Click on the photos above to go to the rest of the batch.
7.31.2005
7.29.2005
Adventure
Several weeks ago, as I rode back from Massachusetts to Vermont, I listened to an anecdote relayed by a friend. A friend of that friend had volunteered to visit with senior citizens and spent one afternoon talking with an older woman.
The volunteer asked about the woman's life and engaged in discussion about the events of the day - typical smalltalk designed to make the woman feel she had someone to talk to about whatever she desired.
The woman interrupted an exchange by peering at the volunteer and asking a direct question.
"Do you have adventures?"
The volunteer paused before replying. The volunteer was young and relatively carefree, thus assuming that the details of the current life were probably seen as interesting or exciting to someone in the last stages of existance.
"I suppose I do, yes."
The woman continued to peer as she spoke.
"Let me tell you this. I had people around me when I was younger. And I had adventures. Those people? They are gone now. I am alone.
"But I have my adventures. No matter what else happens in my life, the adventures I have are all mine. I have them with me now."
As I prepared to leave the apartment this morning and, after finishing up tasks in Vermont, embark on the weekend festivities, I thought about who that woman was. I wondered what she looked like, what adventures she had had in her youth.
I have my adventures. And I am about to add more to my collection.
The volunteer asked about the woman's life and engaged in discussion about the events of the day - typical smalltalk designed to make the woman feel she had someone to talk to about whatever she desired.
The woman interrupted an exchange by peering at the volunteer and asking a direct question.
"Do you have adventures?"
The volunteer paused before replying. The volunteer was young and relatively carefree, thus assuming that the details of the current life were probably seen as interesting or exciting to someone in the last stages of existance.
"I suppose I do, yes."
The woman continued to peer as she spoke.
"Let me tell you this. I had people around me when I was younger. And I had adventures. Those people? They are gone now. I am alone.
"But I have my adventures. No matter what else happens in my life, the adventures I have are all mine. I have them with me now."
As I prepared to leave the apartment this morning and, after finishing up tasks in Vermont, embark on the weekend festivities, I thought about who that woman was. I wondered what she looked like, what adventures she had had in her youth.
I have my adventures. And I am about to add more to my collection.
7.28.2005
Not that I'm at all enthused
I love ending a phone coversation with "I'll see you tomorrow. GET SLEEP," and realizing I'm not going to follow my own orders as well as I ought to.
Then preparing to go to sleep knowing fully well that the upcoming hours will probably be the last spent in REM cycle for most of the weekend. Looking over at a full piece of luggage, making sure I haven't forgotten anything I need and realizing (thanks to a thoroughly amused flatmate) that I probably have well more than what I need.
New York adventures begin tomorrow. I may be updating Flickr with some photos as I go, so check it out over the course of the weekend. The Today Show, the Knitting Factory and who knows what else.
This is going to be fun. Think good, non-bag-searching thoughts for me.
And have a great weekend.
Then preparing to go to sleep knowing fully well that the upcoming hours will probably be the last spent in REM cycle for most of the weekend. Looking over at a full piece of luggage, making sure I haven't forgotten anything I need and realizing (thanks to a thoroughly amused flatmate) that I probably have well more than what I need.
New York adventures begin tomorrow. I may be updating Flickr with some photos as I go, so check it out over the course of the weekend. The Today Show, the Knitting Factory and who knows what else.
This is going to be fun. Think good, non-bag-searching thoughts for me.
And have a great weekend.
Various & Sundry
My flatmates returned to Casa de Racca yesterday evening, laden with luggage and stories and digital photographs to share. It was surprising - almost a little jarring, but in a good way - to hear the apartment fill so quickly with voices other than my own. Admittedly, it had only been a week since they departed on their vacation, but it felt like much longer. Had it really only been seven days since coffeebreaks and conversation? Had I really been battling the out-of-memory DVR trying to record "Stargate SG-1" for only a week?
I smiled upon seeing photographs of Annapolis and sighed at the sight of Washington images.
(It really is a pity that I didn't appreciate DC while I was there to experience it.)
I tried to catch them up on what had been happening on the homefront during their adventures, but quickly realized there was little on which to report.
So we went out for Blizzards instead.
Back to normal.
In other news. I am looking for information from savvy New York residents or travelers. We are driving down to NY tomorrow. We want to park the car outside the city and take a train in. WHERE THE HELL SHOULD WE GO TO MAKE THIS HAPPEN?
Any advice would be most appreciated.
Updated: Plan set. No need for advice. Merci.
I smiled upon seeing photographs of Annapolis and sighed at the sight of Washington images.
(It really is a pity that I didn't appreciate DC while I was there to experience it.)
I tried to catch them up on what had been happening on the homefront during their adventures, but quickly realized there was little on which to report.
So we went out for Blizzards instead.
Back to normal.
In other news. I am looking for information from savvy New York residents or travelers. We are driving down to NY tomorrow. We want to park the car outside the city and take a train in. WHERE THE HELL SHOULD WE GO TO MAKE THIS HAPPEN?
Any advice would be most appreciated.
Updated: Plan set. No need for advice. Merci.
7.27.2005
This is how it is supposed to be.
Adrenaline. I take steps two at a time in order to get back to the phone, the notepad, the computer more quickly. The words are coming fast and furious, the phone keeps ringing, the voices on the other end are helpful.
I talk about last night's game and fall into a conversation with "the boys," mentioning players and plays and being treated to insight as well-informed as my own. Groans over Clement's knockdown, speculation about Nixon's season prospects. I'm asked my opinion on trade rumors and how it will affect the team.
Small clusters of people shooting off new ideas, new angles; we feed off each other and feel a collective sense of excitement about what's being crafted. I'm the center, rattling off facts and figures, mentioning names and backstories.
I'm told I'm doing well. "Keep it up." "Way to go." "This will be a good one." "It deserves plenty of space."
I realize that when I have this finished, I've another project ahead that promises to be just as promising.
This is why I struggle through the other days. So I can get to today.
--------
And, in other news. I accidentally deleted the masterpiece IM conversation conducted between one Michelle and myself last night, as the Red Sox attempted to rally back from the (stupid) defecit (they should never have fallen into in the first place) against Tampa Bay. I didn't think much could top some of the post-season IM commentary we provided (an example of which was archived for the ages here), but last night's conversation may have topped those.
It was ended with Boston's 10-inning victory.
V: Never doubted them.
M: Isn't it funny how every member of Red Sox Nation says that ALL THE TIME??!?
V: Love it. OK, gotta go to bed. G'night.
M: Sweet dreams. Night!
Remy, much as I look to him on a regular basis, ain't got nothin on us.
Adrenaline. I take steps two at a time in order to get back to the phone, the notepad, the computer more quickly. The words are coming fast and furious, the phone keeps ringing, the voices on the other end are helpful.
I talk about last night's game and fall into a conversation with "the boys," mentioning players and plays and being treated to insight as well-informed as my own. Groans over Clement's knockdown, speculation about Nixon's season prospects. I'm asked my opinion on trade rumors and how it will affect the team.
Small clusters of people shooting off new ideas, new angles; we feed off each other and feel a collective sense of excitement about what's being crafted. I'm the center, rattling off facts and figures, mentioning names and backstories.
I'm told I'm doing well. "Keep it up." "Way to go." "This will be a good one." "It deserves plenty of space."
I realize that when I have this finished, I've another project ahead that promises to be just as promising.
This is why I struggle through the other days. So I can get to today.
--------
And, in other news. I accidentally deleted the masterpiece IM conversation conducted between one Michelle and myself last night, as the Red Sox attempted to rally back from the (stupid) defecit (they should never have fallen into in the first place) against Tampa Bay. I didn't think much could top some of the post-season IM commentary we provided (an example of which was archived for the ages here), but last night's conversation may have topped those.
It was ended with Boston's 10-inning victory.
V: Never doubted them.
M: Isn't it funny how every member of Red Sox Nation says that ALL THE TIME??!?
V: Love it. OK, gotta go to bed. G'night.
M: Sweet dreams. Night!
Remy, much as I look to him on a regular basis, ain't got nothin on us.
7.26.2005
Swing, batter, ouch
I used to pitch. I practiced at least four days a week during the off-season, five or six days a week during the on-season. When it was too snowy to be outside, my mother (pitching coach and practice catcher) and I would practice either in my high school gymnasium or, if some basketball team (other than my own, that is) was practicing, in a cement-lined hallway that was, in retrospect, far too narrow and low-ceilinged for us to really have used.
There were a lot of ricochets and bounces. My mother is one of the bravest people I know.
I began pitching in junior high and continued straight through high school and summer ball. Much as I didn't want to pitch in college, I was coerced (read: ordered) by my varsity softball coach to keep practicing so I could be the third-string pitcher.
I was taught to do what the coach tells you, whether you like it or not. So despite the fact that I knew I was not a college pitcher, I kept pitching. Won't get into how I actually did during those college pitching appearances.
Between the fallball and spring seasons, my collegiate pitching coach and I practiced in a racquetball court. There were a lot of ricochets and bounces there, too. So I was pretty quick with the duck and cover.
With the exception of that one college year (hereby known as the V Gets Into Her Head Seasons), I didn't get particularly rattled when I pitched. I knew I wasn't anything particularly special as a pitcher, but I could get the job done and knew I had a good shot at out-thinking the batters. I was a smart pitcher.
Whether it actually went to the places I intended is neither here nor there, thank you.
The only thing that ever made me nervous was the possibility that I could get a ball hit right smack back at me. And sometimes that would freak me out. I'd had nightmares about it. Fastball in, fast shot back at my head.
There were a number of close calls, actually. During a high school game, a Lady President (hey, that was their name - just go with it) fired a shot. Really good line drive that found my glove about six inches from my left ear. The only reason I caught it was because I was bringing my glove around from behind my back. I wasn't moving to the ball - the ball came to me.
During a summer season, against the Lady Devils, a really imposing batter who had already made me a little nervous sent a hard ball right back at my stomach. I still don't know how I caught that one. My parents said after the game that I had a Betty Boop face right after the hit - huge eyes, mouth forming the tiniest little "O." Then I checked to see precisely where I would have been hit.
There were the quick one-hoppers that I blocked with my body - no big deal there. And the other one that was hit to my right that I accidentally knocked down with my right hand. My coach yelled at me for that one - "You could have broken your hand!" - but it was instinct. And I didn't get hurt, so it was all good. Got the out, right?
But all things considered? I got off lucky.
Which is why, upon seeing Matt Clement get a vicious line drive to the head tonight, I called my parents right away. When my father answered, I said the only thing that came to mind.
"THAT WAS WHAT I WAS ALWAYS WORRIED WOULD HAPPEN TO ME!"
He didn't seem surprised that I called. It was actually his response that surprised me.
"I know. I was always kind of worried that would happen to you too."
I paused. It made sense, though. He couldn't have told me at the time because I could have been a basketcase on the mound.
"Remember that time -"
"The shot to the stomach?"
"Haha - no, I was thinking the time I barehanded it."
"Your coach was ready to kill you..."
Hope Matt's doing OK.
There were a lot of ricochets and bounces. My mother is one of the bravest people I know.
I began pitching in junior high and continued straight through high school and summer ball. Much as I didn't want to pitch in college, I was coerced (read: ordered) by my varsity softball coach to keep practicing so I could be the third-string pitcher.
I was taught to do what the coach tells you, whether you like it or not. So despite the fact that I knew I was not a college pitcher, I kept pitching. Won't get into how I actually did during those college pitching appearances.
Between the fallball and spring seasons, my collegiate pitching coach and I practiced in a racquetball court. There were a lot of ricochets and bounces there, too. So I was pretty quick with the duck and cover.
With the exception of that one college year (hereby known as the V Gets Into Her Head Seasons), I didn't get particularly rattled when I pitched. I knew I wasn't anything particularly special as a pitcher, but I could get the job done and knew I had a good shot at out-thinking the batters. I was a smart pitcher.
Whether it actually went to the places I intended is neither here nor there, thank you.
The only thing that ever made me nervous was the possibility that I could get a ball hit right smack back at me. And sometimes that would freak me out. I'd had nightmares about it. Fastball in, fast shot back at my head.
There were a number of close calls, actually. During a high school game, a Lady President (hey, that was their name - just go with it) fired a shot. Really good line drive that found my glove about six inches from my left ear. The only reason I caught it was because I was bringing my glove around from behind my back. I wasn't moving to the ball - the ball came to me.
During a summer season, against the Lady Devils, a really imposing batter who had already made me a little nervous sent a hard ball right back at my stomach. I still don't know how I caught that one. My parents said after the game that I had a Betty Boop face right after the hit - huge eyes, mouth forming the tiniest little "O." Then I checked to see precisely where I would have been hit.
There were the quick one-hoppers that I blocked with my body - no big deal there. And the other one that was hit to my right that I accidentally knocked down with my right hand. My coach yelled at me for that one - "You could have broken your hand!" - but it was instinct. And I didn't get hurt, so it was all good. Got the out, right?
But all things considered? I got off lucky.
Which is why, upon seeing Matt Clement get a vicious line drive to the head tonight, I called my parents right away. When my father answered, I said the only thing that came to mind.
"THAT WAS WHAT I WAS ALWAYS WORRIED WOULD HAPPEN TO ME!"
He didn't seem surprised that I called. It was actually his response that surprised me.
"I know. I was always kind of worried that would happen to you too."
I paused. It made sense, though. He couldn't have told me at the time because I could have been a basketcase on the mound.
"Remember that time -"
"The shot to the stomach?"
"Haha - no, I was thinking the time I barehanded it."
"Your coach was ready to kill you..."
Hope Matt's doing OK.
I don't recall ever going out of my way to watch a shuttle launch on television before.
We crowded around the televisions in the main room, where we watched the first flames and the sudden upward thrust. I realized I was holding my breath, waiting for something to go wrong and forcing myself not to gasp upon seeing the fuel tanks break away from the shuttle itself.
Amazing that, in 2005, decades after the first trips to space, I was surprised to see the Discovery actually make it into space.
But, of course, there was good reason to be skeptical.
so i left the museum and, on the metro ride back towards my neighborhood, checked my messages, only to discover that my father had called to ask about what had happened to "the space shuttle." unaware of the fact that columbia was in orbit, i figured there had been a launch delay or something, so i called him at work and told him i didn't know, but i'd find out when i got home--just had to run some errands and whatnot. so i stopped at tenleytown, took my own sweet time grocery shopping (i found that i have two additional grocery stores that aren't super far away from my place--yeah, larger selection!!!), walked home, stopped at panera to get myself a bowl of mesa bean & vegetable soup (mmmm...), then ambled into the apartment, turned on the tv, and realized what had happened.
whoa.
besides my initial shock about the events that had transpired, i found myself comparing this experience to the experience i had as a young child learning of the challenger explosion. i don't remember a lot of that day--i was five, afterall--but i do remember watching the explosion on television and talking to my parents about what had happened. but i remember knowing that something like that had never happened before and hoping that it would never happen again.
when i discovered that it was columbia that had exploded this time, i instantly realized that i had seen columbia in person--back in junior high when my family vacationed in florida. my brother, who had been a huge nascar fan, was being treated to a trip to the daytona 500 by my father. since mom and i were letting the men of the family be all macho-like and watch cars race around a circle track (can you tell i've never been a nascar fan myself?), we decided to spend the day at the kennedy space center. so we drove down, took a tour and, as luck would have it, were able to see a shuttle on the launch pad, as it would be taking off on a space mission two days later. the shuttle was columbia.
so i spent much of the afternoon watching the television coverage, then took a break from that to work out (but wound up watching the coverage while i cross-trained in the gym) and then ate dinner while watching the coverage...
We crowded around the televisions in the main room, where we watched the first flames and the sudden upward thrust. I realized I was holding my breath, waiting for something to go wrong and forcing myself not to gasp upon seeing the fuel tanks break away from the shuttle itself.
Amazing that, in 2005, decades after the first trips to space, I was surprised to see the Discovery actually make it into space.
But, of course, there was good reason to be skeptical.
so i left the museum and, on the metro ride back towards my neighborhood, checked my messages, only to discover that my father had called to ask about what had happened to "the space shuttle." unaware of the fact that columbia was in orbit, i figured there had been a launch delay or something, so i called him at work and told him i didn't know, but i'd find out when i got home--just had to run some errands and whatnot. so i stopped at tenleytown, took my own sweet time grocery shopping (i found that i have two additional grocery stores that aren't super far away from my place--yeah, larger selection!!!), walked home, stopped at panera to get myself a bowl of mesa bean & vegetable soup (mmmm...), then ambled into the apartment, turned on the tv, and realized what had happened.
whoa.
besides my initial shock about the events that had transpired, i found myself comparing this experience to the experience i had as a young child learning of the challenger explosion. i don't remember a lot of that day--i was five, afterall--but i do remember watching the explosion on television and talking to my parents about what had happened. but i remember knowing that something like that had never happened before and hoping that it would never happen again.
when i discovered that it was columbia that had exploded this time, i instantly realized that i had seen columbia in person--back in junior high when my family vacationed in florida. my brother, who had been a huge nascar fan, was being treated to a trip to the daytona 500 by my father. since mom and i were letting the men of the family be all macho-like and watch cars race around a circle track (can you tell i've never been a nascar fan myself?), we decided to spend the day at the kennedy space center. so we drove down, took a tour and, as luck would have it, were able to see a shuttle on the launch pad, as it would be taking off on a space mission two days later. the shuttle was columbia.
so i spent much of the afternoon watching the television coverage, then took a break from that to work out (but wound up watching the coverage while i cross-trained in the gym) and then ate dinner while watching the coverage...
7.25.2005
Spill it.
I'm a sucker for a meme and came across this at le petit hiboux (one of my favorite blog reads), so figured I'd do my own. A random snapshot of what's in my purse on a given day. Click on the picture, which will take you to Flickr and the notes that explain each item. The only thing missing? The cellphone used to take the picture.
People, please. Do not pull this shit as I'm getting everything set to go to New York at the end of the week.
On a somewhat related, terrorism-free (that I know of) front, the latest issue of Entertainment Weekly focuses on "Mr. A-Z" for its lead music review. C+, if my memory serves me correctly (it has yet to go up on the EW site). The critic basically thinks Jason's too impressed with his wordsmithing, so he writes an incredibly clever review that (unintentionally? I can't be sure) collects J's quips and barbs and fires them right back at him.
My personal favorite is in response to the chorus on "Plane," to which he responds something like this (and I'm paraphrasing here): If the plane goes down, Jason, you're going to be screaming like a little girl, just like the rest of us.
From the perspective of pro-album people, it's a bad - as in unfavorable - review. But I thoroughly enjoyed reading it, and my critic soul gave the author, Chris Willman, a very enthusiastic two thumbs up. It's not often that I'll burst into laughter - numerous times - while reading a music review. But this one was quite hilarious.
It'll be interesting to see what the people on RKOP will say, however, as any review that does not say how amazing/gifted/insightful (select all that apply) J is is immediately written off as "mean," "harsh" or "stupid."
My own personal take on the album? Still feeling it out (thank you, VH1, for the early listening opportunity), but I'm more inclined to agree with Mr. Willman at this point. But I'll wait until I actually have the album in my stereo to make up my mind for sure.
Otherwise? I enjoyed a self-imposed exile from most of the world this weekend. With an empty flat and a busy couple of weeks ahead, I relaxed. Slept without setting the alarm, cleaned and messed up the apartment, watched some movies, went running and the like. "Harry Potter" was finished Friday night, with portions reread on Saturday. For those yet to read it, fear not - I'll not give away spoilers. But I can say that I enjoyed it.
And finally. I dreamt last night that I ran into an ex-boyfriend I haven't seen in...what, almost four years? We had an enjoyable, if not slightly awkward short catch-up session. After walking away, I ran into a group of other acquaintances from those college days gone by and we made our way into a coffeeshop to sit and sip and speak. During said conversation, one remarked on how excited she was to attend E's wedding this weekend. I did a doubletake and asked her to repeat herself, which she did, adding "He saw you and he didn't even mention it to you? That's funny, it's being held over at (insert name of nearby church)."
The bizarre part was that I was really upset. Not necessarily that he was getting married, but that he didn't mention it to me when I asked, "So how are you? What's been going on?"
On a somewhat related, terrorism-free (that I know of) front, the latest issue of Entertainment Weekly focuses on "Mr. A-Z" for its lead music review. C+, if my memory serves me correctly (it has yet to go up on the EW site). The critic basically thinks Jason's too impressed with his wordsmithing, so he writes an incredibly clever review that (unintentionally? I can't be sure) collects J's quips and barbs and fires them right back at him.
My personal favorite is in response to the chorus on "Plane," to which he responds something like this (and I'm paraphrasing here): If the plane goes down, Jason, you're going to be screaming like a little girl, just like the rest of us.
From the perspective of pro-album people, it's a bad - as in unfavorable - review. But I thoroughly enjoyed reading it, and my critic soul gave the author, Chris Willman, a very enthusiastic two thumbs up. It's not often that I'll burst into laughter - numerous times - while reading a music review. But this one was quite hilarious.
It'll be interesting to see what the people on RKOP will say, however, as any review that does not say how amazing/gifted/insightful (select all that apply) J is is immediately written off as "mean," "harsh" or "stupid."
My own personal take on the album? Still feeling it out (thank you, VH1, for the early listening opportunity), but I'm more inclined to agree with Mr. Willman at this point. But I'll wait until I actually have the album in my stereo to make up my mind for sure.
Otherwise? I enjoyed a self-imposed exile from most of the world this weekend. With an empty flat and a busy couple of weeks ahead, I relaxed. Slept without setting the alarm, cleaned and messed up the apartment, watched some movies, went running and the like. "Harry Potter" was finished Friday night, with portions reread on Saturday. For those yet to read it, fear not - I'll not give away spoilers. But I can say that I enjoyed it.
And finally. I dreamt last night that I ran into an ex-boyfriend I haven't seen in...what, almost four years? We had an enjoyable, if not slightly awkward short catch-up session. After walking away, I ran into a group of other acquaintances from those college days gone by and we made our way into a coffeeshop to sit and sip and speak. During said conversation, one remarked on how excited she was to attend E's wedding this weekend. I did a doubletake and asked her to repeat herself, which she did, adding "He saw you and he didn't even mention it to you? That's funny, it's being held over at (insert name of nearby church)."
The bizarre part was that I was really upset. Not necessarily that he was getting married, but that he didn't mention it to me when I asked, "So how are you? What's been going on?"
7.22.2005
"There's a storm comin' through and it's going to be a good one."
We were playing our own style of telephone, warning each other of the darkening skies outside. "Looks like it's going to rain" turned into "It's going to rain" into "It's about to rain" into "Big storm about to unleash havoc on powerlines, hills and streets everywhere."
Fine, it was actually just "Be sure your car windows are rolled up." But if you read between the lines, the predictions for calamity were definitely implied.
By the time the warnings reached me, thunder was beginning to rumble in the distance, even through the walls and floors of my building. Everyone else hunkered down in their seats while I grabbed my bag and headed to the door. I wanted to see if I could catch a few moments outside before the sky opened up.
I love the strange light and feel to the outdoors as a thunderstorm rolls in. Familiar environments take on a different sheen - as if bathed in flourescent lighting - and the sky visibly struggles between light and dark. Clouds above move faster, less defined in their shapes. The air, still humid, tries to grab at your skin before the rain-leading breeze tears it away.
And then there's the thunder, alternating between rumbles and cracks, forming an ever-quickening tempo that sends pedestrians scurrying for cover. Apartment, shop, restaurant, car - it doesn't matter where people wind up as long as it is Out of the Rain. The sound tries to convince everyone that it is menacing, intimidating - I wind up doing my best to call it's bluff. The lightning is what one looks out for. The thunder is the powerless lackey behind the lightning, trying to bully everyone else.
I walked across the street and around the corner, passing two acquaintances walking quickly in the other direction. They gave quick smiles and one looked confused to see me walking away from what apparently should have been my destination.
"Better hurry, you don't want to get caught out here in the rain, right?"
I shrugged. "I'll make it. But yeah, this storm looks like it's going to be a good one."
---------
In other, related news. I hate to seem as if I'm trying to spoil everyone else's weekend, but part of me is hoping this weather continues through the weekend. I had to put on my jacket this afternoon because the temperature dipped below 70 and enjoyed the sensation of actually feeling a chill in the air.
Besides, there's nothing like rainy skies and perhaps a little thunder to serve as a perfect backdrop for my weekend-long hot date with a 16-year-old wizard.
You know what I'm talking about. Rawr!
We were playing our own style of telephone, warning each other of the darkening skies outside. "Looks like it's going to rain" turned into "It's going to rain" into "It's about to rain" into "Big storm about to unleash havoc on powerlines, hills and streets everywhere."
Fine, it was actually just "Be sure your car windows are rolled up." But if you read between the lines, the predictions for calamity were definitely implied.
By the time the warnings reached me, thunder was beginning to rumble in the distance, even through the walls and floors of my building. Everyone else hunkered down in their seats while I grabbed my bag and headed to the door. I wanted to see if I could catch a few moments outside before the sky opened up.
I love the strange light and feel to the outdoors as a thunderstorm rolls in. Familiar environments take on a different sheen - as if bathed in flourescent lighting - and the sky visibly struggles between light and dark. Clouds above move faster, less defined in their shapes. The air, still humid, tries to grab at your skin before the rain-leading breeze tears it away.
And then there's the thunder, alternating between rumbles and cracks, forming an ever-quickening tempo that sends pedestrians scurrying for cover. Apartment, shop, restaurant, car - it doesn't matter where people wind up as long as it is Out of the Rain. The sound tries to convince everyone that it is menacing, intimidating - I wind up doing my best to call it's bluff. The lightning is what one looks out for. The thunder is the powerless lackey behind the lightning, trying to bully everyone else.
I walked across the street and around the corner, passing two acquaintances walking quickly in the other direction. They gave quick smiles and one looked confused to see me walking away from what apparently should have been my destination.
"Better hurry, you don't want to get caught out here in the rain, right?"
I shrugged. "I'll make it. But yeah, this storm looks like it's going to be a good one."
---------
In other, related news. I hate to seem as if I'm trying to spoil everyone else's weekend, but part of me is hoping this weather continues through the weekend. I had to put on my jacket this afternoon because the temperature dipped below 70 and enjoyed the sensation of actually feeling a chill in the air.
Besides, there's nothing like rainy skies and perhaps a little thunder to serve as a perfect backdrop for my weekend-long hot date with a 16-year-old wizard.
You know what I'm talking about. Rawr!
I pulled into the driveway and noticed a slip of salmon-colored paper sticking crookedly out of the mailbox. I stopped the car, hopped out of the car and grabbed at it.
Amazon! Delivery! My name and address, written in block letters.
"I didn't want to leave it on the back porch, didn't know if it would be safe." Retrieve package: 8 a.m. Friday at the post office.
There was no problem leaving my digital camera out by the back door - in snowy conditions, no less - but my neighborhood postal worker didn't know if HARRY POTTER would be safe in the same spot? I had to wait until the next morning to pick it up? I couldn't start reading tonight?
I seethed with anger. I seethed my way through the punk show. I seethed my way through flipping through TV channels. I seethed my way through a phone conversation with K - well, when I wasn't busy laughing, that is. And I seethed my way through last night, when I tossed and turned all night (I attribute this lack of sleep to unknown factors, but certainly not the HP void).
Yet I was still smiling brightly at the post office this morning as the package was placed in my hands.
"Thank you so much," I said, looking down at the brown cardboard. "I really appreciate it!"
----------
In other news. I'm exhausted just thinking about what approaches (ever so delightfully) quickly. Two weeks from now (well, two weeks from tonight, anyway), I will have already returned from Manhattan mayhem, traveled to Montreal for Coldplay, returned to Vermont and traveled to Boston for the Ben/Rufus sandwich tour date.
This might just kill me. Or be fantastic. Not quite sure which.
Amazon! Delivery! My name and address, written in block letters.
"I didn't want to leave it on the back porch, didn't know if it would be safe." Retrieve package: 8 a.m. Friday at the post office.
There was no problem leaving my digital camera out by the back door - in snowy conditions, no less - but my neighborhood postal worker didn't know if HARRY POTTER would be safe in the same spot? I had to wait until the next morning to pick it up? I couldn't start reading tonight?
I seethed with anger. I seethed my way through the punk show. I seethed my way through flipping through TV channels. I seethed my way through a phone conversation with K - well, when I wasn't busy laughing, that is. And I seethed my way through last night, when I tossed and turned all night (I attribute this lack of sleep to unknown factors, but certainly not the HP void).
Yet I was still smiling brightly at the post office this morning as the package was placed in my hands.
"Thank you so much," I said, looking down at the brown cardboard. "I really appreciate it!"
----------
In other news. I'm exhausted just thinking about what approaches (ever so delightfully) quickly. Two weeks from now (well, two weeks from tonight, anyway), I will have already returned from Manhattan mayhem, traveled to Montreal for Coldplay, returned to Vermont and traveled to Boston for the Ben/Rufus sandwich tour date.
This might just kill me. Or be fantastic. Not quite sure which.
7.21.2005
Damn The Man - oh wait...
My brother is a punk. Punk rocker, punk lifestyle, punk, punk, punk. The first ventures into The Offspring developed into NoFX, Rancid, The Vandals and then the various subcultures and genres I only knew from his energetic dispatches to me about the scene.
I forayed a bit into the poppier of the punk - went to Warped Tours, hit up a few earlier shows - but I was more of a ska kind of girl at that point. And as he went off into more obscure bands and scenes, I discovered my equally underground and addictive world of singer-songwriters.
We often fall into discussions talking about particular musicians or bands in our respective areas of relative expertise, and while doing so can make it feel as if we each know precisely what it's like to sit or stand in the venues, taking in the sounds. It's one of my favorite aspects about our relationship - you know, beyond the whole same blood thing.
He has been in various bands for years now, and I've had a chance to attend an almost embarrassingly low number of performances. So when the opportunity arises to be able to make a show, I jump for the chance to show my support. Which is why I found myself back at 242 (for the first non-professional time since, I believe, the ska days of early college) this evening. His band was part of a lineup, he was in Vermont for a rare appearance (which is why one might note almost all of the recaps of brother-sister misadventures involve me in Boston), and I was ready to be there.
This requires, however, me to step significantly out of my comfort zone. There's only so much an acoustic-y kind of girl can do to blend into a punk crowd, so I put on my black shirt and jeans and prepared to get a couple of surprised looks. In fact, the people taking money at the door gave me a surprised expression as I approached and handed over my cash.
Fortunately, some mothers were around wearing mom clothes that stood out far more than my sister wear. And those at the show were pretty laidback and cool, particularly as T introduced me as his sister. That apparently brought with it a certain level of cred.
I stood with T through the first two sets, quickly thrust back into memories of past shows and past sweaty crowds. I remembered how much easier it was to enjoy the music when I already knew the words, but smiled upon seeing how into it the audience was.
And how polite they were to those mothers.
T's band was the best of the three I saw - and I say that without sistery bias. They had the most lyricism, most musicality, and T by far had the most stage presence. He prowled around the floor stage, grabbed people to sing along with and otherwise delivered, despite being exhausted before the show.
But the thing that I thought of most during the show? I used to be one of the Question Authority types. I still am to some degree, but now spend my time thinking of politics in the two- or perhaps three-party perspective. What can be done within the system and to what extent one goes outside the system. But do I go to protests? Do I write my letters or make my calls? Do I embrace a cause strongly enough to write or sing about it to spread the word?
No. I settled into acceptance and the refined process of discussion, courteous rage against the system.
Somehow it felt, as I stood among a group of people passionate about music, causes and a culture, that I was The Man.
Unsettled about the notion, I returned to focusing on T as he ran across the stage.
I forayed a bit into the poppier of the punk - went to Warped Tours, hit up a few earlier shows - but I was more of a ska kind of girl at that point. And as he went off into more obscure bands and scenes, I discovered my equally underground and addictive world of singer-songwriters.
We often fall into discussions talking about particular musicians or bands in our respective areas of relative expertise, and while doing so can make it feel as if we each know precisely what it's like to sit or stand in the venues, taking in the sounds. It's one of my favorite aspects about our relationship - you know, beyond the whole same blood thing.
He has been in various bands for years now, and I've had a chance to attend an almost embarrassingly low number of performances. So when the opportunity arises to be able to make a show, I jump for the chance to show my support. Which is why I found myself back at 242 (for the first non-professional time since, I believe, the ska days of early college) this evening. His band was part of a lineup, he was in Vermont for a rare appearance (which is why one might note almost all of the recaps of brother-sister misadventures involve me in Boston), and I was ready to be there.
This requires, however, me to step significantly out of my comfort zone. There's only so much an acoustic-y kind of girl can do to blend into a punk crowd, so I put on my black shirt and jeans and prepared to get a couple of surprised looks. In fact, the people taking money at the door gave me a surprised expression as I approached and handed over my cash.
Fortunately, some mothers were around wearing mom clothes that stood out far more than my sister wear. And those at the show were pretty laidback and cool, particularly as T introduced me as his sister. That apparently brought with it a certain level of cred.
I stood with T through the first two sets, quickly thrust back into memories of past shows and past sweaty crowds. I remembered how much easier it was to enjoy the music when I already knew the words, but smiled upon seeing how into it the audience was.
And how polite they were to those mothers.
T's band was the best of the three I saw - and I say that without sistery bias. They had the most lyricism, most musicality, and T by far had the most stage presence. He prowled around the floor stage, grabbed people to sing along with and otherwise delivered, despite being exhausted before the show.
But the thing that I thought of most during the show? I used to be one of the Question Authority types. I still am to some degree, but now spend my time thinking of politics in the two- or perhaps three-party perspective. What can be done within the system and to what extent one goes outside the system. But do I go to protests? Do I write my letters or make my calls? Do I embrace a cause strongly enough to write or sing about it to spread the word?
No. I settled into acceptance and the refined process of discussion, courteous rage against the system.
Somehow it felt, as I stood among a group of people passionate about music, causes and a culture, that I was The Man.
Unsettled about the notion, I returned to focusing on T as he ran across the stage.
"I'm a ghetto blaster..."
OR Why I Trilled Upon Receiving a Package From Los Angeles
Question of the day:
Upon the acquisition of one Bushwalla's "Ghetto Blaster" four track, how many times will one V listen to the title track? The album was waiting in my mailbox upon my brief stop at home late yesterday afternoon, and I've had it in the car stereo ever since.
"Ghetto Blaster" and "Self-Depricating Hip Hop" have already become addicting. Therefore rendering the two albums I've been listening to most as of late (Elliott Smith's "Figure 8" and the Jay-Z/Linkin Park collaboration - how about that for an eclectic mix?) temporarily useless to me.
It was a double music coup kind of day, as I also wound up with a copy of Gregory Douglass' latest. I've yet to give it a listen (for obvious reasons), but I figure I'll give it a shot - see if it helps me figure out why GD has yet to click with my usually-singer-songwriter-friendly self.
Question of the day:
Upon the acquisition of one Bushwalla's "Ghetto Blaster" four track, how many times will one V listen to the title track? The album was waiting in my mailbox upon my brief stop at home late yesterday afternoon, and I've had it in the car stereo ever since.
"Ghetto Blaster" and "Self-Depricating Hip Hop" have already become addicting. Therefore rendering the two albums I've been listening to most as of late (Elliott Smith's "Figure 8" and the Jay-Z/Linkin Park collaboration - how about that for an eclectic mix?) temporarily useless to me.
It was a double music coup kind of day, as I also wound up with a copy of Gregory Douglass' latest. I've yet to give it a listen (for obvious reasons), but I figure I'll give it a shot - see if it helps me figure out why GD has yet to click with my usually-singer-songwriter-friendly self.
7.20.2005
Risky Business
When my flatmates return from their excursion to the mid-Atlantic, I know I'm likely to jump up from wherever I'm sitting and envelop them in hugs. It's going to be a bizarre week, as I'll be fully entrenched in Save for NY mode (i.e. I'm not likely to have a life so I can try to have too much of one), running (I've resumed taking on the world outdoors over the last several days. I still prefer indoors and treadmills, but a change of pace - er, view - can be nice. And I'm finally enjoying the endorphin rush!).
And I'm going to be busy thinking (and likely writing to myself) about How Much Fun That Weekend Will Be.
Which means it's probably a good thing I'm home alone. I know my flatmates either like me enough or love me (depending on which one one is thinking of), but I'm sure they'd be ready to send me off to the city signficantly earlier than I intend to go.
It felt strange, being at my apartment by myself last night. I found it too quiet and turned the television up louder than I normally would have. I played the new album at 11 p.m., just loud enough to keep me aware but quiet enough to ensure no complaints from the flat upstairs. I left my laundry in the dryer and went to sleep because I knew no one else would need the machine and I wasn't, therefore, bound to wait for the cycle to finish. But I almost missed the possibility of hearing someone ask through the door, "Hey, is that your stuff that's been sitting in there for over an hour?"
Having lived with roommates and having lived alone, I much more enjoy co-habitation. Despite the occasional bitten-back gripes that can arise when sharing space with others (She didn't wash the pot out right away, he left the seat up, she doesn't erase her DVRed recordings quickly enough), I'll happily take them over the stircrazy sense that comes with living strictly with oneself. Even hearing the faint chuckle in a phone conversation down the hall makes me feel better. I don't strictly have to entertain myself.
I lived on my own for the first five months after returning to Burlington. They were tense - I was waiting to get a full-time job, I was still in the "recovery" phase and I was adapting to a city I knew so well as a student, but felt completely foreign to me as a professional. I didn't know anyone, I didn't know what I was doing and I had plenty of time to stew over everything as I sat in my flat.
Independence be damned. I wanted someone to make me smile.
I thought of those evenings last night, as I sat on the same, pineapple-covered couch and looked at a different-colored wall in an entirely different place. I felt better being here and knowing that my flatmates would return with stories and dispatches from their excursions.
But it was fun, thinking that I have a few days to be able to catch up on the laundry. And, if I feel so inclined, slide across the hardwood floor in socks, sunglasses and a button-down.
And I'm going to be busy thinking (and likely writing to myself) about How Much Fun That Weekend Will Be.
Which means it's probably a good thing I'm home alone. I know my flatmates either like me enough or love me (depending on which one one is thinking of), but I'm sure they'd be ready to send me off to the city signficantly earlier than I intend to go.
It felt strange, being at my apartment by myself last night. I found it too quiet and turned the television up louder than I normally would have. I played the new album at 11 p.m., just loud enough to keep me aware but quiet enough to ensure no complaints from the flat upstairs. I left my laundry in the dryer and went to sleep because I knew no one else would need the machine and I wasn't, therefore, bound to wait for the cycle to finish. But I almost missed the possibility of hearing someone ask through the door, "Hey, is that your stuff that's been sitting in there for over an hour?"
Having lived with roommates and having lived alone, I much more enjoy co-habitation. Despite the occasional bitten-back gripes that can arise when sharing space with others (She didn't wash the pot out right away, he left the seat up, she doesn't erase her DVRed recordings quickly enough), I'll happily take them over the stircrazy sense that comes with living strictly with oneself. Even hearing the faint chuckle in a phone conversation down the hall makes me feel better. I don't strictly have to entertain myself.
I lived on my own for the first five months after returning to Burlington. They were tense - I was waiting to get a full-time job, I was still in the "recovery" phase and I was adapting to a city I knew so well as a student, but felt completely foreign to me as a professional. I didn't know anyone, I didn't know what I was doing and I had plenty of time to stew over everything as I sat in my flat.
Independence be damned. I wanted someone to make me smile.
I thought of those evenings last night, as I sat on the same, pineapple-covered couch and looked at a different-colored wall in an entirely different place. I felt better being here and knowing that my flatmates would return with stories and dispatches from their excursions.
But it was fun, thinking that I have a few days to be able to catch up on the laundry. And, if I feel so inclined, slide across the hardwood floor in socks, sunglasses and a button-down.
7.19.2005
"No, I didn't hear a word..."
When one's flatmates embark on a journey that will keep them from one's flat for a week, one is naturally unsettled by the silence.
What do I decide to do at 11 at night? Check out the first listen option at VH1 and take an early listen to "Mr. A-Z." B and C may be gone, but I can fill the space with J sound and dance with abandon if I feel so inclined.
I'm going to be very curious to see how this album is received.
This will require some listens before I even begin to formulate the beginning of an opinion.
But one thing that jumps out? One of my favorite songs from the Curbside was "Plane." When he sang the "Flax seeds, well they tear me open and supposedly you can crawl right through me" live, he'd drop the melody down about an octave and I'd get shivers because it was so quietly intense. He brings it up for the album version, which is a pity. But on the flipside, the build at the end of the album and the accompanying wail? Pretty incredible.
Kind of got shivers hearing that note sustained.
What do I decide to do at 11 at night? Check out the first listen option at VH1 and take an early listen to "Mr. A-Z." B and C may be gone, but I can fill the space with J sound and dance with abandon if I feel so inclined.
I'm going to be very curious to see how this album is received.
This will require some listens before I even begin to formulate the beginning of an opinion.
But one thing that jumps out? One of my favorite songs from the Curbside was "Plane." When he sang the "Flax seeds, well they tear me open and supposedly you can crawl right through me" live, he'd drop the melody down about an octave and I'd get shivers because it was so quietly intense. He brings it up for the album version, which is a pity. But on the flipside, the build at the end of the album and the accompanying wail? Pretty incredible.
Kind of got shivers hearing that note sustained.
I stepped out of the building onto an unexpectedly glistening street. The lightest of rains lingered, not nearly as intimidating as the thunder rumbling from what sounded like just around the corner.
But pedestrians were walking carefree, stowing umbrellas away into handbags, so I set out for my coffee, conversation and takeaway sandwich.
Beyond ensuring that my sandal-clad feet avoided particularly large puddles, the rain that had fallen (without my awareness) was more of a treat than anything else. We have been promised the downpour for days, with the assurances that it would signify that the heat has finally broken. The humidity, the haze, the lethargy - it was all supposed to retreat for a few days once the rain came.
That it didn't necessarily feel any less humid, hazy or oppressive should have been my clue. But I had caffeine on the brain and just kept on walking up the street and into the kitchenware shop where I met Beth before our venture to Starbucks.
Coffees ordered, we settled into the small round table directly in front of us and chatted for a moment or two before hearing the shrieks from the street. Turning, we took in the sight of streaking lines of water falling from the sky. It soon became an absolute downpour, with the brick street splashes and frantic evasion techniques from passersby. I saw umbrellas, hats, jackets, even a frisbee held above peoples' head as they scurried by.
I turned to look at Beth, who was taking in the sight with a surprised expression.
"Yeah, so you want to sit for a few minutes?"
"Um, yeah."
Well, the heat broke...
But pedestrians were walking carefree, stowing umbrellas away into handbags, so I set out for my coffee, conversation and takeaway sandwich.
Beyond ensuring that my sandal-clad feet avoided particularly large puddles, the rain that had fallen (without my awareness) was more of a treat than anything else. We have been promised the downpour for days, with the assurances that it would signify that the heat has finally broken. The humidity, the haze, the lethargy - it was all supposed to retreat for a few days once the rain came.
That it didn't necessarily feel any less humid, hazy or oppressive should have been my clue. But I had caffeine on the brain and just kept on walking up the street and into the kitchenware shop where I met Beth before our venture to Starbucks.
Coffees ordered, we settled into the small round table directly in front of us and chatted for a moment or two before hearing the shrieks from the street. Turning, we took in the sight of streaking lines of water falling from the sky. It soon became an absolute downpour, with the brick street splashes and frantic evasion techniques from passersby. I saw umbrellas, hats, jackets, even a frisbee held above peoples' head as they scurried by.
I turned to look at Beth, who was taking in the sight with a surprised expression.
"Yeah, so you want to sit for a few minutes?"
"Um, yeah."
Well, the heat broke...
7.18.2005
"That'll be weird, won't it?"
I laughed and took another bite of my DIY Chipotle handiwork. "And it isn't already weird?"
B nodded. Point for me. "But think of it. 'No, I don't care.'"
We were discussing the hypotheticals that have been raised repeatedly over a span of time longer than I care for. The duration, actually, was the topic, in its own wrapped-into-itself, MC Ecsher style.
I was a hand holding a pencil, writing about the hand holding the pencil that was writing about me. So to speak.
She came back to our basic thesis.
"One of two things will have to happen. You'll have to either never see him again or make out." Me and The Crush.
Which was more realistic? I hated to say it, I knew I sounded cynical, but I was convinced that it would be the former.
"You're being too hard on yourself."
I was being realistic.
There should be a statute of limitiations on emotion. Er, crushes. At a certain point, one's brain should turn off the synapses that make one's heart jump a bit at the thought of another individual.
It's happened in the past, of course. About a week ago, I untied the red bead strings that bound The Book - the blue velvet-lined journal that documented a significant chunk of my sophomore and junior years of college - and the eventful summer sandwiched in the middle. I looked upon the yellow lined pages and laughed as I flitted from that first actor to the summer romance, then recalling the stolen moments underneath the shade of a tree as I documented the frustration of Working Too Much and Not Spending Time - and then resorting to flirtation with the crush from days gone by.
Each of those crush-turned-relationships faded, as did the ones that preceded and followed. I acknowledge that the very sporadic random references to them causes me to blink in surprise and experience a bit of the nostalgic heart flutter, but they have been relegated to shadowy figures in the past. Strictly "aw shucks" status.
So I'm waiting for this to follow the same course. It has grown worn and tired, clearly having extended its welcome into the giggling girl portion of my being.
I'm waiting for the circut channels in my hot-wired brain to finally shut off and just let me be.
But I think I have to either make sure I never see him again or make out.
----------
Things to file under Enjoyable Aspects of Being a Grownup:
- "Hey, I'm in need of iced espresso-based beverage goodness. Can you escape for a few minutes?"
- Observing that the process of buying a gift card requires having said card placed not only in a small gift bag, but also a small gift box that is then placed in said bag. Walking out of store, both individuals thinking to themselves that the pretension involved is one of dizzying intensity. "I think I'm going to take it out of the box and put it into the envelope. That just makes more sense."
- "Do you mind if I stop in here and take a quick look?" Slipping into the dressing room to try on various sizes of a potential purchase. Being treated to lighting and mirrors designed to make you look like a million dollars and entice you to spend a fraction of that money on clothing.
- The delight upon discovering that the item you grabbed off the rack as a lark fits perfectly. Asking friend if she wouldn't mind going back to get smaller sizes for the other potential purchases. Choosing among which item's style you prefer, as both suit you well. Walking to counter with purchase you really shouldn't purchase and masking the delight upon seeing that the item is On Sale and thus Economically Savvy. Seeing another pleasing item as you walk out. Thought to self: Will have to think about picking that up tomorrow.
- Placing small, fancy bag next to backpack - with running items - beneath desk. Realize ends do justify healthy means.
- "I need to check out the train system to see where we should drive to. I already Mapquested the hotel and how far it is from Rockefeller Center."
- "You should get them a truffle slicer." Learning about what a truffle slicer actually is.
- Checking out prices for an espresso machine.
- "Hi, could I get a venti iced caramel non-fat latte, please?" Pause. "I'm going to need it today." Smile of commiseration.
- "That journal is on sale."
I laughed and took another bite of my DIY Chipotle handiwork. "And it isn't already weird?"
B nodded. Point for me. "But think of it. 'No, I don't care.'"
We were discussing the hypotheticals that have been raised repeatedly over a span of time longer than I care for. The duration, actually, was the topic, in its own wrapped-into-itself, MC Ecsher style.
I was a hand holding a pencil, writing about the hand holding the pencil that was writing about me. So to speak.
She came back to our basic thesis.
"One of two things will have to happen. You'll have to either never see him again or make out." Me and The Crush.
Which was more realistic? I hated to say it, I knew I sounded cynical, but I was convinced that it would be the former.
"You're being too hard on yourself."
I was being realistic.
There should be a statute of limitiations on emotion. Er, crushes. At a certain point, one's brain should turn off the synapses that make one's heart jump a bit at the thought of another individual.
It's happened in the past, of course. About a week ago, I untied the red bead strings that bound The Book - the blue velvet-lined journal that documented a significant chunk of my sophomore and junior years of college - and the eventful summer sandwiched in the middle. I looked upon the yellow lined pages and laughed as I flitted from that first actor to the summer romance, then recalling the stolen moments underneath the shade of a tree as I documented the frustration of Working Too Much and Not Spending Time - and then resorting to flirtation with the crush from days gone by.
Each of those crush-turned-relationships faded, as did the ones that preceded and followed. I acknowledge that the very sporadic random references to them causes me to blink in surprise and experience a bit of the nostalgic heart flutter, but they have been relegated to shadowy figures in the past. Strictly "aw shucks" status.
So I'm waiting for this to follow the same course. It has grown worn and tired, clearly having extended its welcome into the giggling girl portion of my being.
I'm waiting for the circut channels in my hot-wired brain to finally shut off and just let me be.
But I think I have to either make sure I never see him again or make out.
----------
Things to file under Enjoyable Aspects of Being a Grownup:
- "Hey, I'm in need of iced espresso-based beverage goodness. Can you escape for a few minutes?"
- Observing that the process of buying a gift card requires having said card placed not only in a small gift bag, but also a small gift box that is then placed in said bag. Walking out of store, both individuals thinking to themselves that the pretension involved is one of dizzying intensity. "I think I'm going to take it out of the box and put it into the envelope. That just makes more sense."
- "Do you mind if I stop in here and take a quick look?" Slipping into the dressing room to try on various sizes of a potential purchase. Being treated to lighting and mirrors designed to make you look like a million dollars and entice you to spend a fraction of that money on clothing.
- The delight upon discovering that the item you grabbed off the rack as a lark fits perfectly. Asking friend if she wouldn't mind going back to get smaller sizes for the other potential purchases. Choosing among which item's style you prefer, as both suit you well. Walking to counter with purchase you really shouldn't purchase and masking the delight upon seeing that the item is On Sale and thus Economically Savvy. Seeing another pleasing item as you walk out. Thought to self: Will have to think about picking that up tomorrow.
- Placing small, fancy bag next to backpack - with running items - beneath desk. Realize ends do justify healthy means.
- "I need to check out the train system to see where we should drive to. I already Mapquested the hotel and how far it is from Rockefeller Center."
- "You should get them a truffle slicer." Learning about what a truffle slicer actually is.
- Checking out prices for an espresso machine.
- "Hi, could I get a venti iced caramel non-fat latte, please?" Pause. "I'm going to need it today." Smile of commiseration.
- "That journal is on sale."
This is a Journal
In need of a Monday pick-me-up?
Go here, friends. Matty Nay Journal Goodness.
so, needless to say, holding the door for him was a total thrill.
i couldn't really muster up the courage to say anything.
so i just smiled at him and, when he wasn't looking,
i cut off a lock of his hair
which i now have sewn into a doll, called hairy baby.
who sleeps with me when i feel alone.
Go here, friends. Matty Nay Journal Goodness.
so, needless to say, holding the door for him was a total thrill.
i couldn't really muster up the courage to say anything.
so i just smiled at him and, when he wasn't looking,
i cut off a lock of his hair
which i now have sewn into a doll, called hairy baby.
who sleeps with me when i feel alone.
One drink
I walked out the door of my apartment on Saturday night with the announcement to my flatmates that I would return after one drink.
One was sipped at an outdoor, alley Tiki bar, crowded around a table making a drawing book mural, staring despite oneself at Ugly Naked Guy who lived in the apartment above and meeting the clone of my crush - that is, the gay, highlighted, more outwardly outgoing clone of my crush.
Another one was enjoyed at the local, divey-yet-comfortable watering hole a block away. A patron turned the fan toward K and myself as we sat and chatted, which prompted the cooling yet 1980s-music-video-inspired hair blown back effect. Oddly enough, when this individual (significantly older than myself) asked for my - er, Sarah's - phone number, he did not walk away with the digits. He sent his friend to introduce himself to us and, seemingly, make sure our names were legit. Triiiiicky. Sarah coolly shook hands and said good night to the both of them.
The final one was placed onto the dance floor railing at the last bar, shortly before I took hold of one of the microphones and began laughing at the poppy electronic intro pulsing through the speakers. I always knew Jason was a karaoke option, but I'd never actually considered singing it. We instinctively added all of the "ad-libs" that have been burned into our subconscious over the last several years. "Well I heard a-two men talkin on the rrrrrrradio..." So we butchered it. But it was fun, dammit.
The "piss-pour" (self-proclaimed) mood I was in upon setting out for my one drink had dissolved into self-deprecating giddiness by the time I walked back up Church Street toward my home, as I rolled my eyes at the "Hey there"s and "Damn"s that come with walking by the closing-time crowds in a skirt. I was ready to collapse into my bed and sleep without alarm-clock-waking, but as I fumbled through my purse, I realized my keys were not creating the typical jingle I'm used to.
After four phone calls, banging on the sunroom door and hesitant tapping on B's screen window, I was let into the apartment. The phone had been on vibrate, the sunroom knocks had sounded faint and the tapping didn't make sense because she thought I was sitting in the living room.
A round of mutual apologies - "I'm sorry to wake you!" and "I'm sorry I didn't wake right up!" - later, I called K back to say I didn't need to walk back across town to crash at her place, laughed over the evening and then collapsed into bed to sleep until noon.
I only planned on one drink...
One was sipped at an outdoor, alley Tiki bar, crowded around a table making a drawing book mural, staring despite oneself at Ugly Naked Guy who lived in the apartment above and meeting the clone of my crush - that is, the gay, highlighted, more outwardly outgoing clone of my crush.
Another one was enjoyed at the local, divey-yet-comfortable watering hole a block away. A patron turned the fan toward K and myself as we sat and chatted, which prompted the cooling yet 1980s-music-video-inspired hair blown back effect. Oddly enough, when this individual (significantly older than myself) asked for my - er, Sarah's - phone number, he did not walk away with the digits. He sent his friend to introduce himself to us and, seemingly, make sure our names were legit. Triiiiicky. Sarah coolly shook hands and said good night to the both of them.
The final one was placed onto the dance floor railing at the last bar, shortly before I took hold of one of the microphones and began laughing at the poppy electronic intro pulsing through the speakers. I always knew Jason was a karaoke option, but I'd never actually considered singing it. We instinctively added all of the "ad-libs" that have been burned into our subconscious over the last several years. "Well I heard a-two men talkin on the rrrrrrradio..." So we butchered it. But it was fun, dammit.
The "piss-pour" (self-proclaimed) mood I was in upon setting out for my one drink had dissolved into self-deprecating giddiness by the time I walked back up Church Street toward my home, as I rolled my eyes at the "Hey there"s and "Damn"s that come with walking by the closing-time crowds in a skirt. I was ready to collapse into my bed and sleep without alarm-clock-waking, but as I fumbled through my purse, I realized my keys were not creating the typical jingle I'm used to.
After four phone calls, banging on the sunroom door and hesitant tapping on B's screen window, I was let into the apartment. The phone had been on vibrate, the sunroom knocks had sounded faint and the tapping didn't make sense because she thought I was sitting in the living room.
A round of mutual apologies - "I'm sorry to wake you!" and "I'm sorry I didn't wake right up!" - later, I called K back to say I didn't need to walk back across town to crash at her place, laughed over the evening and then collapsed into bed to sleep until noon.
I only planned on one drink...
7.16.2005
Burn, baby...
This, dear readers, is an image of my legs taken last night, upon my arrival home and dash for aloe vera. Please note the offending, angry red blotch of color visible on the back of my left leg (that, due to the screwy nature of camera phones, looks like my right leg. I assure you that it is in fact the left). Please also note that the back of my right leg is perfectly fine.
The first burn of the season, which came as a result of standing in mid-afternoon sunshine for two hours in fair Grand Isle*. I knew that I would be out of doors for a significant chunk of Friday's afternoon, so I thought I'd be wise and help keep myself cool by wearing a skirt. I remained mostly in the shade and felt no hint of what I would discover about an hour and a half after returning to my computer.
How one manages to sunburn only one of one's legs while standing around will be a mystery for the ages.
Of course, with any sunburn - particularly the first of the summer - one never realizes that one has taken on characteristics of a lobster until after the fact. It never hurts at the time and, in fact, never even pains the burnee until one happens to see it. I think it's a reflex thing more than anything else - when you see that you've turned a lovely shade of red, your mind instinctually thinks "This should hurt!" and sends dispatches to the offended nerve endings.
So as I sat in my chair yesterday, I happened to turn and look down at the ground, catching a glimpse of my leg as I did so. All of a sudden?
"OW!"
A colleague looked up in surprise. "What are you doing over there?"
"Dude, I got sunburned!"
"You're just realizing this now?"
"Yes! And it's only the back of one leg!"
Those I work with have grown accustomed to the fact that I manage to create misadventures into which I fall, so the random statement was received with a chuckle and amused nod of the head.
I started to count down the minutes until I could start my date with aloe.
*Fair is a very appropriate word for this section of Vermont to which I'd never before traveled. Also applicable: glorious, gorgeous, quaint, beautiful and visit-worthy. I'm already planning a venture over to the Islands during a day off so I can try doing the setting justice with photography. Really quite lovely.
7.15.2005
We were sitting in the booth, waiting for the director of whatever play we were working on to get back to the technical part of tech rehearsal. But he was off consulting the actors, so we were talking and griping. Per usual.
L had proudly hung on the wall by his office one of those singing fish that were annoying the masses at that time. Click on the button and the fish would start wiggling about, mouthing the words to "Take Me To The River." When things got too tense in the playhouse, he'd hit the button and we'd either crack up or throw things at him.
Either way, it broke the tension most of the time.
He'd finished bobbing his head to the canned music and paused when M, our charming, visiting intern, asked one of his trademark philosophical scenario questions.
"Would you rather be taken to the river or to the city?"
We each pondered the notion for a minute before going around in a small circle, sharing our answers. There were a couple of rivers and one city before it reached me.
"City. Easy."
"What city?"
"Does it matter?"
I need to be taken to the city. Or, rather, I need to get through the two weeks standing between The City - New York - and me.
For all my love of most things metropolitan, I'm surprisingly unfamiliar with New York. I've traveled there three times - twice in high school, once in college - but never had the opportunity to look at the city without an agenda whisking me from one place to the next. Class trips and friends' parent-sponsored ventures don't count, and the college visit was a whirlwind, 12-hour adventure for a New York Times-sponsored symposium.
I've been one member of a group (seven strong) tentatively planning for the July excursion, but our hopeful plans were only set in stone yesterday. I received a phone call from K with the giddy announcement that "We're set for New York!" yesterday that launched the countdown in my head.
Get through today, one less day before New York.
Two weeks before New York.
Our hotel reservations are set. The first plans are coming together. I'm checking maps to see what we can do, where we can relax between the pair of musical events on the 30th. I'm touching base with the members of our merry band of crazy women with whom I am not closely acquainted (that I'll be sharing this experience with new people provides an added layer of excitement - that I'll also be sharing it with some of my closest friends provides the foundation on which to build).
K laughed as I mentioned how much I was looking forward to the trip.
"I know, we're going to have a ridiculous time," she said. "It's going to be great. Let's face it. We all deserve AND need a great weekend."
Take me to the city.
L had proudly hung on the wall by his office one of those singing fish that were annoying the masses at that time. Click on the button and the fish would start wiggling about, mouthing the words to "Take Me To The River." When things got too tense in the playhouse, he'd hit the button and we'd either crack up or throw things at him.
Either way, it broke the tension most of the time.
He'd finished bobbing his head to the canned music and paused when M, our charming, visiting intern, asked one of his trademark philosophical scenario questions.
"Would you rather be taken to the river or to the city?"
We each pondered the notion for a minute before going around in a small circle, sharing our answers. There were a couple of rivers and one city before it reached me.
"City. Easy."
"What city?"
"Does it matter?"
I need to be taken to the city. Or, rather, I need to get through the two weeks standing between The City - New York - and me.
For all my love of most things metropolitan, I'm surprisingly unfamiliar with New York. I've traveled there three times - twice in high school, once in college - but never had the opportunity to look at the city without an agenda whisking me from one place to the next. Class trips and friends' parent-sponsored ventures don't count, and the college visit was a whirlwind, 12-hour adventure for a New York Times-sponsored symposium.
I've been one member of a group (seven strong) tentatively planning for the July excursion, but our hopeful plans were only set in stone yesterday. I received a phone call from K with the giddy announcement that "We're set for New York!" yesterday that launched the countdown in my head.
Get through today, one less day before New York.
Two weeks before New York.
Our hotel reservations are set. The first plans are coming together. I'm checking maps to see what we can do, where we can relax between the pair of musical events on the 30th. I'm touching base with the members of our merry band of crazy women with whom I am not closely acquainted (that I'll be sharing this experience with new people provides an added layer of excitement - that I'll also be sharing it with some of my closest friends provides the foundation on which to build).
K laughed as I mentioned how much I was looking forward to the trip.
"I know, we're going to have a ridiculous time," she said. "It's going to be great. Let's face it. We all deserve AND need a great weekend."
Take me to the city.
The tickets sold easily enough - there were hopeful concertgoers standing outside the club willing to pay well more than face value. The two guys who bought my pair looked visibly startled when I told them I never sell accidental extras for more than what I paid.
One - a guy about my age who traveled from Cambridge - bought me a vodka cran to say thank you. See? Concert karma can pay off.
Seeing State Radio on stage prompted a disjointed best/worst of times flashback. I thought of swaying to "Open Up" performed in my college sports center at the same time I thought of last July's Boston debacle, ducking for fear that the belligerent guys behind me were going to throw that handle of vodka into the crowd. New band, yes, but let's face it, the sound is vintage Dispatch. Which worked in my favor as I fell into the familiar grove of long-listened melodies.
The set change was uncomfortably long, but I used it to creep to the fifth row, where I waited it out with other eager fans, most of whom were underage. The girl directly in front of me kept flipping long, frizzy hair into my face. The guy to my left repeatedly flashed leery, drunken grins in my direction.
I text-messaged Beth, who was providing running commentary of the Sox game.
Boston lost. I just couldn't catch a break.
When the houselights finally dimmed and the band took the stage, a multitude of X-marked hands waved above our heads. I too found myself cheering as Garrett sauntered to his spot and surveyed the raucous crowd.
With a saucy grin on his face, he once again reminded me of the inherent contradiction of the his parts. A scrawny white guy rocking the trucker hat - backwards - long after it's gone out of style, convinced that he could have anyone in the crowd he wanted. And yet I still found myself thinking of how incredibly sexy the entire package was.
I swayed, I danced as much as I could in my sardine confinements before I decided to step back and let the kiddies play. The day - 11 hours of work, miles put on the car, no time for food - coupled with the demands of the day to come had finally knocked me down. The music was loose and easy, but I hadn't the energy to differentiate between the songs.
So after a certain point during the seemingly continuous flow, I made my way to the door.
One of those days, I told myself. I just wished everything hadn't decided to line up on this one.
It felt good to drive home in silence.
One - a guy about my age who traveled from Cambridge - bought me a vodka cran to say thank you. See? Concert karma can pay off.
Seeing State Radio on stage prompted a disjointed best/worst of times flashback. I thought of swaying to "Open Up" performed in my college sports center at the same time I thought of last July's Boston debacle, ducking for fear that the belligerent guys behind me were going to throw that handle of vodka into the crowd. New band, yes, but let's face it, the sound is vintage Dispatch. Which worked in my favor as I fell into the familiar grove of long-listened melodies.
The set change was uncomfortably long, but I used it to creep to the fifth row, where I waited it out with other eager fans, most of whom were underage. The girl directly in front of me kept flipping long, frizzy hair into my face. The guy to my left repeatedly flashed leery, drunken grins in my direction.
I text-messaged Beth, who was providing running commentary of the Sox game.
Boston lost. I just couldn't catch a break.
When the houselights finally dimmed and the band took the stage, a multitude of X-marked hands waved above our heads. I too found myself cheering as Garrett sauntered to his spot and surveyed the raucous crowd.
With a saucy grin on his face, he once again reminded me of the inherent contradiction of the his parts. A scrawny white guy rocking the trucker hat - backwards - long after it's gone out of style, convinced that he could have anyone in the crowd he wanted. And yet I still found myself thinking of how incredibly sexy the entire package was.
I swayed, I danced as much as I could in my sardine confinements before I decided to step back and let the kiddies play. The day - 11 hours of work, miles put on the car, no time for food - coupled with the demands of the day to come had finally knocked me down. The music was loose and easy, but I hadn't the energy to differentiate between the songs.
So after a certain point during the seemingly continuous flow, I made my way to the door.
One of those days, I told myself. I just wished everything hadn't decided to line up on this one.
It felt good to drive home in silence.
7.14.2005
Effing Awesome
Late at work. Long day.
I've two extra tickets to G Love & Special Sauce. I'm apparently going solo.
Effing Awesome.
I've two extra tickets to G Love & Special Sauce. I'm apparently going solo.
Effing Awesome.
It sounds cold. It seems cruel. I should feel badly about the loss of a friendship and I ought to do all I can to prevent its absolute destruction.
I am.
I'm not doing a thing.
I haven't done anything about it for months because if I open my mouth, I'm going to spew things that I'd later regret. I would be honest, I'd be vicious. I don't know if it's that it's not worth it to me or that I'm hoping time will bring my friend and I back into cheerful conversation.
If I say anything, I'm really going to burn that bridge.
I recall the number of times I bit my tongue and apologized for working too hard/starting a relationship/sleeping/pursuing a passion during that summer and roll my eyes at my lack of a spine. Indeed, it did create a sense of peace for the first time in six months, but I wondered if I'd be able to forget the indignation I felt.
It wasn't all my fault. I wasn't the villain, she wasn't the victim.
It lay hidden, dormant for the years of debauchery, graduations, first jobs and relocations. "That" was never discussed, when it really should have been.
Receiving a letter in the mail with the same claims, same terse lines, brought "that" all back. This wasn't just a matter of a few months in new locations. This had been five years of suppressed tension brought to light long after it arose.
I wasn't prepared - and I'm not prepared - to be as gracious and self-sacrificing this time around.
If I came off as the villain last time, the cruelty I supposedly demonstrated then was going to pale in comparison to what I would unleash now.
It sounds cold. It sounds cruel. But that's the best I can do.
I am.
I'm not doing a thing.
I haven't done anything about it for months because if I open my mouth, I'm going to spew things that I'd later regret. I would be honest, I'd be vicious. I don't know if it's that it's not worth it to me or that I'm hoping time will bring my friend and I back into cheerful conversation.
If I say anything, I'm really going to burn that bridge.
I recall the number of times I bit my tongue and apologized for working too hard/starting a relationship/sleeping/pursuing a passion during that summer and roll my eyes at my lack of a spine. Indeed, it did create a sense of peace for the first time in six months, but I wondered if I'd be able to forget the indignation I felt.
It wasn't all my fault. I wasn't the villain, she wasn't the victim.
It lay hidden, dormant for the years of debauchery, graduations, first jobs and relocations. "That" was never discussed, when it really should have been.
Receiving a letter in the mail with the same claims, same terse lines, brought "that" all back. This wasn't just a matter of a few months in new locations. This had been five years of suppressed tension brought to light long after it arose.
I wasn't prepared - and I'm not prepared - to be as gracious and self-sacrificing this time around.
If I came off as the villain last time, the cruelty I supposedly demonstrated then was going to pale in comparison to what I would unleash now.
It sounds cold. It sounds cruel. But that's the best I can do.
The power of the vote
The Rock Boat is sponsoring a "Battle For the Boat" that features a number of unsigned bands vying for a spot on The Rock Boat - which features Crazyman Nathanson, O.A.R. and the like - this fall.
Averi's among those hoping to get on board. And guess what? You can vote. So you should.
Here's what you do:
- Go to the Icehouse website (note the ever-so-simple link)
- Click on the "Battle For the Boat" image (on the left - you can't miss it)
- Register
- Vote for Averi (you get three votes per day)
- Also enter the "Rock Your Summer" contest
Those who have voted for the winning band are entered into a contest to win a trip for two onto the Boat. If you win, you take me. Pretty simple.
Haha.
Get to voting.
xoxoxo,
V
Averi's among those hoping to get on board. And guess what? You can vote. So you should.
Here's what you do:
- Go to the Icehouse website (note the ever-so-simple link)
- Click on the "Battle For the Boat" image (on the left - you can't miss it)
- Register
- Vote for Averi (you get three votes per day)
- Also enter the "Rock Your Summer" contest
Those who have voted for the winning band are entered into a contest to win a trip for two onto the Boat. If you win, you take me. Pretty simple.
Haha.
Get to voting.
xoxoxo,
V
7.13.2005
This is what I'll do
This is what I'll do.
I'll write it, spell-check it, look over for glaring errors. I'll click "send" before I change my mind.
I won't mention how I am, what I'm doing or what I thought of lying on my back in the grass, trying not to stammer too much.
I won't mention the way my foot tapped out a rapid beat on the gas pedal as I drove up the highway with the phone to my ear and jitters in my stomach.
I will mention the basic details and offer the subtlest of encouragement.
I'll sign it. I'll send it. I'll leave it at that.
And you can do with it what you will.
--------------
Other news. I finally listened to the "t w e n t y t h r e e" version of Tristan's "Love, Love, Love." I wasn't sure what I would think of the studio version of one of my favorite TP live songs, but I actually really dig it. The sunshiney tone inherent in the song is really drawn out - waves and all.
For those who are either iTechnology-less like myself (I'm in such a small minority, aren't I?) or otherwise spend far too much time on myspace (also like myself), check out the song on Tristan's space.
Speaking of myspace - "Ghetto Blaster" on Bushwalla's space! LISTEN!
The Rilo Kiley Higher Ground show is available for download! Get it! Ah, that was a crazy, glorious weekend...
And, finally, I've spent much of the last two days rocking out to the live recording of DMB covering "Time of the Season" from the show Saturday. If you wade through the posts within this portion of Ants Marching, you'll find the track ready for download. It's groovy.
I'll write it, spell-check it, look over for glaring errors. I'll click "send" before I change my mind.
I won't mention how I am, what I'm doing or what I thought of lying on my back in the grass, trying not to stammer too much.
I won't mention the way my foot tapped out a rapid beat on the gas pedal as I drove up the highway with the phone to my ear and jitters in my stomach.
I will mention the basic details and offer the subtlest of encouragement.
I'll sign it. I'll send it. I'll leave it at that.
And you can do with it what you will.
--------------
Other news. I finally listened to the "t w e n t y t h r e e" version of Tristan's "Love, Love, Love." I wasn't sure what I would think of the studio version of one of my favorite TP live songs, but I actually really dig it. The sunshiney tone inherent in the song is really drawn out - waves and all.
For those who are either iTechnology-less like myself (I'm in such a small minority, aren't I?) or otherwise spend far too much time on myspace (also like myself), check out the song on Tristan's space.
Speaking of myspace - "Ghetto Blaster" on Bushwalla's space! LISTEN!
The Rilo Kiley Higher Ground show is available for download! Get it! Ah, that was a crazy, glorious weekend...
And, finally, I've spent much of the last two days rocking out to the live recording of DMB covering "Time of the Season" from the show Saturday. If you wade through the posts within this portion of Ants Marching, you'll find the track ready for download. It's groovy.
Yawn.
Sleepy. Need coffee. Need to wake up. Need nap.
I curled up in my bed last night, trying to find the best spot that would provide optimal fan relief. Not that it was particularly hot last night - it was the softly simmering, humid night that's become blessedly common these last few weeks - but I wanted to be able to hide out under warm blankets. Which required the countering cold of the fan.
I shifted about until the fan blew onto my face, then closed my eyes and waited for sleep to come. Lovely.
I waited.
And waited.
And then waited some more.
Tossing, turning, fretting and cursing followed. Temporary insomnia is always aggravating, but it doesn't normally leave me feeling angry and indignant with myself. But it did last night.
I'm ENTITLED to get a good night's sleep, I told myself. I worked hard, I went running, I took care of everything I was supposed to...I DESERVED sleep!
I never dared look at the clock, for fear of being further disheartened. But I'd venture to say sleep came around 2:30. Which gave me about five and a half hours until Ryan Montbleau began to pound out the chorus to "Stretch" on my cell phone-turned-alarm.
I did the only logical thing one can do at that time.
I began my day cursing Montbleau for waking me up.
Awesome.
I curled up in my bed last night, trying to find the best spot that would provide optimal fan relief. Not that it was particularly hot last night - it was the softly simmering, humid night that's become blessedly common these last few weeks - but I wanted to be able to hide out under warm blankets. Which required the countering cold of the fan.
I shifted about until the fan blew onto my face, then closed my eyes and waited for sleep to come. Lovely.
I waited.
And waited.
And then waited some more.
Tossing, turning, fretting and cursing followed. Temporary insomnia is always aggravating, but it doesn't normally leave me feeling angry and indignant with myself. But it did last night.
I'm ENTITLED to get a good night's sleep, I told myself. I worked hard, I went running, I took care of everything I was supposed to...I DESERVED sleep!
I never dared look at the clock, for fear of being further disheartened. But I'd venture to say sleep came around 2:30. Which gave me about five and a half hours until Ryan Montbleau began to pound out the chorus to "Stretch" on my cell phone-turned-alarm.
I did the only logical thing one can do at that time.
I began my day cursing Montbleau for waking me up.
Awesome.
7.11.2005
We'll beat back the pain we've found
Everyday
Dream Girl --> Don't Drink the Water
Drive In Drive Out
#34
Say Goodbye
Time of the Season
Hunger For the Great Light
You Might Die Trying
Lie In Our Graves
Steady As We Go
Stand Up
Crush
American Baby
What You Are
-------
Old Dirt Hill
Rapunzel
As thousands of cars started to spill into two, maybe three thin travel lanes exiting the Tweeter Center, J, M and I spread out a blanket and settled in for the most relaxation the circumstances would allow. I began to play with my camera, testing how the headlights bathing us in light (as they would for the next half hour or so) registered in picture form with different exposure times. M flipped through Cosmo and shared with me what's considered hot and not right now (it appears that dirty texts are the new big thing. My cell phone seems shamefully chaste. Should I remedy that?). J asked us for jokes and, upon our somewhat blank stares, went off to find some from others.
She returned with a pair of guys from a few cars over, and we settled into conversation, shared fruit (ours) and beer (theirs). M waited impressively long before asking the question that had been nagging her since their arrival.
"Are you from that car playing Dave right now?"
B smiled, clearly proud. "Yes."
She sat up, set down the magazine for a moment and leaned forward. "I've always wanted to know this. You just saw the band perform. So why do you immediately start playing the same exact music?"
He seemed surprised. I snickered and wished that snapping a picture of his puzzlement wouldn't seem rude. "Because I love it."
"But you just heard it. Doesn't that tarnish what you're hearing, at least a little?"
"No. I'm reminiscing."
"Reminiscing over something you just experienced twenty minutes ago?"
"Hey. I have short-term memory."
End scene. Exchange of the night.
We sat around for maybe an hour and a half before B realized that his Dave-blaring had completely drained his battery. It was right around the same time a police officer approached and rudely demanded that we leave and pour out the beer that B had left on the ground near us. "Drinking alcohol in public is an arrestable offense," he said, puffing his chest in self-importance. So much for trying to be helpful and cutting down on the traffic. We bit our tongues and climbed into the car.
My ears were ringing a bit as we played Ray LaMontagne and sped up 95. All things considered, getting out of the venue was much more pleasant an experience than I'd expected. Fitting, really, as it capped the best DMB show I've attended, taken in from the best DMB seats I've had (admittedly, the latter is rather relative, as I trilled upon actually being able to see Dave and company this time - instead of just watching the screens and light spectacular). The show experience even started with a rainbow. Good signs all around.
The set wasn't "Stand Up" heavy, so the fact that I hadn't paid any attention to the new album did little to hinder my enjoyment. Actually, the songs off the album I did hear were quite impressive live - so maybe I won't cringe as much listening to studio renditions. One can hope, anyway. But the older material was delivered with the quintessential power the band brings to live performance - and I'd be surprised to hear that the show wasn't one of the best of the tour thus far. The energy felt as if it couldn't get much more intense as Boyd ripped into a jaw-dropping extended solo during (my favorite DMB summer song - hurrah!) "Lie In Our Graves."
As the video cameras projecting the live feed zoomed in on Boyd's ecstatic grin during the solo, I was waiting to see what more the man could possibly do with the melody; I was continuously amazed when he discovered some new way to carry the music on. This wasn't your pointless (*cough*Mayer live "Neon" solo*cough*) musical masturbation jam. It was instead one that picked the audience up and carried it right along with him during every pull on the bow. By the time Dave stepped back to the mic for the V-grin-inducing "I can't believe that we would lie in our graves..." conclusion, I was tired FOR Boyd.
The jam was the point during the show at which "This is an amazing Dave show" turned into "Yeah, this is the best one I've gone to. Yep."
And, embarrassing as it may be to admit, I found myself creeping forward as the spotlight turned onto Stefan a few songs later. He was playing around a bit, waiting to kick off the next song, and I just hoped that he would lead into the familiar "dum da da-dum dum dum" that kicked off my favorite DMB song...
...and Michelle laughed at me as I grabbed her arm, squealed and started dancing all the more. And there's something about hearing a band perform that first song you loved, years after you stared at a black and white video on television, realizing that your opinion of a band you swore you'd never like would have started to change by the time the video ended...
Hypothetically speaking, of course.
Michelle clocked it at 12 minutes - almost 13. I watched the blues and purples and greens on stage, listened to the Boyd's jam in the middle and belted out the lines at the top of my lungs, not concerned about how I looked because everyone else was doing the same exact thing and I wouldn't have been able to not sing along anyway.
It's crazy I'm thinking
Just as long as you're around
And here I'll be dancing on the ground
Am I right side up or upside down
To each other we'll be facing...
I prefer the small shows. I'll take an intimate club over a huge Coporate-Mad-Libs Center. But standing beneath the open sky with the thousands of other people who had gathered for one band and were now dueling with the musicians to see whose voices soared the highest?
It somehow felt just right.
(Photos from the rest of the weekend and more from the Glen experience now on the Flickr. Check it.)
7.08.2005
Mother Nature cooperated. The rain held off.
We all needed a good evening by the time the sun began to set Thursday. Two of us had had long, frustrating weeks marked by tears and exasperation. Another had endured a rocky return from vacation. A fourth was nursing a hangover; the fifth wanted to see get out and experience a new summer experience.
The group assembled on blankets near the front of the lawn. We partook in chips and salsa, fresh fruit, chocolate-covered pretzels. The three paper cups of red wine went to my head.
I sat on one of the blankets, happily buzzed, and softly sang along to Glen Phillips as he performed against a sky backdrop slipping toward sunset.
We'd all been looking forward to the soft-spoken singer-songwriter, whether we had seen him perform before or not. I spent much of my day - that is, the time when I wasn't greeting acquaintances and friends with "Happy Glen Phillips Day!" - thinking of a February night four years ago, when I sat with a smile that widened as I was further introduced to Glen's solo material.
The grin came back as soon as I sat down. Even the promise of seeing him live again made me giddy with excitement. We quickly fell into the practice of singing along to the songs we knew as Tracy Bonham opened.
Our enthusiasm was noted - Tracy playfully pointed her bow at us as we sang along and rocked our heads to "Mother, Mother." Yes, Tracy, we'd screamed along to these words when they came through radio speakers. We know what you're talking about. Thanks for dusting the song off.
And when Glen walked on stage, we sat up. Straight spines that soon curved into gentle leans back as his folky voice filled the evening air. Sigh. So damn good. Why did I wait four years to see him again?
A little more wine? Yes, please.
And, several bits of other news/commentary:
- Never underestimate the spirit boost you can provide with a simple remark. This morning, I walked about in lingering sleepiness - I had absolutely no desire to wake this morning and actually did so much earlier than normal - but felt suddenly more awake and happier when a coworker remarked that I looked great today and asked if I've been working out. As a matter of fact, I have, and am getting hooked again on the endorphin high that comes with running. That the results were spotted by another serves as icing on the cake and suddenly made my morning all that much better.
- I am hooked on Julian Velard's collaboration with the Ryan Montbleau Band on "Use Me." Want to listen? You know you do. Check it here - go to "August."
- Great, great, great editorial in the Times yesterday that I meant to remark on before writing my terrorism rant. This captures all of the annoyance and frustration I have felt while following the Novak/Miller/Cooper situation as it has unfolded.
We do not see how a newspaper, magazine or television station can support a reporter's decision to protect confidential sources even if the potential price is lost liberty, and then hand over the notes or documents that make the reporter's sacrifice meaningless. The point of this struggle is to make sure that people with critical information can feel confident that if they speak to a reporter on the condition of anonymity, their identities will be protected. No journalist's promise will be worth much if the employer that stands behind him or her is prepared to undercut such a vow of secrecy...
...We stand with Ms. Miller and thank her for taking on that fight for the rest of us.
As do I.
(As is generally the case when a photo is included in a post, more are available at the Flickr. Click on the photo. More from the show will be added when I return from Massachusetts - and my first Dave Matthews Band concert in several summers.)
7.07.2005
Terror
My cell phone did not work in my apartment. In order to see the bars of service, I was forced to walk out of the building and across the street, where I stood in a small park with chesstables, benches, a fountain and a policeman statue near the crosswalk. There were small shurbs on all sides of the park.
I had to stand in the park to receive the voicemails of concern that were left for me from Massachusetts and Vermont. I had to stand in the park to relay to those concerned people that I was safe. I explained to them that I wasn't worried, but I was being smart.
The only problem was that the constant repetition of the message - yes, I am in Montgomery County; yes, I am taking precautions; no, I'm not scared - seemed to instill in me a sense that I should be scared.
Reassuring others left me feeling less than assured.
------------------
It was around 10:30 one night when they broadcast the photograph on the TV. I'd set my television timer so it would turn off about a half hour after I fell asleep, and I opened my eyes upon hearing the special report music kick in. Jim, the anchor I'd come to identify by his Morgan-Freeman-reminiscent voice, sounded troubled.
I rolled over, put on my glasses and stared at the photograph on the screen. The sniper had a name. Names. Two of them. But the elder suspect's image was the one being shown. They were looking for him. They knew who he was and they believed they knew what he'd done. He wasn't going to be able to hide anymore.
I turned off the timer and focused on the coverage. By the time I'd learned of the way detectives had pieced together the scenarios, my eyes were drooping and I'd seen the photograph countless times. It was time to turn off the television and sleep. I'd know more tomorrow.
I looked over at my window, located on the ground floor. I suddenly imagined lying asleep until I was jolted awake by the sound of the suspect breaking through the window pane. He'd be desperate now. He'd do anything.
For some reason, keeping the television on - having that glow - made me feel better. Safer. But, at the same point, his image was staring back at me on the screen.
I rolled over again and looked at the faint blue glow on the wall facing me.
I closed my eyes and tried to sleep.
------------------
Code Orange sucked.
Security restrictions cut down on the number of tours available through my office. People riding the Metro seemed skittish underground, but even more wary when above ground within sight of tanks or anti-aircraft artillery. It felt like there were more fences, more searches, less time to just enjoy being among other people.
We received frequent updates that were intended to alert us to the latest status. Up and down, safer and more in danger, but it generally averaged out at orange.
They had to choose my favorite color for the scary threat level. Awesome.
I tried to poke fun at it - I entered a contest for Opening Day tickets at Camden Yards by making reference to Code Orange (oddly enough, I didn't win. No one has a sense of humor when it comes to national security, it seems) - but I admit I felt the occasional jitters myself. When you hear on the news that there's a significant threat of an attack on the subway system you use several times a day, you want to pause before descending down to the platform. Even if just for an instant.
But mostly? I was angry. The sniper had left everyone shellshocked during my first couple of months living in the area. That was cleared up shortly before Code Orange set in. I knew I didn't intend to spend more than a couple of years in this area, and terrorists and assholes were attempting to screw up a significant chunk of that time.
I made a point to stride confidently down the Metro stairs. I wasn't going to let them get me down.
------------------
I just have to think of those in London today and wonder if they'd thought similar things before they descended into the Underground or stepped onto that bus.
Sending my thoughts across the Atlantic. Terrorists are fucking lame.
I had to stand in the park to receive the voicemails of concern that were left for me from Massachusetts and Vermont. I had to stand in the park to relay to those concerned people that I was safe. I explained to them that I wasn't worried, but I was being smart.
The only problem was that the constant repetition of the message - yes, I am in Montgomery County; yes, I am taking precautions; no, I'm not scared - seemed to instill in me a sense that I should be scared.
Reassuring others left me feeling less than assured.
------------------
It was around 10:30 one night when they broadcast the photograph on the TV. I'd set my television timer so it would turn off about a half hour after I fell asleep, and I opened my eyes upon hearing the special report music kick in. Jim, the anchor I'd come to identify by his Morgan-Freeman-reminiscent voice, sounded troubled.
I rolled over, put on my glasses and stared at the photograph on the screen. The sniper had a name. Names. Two of them. But the elder suspect's image was the one being shown. They were looking for him. They knew who he was and they believed they knew what he'd done. He wasn't going to be able to hide anymore.
I turned off the timer and focused on the coverage. By the time I'd learned of the way detectives had pieced together the scenarios, my eyes were drooping and I'd seen the photograph countless times. It was time to turn off the television and sleep. I'd know more tomorrow.
I looked over at my window, located on the ground floor. I suddenly imagined lying asleep until I was jolted awake by the sound of the suspect breaking through the window pane. He'd be desperate now. He'd do anything.
For some reason, keeping the television on - having that glow - made me feel better. Safer. But, at the same point, his image was staring back at me on the screen.
I rolled over again and looked at the faint blue glow on the wall facing me.
I closed my eyes and tried to sleep.
------------------
Code Orange sucked.
Security restrictions cut down on the number of tours available through my office. People riding the Metro seemed skittish underground, but even more wary when above ground within sight of tanks or anti-aircraft artillery. It felt like there were more fences, more searches, less time to just enjoy being among other people.
We received frequent updates that were intended to alert us to the latest status. Up and down, safer and more in danger, but it generally averaged out at orange.
They had to choose my favorite color for the scary threat level. Awesome.
I tried to poke fun at it - I entered a contest for Opening Day tickets at Camden Yards by making reference to Code Orange (oddly enough, I didn't win. No one has a sense of humor when it comes to national security, it seems) - but I admit I felt the occasional jitters myself. When you hear on the news that there's a significant threat of an attack on the subway system you use several times a day, you want to pause before descending down to the platform. Even if just for an instant.
But mostly? I was angry. The sniper had left everyone shellshocked during my first couple of months living in the area. That was cleared up shortly before Code Orange set in. I knew I didn't intend to spend more than a couple of years in this area, and terrorists and assholes were attempting to screw up a significant chunk of that time.
I made a point to stride confidently down the Metro stairs. I wasn't going to let them get me down.
------------------
I just have to think of those in London today and wonder if they'd thought similar things before they descended into the Underground or stepped onto that bus.
Sending my thoughts across the Atlantic. Terrorists are fucking lame.
Fingers crossed
Dear Mother Nature:
I don't ask too much of you, so I hope you don't mind my making one simple plea.
You are free to do whatever you wish during most of today. But please refrain from unleashing the threatening rain that could cause the cancellation of Glen Phillips' performance at Battery Park this evening.
If you force the show's cancellation, I'll be forced to...hmm. What can I do? Ah, I can go out and buy cases of aeresol spray cans. I will stand outside and systematically screw up your ozone layer something fierce.
Work with me here. Don't make me do it.
I thank you for your consideration and subsequent cooperation.
Best,
V
I don't ask too much of you, so I hope you don't mind my making one simple plea.
You are free to do whatever you wish during most of today. But please refrain from unleashing the threatening rain that could cause the cancellation of Glen Phillips' performance at Battery Park this evening.
If you force the show's cancellation, I'll be forced to...hmm. What can I do? Ah, I can go out and buy cases of aeresol spray cans. I will stand outside and systematically screw up your ozone layer something fierce.
Work with me here. Don't make me do it.
I thank you for your consideration and subsequent cooperation.
Best,
V
7.06.2005
At Wits End
The words were staring at me in the black and white I usually love. Unrelenting, indisputable and unabashedly concrete.
"Never lose your passion -- but never misuse your passion."
I don't know what I did with it, but my passion is missing in action. Had I not been surrounded by a group of people who would have surely thought me mad, I would have burst into tears on the spot. Truth be told, I'm forcing down the tears right now.
I just want to get into my car, drive home and cry.
Other wants/needs right now:
- I want to draw on a sidewalk in chalk.
- I want to close my eyes and look at the speckles in front of my eyes that the sun makes when you're enjoying leisurely hours on a beach.
- I want to sit down for a long, carefree conversation over iced lattes.
- I want to kiss the boy I have a crush on.
- I want to sleep so late one morning that my body feels tired because it's so well-rested.
- I want to read a whole book in one sitting.
- I want to write a book.
- I want to attend a play or a concert and really write about it afterwards - so that others would be able to read my thoughts on it.
- I want to take a long trip on a plane.
- I want to get away from here and not have to keep a running countdown until I have to come back.
- I want to laugh until I'm crying and my sides ache.
- I want to curl up around a pillow and cry everything out, with sobs that die down in time with the steady rhythm of a hand making slow circles on my back.
I know some of my wish list are not feasible, but when I look at the others, I just have to ask.
Is that really so much to ask?
"Never lose your passion -- but never misuse your passion."
I don't know what I did with it, but my passion is missing in action. Had I not been surrounded by a group of people who would have surely thought me mad, I would have burst into tears on the spot. Truth be told, I'm forcing down the tears right now.
I just want to get into my car, drive home and cry.
Other wants/needs right now:
- I want to draw on a sidewalk in chalk.
- I want to close my eyes and look at the speckles in front of my eyes that the sun makes when you're enjoying leisurely hours on a beach.
- I want to sit down for a long, carefree conversation over iced lattes.
- I want to kiss the boy I have a crush on.
- I want to sleep so late one morning that my body feels tired because it's so well-rested.
- I want to read a whole book in one sitting.
- I want to write a book.
- I want to attend a play or a concert and really write about it afterwards - so that others would be able to read my thoughts on it.
- I want to take a long trip on a plane.
- I want to get away from here and not have to keep a running countdown until I have to come back.
- I want to laugh until I'm crying and my sides ache.
- I want to curl up around a pillow and cry everything out, with sobs that die down in time with the steady rhythm of a hand making slow circles on my back.
I know some of my wish list are not feasible, but when I look at the others, I just have to ask.
Is that really so much to ask?
7.05.2005
Lend me your ears - er, eyes
Details to come soon, but I want to make sure you're aware of it now.
September 24.
MARK YOUR CALENDARS. Circle it on your large paper calendars. Put a paper clip on the right page on the tear-out daily calendars. Enter it into your cell phones.
You are going to want to be in Burlington on that day. You are cancelling any previous engagements. You are telling your parents that you're sorry, but you'll have to visit them the weekend before or after. No, you are not willing to take that Saturday shift.
You are going to be in Burlington that weekend.
Trust me.
September 24.
MARK YOUR CALENDARS. Circle it on your large paper calendars. Put a paper clip on the right page on the tear-out daily calendars. Enter it into your cell phones.
You are going to want to be in Burlington on that day. You are cancelling any previous engagements. You are telling your parents that you're sorry, but you'll have to visit them the weekend before or after. No, you are not willing to take that Saturday shift.
You are going to be in Burlington that weekend.
Trust me.
Dear Defamer (and LAT)
Apparently Michael Eisner put out a memoir about going to summer camps in Vermont. Apparently it hasn't done particularly well. Apparently Eisner thinks it is a hit in Vermont.
Defamer quotes an LAT article and adds its own commentary:
I feel quite confident that I speak for all Vermonters* by asking the following:
When the hell did Michael Eisner put out a book???
Dude, at least with the whole Phish thing there was a little bit of cred that came with it...
*Plus or minus, say, 600,000 of 'em.
Defamer quotes an LAT article and adds its own commentary:
“It’s definitely a hit in Vermont,” Kirshbaum said. “Unfortunately, Vermont is not one of the major population centers of the United States.”
If “it’s doing well” is “jump out the window—you’ve sold three copies,” then “It’s definitely a hit in Vermont” translates to something like, “We didn’t have the heart to tell you about the massive toilet paper shortage in the northeast.”
I feel quite confident that I speak for all Vermonters* by asking the following:
When the hell did Michael Eisner put out a book???
Dude, at least with the whole Phish thing there was a little bit of cred that came with it...
*Plus or minus, say, 600,000 of 'em.
Thunder dunder
I have to laugh as I cross Main Street, passing by woeful pedestrians desperately attempting to hold umbrellas up against the sudden downpour of rain, thunder and lightning.
They somehow seem convinced that the umbrella will help them hold off the tide of water - that is hitting them sideways. I have neither the time nor inclination to point out the physics.
A baseball hat and hooded, quasi-waterproofed jacket (one of the few benefits remaining from my foray into collegiate athletics). Works wonders.
Umbrella-toting bretheren, take notes.
See V.
See V relatively dry.
See V much happier than you.
They somehow seem convinced that the umbrella will help them hold off the tide of water - that is hitting them sideways. I have neither the time nor inclination to point out the physics.
A baseball hat and hooded, quasi-waterproofed jacket (one of the few benefits remaining from my foray into collegiate athletics). Works wonders.
Umbrella-toting bretheren, take notes.
See V.
See V relatively dry.
See V much happier than you.
Scatterbrained
My head is just somewhere else today.
It would be nice to say I've my head in the clouds, a smile on my lips and the world at my feet. That I'm walking about with a song in my step and all of the other cliched expressions that come to mind when one realizes one's focus was shot to hell before one even started.
Oh, how nice that would be.
I have to say I woke up late, tripped over a shoe and got shampoo in my eyes before pulling myself together enough to get to this chair, settle in and try to work through the daze and pull everything else together.
Somewhere along the way, perhaps in my fitful (unsuccessful) attempts at slumber last night, my mind decided to take a vacation. And now the rest of me is wondering why it can't do the same.
So I'll break it down into manageable bits. It is not Monday, much as it may seem that way. Tuesday. Today and tomorrow, then Glen Phillips' free outdoor show. Then one more day - either "Midsummer" in the forest or the drive to Massachusetts. Another Massachusetts weekend.
It's practically here already. Right?
God, I need coffee.
It would be nice to say I've my head in the clouds, a smile on my lips and the world at my feet. That I'm walking about with a song in my step and all of the other cliched expressions that come to mind when one realizes one's focus was shot to hell before one even started.
Oh, how nice that would be.
I have to say I woke up late, tripped over a shoe and got shampoo in my eyes before pulling myself together enough to get to this chair, settle in and try to work through the daze and pull everything else together.
Somewhere along the way, perhaps in my fitful (unsuccessful) attempts at slumber last night, my mind decided to take a vacation. And now the rest of me is wondering why it can't do the same.
So I'll break it down into manageable bits. It is not Monday, much as it may seem that way. Tuesday. Today and tomorrow, then Glen Phillips' free outdoor show. Then one more day - either "Midsummer" in the forest or the drive to Massachusetts. Another Massachusetts weekend.
It's practically here already. Right?
God, I need coffee.
7.04.2005
I decided to buy myself a present/invest and get a paid Flickr account, as I'd uploaded enough shots in the last two days to reach over half my free monthly quota. So check out the space (link to the right!) on a regular basis, as I'll be uploading just as regularly. I spent some time perusing professional photographers' work today, and I've decided that, while I can't do things nearly as well as they can, I can give it my best shot. Best way to liven up my living space with some art is to make the art myself...
7.03.2005
Dispatches
Shea Hillenbrand was my VFP two seasons ago. Vice Favorite Player. If (now VFP) Jason Varitek was unable to fulfill his duties as favorite player, Hill was required to step up and assume the responsibilities of the position. I giddily sat at Camden Yards as the Sox took on the Orioles, pleased that our seats were on the third base side so following his progress in the game would be that much easier.
Then he was traded. Then he complained about being traded and bad-mouthed the Red Sox administration. Which meant I - a Sox fan fully aware of the less-than-ideal manner in which trades and negotions are handled by the front office, but also a strong proponent for making a classy exit - felt my esteem for him become just a little bit tarnished.
I was thinking about this - and the conflict of interest when you want a player on the opposing team to do well without making your team lose - as Shea stood in the box facing Wells in the seventh. Last night's game was the first in which I'd seen Hill live since those Camden games, and I'd offered a hushed "Yay Shea" in the first inning when he walked to the plate amid the loud and expected Fenway boos.
Next thing I know, Renteria is approaching the second base umpire. Millar is running over. Wells is stomping toward the umpire, who quickly gestures that he's thrown someone out. I thought it was Edgar, who had been decidedly high-strung all game. But Wells is being restrained by his teammates and Francona is using his head to push Wells away from the umps.
Huh?
I pick up my phone and dial as Wells throws the ball into center field (side note: haha).
"What the hell are you guys doing there, causing problems?" My mother is watching on television.
"I have no idea. What are the guys saying on TV? We have no idea what's going on. I thought it was Renteria at first!"
"The guys don't have a clue either."
"Oh good. It's not just us."
Wells storms away to a standing ovation, and Timlin trots out from the bullpen. Beth is staring at the scene with wide eyes.
"Well, this is more exciting than the last game!" she says with a laugh. Her only other venture to Fenway thus far this season was Boston's first shutout of the season.
By game's end, we had stared in disbelief as two Sox were thrown out, Ortiz came as close as he ever comes to stealing a base (a passed ball seconds after Beth and I joked about how he was due for a steal. "Two for you, Papi! Two for you!"), Boston chipped away at the early Toronoto lead, Manny saved the day with a two-run shot farther down the right field side, my boy Millar (who reached FP status last season) fired a foul shot into the section barely to our right and the 35,000-strong crowd endured potentially perilous appearances by Embree AND Foulke.
(The appearance of the former caused my phone to vibrate. When I picked up, I was greeted with a cackle of "You are SOOOOOO SCREWED!" The latter prompted me to make a quick phone call. My mother picked up laughing. No "Hello," just laughter.)
I kept my fingers crossed until the last pitch was delivered, the popup was hit and the ball squarely landed in the glove.
------------------
Amid a break in the action:
"Why is Millar your favorite player?"
I paused before answering. "The thing I like about Kevin is the fact that he is the quintessential Boston player. He works hard, he plays hard and he seems to always have a fun time doing it. But he's not your typical major league baseball player. He's good enough at first base, but he definitely has flaws. He's not the most dynamic batter, but he can pull through when they really need him.
"He's the guy who you can tell makes sure to go out and do everything he needs to do to be his best, not necessarily The Best. But he brings so much to the team in terms of personality and makes the team that much more fun to watch. And I think he makes teammates have that much more fun playing.
"Besides, part of it is the name. You have Ortiz. Damon. And then there's Mill-AAAAAAHHHHHH. How much fun is it to yell out, 'C'mon MILLAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!'
"He's just my kind of player."
------------------
I sat on a short wall Friday night, looking out into the hazy sky over the water. Fireworks crackled several times in the distance, and I was listening to music through a iPod earpiece in my left ear. Michelle had the other in her right, and we were singing along with her beach mix. A little Matt, some Ryan, a much-missed-recently Ani track followed by some Ray and Averi.
When I looked down to the stones below our perch, I could see the streetlight silhouettes bobbing their heads and dancing in time. I found it interesting to see such quiet and peace stretched out before me while traffic raced by behind.
We'd intended to stop by the beach for a few minutes, but the music was great and we were having fun singing along. It only stopped after Michelle realized I was avoiding the latest turn in our meandering conversation by singing along to "Geek in the Pink." My iDJ cut the tunes and made me cut to the chase. We lingered by the water until about 2 a.m., carrying on one of those discussions that only arise late at night when friends are feeling introspective.
As I tried to phrase my thought process properly, I looked over the water and saw a plane rise into the sky.
I wondered why anyone would actually want to leave this place.
7.01.2005
Take Me Out
Incredibly childish I am.
I look the part of the professional this morning. Typing away at the keyboard, flipping through a copy of the paper, taking sips from my ever-so-mature coffee (or, as my flatmate puts it - and I'm not joking - "iced espresso-based beverage").
But I have to control bouncing in my seat and running out the door.
My small bag is packed and waiting in my car. Tank's full of gas. My blue shirt, featuring "MILLAR 15" on the back, wants to be worn. After looking for half a dozen places to store it, my ticket for tomorrow night's game is in the purse positioned next to me - I figured that was the safest place for it. I know Wells is scheduled to start and that our seats are on the first base side. I get an added kick out of the fact that mine is Seat 13.
I just want (wantwantwantwantwant) to get to Fenway already. I'm excited about this game; I'm looking forward to a summer holiday weekend and all of the dopey Americana things that will come with it. Seeing family and friends in Boston. Taking in a ballgame with friends (albeit friends who have requested the presence of Cleveland's Coco Crisp, but I'll take what I can get - hehe). A brief sojourn in Beverly - which will, naturally, lead to a required stop at Richardson's (Ben and Jerry, you know I love you, but you ain't got nuthin on the ice cream my first hometown produces) - and a return to Vermont in time to introduce my mother (husband-less for about a week because my father's visiting Utah) to fireworks on the waterfront.
And I'll even have an opportunity to relax.
But between now and then, I have to embrace my mature side. Do everything I need to do and demonstrate the professional demeanor I've been honing for years.
But I don't wanna...
Have a happy holiday.
I look the part of the professional this morning. Typing away at the keyboard, flipping through a copy of the paper, taking sips from my ever-so-mature coffee (or, as my flatmate puts it - and I'm not joking - "iced espresso-based beverage").
But I have to control bouncing in my seat and running out the door.
My small bag is packed and waiting in my car. Tank's full of gas. My blue shirt, featuring "MILLAR 15" on the back, wants to be worn. After looking for half a dozen places to store it, my ticket for tomorrow night's game is in the purse positioned next to me - I figured that was the safest place for it. I know Wells is scheduled to start and that our seats are on the first base side. I get an added kick out of the fact that mine is Seat 13.
I just want (wantwantwantwantwant) to get to Fenway already. I'm excited about this game; I'm looking forward to a summer holiday weekend and all of the dopey Americana things that will come with it. Seeing family and friends in Boston. Taking in a ballgame with friends (albeit friends who have requested the presence of Cleveland's Coco Crisp, but I'll take what I can get - hehe). A brief sojourn in Beverly - which will, naturally, lead to a required stop at Richardson's (Ben and Jerry, you know I love you, but you ain't got nuthin on the ice cream my first hometown produces) - and a return to Vermont in time to introduce my mother (husband-less for about a week because my father's visiting Utah) to fireworks on the waterfront.
And I'll even have an opportunity to relax.
But between now and then, I have to embrace my mature side. Do everything I need to do and demonstrate the professional demeanor I've been honing for years.
But I don't wanna...
Have a happy holiday.
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