
After some time, we rose to brush off and stretch our limbs. "I want ice cream," one of us said. We set off on the walk back into the heat and up the hills, stopping to stand in the mist of the ecological center nearby. It stopped just as we approached and resumed just as we began to leave. Maturity be damned - we ran back at full speed, laughing and splashing about in the small puddles.
When I think of Burlington, I think of Monday night Grippo performances in a smokey Red Square. I think of karaoke at Manhattan's, coffee at Muddy's and Uncommon Grounds and sunsets along the water. Street performers along Church Street or the spinning spheres in City Hall Park.
Now, I add to the list bluegrass along the waterfront, misters and summer treks for Ben & Jerry's.
Thus compounding the situation next time I'm asked to describe where I now live.
------------
In other news. JazzFest: enjoyable as always. Friday night was cosmos, "fine dining" and background ambiance at a corner bistro. Saturday wandered by in a heavy haze. And Sunday bluegrass amid the grass. Good times.
I feel an obligation to note that I did enjoy "Episode III."
"Wordplay" is slowly - and I mean ever so slowly - growing on me. Mainly because I find the video to be brilliant. Love it. Was not expecting it in the least. And the Billy-goat brings me joy.
And, finally.
the one person who really knows me best
says i'm like a cat
yeah the kind of cat that you just can't pick up
and throw into your lap
no, the kind that doesn't mind being held
only when its her idea
yeah, the kind that feels what she decides to feel
when she is good and ready to feel it
- Ani, "Virtue"
The only problem is that it has so many funky sides to it that selecting one particular instance proves near-impossible. A simple answer to a seemingly simple question is one I've not yet found.
This afternoon, I parked my car in my downtown lot and walked down the slope of College Street to the waterfront. The lake was hazy, with humidity posing as fog that rose in front of greenery on the New York side. The heat weighed down heavy on my fellow pedestrians, who seemed envious of the bicyclists whizzing by. We rationalized that they were doing more work, but remained envious that at least they were generating a steady breeze for their travels.
The white tent was propped in the outcrop jutting toward the water, the faint sound of a mandolin growing louder as I approached. I felt a temporary relief from the heat beneath the shade, but quickly realized the difference in temperature was perhaps a couple of degrees. If we were lucky.
I found my friends on a grassy patch near the back and gratefully settled onto the ground to rest. The bluegrass was appropriately plucky but was countered with the female singer's smooth, throaty voice.
Applause after each song was difficult, as the grass that stuck to our damp hands (not to mention our sweaty legs) flew in small clumps mid-clap. But the music was worth it.
After some time, we rose to brush off and stretch our limbs. "I want ice cream," one of us said. We set off on the walk back into the heat and up the hills, stopping to stand in the mist of the ecological center nearby. It stopped just as we approached and resumed just as we began to leave. Maturity be damned - we ran back at full speed, laughing and splashing about in the small puddles.
When I think of Burlington, I think of Monday night Grippo performances in a smokey Red Square. I think of karaoke at Manhattan's, coffee at Muddy's and Uncommon Grounds and sunsets along the water. Street performers along Church Street or the spinning spheres in City Hall Park.
Now, I add to the list bluegrass along the waterfront, misters and summer treks for Ben & Jerry's.
Thus compounding the situation next time I'm asked to describe where I now live.
------------
In other news. JazzFest: enjoyable as always. Friday night was cosmos, "fine dining" and background ambiance at a corner bistro. Saturday wandered by in a heavy haze. And Sunday bluegrass amid the grass. Good times.
I feel an obligation to note that I did enjoy "Episode III."
"Wordplay" is slowly - and I mean ever so slowly - growing on me. Mainly because I find the video to be brilliant. Love it. Was not expecting it in the least. And the Billy-goat brings me joy.
And, finally.
the one person who really knows me best
says i'm like a cat
yeah the kind of cat that you just can't pick up
and throw into your lap
no, the kind that doesn't mind being held
only when its her idea
yeah, the kind that feels what she decides to feel
when she is good and ready to feel it
- Ani, "Virtue"
6.10.2005
If I were to whisper
IF I were to decide to take a weekend jaunt to New York in July and IF I were to find myself with spare time during a dual-concert Saturday mid-jaunt, I'd want to take in the whispering gallery at Grand Central Station.
When I led wide-eyed visitors through the Capitol, the stop in the Old House Chamber was often a highlight. I'd steer the group through the entranceway and lead them to the right. If the room wasn't too crowded, I'd position them in the near right corner and describe the room as it was when in daily use. I asked them to imagine socialites crowding the gallery in early September, imagine the humidity and the background chatter. I then asked them to imagine certain political figures in this room. John Quincy Adams, Franklin Pierce, Abraham Lincoln.
Then I'd ask them to look down at the floor. If it worked out properly, they'd stare at a small brass square with Lincoln's name on it. It was a marker for where his desk was located. He stood in the same place the visitors were standing at now.
There was always at least one in the group who'd look up at me with wide eyes.
I'd point out the various statues, promise to lead people over to where a hulking Ira Allen lurked in the far corner and then move the group to one spot on the floor. I'd ask them to form a ring around the small brass circle on the floor and then told them I'd be right back.
After striding across the marble floor, I'd mark out the spot. Look for the strange dark blemish on the white marble square and move a step back and over. Lean over. Start to softly speak.
If it was a full room, it wouldn't work. If I missed the marker, it wouldn't work. But there were a handful of times in which, all of a sudden, the group across the room would look up, then crouch in with excitement.
"Can you guys hear me?" I'd murmur. Heads nodded. "This room is also known as the Whispering Room. There's an old wives' tale about how John Quincy Adams had his desk at just about the spot you're at. They say he used to pretend to be asleep and lie with one ear toward the ground so he could spy on the other side." Hollow chuckles seemed to rise from the spot on the floor over which I was leaning.
I'd smile and hurry back to the group, letting the next tour guide take over the spot.
"Truth is, if John Quincy Adams was laying at his desk, he probably was asleep. Back then, there was no separation of Democrats and Republicans, so there was no need to spy. But the room does, obviously, have this cool little quirk." I'd go on to explain the acoustics, the angle of the arch above and how the nickname took hold.
When it worked, I'd often hear that that was the highlight of the tour.
It would nice to have a new whispering spot to explore.
In other news. Words won't begin to describe the boredom today. Everyone is stir-crazy. Everyone wants to be outside. Everyone is counting down the hours.
As am I. But with phone calls unreturned (bastards) and little to do, counting is a slow, slow process.
That said, my normal sentiment of "I like email" has been modified to "I LOVE EMAIL." HINT HINT.
An old-school Friday Five because there's so little else to do:
1. What made you happy this week?
Technically it's last week, but since it's within the last seven days, I'll count it. I enjoyed the Averi show on Saturday.
2. What made you sad?
Predictability. Both in myself and others.
3. What made you angry?
Nothing really made me "angry," but I've been annoyed the last couple of days. Short-tempered. And I've been writing too much in my notebook about the same, tired subject.
4. What are you looking forward to in the next week?
Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday.
5. What are you not looking forward to?
Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday.
When I led wide-eyed visitors through the Capitol, the stop in the Old House Chamber was often a highlight. I'd steer the group through the entranceway and lead them to the right. If the room wasn't too crowded, I'd position them in the near right corner and describe the room as it was when in daily use. I asked them to imagine socialites crowding the gallery in early September, imagine the humidity and the background chatter. I then asked them to imagine certain political figures in this room. John Quincy Adams, Franklin Pierce, Abraham Lincoln.
Then I'd ask them to look down at the floor. If it worked out properly, they'd stare at a small brass square with Lincoln's name on it. It was a marker for where his desk was located. He stood in the same place the visitors were standing at now.
There was always at least one in the group who'd look up at me with wide eyes.
I'd point out the various statues, promise to lead people over to where a hulking Ira Allen lurked in the far corner and then move the group to one spot on the floor. I'd ask them to form a ring around the small brass circle on the floor and then told them I'd be right back.
After striding across the marble floor, I'd mark out the spot. Look for the strange dark blemish on the white marble square and move a step back and over. Lean over. Start to softly speak.
If it was a full room, it wouldn't work. If I missed the marker, it wouldn't work. But there were a handful of times in which, all of a sudden, the group across the room would look up, then crouch in with excitement.
"Can you guys hear me?" I'd murmur. Heads nodded. "This room is also known as the Whispering Room. There's an old wives' tale about how John Quincy Adams had his desk at just about the spot you're at. They say he used to pretend to be asleep and lie with one ear toward the ground so he could spy on the other side." Hollow chuckles seemed to rise from the spot on the floor over which I was leaning.
I'd smile and hurry back to the group, letting the next tour guide take over the spot.
"Truth is, if John Quincy Adams was laying at his desk, he probably was asleep. Back then, there was no separation of Democrats and Republicans, so there was no need to spy. But the room does, obviously, have this cool little quirk." I'd go on to explain the acoustics, the angle of the arch above and how the nickname took hold.
When it worked, I'd often hear that that was the highlight of the tour.
It would nice to have a new whispering spot to explore.
In other news. Words won't begin to describe the boredom today. Everyone is stir-crazy. Everyone wants to be outside. Everyone is counting down the hours.
As am I. But with phone calls unreturned (bastards) and little to do, counting is a slow, slow process.
That said, my normal sentiment of "I like email" has been modified to "I LOVE EMAIL." HINT HINT.
An old-school Friday Five because there's so little else to do:
1. What made you happy this week?
Technically it's last week, but since it's within the last seven days, I'll count it. I enjoyed the Averi show on Saturday.
2. What made you sad?
Predictability. Both in myself and others.
3. What made you angry?
Nothing really made me "angry," but I've been annoyed the last couple of days. Short-tempered. And I've been writing too much in my notebook about the same, tired subject.
4. What are you looking forward to in the next week?
Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday.
5. What are you not looking forward to?
Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday.
Cool jazz
The weekend revelry of JazzFest is kicking off.
I walked to City Hall Park, where the big band sound from the other side of the municipal building prompted park visitors to dance about. It was impossible to keep a straight face at the pulse of the bass drum and wail of the trumpet. As I walked the alley walkway to Church Street, I passed a woman who grinned and bobbed her head back and forth as I passed.
A turn left up Church. A young man in a fedora was walking ahead of me, snapping his fingers with his greatest Sinatra gusto. The street benches were full of people looking at the City Hall stage, and a crowd was meandering over to the temporary venue.
As I walked toward College, the sound blended with another performance, perhaps a block farther up the way. This was cooler, smoother sound. Strictly jazz. The two styles meshed to form an unexpectedly fitting medley.
I had to turn onto College and head back in - out of the thick, humid air into air-conditioning and phone calls. I wished I could stay outside and take in the festival spirit.
In time, in time. A few more hours and I'll be able to play with the jazz lovers.
I walked to City Hall Park, where the big band sound from the other side of the municipal building prompted park visitors to dance about. It was impossible to keep a straight face at the pulse of the bass drum and wail of the trumpet. As I walked the alley walkway to Church Street, I passed a woman who grinned and bobbed her head back and forth as I passed.
A turn left up Church. A young man in a fedora was walking ahead of me, snapping his fingers with his greatest Sinatra gusto. The street benches were full of people looking at the City Hall stage, and a crowd was meandering over to the temporary venue.
As I walked toward College, the sound blended with another performance, perhaps a block farther up the way. This was cooler, smoother sound. Strictly jazz. The two styles meshed to form an unexpectedly fitting medley.
I had to turn onto College and head back in - out of the thick, humid air into air-conditioning and phone calls. I wished I could stay outside and take in the festival spirit.
In time, in time. A few more hours and I'll be able to play with the jazz lovers.
Good times.
Too bad.
The cruise would have been fun.
Haven't been one a booze cruise in years.
Since college.
When Adam had a tab and was feeling generous.
And Grippo played.
But it's August 5.
I'm in Boston that night.
But so are Ben, Rufus and Ben.
I'll be on the edge of the water.
Instead of on the water.
I'll have a great time.
Without a hangover the next day.
So it works out.
But it's still too bad.
In other news.
August 21.
FleetBoston/Bank of America/Coroporate Mad Libs Pavilion.
Tori Amos.
14th row.
And, finally.
"Arcadia."
Publick Theatre in Brighton.
Opens June 30.
I want to go.
I promise not to recite Chloe's lines.
Too much, that is.
Who's going with me?
We now return you to your "get me out of here already because's it's finally" Friday.
The cruise would have been fun.
Haven't been one a booze cruise in years.
Since college.
When Adam had a tab and was feeling generous.
And Grippo played.
But it's August 5.
I'm in Boston that night.
But so are Ben, Rufus and Ben.
I'll be on the edge of the water.
Instead of on the water.
I'll have a great time.
Without a hangover the next day.
So it works out.
But it's still too bad.
In other news.
August 21.
FleetBoston/Bank of America/Coroporate Mad Libs Pavilion.
Tori Amos.
14th row.
And, finally.
"Arcadia."
Publick Theatre in Brighton.
Opens June 30.
I want to go.
I promise not to recite Chloe's lines.
Too much, that is.
Who's going with me?
We now return you to your "get me out of here already because's it's finally" Friday.
6.09.2005
A caffeinated crush
I think mid-afternoon coffee breaks may have found a new location.
He's good-looking, with sandy-colored curls and a wide, easy smile. Answers an inquiry as to the music being played and, when the inquirer remarks that she knew it sounded familiar, he outlines the set-it-aside-for-a-bit-then-pick-it-up-and-listen-anew theory in which she strongly believes. Mentions that he owns this album and brought it in to work - while doing so, he demonstrates good musical taste.
And makes the perfect espresso shake.
I really need to pick up that album. As I listened to that first song, I felt that lovely connection in which it seemed Conor had been following me around, peeking over my shoulder to glance onto my notebook scribbles as of late, then adapting it to fiction. Now if it would move from lyrics to real life...
I remember the time you drove all night
Just to meet me in the morning
And I thought it was strange, you said everything changed
You felt as if you'd just woke up
And you said, "This is the first day of my life
I'm glad I didn't die before I met you
Now I don't care, I could go anywhere with you
And I'd probably be happy"
So if you want to be with me
With these things there's no telling
We'll just have to wait and see
But I'd rather be working for a paycheck
Than waiting to win the lottery
Besides, maybe this time it's different
I mean I really think you like me
He's good-looking, with sandy-colored curls and a wide, easy smile. Answers an inquiry as to the music being played and, when the inquirer remarks that she knew it sounded familiar, he outlines the set-it-aside-for-a-bit-then-pick-it-up-and-listen-anew theory in which she strongly believes. Mentions that he owns this album and brought it in to work - while doing so, he demonstrates good musical taste.
And makes the perfect espresso shake.
I really need to pick up that album. As I listened to that first song, I felt that lovely connection in which it seemed Conor had been following me around, peeking over my shoulder to glance onto my notebook scribbles as of late, then adapting it to fiction. Now if it would move from lyrics to real life...
I remember the time you drove all night
Just to meet me in the morning
And I thought it was strange, you said everything changed
You felt as if you'd just woke up
And you said, "This is the first day of my life
I'm glad I didn't die before I met you
Now I don't care, I could go anywhere with you
And I'd probably be happy"
So if you want to be with me
With these things there's no telling
We'll just have to wait and see
But I'd rather be working for a paycheck
Than waiting to win the lottery
Besides, maybe this time it's different
I mean I really think you like me
6.08.2005
Oh, youth.
I knew a certain post would come back to embarrass me at some point.
In my defense, "Episode II" had yet to come out. And I'd still probably see a CA movie in the theaters. And I'd happily go to see C (that is, C the actor) perform were I still in that city. So it really was bringing together three of my then-favorite things. A compliment. Um, yeah.
Can I just say I was prone to silly and/or tipsy posting when I was, what, 20? Whoops, no. 21.
Face? Bright red. But I'm laughing. That just took the number one spot in most embarrassing blog-related things that's happened to me. Ever.
Well, uh, hi there?
In my defense, "Episode II" had yet to come out. And I'd still probably see a CA movie in the theaters. And I'd happily go to see C (that is, C the actor) perform were I still in that city. So it really was bringing together three of my then-favorite things. A compliment. Um, yeah.
Can I just say I was prone to silly and/or tipsy posting when I was, what, 20? Whoops, no. 21.
Face? Bright red. But I'm laughing. That just took the number one spot in most embarrassing blog-related things that's happened to me. Ever.
Well, uh, hi there?
Trumpet and saxophone notes are starting to fill the evening air around here. Most are waiting for musicians to take the outdoor stages along Church Street this weekend, but hints to the vibe to come are already popping up around town. As I walked up Main Street yesterday evening, I took in the sight (and sound) of a jazz band playing in front of the window at Muddy Waters. Jazz in my favorite coffeeshop - I paused to bob my head to the beats.
JazzFest weekend is one of the two best times to be in Burlington.* Restaurant patrons lean back in chairs at outdoor tables to listen to the smooth sounds lingering in the air. Pedestrians travel by with syncopated rhythms to their steps. The air feels lighter, sunsets are more picturesque. Everyone becomes an air jazz drummer.
tim f-something (fitzpatrick?), colin, danelle and i wound up wandering church street. since jazzfest has been downtown all weekend, tons of people were milling about. at least three or four stages were set up on church street, so the drums made it impossible to not walk in time to the beat. at numerous points, i felt that if i closed my eyes, i could see myself in a smokey club. it was great. the atmosphere was so relaxed--more so than even a typical church street day--that i had a huge grin on my face the entire time.
...
we then walked down to the waterfront to watch the sunset. the mountains over the lake were indigo, while the sky blended from glowing orange over the horizon, into pinks and magentas, then into navy blue. meanwhile, the lake seemed to glow sky blue. so cool. at first we sat on the large rocks that were still warm from baking in the sun all day, but once one became unoccupied, moved to one of the large swings. we sat there, the wood creaking, while someone played a pan flute in the darkness. i had a momentary flashback to the weekend josh came up to visit me freshman year, when we walked down to the waterfront and i gazed at the sky while a pan flute played because in both instances, i thought about how this was what being a college-aged person is like--gazing at water and sky with that sweet, relatively uncommon sound. completely relaxing and peaceful. colin was smoking his cloves, so i was able to hear the happy crackling of the clove and smell it...which i have always loved.
...
we left the waterfront around 10:30 and headed back to church street, where things were still in full swing. people had hung elipsoidals in the trees, so little kids were dancing in the light on the street, trying to figure out where it came from. in front of one tent, an older couple was dancing to the music, oblivious to everyone else. - 2001
-----------------
File this under "Isn't it ironic (using Alanis' definition)": My four-day weekend begins a week from today. I will surely be in Massachusetts for part of this free time. There are no shows that I know of that I have a strong desire to attend.
But Jason is opening for Alanis at the Wang that Friday. The one time I wouldn't have to defy sleep and schedules to see him perform - the one time I'm in town already - and I'm choosing not to go to the show.
*"Beauty of Vermont winter" be damned. If you want to see Burlington at its best, the two times to be in town are during JazzFest in June, the Art Hop in September.
JazzFest weekend is one of the two best times to be in Burlington.* Restaurant patrons lean back in chairs at outdoor tables to listen to the smooth sounds lingering in the air. Pedestrians travel by with syncopated rhythms to their steps. The air feels lighter, sunsets are more picturesque. Everyone becomes an air jazz drummer.
tim f-something (fitzpatrick?), colin, danelle and i wound up wandering church street. since jazzfest has been downtown all weekend, tons of people were milling about. at least three or four stages were set up on church street, so the drums made it impossible to not walk in time to the beat. at numerous points, i felt that if i closed my eyes, i could see myself in a smokey club. it was great. the atmosphere was so relaxed--more so than even a typical church street day--that i had a huge grin on my face the entire time.
...
we then walked down to the waterfront to watch the sunset. the mountains over the lake were indigo, while the sky blended from glowing orange over the horizon, into pinks and magentas, then into navy blue. meanwhile, the lake seemed to glow sky blue. so cool. at first we sat on the large rocks that were still warm from baking in the sun all day, but once one became unoccupied, moved to one of the large swings. we sat there, the wood creaking, while someone played a pan flute in the darkness. i had a momentary flashback to the weekend josh came up to visit me freshman year, when we walked down to the waterfront and i gazed at the sky while a pan flute played because in both instances, i thought about how this was what being a college-aged person is like--gazing at water and sky with that sweet, relatively uncommon sound. completely relaxing and peaceful. colin was smoking his cloves, so i was able to hear the happy crackling of the clove and smell it...which i have always loved.
...
we left the waterfront around 10:30 and headed back to church street, where things were still in full swing. people had hung elipsoidals in the trees, so little kids were dancing in the light on the street, trying to figure out where it came from. in front of one tent, an older couple was dancing to the music, oblivious to everyone else. - 2001
-----------------
File this under "Isn't it ironic (using Alanis' definition)": My four-day weekend begins a week from today. I will surely be in Massachusetts for part of this free time. There are no shows that I know of that I have a strong desire to attend.
But Jason is opening for Alanis at the Wang that Friday. The one time I wouldn't have to defy sleep and schedules to see him perform - the one time I'm in town already - and I'm choosing not to go to the show.
*"Beauty of Vermont winter" be damned. If you want to see Burlington at its best, the two times to be in town are during JazzFest in June, the Art Hop in September.
6.07.2005
Certain truths
- You will always find yourself walking somewhere when wearing less-than-comfortable shoes.
- You will always need to wear long sleeves during humid weather.
- You will always have to battle temperamental buttons when you haven't a desk to hide behind.
- You will always have to hurry up and wait when you're battling the clock.
- You will always have a busy day when you're fatigued.
And, of course, the final two:
- You will always get several invitations to go out for cocktails the one day you want to go home, go running and curl up with a book.
- You will always accept those invitations. Both of them.
p.s. Today kicks off the official streak of June birthdays. Happy birthday, Mom! I write this even though the birthday girl will never see this message because of her previously documented aversion to anything online or cellular. But I called and sent cards and all that good stuff, so I consider this e-icing on the proverbial cake. Which works until I can meet up with her and we can enjoy slices of the real thing.
- You will always need to wear long sleeves during humid weather.
- You will always have to battle temperamental buttons when you haven't a desk to hide behind.
- You will always have to hurry up and wait when you're battling the clock.
- You will always have a busy day when you're fatigued.
And, of course, the final two:
- You will always get several invitations to go out for cocktails the one day you want to go home, go running and curl up with a book.
- You will always accept those invitations. Both of them.
p.s. Today kicks off the official streak of June birthdays. Happy birthday, Mom! I write this even though the birthday girl will never see this message because of her previously documented aversion to anything online or cellular. But I called and sent cards and all that good stuff, so I consider this e-icing on the proverbial cake. Which works until I can meet up with her and we can enjoy slices of the real thing.
6.06.2005
Na na na na.
I don't know which I find more amusing: that I realized I sing along to Ben Lee songs with an Australian accent or that I did not fully realize this until getting a quizzical glance from the concertgoer to my immediate left during a singalong to "Catch My Disease" last night.
Actually, I do know what I find most amusing. That when I wrote that paragraph, I read the word "glance" with the accent.
There's something about that fellow that just makes me smile the moment he steps on stage. Good set that seemed to please the Aimee-heavy crowd (a surprisingly more intense crowd than I'd imagined - I actually felt a bit intimidated, believe it or not). No car hoods this time. The hoodie was replaced with a blazer. There's a rhythm section now.
But my grin remained the same.
Actually, I do know what I find most amusing. That when I wrote that paragraph, I read the word "glance" with the accent.
There's something about that fellow that just makes me smile the moment he steps on stage. Good set that seemed to please the Aimee-heavy crowd (a surprisingly more intense crowd than I'd imagined - I actually felt a bit intimidated, believe it or not). No car hoods this time. The hoodie was replaced with a blazer. There's a rhythm section now.
But my grin remained the same.
6.05.2005
P Squared
I'm going to take a moment to send a shoutout to a possible reader, and I hope he doesn't take offense to the casual nickname I'm about to use. I just love the alliteration of it too much to not.
Papa P (P Squared) - A little bird told me that it was a rough week, and I was sorry to hear it. I just wanted to send a smile, warm wishes and a "Hello!" your way.
Please feel free to give said bird a hard time for me - hehe - and take care.
Best,
V
Papa P (P Squared) - A little bird told me that it was a rough week, and I was sorry to hear it. I just wanted to send a smile, warm wishes and a "Hello!" your way.
Please feel free to give said bird a hard time for me - hehe - and take care.
Best,
V
Snippets
(more photos on Flickr - click above to go to the set)
I awoke to the chirping alarm on my cell phone. 10 a.m.
"For the love of God, give me five more minutes," I groaned. As if talking to the alarm was going accomplish anything, but for some reason, I felt better about making at least a futile effort.
After two consecutive Saturday nights at the Muddy River Smokehouse, I feel confident stating that there's something about the place that makes it impossible to go to sleep before dawn. I curl up under a blanket as the light starts to peek through whatever window and find myself chuckling to sleep as I reflect on the randomness of the evening concluding. Portsmouth serves as the gateway to random conversations and bizarre turns of events. It's just how it works.
But at least these excursions to the town have been pleasant.*
Tom and I surveyed the Gaiety demolition site yesterday afternoon before settling in for Buddha's, wandering and conversation. Stretched out beneath the shade of a tree in the Public Gardens, our chat took the typical, comfortable meandering path, easing from CSI to horror stories to religion to our daily lives. I was snap-happy, per usual, and he continued on oblivious to the clicking sounds coming from my camera. I love that he's an animated storyteller - gestures and facial expressions he uses give his recollections that extra spark they deserve.
The outdoor excursion left me slightly sun-kissed pink when Michelle and I made the trip to Portsmouth. We paid homage to the heat's arrival with a summer-friendly soundtrack, and I realized for the umpteenth time just how much happier Jack Johnson makes me when I'm relying on sunglasses, air conditioners and highway-speed breezes.
My first Averi set in several months was peppered with tracks off the new album, a smile upon realizing just how much I'd missed "This Liminal Life" at the previous few shows and my delight upon hearing "Flood" for the first time in about a year. And it's not an authentic Averi show without a flubbed "Flutter."
(Come on, you know there was no way I wouldn't mention that. It made me smile.)
Michelle belted out "For Better or Worse" at me as it was performed. I, naturally, cursed at her extensively. She later said the expression on my face was one of her evening's highlights. Ah, friendship.
It was good to bask in the sunshine and dance - or attempt to - on the wood floors. It made the drive back a three-hour opportunity for happy recollection set to song.
And in those first sleep-clouded moments of the morning, before I had to pack up to hit the highway (and find myself playing Ani's "Good, Bad, Ugly" on numerous occasions throughout the trip), I sang to myself a Ryan snippet that seemed to sum it all up.
"What is it about a day in all its glory, make you believe in this fairy tale, make you love to live the story?"
* Before last Saturday's Montbleau excursion, the only other time I traveled to Portsmouth was during a third grade class trip. Our teacher, a devoted environmentalist and whale lover, took the third grade to a whale watch each year. Whale Watch '89 was marked not by the sight of humpback whales breaching, but by a storm at sea that almost capsized our boat. When I think of this trip, I flash back to sitting on a bench on one side of the ship, classmates sick on either side of me. Mrs. Avery-Cox's husband was trying to make sure I remained calm - which I did, for the record. But my perception of Portsmouth was tainted with the image of a man with a crazy mop of curls in front of me, the sea horizon visible through the opposite windows rocking up to disappear from view. Nothing but angry blue.
6.04.2005
Sigh
I approached Boston as yesterday's sunset was at its peak. The sky ahead was rich with purples and the first hints of dark blue, and the building were just beginning to turn on the lights. The sky behind was streaked with bold ripples of orange, yellow and rose - the Hancock Tower reflected patches of the light behind. I found myself unsure of whether I wanted to look at the tower or into my rear view mirrors in order to take in the prettiest image.
By the time I drove out of the 93 tunnel, the sight behind had begun to dull into embers of sun, with the purples descending onto the skyline. Passing the Quincy beaches, the streaks behind Boston were purple and magenta.
It is, of course, when you're driving that you see the images you want to capture on camera. And there's never a passenger in the car at these moments, so you're left with the task of trying to remember everything perfectly and tell yourself that the would-be photo couldn't really capture the beauty of it anyway.
Hmm.
By the time I drove out of the 93 tunnel, the sight behind had begun to dull into embers of sun, with the purples descending onto the skyline. Passing the Quincy beaches, the streaks behind Boston were purple and magenta.
It is, of course, when you're driving that you see the images you want to capture on camera. And there's never a passenger in the car at these moments, so you're left with the task of trying to remember everything perfectly and tell yourself that the would-be photo couldn't really capture the beauty of it anyway.
Hmm.
6.03.2005
Hello, weekend.
I posted these lyrics a year ago today. They still make me smile, so I thought it would be fitting to re-post.
Enjoy the weekend.
i was waiting for a cross-town in the
london underground when it struck me
that i've been waiting since birth to find a
love that would look and sound like a movie
so i changed my plans i rented a camera and
a van and then i called you
"i need you to pretend that we are in love
again." and you agreed to
i want so badly to believe that "there is truth,
that love is real"
and i want life in every word to the extent
that it's absurd
i greased the lens and framed the shot using
a friend as my stand-in
the script it called for rain but it was clear
that day so we faked it
the marker snapped and i yelled "quiet on
the set" and then called "action!"
and i kissed you in a style clark gable would
have admired (i thought it classic)
i want so badly to believe that "there is truth,
that love is real"
and i want life in every word to the extent
that it's absurd
i know you're wise beyond your years, but
do you ever get the fear
that your perfect verse is just a lie you tell
yourself to help you get by?
- The Postal Service
Enjoy the weekend.
i was waiting for a cross-town in the
london underground when it struck me
that i've been waiting since birth to find a
love that would look and sound like a movie
so i changed my plans i rented a camera and
a van and then i called you
"i need you to pretend that we are in love
again." and you agreed to
i want so badly to believe that "there is truth,
that love is real"
and i want life in every word to the extent
that it's absurd
i greased the lens and framed the shot using
a friend as my stand-in
the script it called for rain but it was clear
that day so we faked it
the marker snapped and i yelled "quiet on
the set" and then called "action!"
and i kissed you in a style clark gable would
have admired (i thought it classic)
i want so badly to believe that "there is truth,
that love is real"
and i want life in every word to the extent
that it's absurd
i know you're wise beyond your years, but
do you ever get the fear
that your perfect verse is just a lie you tell
yourself to help you get by?
- The Postal Service
Cruiser Envy
School smell. Part bleach, musty lockered clothing, chalk (even in this era of dry erase boards) and rubber. No matter what school, the first steps inside hit the nose with the smell that brings you right back to schoolage angst.
You revert to worries that you wouldn't have anyone to sit with you at lunch and you want to be on your best behavior to save the trip to the principal's office.
The classroom was filled with junior high students, each sitting with legs stretched out beneath the desk ahead. Were I back in the day, I would have slid into a set about two thirds of the way back and pulled out a notebook. Maybe even started right in on the latest note to Cortni, written with emerald green ink.
The small stool at the front of the classroom was for me. I was speaking at a Career Day and I had no idea of what the hell I was going to say.
A police cruiser had been parked out front, and I imagined the officer leading a group of eager youngsters around the vehicle. "Look, here's the radio. Oh, and this is where I keep my firearm!" Ooh, that's cool.
As I began to speak to the class, I realized I had cruiser envy. I didn't have any cool props to show off.
"Hey, guys, what's up?" I began. I figured my age - read: I was a youngin' in comparison to many of the other CD types - could be an advantage. Relate to the younger audience. I started off with a short bit about myself - 24, went to college around here, have been doing this for - yadda yadda.
Around that point was when I saw the first set of eyes - third row from my left, four seats back - fly to the clock. I wanted to laugh. Oh, boy, just you wait. I've got 36 minutes left.
The first group was great. Once they got past the awkwardness of asking the first question, they had some great things they wanted to know and they actually seemed interested in my responses. I even got some laughs. From junior high kids! Huzzah!
The second group? Too cool for school kids. One made a paper airplane. Others rolled their eyes. I wanted to point them out and say, "Listen, chica, I know you. You're the Bethany of this class and I've already dealt with you once in my life. And I know where you're going to end up! You're going to grow up and you're not going to be as cool as you thought you were!"
But I thought that might get me kicked out of Career Day and sent down to the office. So I refrained.
As I wrapped up the second session and chatted with the teacher, I thought about how much I'd sucked out. I continued berating myself as I walked down the hallway, down the stairs and out the door. The police officer was showing the kids the cruiser.
Grrrr.
One of the students from the first session was in this group, and she happened to turn as I walked by. She grinned and waved wildly at me. I smiled and waved back.
Whoa. Maybe I wasn't that bad after all. A wave from a junior high student is pretty damn impressive.
You revert to worries that you wouldn't have anyone to sit with you at lunch and you want to be on your best behavior to save the trip to the principal's office.
The classroom was filled with junior high students, each sitting with legs stretched out beneath the desk ahead. Were I back in the day, I would have slid into a set about two thirds of the way back and pulled out a notebook. Maybe even started right in on the latest note to Cortni, written with emerald green ink.
The small stool at the front of the classroom was for me. I was speaking at a Career Day and I had no idea of what the hell I was going to say.
A police cruiser had been parked out front, and I imagined the officer leading a group of eager youngsters around the vehicle. "Look, here's the radio. Oh, and this is where I keep my firearm!" Ooh, that's cool.
As I began to speak to the class, I realized I had cruiser envy. I didn't have any cool props to show off.
"Hey, guys, what's up?" I began. I figured my age - read: I was a youngin' in comparison to many of the other CD types - could be an advantage. Relate to the younger audience. I started off with a short bit about myself - 24, went to college around here, have been doing this for - yadda yadda.
Around that point was when I saw the first set of eyes - third row from my left, four seats back - fly to the clock. I wanted to laugh. Oh, boy, just you wait. I've got 36 minutes left.
The first group was great. Once they got past the awkwardness of asking the first question, they had some great things they wanted to know and they actually seemed interested in my responses. I even got some laughs. From junior high kids! Huzzah!
The second group? Too cool for school kids. One made a paper airplane. Others rolled their eyes. I wanted to point them out and say, "Listen, chica, I know you. You're the Bethany of this class and I've already dealt with you once in my life. And I know where you're going to end up! You're going to grow up and you're not going to be as cool as you thought you were!"
But I thought that might get me kicked out of Career Day and sent down to the office. So I refrained.
As I wrapped up the second session and chatted with the teacher, I thought about how much I'd sucked out. I continued berating myself as I walked down the hallway, down the stairs and out the door. The police officer was showing the kids the cruiser.
Grrrr.
One of the students from the first session was in this group, and she happened to turn as I walked by. She grinned and waved wildly at me. I smiled and waved back.
Whoa. Maybe I wasn't that bad after all. A wave from a junior high student is pretty damn impressive.
6.02.2005
Hey, hey...
Poor flatmate C. He's dutifully completing his nightly tasks when squeals burst through the apartment. They're coming from the living room.
"REWIND THAT!"
By the time he enters the room, B and I are crouched on the floor in front of the television. Our faces are about a foot from the screen, and we're replaying a three-second clip of the program we've been watching.
C. takes the sight in.
"Is that -"
"Yes!"
"How old is he now?"
"32. Born December 31, 1972 -"
"Sometimes it would be better if you don't open your mouth," B interrupts me with a laugh.
We turn back to the television. We know this move well. She saw it in Saratoga, during the "Donnie fell through the stage" show. I saw it in Richmond and Montreal, during the "Hangin' Tough" and "Magic Summer" tours.
The first time I took in the sight, my father had driven 12 hours so I could attend the concert with my equally-obsessed pre-teen cousins. I wore blue leggings and two layers of scrunched socks. My hair was pulled into a high side ponytail, the ends crimped and hairsprayed. My band shirt was on proud display - the shirt my grandfather had given me for Christmas several months before.
(At that young age, I had yet to learn The Rules of Concertdom. But let's face it - rules about concert t-shirts are suspended when boybands become involved.)
After the show, my father listened to Nikki, Nina and I prattle on about the show and the fact that Joe had waved to our corner of the arena - which naturally meant he had waved to us. "We got 12 times during 'Hey, hey, I feel alright.'" I was a nine year old girl swooning over a crowd-encouraged series of pelvic thrusts.
Huh.
15 years later and he's still got it. This move is slower, more pronounced and coupled with a canary-yellow-clad dancer. Just one, but he's perfected it with just the right lip curl and downturned eyes.
It's been a decade and a half and it still makes me giggle.
I never voted for "American Idol" or any of the other "call and vote" shows. But I picked up the phone and tried to cast a vote for Joey McIntyre on "Dancing with the Stars."
It felt as if the end of my hair was crimping as I dialed.
"REWIND THAT!"
By the time he enters the room, B and I are crouched on the floor in front of the television. Our faces are about a foot from the screen, and we're replaying a three-second clip of the program we've been watching.
C. takes the sight in.
"Is that -"
"Yes!"
"How old is he now?"
"32. Born December 31, 1972 -"
"Sometimes it would be better if you don't open your mouth," B interrupts me with a laugh.
We turn back to the television. We know this move well. She saw it in Saratoga, during the "Donnie fell through the stage" show. I saw it in Richmond and Montreal, during the "Hangin' Tough" and "Magic Summer" tours.
The first time I took in the sight, my father had driven 12 hours so I could attend the concert with my equally-obsessed pre-teen cousins. I wore blue leggings and two layers of scrunched socks. My hair was pulled into a high side ponytail, the ends crimped and hairsprayed. My band shirt was on proud display - the shirt my grandfather had given me for Christmas several months before.
(At that young age, I had yet to learn The Rules of Concertdom. But let's face it - rules about concert t-shirts are suspended when boybands become involved.)
After the show, my father listened to Nikki, Nina and I prattle on about the show and the fact that Joe had waved to our corner of the arena - which naturally meant he had waved to us. "We got 12 times during 'Hey, hey, I feel alright.'" I was a nine year old girl swooning over a crowd-encouraged series of pelvic thrusts.
Huh.
15 years later and he's still got it. This move is slower, more pronounced and coupled with a canary-yellow-clad dancer. Just one, but he's perfected it with just the right lip curl and downturned eyes.
It's been a decade and a half and it still makes me giggle.
I never voted for "American Idol" or any of the other "call and vote" shows. But I picked up the phone and tried to cast a vote for Joey McIntyre on "Dancing with the Stars."
It felt as if the end of my hair was crimping as I dialed.
Round Two
What is the best thing that ever happened to you?
It sounds sappy. My brother was the best thing that's ever happened to me. I hated his arrival when it happened and I was jealous as can be during many of the early years. And he certainly did not endear himself to me when I was four and we were in the middle of a pillow fight when he decided to headbutt me - and knock out my two front teeth in the process. But my father would tell me about the importance of a close sibling bond - this generally followed some stupid fight - and I'd always roll my eyes and say, "Yeah, Dad, I know. Whatever."
But he's grown into one of my best friends and the person above all others with whom I would trust my life. And I like to think the feeling's mutual.
But the second best thing that's ever happened to me came in sixth grade. Reading class, Mrs. Ratti teaching us in the elementary school library. We had to write a story and then passed the assignments around so everyone in the class could read them and write comments on an accompanying piece of paper. When I got mine back, I saw what Andrew had to say about it. He wrote that he always liked reading my work because he could always hear my voice in his head, reading it aloud. "You write the way you speak. I like it."
I decided then that I really was going to be a writer when I grew up.
If you had to lose one of your five sense which would you choose?
I'd hate it with every fiber in my being, but I'd give up taste. While I can't imagine not having that sense, I can imagine not having it more than I can imagine not having any of the others.
If you could have any view in the world visible from your bed, what would it be?
Skyline - preferrably Boston's - with the ocean visible in the distance.
In your opinion, what flavor of ice cream would best describe your disposition?
I have to make a conscious effort to just not go with my favorite flavor. I'm going to go with lemon sherbert. It's a little different, a little tart, but once you start eating it, you realize it's sweet and, when made properly, nice and smooth.
In five sentences, answer the question "Who are you?"
I am a storyteller constantly in search of a new tale or character to add to my canon. I am a person who loves with all her heart and expects others to do the same. I am an artist, in my own sort of bumbling way, who feels at my best when surrounded by others sharing their art with the world. I thinks a good sunset, a a good cup of coffee, or a good chord can cure many of life's little problems. And I am a work constantly in progress.
If you could suddenly find out that one work of fiction was actually true, what book would you select?
It's going to sound cliched, but I'd definitely go with the Bible. Wouldn't that be a hoot? We find out it's true and all of a sudden everyone starts scrambling around, doing whatever they can for salvation. It would be utter chaos, but quite fascinating to watch.
It sounds sappy. My brother was the best thing that's ever happened to me. I hated his arrival when it happened and I was jealous as can be during many of the early years. And he certainly did not endear himself to me when I was four and we were in the middle of a pillow fight when he decided to headbutt me - and knock out my two front teeth in the process. But my father would tell me about the importance of a close sibling bond - this generally followed some stupid fight - and I'd always roll my eyes and say, "Yeah, Dad, I know. Whatever."
But he's grown into one of my best friends and the person above all others with whom I would trust my life. And I like to think the feeling's mutual.
But the second best thing that's ever happened to me came in sixth grade. Reading class, Mrs. Ratti teaching us in the elementary school library. We had to write a story and then passed the assignments around so everyone in the class could read them and write comments on an accompanying piece of paper. When I got mine back, I saw what Andrew had to say about it. He wrote that he always liked reading my work because he could always hear my voice in his head, reading it aloud. "You write the way you speak. I like it."
I decided then that I really was going to be a writer when I grew up.
If you had to lose one of your five sense which would you choose?
I'd hate it with every fiber in my being, but I'd give up taste. While I can't imagine not having that sense, I can imagine not having it more than I can imagine not having any of the others.
If you could have any view in the world visible from your bed, what would it be?
Skyline - preferrably Boston's - with the ocean visible in the distance.
In your opinion, what flavor of ice cream would best describe your disposition?
I have to make a conscious effort to just not go with my favorite flavor. I'm going to go with lemon sherbert. It's a little different, a little tart, but once you start eating it, you realize it's sweet and, when made properly, nice and smooth.
In five sentences, answer the question "Who are you?"
I am a storyteller constantly in search of a new tale or character to add to my canon. I am a person who loves with all her heart and expects others to do the same. I am an artist, in my own sort of bumbling way, who feels at my best when surrounded by others sharing their art with the world. I thinks a good sunset, a a good cup of coffee, or a good chord can cure many of life's little problems. And I am a work constantly in progress.
If you could suddenly find out that one work of fiction was actually true, what book would you select?
It's going to sound cliched, but I'd definitely go with the Bible. Wouldn't that be a hoot? We find out it's true and all of a sudden everyone starts scrambling around, doing whatever they can for salvation. It would be utter chaos, but quite fascinating to watch.
6.01.2005
You asked.
Here are my replies to the first batch of questions. If I get more, I'll happily post responses to those as well.
If you could take back one single decision that you have made in your life since your first year in college, what would it be? And if you say "living with you second semester" I will be forced to fight you! - J
I had the schedule set nearly as soon as I arrived on campus. Spring semester of junior year, interested parties would find me in London. I certainly was not going to miss out on the experience of studying abroad.
The plan, like all grandiose ideas I wind up having, took a screwy turn as I prepared to fill out the forms. I could study in London or I could pave my way to be editor of the campus paper. Both opportunities hinged on that particular semester.
I chose to start learning the editing ropes so I'd be set to step into the top spot senior year. Because I had, after all, said since seeing the first issue freshman year that I wanted to be executive editor of that paper.
And I was. And we did some really good things. But I missed out on London and have been trying to figure out a way to get there to at least visit ever since. I promised myself that I would/will get there, but the reality of life right now (student loans, bills, work responsibilities) have yet to make it happen.
All of the other decisions I've made - some good, some bad - I can rationalize. But I think that was a deceptively huge decision and I might not have made the best choice. I have no idea of where I would be now had I gone - and my romantic idealism makes me wonder every once in awhile.
I never see you make any sort of mention about relationships with any guys. Are you just not talking about them because you don't want to? Or are you just too busy with work and then going to all these different awesome shows that you don't really care? - M
For a long time, I've been marked by my shyness. I've also been known to be fickle and convince myself that potential for a relationship with a great guy will be marred by lofty ideas of moving to a new place or that fact that I'll just screw it up. I'm really working now on keeping my eyes on where I am, not where I might ultimately be. So I'm confident that I'll have something to report on this front at some point soon, but I've also made myself into a pretty independent person for awhile.
My friends often say I can come off as intimidating or standoffish, when it's really just that I'm shy and feel awkward when I'm not comfortable around people with whom I wish to make a good impression. And I, like many other single twentysomething females, have been marked by some screwy situations that have left me trying to shake off the self-doubts implanted thanks to some better-left-behind-yet-not-quite-forgotten men.
Plus there's are several other facts (listed in no particular order): I get skittish at the thought of a guy I'm interested in coming across my musings here, I don't half-ass my emotions, I'm idealistic and I'm a hopeless romantic. And fine, the fact that Theo Epstein has yet to propose and Orlando Bloom hasn't shown up on my doorstep with the dozen long-stemmed red roses also make things tricky.
Bastards.
p.s. The reference to "all these different awesome shows" made me smile. For the record, I have said that I'm waiting for the guy who will perform Howie Day's "She Says" (guitar and vocals) for me. *Sigh*
Come on, what do you really think of C? - B
Truth? I try not to. But I know of several readers who will laugh and comment that I'm a liar if I say "I don't."
From the limited glimpses of insight I'd been given, I still see a great deal of myself when I look at him. We share some personality traits, both postive and negative. So I can't be terribly surprised when I see or hear things I'm not crazy about. 'Cause I know I've done the same exact thing, much as it's annoyed me.
But, as I said, these glimpses were limited, I don't have enough knowledge to make an accurrate assessment. So I don't anymore. Perceptive as I may be.
That said, I think there's a great guy there. And I find him to be quite brilliant at what he does.
If you could take back one single decision that you have made in your life since your first year in college, what would it be? And if you say "living with you second semester" I will be forced to fight you! - J
I had the schedule set nearly as soon as I arrived on campus. Spring semester of junior year, interested parties would find me in London. I certainly was not going to miss out on the experience of studying abroad.
The plan, like all grandiose ideas I wind up having, took a screwy turn as I prepared to fill out the forms. I could study in London or I could pave my way to be editor of the campus paper. Both opportunities hinged on that particular semester.
I chose to start learning the editing ropes so I'd be set to step into the top spot senior year. Because I had, after all, said since seeing the first issue freshman year that I wanted to be executive editor of that paper.
And I was. And we did some really good things. But I missed out on London and have been trying to figure out a way to get there to at least visit ever since. I promised myself that I would/will get there, but the reality of life right now (student loans, bills, work responsibilities) have yet to make it happen.
All of the other decisions I've made - some good, some bad - I can rationalize. But I think that was a deceptively huge decision and I might not have made the best choice. I have no idea of where I would be now had I gone - and my romantic idealism makes me wonder every once in awhile.
I never see you make any sort of mention about relationships with any guys. Are you just not talking about them because you don't want to? Or are you just too busy with work and then going to all these different awesome shows that you don't really care? - M
For a long time, I've been marked by my shyness. I've also been known to be fickle and convince myself that potential for a relationship with a great guy will be marred by lofty ideas of moving to a new place or that fact that I'll just screw it up. I'm really working now on keeping my eyes on where I am, not where I might ultimately be. So I'm confident that I'll have something to report on this front at some point soon, but I've also made myself into a pretty independent person for awhile.
My friends often say I can come off as intimidating or standoffish, when it's really just that I'm shy and feel awkward when I'm not comfortable around people with whom I wish to make a good impression. And I, like many other single twentysomething females, have been marked by some screwy situations that have left me trying to shake off the self-doubts implanted thanks to some better-left-behind-yet-not-quite-forgotten men.
Plus there's are several other facts (listed in no particular order): I get skittish at the thought of a guy I'm interested in coming across my musings here, I don't half-ass my emotions, I'm idealistic and I'm a hopeless romantic. And fine, the fact that Theo Epstein has yet to propose and Orlando Bloom hasn't shown up on my doorstep with the dozen long-stemmed red roses also make things tricky.
Bastards.
p.s. The reference to "all these different awesome shows" made me smile. For the record, I have said that I'm waiting for the guy who will perform Howie Day's "She Says" (guitar and vocals) for me. *Sigh*
Come on, what do you really think of C? - B
Truth? I try not to. But I know of several readers who will laugh and comment that I'm a liar if I say "I don't."
From the limited glimpses of insight I'd been given, I still see a great deal of myself when I look at him. We share some personality traits, both postive and negative. So I can't be terribly surprised when I see or hear things I'm not crazy about. 'Cause I know I've done the same exact thing, much as it's annoyed me.
But, as I said, these glimpses were limited, I don't have enough knowledge to make an accurrate assessment. So I don't anymore. Perceptive as I may be.
That said, I think there's a great guy there. And I find him to be quite brilliant at what he does.
I was surprised by how disappointed I was by the whole thing. I thought there would be a grand announcement, outpourings of appreciation from public figures and my moment of pause upon realizing one of the lasting mysteries of my lifetime had been solved.
My response to the Deep Throat reveal was written to a friend through a series of emailed dispatches. But the crux of it?
"Hmm."
There are two schools among those who do what I do: those who were around for Watergate and those who weren't. For the former, yesterday prompted anecdotes of where they were, what they were doing as the whole thing broke. They recalled who they thought Deep Throat was (because we're not the type to just say, "I don't know.")
For the latter, my school, we weren't around for it. We were born into a world touched by the scandal and we grew up watching archived reels of Nixon saying "I'm not a crook" and waving those arms on the steps to Air Force One. We were brought into the mystery of Deep Throat, with references to him that could never be followed up with a proper explanation of who Deep Throat really was. Even reading The Washington Post brought a bit of a thrill.
When I traveled to Washington for my theater festivals, I walked by the Watergate several times a day. When I wasn't busy flashing bits of shoulder to the Saudi Arabian embassay across the street, I would look up at the (decidedly ugly) building and wonder what people thought of it before it became a part of history. I thought about how it looked while it was being broken into. I wondered how Deep Throat saw it. And that led back to wondering who Deep Throat was.
When I lived in Washington, I imagined waking up for late-night meetings. I walked about the city, wondering what stories lay hidden within. And I imagined having the task of sharing those stories with the world.
Everyone at least half-dreams of breaking the story of Deep Throat. But I half-hoped that it would remain a secret forever. I knew the news could be followed like the day-after-Christmas feeling built up my whole life.
And now I'm at the day after. Having read the news in a preview article from Vanity Fair. I didn't even have to buy the magazine. I took in the news in a PDF document, staring at a computer screen.
It did lose a bit of the glamour. OK, here's the news. Return to your business day.
Hank Steuver wrote quite the insightful piece for today's Post, which was forwarded to me this morning. And he raises one really dead-on point:
It turns out being in the dark about Deep Throat was more enthralling
than holding it out to the light. Had he lived in this era, Deep Throat
might not have lasted long. He'd be blogged to bits. He'd be Drudged,
smudged, Romenesko'd. People would disprove him with their own Deep
Throats. His identity would be discovered within a news cycle or two, spun
around, and he'd be left holding a book contract.
It's good to know that Deep Throat was, for the most part, one incredibly brave person willing to bypass his ethical code to reveal the truth. It's good to know that we who grew up in the shadow of his mystery weren't taught about something that turned out to be a wild goose chase.
But I feel badly for those who will now grow up without that mystery. Or, worse, hearing about what a mystery it was. History books are now going to have to be revised to include references to Deep Throat, the code name for former FBI official W. Mark Felt.
And it just kind of came out on a random Tuesday, without the expected Christmas feel.
It's rather sad, actually.
-------------
In other news. I've had one question (in response to yesterday's post) emailed to me, another called across the living room (bet she didn't expect me to actually consider answering it!). I'll post responses to those later in the day. But the offer's still open - still taking anything anyone wants to ask.
Hint, hint.
My response to the Deep Throat reveal was written to a friend through a series of emailed dispatches. But the crux of it?
"Hmm."
There are two schools among those who do what I do: those who were around for Watergate and those who weren't. For the former, yesterday prompted anecdotes of where they were, what they were doing as the whole thing broke. They recalled who they thought Deep Throat was (because we're not the type to just say, "I don't know.")
For the latter, my school, we weren't around for it. We were born into a world touched by the scandal and we grew up watching archived reels of Nixon saying "I'm not a crook" and waving those arms on the steps to Air Force One. We were brought into the mystery of Deep Throat, with references to him that could never be followed up with a proper explanation of who Deep Throat really was. Even reading The Washington Post brought a bit of a thrill.
When I traveled to Washington for my theater festivals, I walked by the Watergate several times a day. When I wasn't busy flashing bits of shoulder to the Saudi Arabian embassay across the street, I would look up at the (decidedly ugly) building and wonder what people thought of it before it became a part of history. I thought about how it looked while it was being broken into. I wondered how Deep Throat saw it. And that led back to wondering who Deep Throat was.
When I lived in Washington, I imagined waking up for late-night meetings. I walked about the city, wondering what stories lay hidden within. And I imagined having the task of sharing those stories with the world.
Everyone at least half-dreams of breaking the story of Deep Throat. But I half-hoped that it would remain a secret forever. I knew the news could be followed like the day-after-Christmas feeling built up my whole life.
And now I'm at the day after. Having read the news in a preview article from Vanity Fair. I didn't even have to buy the magazine. I took in the news in a PDF document, staring at a computer screen.
It did lose a bit of the glamour. OK, here's the news. Return to your business day.
Hank Steuver wrote quite the insightful piece for today's Post, which was forwarded to me this morning. And he raises one really dead-on point:
It turns out being in the dark about Deep Throat was more enthralling
than holding it out to the light. Had he lived in this era, Deep Throat
might not have lasted long. He'd be blogged to bits. He'd be Drudged,
smudged, Romenesko'd. People would disprove him with their own Deep
Throats. His identity would be discovered within a news cycle or two, spun
around, and he'd be left holding a book contract.
It's good to know that Deep Throat was, for the most part, one incredibly brave person willing to bypass his ethical code to reveal the truth. It's good to know that we who grew up in the shadow of his mystery weren't taught about something that turned out to be a wild goose chase.
But I feel badly for those who will now grow up without that mystery. Or, worse, hearing about what a mystery it was. History books are now going to have to be revised to include references to Deep Throat, the code name for former FBI official W. Mark Felt.
And it just kind of came out on a random Tuesday, without the expected Christmas feel.
It's rather sad, actually.
-------------
In other news. I've had one question (in response to yesterday's post) emailed to me, another called across the living room (bet she didn't expect me to actually consider answering it!). I'll post responses to those later in the day. But the offer's still open - still taking anything anyone wants to ask.
Hint, hint.
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