Blondes do have more fun.

I would simply like to point out that it was my favorite Boston Red Sox player who hit not one, but two home runs to help the Sox defeat Tampa Bay tonight.

(I'll downplay the fact that I thought the game was cancelled due to rain and subsequently did not see any of it. Including the two home runs, one of which supposedly bounced off the Coke bottles ABOVE the Green Monster.)

My favorite player. Kevin Millar, ladies and gentlemen.

(Photo from ESPN.com)

It's hot and humid, with condensation sticking to the windows, lampposts and awnings. A visible haze hanging over everything.

Much like the thundercloud hanging over my head. I'm glowering. Grumpy. Ready to explode.

The reports that dominate screentime on the televisions here are alternately horrific and devastating. There are the reports of more than a thousand people killed while trying to flee a supposed suicide bomber. There's the water in the South, with looters preying upon the desertion of a city and increasing devastation.

You're acutely aware of what's going on, of course, but after being innundated with the images, it's a natural reflex to want to curl up and focus on what's happening close to home. There's too much happening outside, too much sadness and intensity.

So you do curl up, retreating into the imagined bubble that is supposed to protect you from harm. And you take a look at what's going on in your life, and you realize that maybe you should focus again on what's happening to others.

Things in your life are painful when they shoudn't be, dormant when they shouldn't be, obnoxious when they shouldn't be. You feel as if you're in a funk that shouldn't exist. But things have gotten to you. And that makes all the difference.

I cried myself to sleep last night for the first time in recent memory. Shortly after I turned off my lamp, a number of things finally managed to get through the thick skin I've been trying to develop. They struck me right at the nerves and I just broke down. I sobbed until my sides hurt and until I started to lose my breath. One side of my spare pillow was damp when I finally loosened my grip on it.

I forced my breathing to become steady again and then closed my eyes. I'd worn myself out from the crying and fell asleep easily.

But then I awoke and turned on the news. And realized that there would be little to force me out of the doldrums today. It looked like the cloud was going to remain over my head.

And then I stepped outside into the haze.

The First Day

I hate having shit to say and not knowing how the hell to get it out. I'm a so-called writer, for Christ's sake - I should know how to just get it down onto the page.

There's a button-down shirt hanging in the other room, a tie loosely knotted and dangling from the hanger. For some, tomorrow brings The First Day, a new return to familiar places. I imagine the experience to be much of the same, only different - covered with the glossy, somewhat jittery sheen of new backpacks, fresh notebooks and unchewed pen caps.

The thoughts of a first day have been on my mind with increasing frequency the last couple of weeks, as the calendar days have crept closer to August 30. I don't know why this time of year has affected me moreso this year than the previous two, if not only because there's supposedly a comforting cushion of time between today and back then.

Regardless, the arrival of August 30 brings with it some reflection and a surprising number of anxiety pangs. And the realization that I really shouldn't spill my guts about it all on here, but that I don't really know what I would write anyway, were I to put my pen to a lined piece of paper.

A lot has changed between now and then. Mostly for the better. But I can't pretend that I don't sometimes still think about it all.

I remember sitting in my mother's recliner, looking at the suitcases and wondering what the hell lay in store for me. I wish I could have known then what I know now, but had I, I wonder if I would have gotten on the plane.

Dear Me Then:

Everything turns out pretty OK in the end.

You'll meet some cool people. You'll meet some people who seem amazing at the time, but watch out for them. They'll make you want to cry every now and then.

You'll fall in love with neighborhoods, you'll love the new nightlife about to introduce itself to you. You're going to learn just how quickly politcal affiliation becomes a deal-breaker. It matters. You'll laugh over how much it does.

You'll have a horrible hangover the first morning you wake up in your new place.

You are going to see how things work from the other side, and you're going to have a chance to learn from the best. Some lessons you'll pick up right away, others seep into your being with much more subtlety.

You're going to discover this amazing place where they make the best Mexican ever. Go there often. You'll get the occasional meal on the house. Actually, know what? Eat at a lot of places. Just eat. Please. Thank you.

Keep on writing. You'll need to look back on this sometimes.

Limit your running to once every other day, please. You'll thank me for this later.

Flirt outrageously with HGC. You'll have fun. And when you meet the hot staffer and you introduce yourselves to each other, remember his name right away. Just trust me on this one. It will spare you embarrassment.

Go to concerts. Don't save all your money and miss out on some amazing experiences. You still sometimes feel as if you're playing catchup three years later.

Your good friends from home will remain good friends, although you might have some rough patches. Bring a rainjacket with you if you go anywhere on November 12. You'll need it.

Do not, and I repeat, DO NOT drunk dial anyone when you go to celebrate your birthday. And, related, he will not call you back. Ever. OK? Get over it.

Spend as much time in the National Gallery as you can. You'll love it there and miss it later.

Be scared. Seriously. There are some rough times ahead for you. But know what? You're strong. And you're capable. And through it all, even when you want to give up, you know that you can make it through. And you do. You wind up with some of the things you want in the end.

But of course, you're never satisfied with that. Because you're me. And that's what we do.

Have fun. Learn from this. And remember what I said about the running.

Love,
Me Now

A state, a date and some neon - oh my!

If I hear one more guy - actually, no, anyone - cover "I Can't Make You Love Me" before the end of this calendar year, I might go mad.

The best version was the first I heard this year, and the quality level has just been dropping rapidly since.

Clay Aiken's rendition signifies that the shark has been jumped. A long time ago.

No more, please.

Anyway.

A review of Clay Aiken's musical medley extravaganza last night will follow later today, when I have the opportunity to sit down and devote some wit - er, time - to it, but know that I survived and that Chloe had a very good time at her first concert.

A very good, very shriek-filled time. Which made for amusing times for myself and Saintly Flatmate Elizabeth. Truth be told, I had fun. And there are now many photographs. Many of which will be pulled off the shelves at family reunions for years to come.

But I will note that Aiken's drummer made many a Vermonter cringe when he made reference to the state as a city; I also believe that Aiken is into voyeurism, as he decided to change costume on stage on several occasions. Dude was just asking for a wardrobe malfunction so he could get caught onstage in a compromising situation. Would have been funny. Pity.

Oh, and did you know I supposedly went on a date with J?

I know. I didn't realize it either.

Apparently, to a 12-year-old, being one member of a group all drinking at the same time constitutes a date.

Who knew it was that easy?

God forbid I tell her I actually carried on, you know, a conversation with similar fellows. She'd have me married off, barefoot and pregnant in her mind.

And finally, click on the images to go to the rest of the set:

Guster is for lovers.

This post originally included little more than, "Holy shit. Guster. Two shows" and a whole lot of exclamation points.

Now that the initial excitement has become a warm, Guster-fuzzy feeling in my stomach, I can be a little more mature.

THUNDERGOD IS COMING BACK TO BURLINGTON! YIPPEEEEE!

Seriously, though. Guster is one of my favorite bands to see live. And yes, it's only been about a year since I saw them last - and yes, it was an outstanding set. But that was a set featuring two of my other favorites, and the co-headlining aspect of the tour meant shorter sets for all involved. And that was only one show.

We're getting two...

It's been about two years since the wig gig in Burlington, and more than four since that first show - I've been missing discussions of "Champy" and recollections of Club Toast.

It will be great to have Guster back in town.

I've spent much of the morning trying to get back in touch with my 10-year-old self.

I was surprised - and a little disappointed - that the plain white envelope had been set aside by my parents on Christmas morning. They handed it to me after I'd opened the cool presents, and I thought of it more as an afterthought than anything else. What amazingly awesome thing would fit into a little envelope?

I was confused when I opened it to find a New Kids on the Block sticker. I screamed when my parents told me what it signified.

My uncle was stationed at that point in Newport News, Virigina, and he was living on base with my aunt and two cousins - who were three and one years older than I was. NKOTB was playing in Richmond in March. They had bought me a ticket. All that stood between me and Joe (I refused to call him Joey or Joey Joe) McIntyre was a few months and about 600 miles.

When the appropriate amount of time crept by, my father and I climbed into the car and embarked on the trip. I could have slept and made the trip pass by faster, but I instead stared out the window at the scenes changing around me. The ride to Massachusetts was easy by this point, but this was four Massachusetts trips wrapped up into one. Twelve hours. And, because I didn't know at that point how tours worked, I wanted to be sure I could see the New Kids tour bus, should it amble by us on the highway.

A truck driver spotted on the Garden State Parkway traveled the same route into Virginia, and he began to wave to me each time he would see my inquisitive face peeking out the window. I got him to lay on the horn as we made our circut around D.C., and my dad laughed as I let off a peal of laughter.

Nina, Nikki and I were uncontrollable bundles of jitters the day of the show, and the adults tried to calm us with a trip to the mall. It might have worked, had we not discovered a huge collection of New Kids shirts on display at one of the stores. My father bought me a Joe shirt in all of its oversized glory - Joe's slightly blurred black and white face accented by squiggles of neon blue and pink. Ah, 1990 style. He asked if I was going to wear it to the show, and I very seriously replied that I would not. I was not going to show favortism against the other four; I was going to wear the shirt my grandfather had given me for Christmas.

I don't remember much about the trip to the actual show, although I did win the respect of those standing in line around me after I explained that I was from Vermont. I was the ultimate Blockhead - a nickname that amuses me all the more now. Those with four-hour return trips awaiting them glowered at me. I practically strutted into the venue.

I did not cry, although I wanted to, as we heard the "Let's give it up for the five hardest working kids in show biz...the N-N-N-New Kids oooooooooooon the Block!" The driving beat for "My Favorite Girl" kicked in and I was shouting, singing and dancing for a good solid two hours. I remember the sparkly jackets during "This One's For the Children," Joe's leather jacket with white music notes, the shouts of "Hey, hey, I feel alright, one time..." and Joe trying to belt out "Please Don't Go Girl" post-voice change.

I remember walking out with ringing ears and the biggest smile on my face I'd ever had; the drive back the next day was peppered with stories that began with, "And then Joe did THE CRAZIEST THING...And Donnie was INSANE...And Danny was BREAKDANCING during..."

I never entertained the notion that such stories would not leave someone absolutely amazed.

Which is why, although I know tonight's performer won't be able to come even remotely close to the experience I had courtesy of five guys from Boston, I'm ready for the post-show stories that will bubble out of my 12-year-old cousin this evening. I know she's riding with my parents (saints that they are to transport a pre-teen on such a venture) on the highway right now, probably looking out the window, willing for the time to pass by faster.

Because she's meeting up with my flatmate and I, and then we're going to see Clay (I won't add the usual expletive today) Aiken tonight. It's her first concert. I'm bringing my camera. Years from now, she'll laugh when she sees photos of her 12-year-old self, raptly singing along.

In Retrospect

I was trying to keep my brave face on, although everything was making me cry.

I'd gotten my new driver's license, a sharp new pair of glasses and a haircut. Most of my things were packed, although I would only be bringing four suitcases with me upon leaving. The rest would arrive when my family made the 10-hour car ride a few weeks later.

I'd done as much as I could to prepare for greeting new faces and sights; I was to spend the last couple of days saying goodbye to that which was familiar.

I spent the 28th laughing and ignoring the ticking clock. I was in Massachusetts, spending a day or two with M and her family - my adopted second family. We lounged about and chatted; they bolstered my apparently shaky confidence with assurances that I was going to have an amazing experience in the new city.

I tried to believe them. I was excited, to be sure, but scared to death. That I was in the Boston area - the runner-up in the "Where Is V Going To Start Out" pageant - made it easier and harder at the same time. I knew I wanted to be there ultimately - but would I discover later that I'd made the wrong decision, that I was supposed to be there now?

M and I drove to Cambridge in the evening, parking near the blue house that held inside it a venue I'd never been to before. I grinned upon seeing strong wooden beams and gleaming floorboards when we walked in. A litte dinner downstairs, then we climbed up the stairs to the performance space above. I felt as if I had stepped into some unknown barn as I looked up to the bare rafters and stepped across the wooden floor.

The crowd was larger than the other performance I'd attended, and it felt strange to have to jostle for a good vantage point. The audience members around me surprised me as they sang along to nearly ever song - I was happy to join in. The bright, excited smiles looking back at us from the stage made me realize how happy I was to be there. M laughed from her spot next to me; it was the perfect way to prepare for the new venture. I was going out with a song and a smile.

We waited when the show ended. I was hugged, we chatted and I tried to downplay the nervousness that I'd been able to forget for a couple of hours. It was starting to creep back in. I was introduced to several people and focused instead on keeping a polite, bright smile on my face.

I tried to blink back tears as we left. It was partly because I had no idea when I would again see someone I had just begun to get to know, but M knew the tears were less for him than for the process I was beginning to undertake.

That was my first official goodbye. And the hardest ones were still to come, and there would be a series of them within the following 24 hours. It had finally begun to hit me.

From back then:

and the colors are much brighter now
it's like they really want to tell the truth
we give our testimony to the end of the summer
it's the end of the summer,
you can spin the light to gold.
- dar williams (thanks beth)

Yin & Yang

The college kids have come back, so Burlington has been flooded by 12,000 youngsters looking for something - and someone - to do. I specifically avoided many of the places I've enjoyed during the brief summer respite. The first college weekend is craziness, and I am willing to give up my haunts for a short period of time. But next weekend? Oh, game on.

So I took to the places kids either don't know of or - much to my chagrin - the places they can't afford.

Not that I can, either, but I can fake it for the sake of sipping a Saturday night cocktail with friends in relative peace.

I was at such a place this evening, drinking a Stoli Raz and Sprite (a drink that brings back interesting college memories of my own, oddly enough) when an acquaintance of my friend switched subjects, unleashing one of the most unexpected, brilliant monologues I've ever heard. Even trying to recapture it won't do it justice.

We forget that we're adults, that we have control over our destinies. There's fear, there's skepticism, there's a sense that we're not going to be able to accomplish what we want to do, so we don't even try. It's too late, we say. But know what? Fuck that. It's never too fucking late. The majority of the people who make it in whatever they want to do? They didn't start out on this track and just keep shooting up. They realized that whatever they were doing wasn't something that satisfied them. They decided to turn things around and follow their passion. They worked. And they did it. And it doesn't matter if you're 28. 32. 40. Fuck it, if someone's 80 and they want to do it, they can do it. It's your mindset. It's not some fucking god-given right to be a success. You make your destiny. Not anyone else. And it's NEVER too late. There are NEVER factors beyond your control. Take those fucking factors and turn them around in your favor. And if they're tough, you work them until you beat them. And then you join the ranks of those who have made it. And you appreciate it. Seriously.

I proposed a toast, and the three of us clinked our glasses with determined gusto. That first sip afterwards - it tasted divine.
-----------
I was still thinking about what he said as I made the walk home. Up Church, over to Pearl, crossing the various side streets until I would ultimately reach my little domesticated spot. I tried to ignore the college kiddies running about with glee.

Hey, I remember how it was to return to Burlington ready to take on the classes, the parties and - by partway through senior year - the bars. Can't fault them for what I thought of doing myself, right?

Which is why we'd played along with the guys who tried telling us that the bar to which we were walking had closed. "Oh really? I mean, it does look a little dark, but the music sounds loud, did they forget to turn off the PA? Yeah, we might be here for a bit. Mmmmhmmm..."

So, as I made my way home, I ignored the first "Hey, beautiful. How you doin?"

I walked right past the "Hey, sexy thang."

I only rolled my eyes at the driveby, "Hiiiiiii there, little lady."

But I have to admit that I did burst into laughter after walking past a porch full of (really young-looking) guys, the most brazen of whom actually hooted. Like he was calling to a golden retriever. "Hooo! Baby girl! You! The one walking by! Hoooo!"

Honey.
That wouldn't have even worked on me when I was a co-ed.
And it won't get me to go out and buy you beer.
Sorry, sweetie.

It felt good, if not a little strange, to realize that I was happy to be a grownup.
-----------
Hospital update: My brother is fine. Well, it turns out that he does have strep, so it was good that he went to get it checked out. But he has antibiotics and has assured me that he's going to rest up and take care of himself so he's back and healthy as quickly as possible.

He told me he'd made a stop at the store earlier today, where he picked up necessary items for a low-key recovery night.

Ginger Ale.
Soft bread.
And the Luden's wild cherry cough drops.

Love it.
-----------
And finally, in news I would include (or not include) in a more witty, charismatic manner had I not partaken in previously mentioned cocktails, I had a fabulous day.

- Margaritas in the middle of the afternoon? Why not? It was hot out and there was an open outdoor table. Lovely.

- I partook in something in which I hadn't partaken in about five years. Memories of the Playhouse summer flooded back.

- My toes are now cute, adorable and accented with a lovely shade of corally orange. Pedicures are fun. Massage chairs are heavenly, although the kneeding conducted electronically on my back brought back memories of theater festival massages. A has finally been bumped down to the second hardest massage I've ever received. My birthday is in early November. Feel free to start pooling together funds to buy me a massage chair for a gift.

- I finally bought myself a copy of my second favorite book. If the weather forecasts for tomorrow are accurrate, "East of Eden" will be devoured (again) from a prime spot in the sunporch tomorrow (along with the latest issue of "Under the Radar"). Orange toes and Steinbeck? Life's pretty damn grand.

The Waiting Room

My brother is on his way to the emergency room.

I made him promise me that he would call me to keep me posted on what was going on. Then I made him put his girlfriend on the phone so she would promise to call me and keep me posted.

So now I sit and wait.

It's nothing super serious. He thinks he might have strep throat, and he spent the better part of an hour on the phone with me, each of us Googling symptoms and images of sore throats.

Love is willingly looking at images of throats that resemble something out of a "Friday the Thirteenth" movie. Mom and Dad apparently did something right with this whole parenting thing.

He wasn't sure whether to get it checked out. He was an accident-prone kid growing up, so he's been in emergency rooms before. But those were from cuts or concussions sustained playing in ball games. Not something with an unclear diagnosis. He didn't know whether this was strep. He, like I, never had any sore throats Luden's Wild Cherry coughdrops couldn't cure.

And as for his supposedly older and wiser sister? The only time I've been in a hospital since birth has been to visit ill relatives, console a friend who had been in a car accident and to take a single tai chi class. I try to steer clear of the medicine house, and it has politely steered clear of me.

So we were trying to figure out what was going on. He's in Massachusetts; I clearly am not. So I listened to cell-phone transmitted descriptions of the symptoms and tried matching them up against whatever IDoctor site I could find.

Finally, I told him I think he should have it checked out. "Better to know one way or the other so you can deal accordingly. And if it is strep, if the rapid test comes back positive, they can get you on drugs and you'll start to feel better. Drugs are good."

My brother is straight edge. But he agreed with me on this one.

So now he's on the way to the hospital. And I'm letting my cell phone charge so I can take the late night calls. I already called my mother (who had been worrying about him all day) to let her know what was going on. Because otherwise, she would have stayed up all night.

I made her promise me that she would go to sleep. I made her promise me that she wouldn't worry if she didn't hear from me, because I was going to call her before she left the house at 7:30 tomorrow morning. I made her promise that she wouldn't try calling him while he was getting checked out.

She promised on all counts, and then she thanked me. For what, I'm not sure. For being a bossy bitch?

As I prepared to hang up, she chuckled sleepily into the phone.

"It's fun, isn't it?"

"Isn't what?" I asked.

"Being a parent."

I had to laugh. I really was in Mom Mode.

"Oh yes. Tons of fun. Now go to sleep, honey."

Florez, a pretty incredible-sounding band out of Nashville, won the Battle for the Boat over at Icehouse.

The nominations for the Boston Music Awards came out today (or, at least, were in the newspapers today), and Averi earned four nominations. Tying with the Dropkick Murphys for the second highest total, one behind Ray LaMontagne.

Looking over the nominations, I'm psyched. A lot of talented and deserving people/bands earned nods...although it makes for some pretty strong competition in several categories.

My thoughts on several of the categories (those in which I feel knowledgable):

Act of the Year: The Dresden Dolls, Dropkick Murphys, Fountains of Wayne, Howie Day, Godsmack, Pet Metheny and Ray LaMontagne.

Dresden Dolls will have a strong showing in the vote count, and Dropkick Murphys will be able to ride the city love and the Red Sox championship (when you provide the anthem for a monumental experience, that's going to count for something big). Howie Day has been simmering in the Boston scene for years now, and "Collide" has the possibility of affecting the hometown crowd much like "The Remedy" and "You & I Both" did for Jason Mraz at the SDMAs the last couple of years. But Ray should get it. Incredible backstory, amazing voice and I'm sure there are countless people still thinking, like myself, of the awe-inspiring (and I don't use that term lightly) experience at Paradise in January. Ray gets the award, I predict.

Album of the Year (Major): Trouble (Ray LaMontagne), Broken World (Lost City Angels), Joe Perry (Joe Perry), The Way Up (Pat Metheny), Hearts on Parade (American Hi-Fi), The Forgotten Arm (Aimee Mann).

No question. Trouble.

Local Album of the Year: Drawn to Revolving Doors (Averi), Time for Biting (The Dents), A Weakness for Spirits (Darkbuster), Kiss the Culprit (Emergency Music), All I Ever Wanted Was Tonight (Dear Leader).

I keep hearing about Dear Leader and Emergency Music. They might make a showing. But I predict Averi takes this one.

Outstanding Pop/Rock Band: Dropkick Murphys, Fountains of Wayne, Guster, Mission of Burma, Staind, Godsmack, The Click 5.

I adore Guster. But, symphony shows aside, they haven't done much this year to warrant attention. Meanwhile, Dropkick played on the dugout at Fenway Park during the Red Sox pre-playoff rally. "Tessie" was blasted from speakers across the country after the final out was recorded. I'm ignoring the amusement I find that they're considered Pop/Rock. The only competition they face comes in the form of the nattily-dressed boys from The Click 5, who have just exploded over the last couple of months. I think DKM takes it home, but I won't be surprised if we see skinny ties when the award is being accepted.

Male Vocalist of the Year: Aaron Lewis (Staind), Brian Fair (Shadows Fall), Clint Conley (Mission of Burma), Howie Day, Ray LaMontagne, Sully Erna (Godsmack).

Howie Day could get a sympathy nod here. If everyone's awarding everything else to Ray or DKM, perhaps they would want to give him a few votes in this category. But I doubt it. Ray should easily win this one.

Song of the Year: Tessie (Dropkick Murphys), 1,2,3 (Bill Janovitz & Crown Victoria), Collide (Howie Day), Leave (Jojo), Just a Girl (The Click 5), Trouble (Ray LaMontagne).

Johnny Damon might go all caveman on voters if they don't give Tessie the award. For the sake of all Bostonians (actual and honorary), DKM should get this one.

Local Song of the Year: Raging Red (Dear Leader), Here I Am (The Explosion), In Defense of Dorchester (The Street Dogs), A Simple Plan (The Information), God is Going to Get Sick of Me (Aberdeen City), The Razor (The Perceptionists), For Better or Worse (Averi).

Averi should take this one home - and I think the guys will.

Local Male Vocalist: Ad Frank, Brett Rosenberg, Chad Perrone (Averi), Jake Brennan, John Powhida (The Rudds), Mike Gent (The Gentlemen), Reverend Glasseye, Ron Ragona (Lost City Angels).

OK. Nomination folk. Big problem here. You haven't even nominated one of the Boston area's best male voices. Was it because he was busy traveling all over the country this year? Did you just happen to forget he's a Boston musician? Where is Ryan Montbleau? Yeah, Montbleau. The guy whose album, "Stages," you all really dug? Glaring omission. That said, I think Chad Perrone should win this one. With the success Averi has had, in particular over the last 18 months, and the word that is starting to spread through his solo work, his name comes out on top.

Live Act: Darkbuster, Fluttr Effect, Jake Brennan and the Confidence Men, Much and the Mires, Robby Roadsteamer, The Dents, The Dresden Dolls, The Slip.

People are starting to really buzz about Fluttr Effect. And many love The Dresden Dolls. I don't know of the others. Yet.

Local Female Vocalist: Amanda Palmer (Dresden Dolls), Andrea Gillis, Emily Grogan, Grace Potter, Jen D'Angora, Laurie Sargent, Monique Ortiz, Sarah Borges.

Grace Potter. I'll be shocked if she doesn't get this one.

New Local Act: Andrea Gillis, Cyanide Valentine, Furvis, Turpentine Brothers, The Click 5, Grace Potter and the Nocturnals, The Mittens.

Who I'd like to see get it? Grace Potter and the Nocturnals. Who I think will get it? The Click 5.

Local Rock/Pop Band: Apollo Sunshine, Averi, Dear Leader, Emergency Music, The Dents, The Gentlemen, The Information, Waltham.

Averi. They're headling Avalon. Enough said.

Punk Band: Darkbuster, Dropkick Murphys, Lost City Angels, The Explosion, The Streetdogs, The Unseen.

DKM could take this, but as far as I'm concerned, Boston's punk scene is one that certainly doesn't need to have a band nominated for Rock/Pop also nominated for Punk. According to that which I have heard from my Boston punk operatives (OK, fine. My brother), The Unseen should get this.

Male Singer/Songwriter: Bill Janovitz, Ellis Paul, Jake Brennan, Joe Pernice, Josh Ritter, Peter Mulvey, Ray LaMontagne.

Damn. Josh Ritter was more on people's minds last year - and I have a hunch he'll be back next year. He's good, but with Ray and Ellis in the list, he shouldn't even be a consideration. Ray will get it, but I'd like to know there was a strong Ellis showing.

Female Singer/Songwriter: Catie Curtis, Juliana Hatfield, Lori McKenna, Melissa Ferrick, Mieka Pauley, Paula Kelley, Sarah Borges.

It's not quite Mieka Pauley's time yet, but keep your eyes on her. Melissa Ferrick is a perrenial nominee, and deserving, but Catie Curtis deserves this.

Blues Act: Eli "Paperboy" Reed, James Montgomery, Johnny A, Monster Mike Welch, David Maxwell, Susan Tedeschi, Ronnie Earl.

Susan Tedeschi. Although some people should cast ballots for Monster Mike Welch. Just for the, ahem, name.

Local Producer: Dave Minehan, Matthew Ellard, Mike Denneen, Paul Koledrie, Scott Reibling, Tom Polce.

Reibling.

Make it two, please. AND PandaCam

I woke this morning to a phone call. My mother, calling to say well done. Hearing "yours was better" led the way to consciousness much better than an alarm would have.

(As I'd dozed my way through several rounds with the snooze button at this point.)

It was a good start to the day.

It continued when the phone rang again, as I was brushing my teeth. Similarly worded sentiments by a similarly thoughtful person. "Way to go!"

Another as I approached the parking garage. "Hey, look at you!"

And one more, the most unexpected of all, as I logged into my email. "Nicely done."

I was proud. I'd expected to do well, but there were moments of frazzled doubt - and I'm a perfectionist when it comes to these kinds of things. The relief that washed over me felt incredible. I was ready to meet up with friends for drinks and Mexican in the early evening.

I was going to celebrate.

I sit here now, tired and cantankerous. The weight settled back onto my shoulders, due to something I can't directly influence.

I feel like a well-weathered cog.

At least the first hopeful glass of the evening's frozen margaritas will be needed to bolster my spirits.

Hopefully the second pitcher will celebrate my successes of the day.
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In other news. J is in big trouble, as she got me hooked on the PandaCam.

The National Zoo offers the service, but I'm watching from Animal Planet's mirror and I have no idea why I am so enthralled. The mother panda and her baby. OK. On camera. Pretty simple stuff.

But you start watching - or, actually, I start watching. And they're asleep. So I keep the window open while I do everything else I need to do. And just as I start to click on something else...

THE PANDAS MOVED! OH THEY'RE SO CUTE! OH LOOK AT THE BABY AS THE MOTHER LOOKS LIKE SHE'S GOING TO ROLL OVER ON TOP OF IT! OOOOOOOOH!

Silly of me to watch? Yes. But have I closed that window yet?

Hell no, they just moved to the mother sitting on a rock.

Can't turn away now!

BWOC

You know it's scary when I want to start a post with the written equivalent of belting out John Mayer. "I wanna RUN through the halls of my HIGH school, I wanna scream at the TOP OF MY LUNGS..."

"She was a BWOC."

M peered at the yearbook photo and the cryptic senior memories printed below. References to varsity teams, the after-school job, AP classes, Shakespeare, concerts, old boyfriends, crushes and best friends.

I glanced at her sideways. "BWOC?"

She chuckled and looked back at the bright smile surrounded by a thick mane of long, pale hair. "You were a Big Woman On Campus, dear."

R laughed as my face reddened. Amazing how dynamic one's high school years can look through yearbook pages and school plaques. So what if I felt like a wallflower all four years? I looked accomplished in retrospect. Thank you, Father Time!

The lockers were a different color. The maroon had been replaced by an inexplicable shade of mint green. The principal noticed my subtle double take and laughingly apologized. The switch was made before his time, he explained. I snickered and pointed out the locker that held my books and (oh God) varsity jacket senior year.

The smell was exactly the same, and the marble floors cast the same quixotic reflections. You couldn't tell if the light bounced off the shiny walls onto the shiny floor or vice versa. A triangulated glow of muted white light.

The gymnasium was dark. ALmost intimidating - a realization that surprised me. The number of evenings and Saturdays spent sprinting across the floor, the pep rallies, graduation...hell, our championship banner hung on the wall and my name was engraved on the marble soccer plaque in the gym lobby. I still knew to keep to the sidelines when walking across the varnished wood floor. "No street shoes on the court!"

As I waited in the hallway, I looked at a stained-glass window over the front door. A mural depicting my National Honor Society advisor, whose death had surprised me a few years earlier. I looked at her etched face before turning to face the wall and the brass-and-wood plaques above the lockers. My brother's name was up there - I had to smile.

The pay phone had been moved, but the rest was as I remembered it. Smaller, though, which would have seemed impossible as a high schooler. Each of the rooms contained just what I remembered, even many of the same teachers. Grayer, comparatively smaller versions of the figures I alternately feared, loathed and adored as a student.

They remembered me - asked how my parents were, inquired about my brother. Teased me about the Red Sox, conversed with me in German. One pointed out drawings that a classmate (and my high school crush) had created sophomore year - he had kept them taped to the door to the chemical room ever since because he loved them so much. I remembered when he first mounted them there - then I realized it had been nearly a decade since that day. I made a mental note to email that old friend and share the anecdote. He'd get a kick out of it.

I knew this place well. Spending nearly every day of six teenage years will do that. But as I tried to remember what was important to me then, I realized just how much had changed. When teachers' eyes widened as I explained my involvement in theater during college, I remembered being 16 and wanting to join the theater club - but being too intimidated to do so. As M described my "beautiful long, blonde hair," I remembered tossing it just right so it would look its best for the senior year soccer team picture.

Getting a good picture for the yearbook was one of the most important things around. The yearbook photo. Beating out my class rival for the top soccer award senior year. Winning the state softball championship. Getting straight As and a good score on the AP English exam. Quoting Shakespeare with C as we walked through the hallways. Trading senior portraits with my classmates. Leaving my mark on my high school.

These were the things that were important.

I wasn't a BWOC, dear teacher.

I was one hell of a dork.

12:31 a.m.

It had been a bizarre day.

Disjointed connections between past and present, spliced with inquiries about the future. My head spun. I felt 17 again. 24 during fleeting moments. Old beyond my years.

I jotted down some quick paragraphs as I curled up on the couch, trying to make sense of the day's events. Mostly failing in my attempts. I pulled my sweater back on and stepped outside.

I looked up and realized the clouds had cleared. Stars stared down at me, clearer than they'd been for nights.

I sat on the porch, pulled the hood over my head and lay back against the wooden planks. I stared back at the stars. Closed my eyes. Listened to the crickets engage in their regular nocturnal chirping.

I decided not to think for awhile. Just looked, listened and felt when I felt so inclined.

Ha!

I think this may be one of the best flyers I've ever had sent my way.

And it'll be a great show - one I'm disappointed I'll have to miss.

Why the next few months may kill me.

(OR: How I Learned To Stop Caring and Love the Concert Season)

Sept. 9 - SK & the Sixers/Carbon Leaf - Vermont
Sept. 10 - Hotel Cafe Tour - Boston
Sept. 15 - Ryan Montbleau Band - Vermont
Sept. 23 - Averi (maybe?) - New Hampshire
Oct. 2 - Red Sox/Yankees - Boston
Oct. 6 - Mraz - Canada
Oct. 8 - David Gray - Boston
Oct. 9 - Mraz - Boston
Oct. 12 - Blues Traveler - Vermont
Oct. 19 - Nathanson - Boston
Oct. 20 - Nathanson - Boston
Oct. 22 - Montbleau - Boston

SCENE 1. EXT. M'S CAR - SATURDAY. NIGHT.

M and V sit in the front of a Jeep, lit only by the glow of the dashboard and the intermittent flash of a passing streetlight. M drives, V sits in the passenger seat. The windows next to each are cracked, with the wind tugging at the stray strands of hair beyond the control of hair elastics.

M: What I find so amazing about Bill Murray is that he became famous and established by being the crazy, outlandish character. Yet this resurgange features such deadpan, almost morose men. And he just nails it.

V: I never thought, growing up, that I'd be able to see a film with him as a serious character and not think of him as a SNL character. But you just lose yourself in what he's doing. He's just so damn good.

M: Mmmhmmm.

M pulls up to a traffic light. It turns red as they approach. A Mercedes SUV pulls up to V's right.

V: I'm glad you liked it better than "Lost in Translation." I still can't believe you didn't like that movie.

M: Sophia! Ugh!

V and M laugh, then quiet down. Each are quietly contemplating "Broken Flowers," the film they had just seen at the Art Deco-inspired movie theater in Brookline. Each individually become aware of the radio broadcast audible from the Mercedes. Neither look at the other car, but both listen.

TALK SHOW HOST: Now keep in mind that the technique for making this wine varies depending on the grape being used and the desire intensity of the flavor. Red grapes will require less time boiling in the water than their green counterparts. White grapes require the least in order to keep that crisp, fresh flavor.

The light turns green.

TALK SHOW HOST: Without the need to concern oneself with fermentation...

The Mercedes driver drives away. His profile is never visible, save a glimpse of arm against the neon orange dashboard lights visible as he moves ahead of the Jeep. M and V pause for a moment and turn to face each other. They pause. Then laugh.

M: It never fails. Whenever I go to a really good movie, there will be some moment during the drive after that feels like it came right out of the movie. That was it.

END SCENE

What Was In the Cards

"Make sure to pick out a word for the day," M said as we stood in line at the checkout counter. She had decided to buy several of the buttons we'd laughed over, and had just noticed the small box filled with foil stickers.

I reached in, making sure not to peek, and pulled out a slip of paper. It was gold, with black letters.

Repeat.

Repeat what, precisely? Repeat getting a tarot reading conducted by a woman who shared my first name and astrological sign? Repeat the order for the perfect iced latte I'd picked up on my way from Beverly to Quincy earlier that morning? Repeat listening to Matt Nathanson's "All Been Said Before" as I found a parking spot outside the shop?

What am I supposed to think about repeating? I was getting annoyed, looking at the word. Because if the morning's reading had been any indication, I thought I knew what it was suggesting I do.

Repeat looking like an absolute idiot.

And I wasn't particularly keen on the idea.

I had settled into a wooden chair about twenty minutes earlier, in a partitioned cubicle with shoulder-high walls and a screened door. The reader settled into her seat and handed me a deck of large, purple cards. She asked me to shuffle before she spread the cards out and instructed me to pick out 16 of them, placing one on top of the other in the center of the table.

"Think about what you want to know about."

I wasn't sure what I wanted to know about. Besides, I was nervous. Fun as tarot can be - and long as it had been since I'd gone for my only other reading - I suddenly didn't know if I wanted to know what was supposedly in the cards. Whether I believed in tarot or not - and I wasn't sure which was the case.

I focused on picking out the cards and not losing count.

She took the pile, straightened it and began flipping the cards over - left to right, top to bottom, four groups of four. Her eyebrows rose at the first card, but she didn't say anything until the sixth.

"Are you in a relationship right now?"

Nope.

"No, I'm not."

She looked up. "You're not?"

Did I stutter?

"No."

"That's strange." She straightened the fourth card and looked down at the rest. "I'm seeing something and it's very much in the now. This isn't a future thing."

Well, I'm not.

But then she started to talk about me and things that had happened recently. Things I'd been pondering. She was good. I didn't know what I thought, but I knew I felt unsettled.

When she spoke about me, she was incredibly accurate. So when she spoke about someone else, I wanted to believe her. But she was telling me things that went against what I was seeing; against that which I had already decided to do.

"That's not really something I think I want to consider anymore."

She looked up quickly. "Don't give up on it," she said. "Don't. It's going to be good for you. Don't take what happened personally."

Had a friend or acquaintance told me to not take it personally, I probably would have fired an expletive back at them. Don't take it personally? I look and feel like an absolute moron. I WILL take that personally, thanks.

But I had already paid for the session and I still had a good ten minutes left, so I just nodded. Besides, it would have been bad karma to bitch out someone with the same first name and astrological sign as me. It would have felt like bitching myself out.

I changed the subject and decided to ask about my health. She answered that in about 45 seconds and segued it back to the previous topic. It was important, she said.

So after I thanked her, laughed over the odds of our chance meeting and carefully moved the screen so I could walk out, I found myself staring at a slip of paper with the word "Repeat" on it.

Repeat? I wished I'd just been told I'd come into a fortune someday instead.

During the car ride after, I popped in "When The Pawn..." and cued up Track 9.
-----------
I don't like bees.

I'm actually pretty terrified of them.

I've been known to run, shrieking in the opposite direction, when I've heard a bee buzzing nearby.

So why precisely I felt inclined to buy lip gloss promising the look and feel of "bee-stung lips" is beyond me.

Perhaps I wanted to take my lip propduct obsession to the next level.

Perhaps I was trying to do whatever I could to not decipher the Sephora makeover artists' somewhat backhanded observations about my facial features.

(And to think I was supposed to walk out of a makeover feeling like a million bucks...)

Or perhaps it was just that I wanted to know what it would feel like if a bee or three stung my mouth.

Whatever the reason, I bought it. And now I have a problem.

I really like this stuff.

My lips feel cool on the surface, on top of a layer of heat. It makes me think of eating Fireballs as a kid. If you took a Fireball and held it to your lips, it would feel like this lip gloss.

Which is particularly amusing, as I was one of those kids who used to enjoy eating Fireballs, but couldn't take the heat. In order to enjoy the sweet candy inside, I unwrapped the Fireball and put it in water. That way I didn't have to endure the red-faced spiciness.

Conquering childhood candy demons?

Hmm. Perhaps that's why.
-----------

-----------
T and I sat in the shade of a tree in the Common. He had forgotten his bike lock, and I wanted to be sure a stolen bike wasn't the price paid for a visit with me. It was slightly less broiling beneath the three, but I was happy I thought to get us cold bottled water.

We ran through the quick, "So how was your week?" exchange. I was telling him about my excursion to Southie for brunch, chatting with "the girls" over mimosas and the run-in with someone I hadn't seen in several years.

He tied a piece of grass into a knot. "Um, you're going to be mad at me after I share my next news."

"Hmm?" I finished my sip and cocked an eyebrow. "What's up?"

"It looks like I'm going to get to California before you."

"Bastard."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Where?"

"San Francisco."

"When?"

"Late September."

"OK. So. Send me a postcard, take a unique photograph of something quirky in the city for me and be sure to tell me about what you think of it. Deal?"

"Deal." He grinned. "That was easy. I was going to do all of that anyway. Goes without saying."
-----------
I have to laugh at myself when I attend a Tori show. I find that I sit with a straight back, hands folded in my lap, the image of proper. I don't know why, except the fact that I want to be able to lift my eyes to see as much as I can and maybe, just maybe, I subconsciously think that good behavior - and perfect posture - will be rewarded with a performance of "Gold Dust."

I'll have to be just as poised next time, as she did not dust the song off for Boston. But I was thrilled with those she did select - when she launches into the rest of the set (after the tour standard "Original Sinsuality") with "Caught A Lite Sneeze" and (hurrah!) "Amber Waves," a good night is all but promised. And then "Winter" pops up, and then "Cool On Your Island" and the cover of "Total Eclipse of the Heart" she's been promising for the last week or so of shows - and it's one of the best covers you've heard her do - and, oh wait, there's "Tear In Your Hand." At that point the show is fantastic. By the time she's wrapped up her four encore songs - including a cover of "Dream On" - with "1000 Oceans," the show reaches the rank of "This had better be one of the live shows she releases."

ASJgkjioagjizzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Tori Amos show.
Trip to Boston.
Amazing seats.
Incredible setlist.
Outstanding show.
Early morning drive home.

This is developing into a pattern.

But as long as she keeps giving the Boston area great performances, I'll be more than willing to make the (rise at the break of dawn and drink coffee while blaring music to get back home in time) effort to do whatever I can to be there for it.

The weekend was grand. Very full, very grand. If I have the coherence to write about it, I shall do so soon. "Bee stung," tarot reading and mimosas, oh my!

(To see Tori's setlist and a couple of fan reviews, check out the show's page on The Dent by clicking here.)

Before I hit the highway.

Listen to Blue Merle's "Part of Your History."

Do it.

Sweet as salt

How do you know it's time to invest in an espresso machine?

Before you and your friend even approach the counter, the Starbucks employee grins. "Let me guess. Two grande iced caramel non-fat lattes?"
------
I made a special mix CD for this evening's Commonwealth venture. The Guilty Pleasure Mix will serve as soundtrack to my travels along the highways that stand between myself and Massachusetts.

That I will be traveling solo means I will be able to roll the windows down and unabashedly deliver god-awful car karaoke renditions of songs I never normally would even try singing.

If you're on the road and you happen to hear a cover of Kelly Clarkson's "Since You've Been Gone" that makes your ears want to bleed, just smile. Look straight ahead. Don't pay any attention.

I've spent enough of the week either working hard or feeling glum. I'm ready for some laughter.

I crack a window
And feel the cool air cleanse my every pore
As I pour my poor heart out
To a radio song that's patient and willing to listen
My volume drowns it out...
-------
And, finally. Three years ago tomorrow, I found, explored and secured my apartment in D.C.

Three years ago Sunday, I wrote the following:
i don't know about you, but i'm going to be living it up in the greater boston area one more time when averi rocks the hob cambridge. care to join me for one last night (at least for a little while) of new england drunken debauchery?

more tomorrow--all this trapsing around has exhausted me and i need to start sorting/packing in the a.m. now i reward myself with a viewing of "empire records" and the inevitable continuation of a rousing game of phone tag. ;)

Best. Thing. Ever. (As in the link, that is)

We're going to break away briefly from V's temporary foray into melodrama to check in with the Pop Culture Scene. Lastest headlines? Jude in the Nude: South of France photos suggest -

- We interrupt this to briefly mock those who try to pretend they don't know about the Jude photos. Curl back up under the imaginary rock. Back to the story.

Fitted Sweats has provided the best Day After snippet I've come across in a good long time.

Check out "A Brief Word..." by clicking on me. Do it. Now. Come on, you know you want to.

I was already seated at the small, round table. B walked in the coffeeshop's front door, saw me and quickly walked to the table. She slumped into the seat more than she sat down on it. It was the same frustrated gesture I'd demonstrated a few moments earlier - an attempt to stomp away the bullshit of the day.

It didn't work for either of us.

"How's the day going?" I asked cautiously.

"It's one of those days," she replied. "You?"

"The same."

Harumpf. It had been a long week, a constant test of patience. I'd been impressed with our tenacity, but knew that I was starting to lose steam. I assumed she was as well.

It just needed to be the weekend.

"So what are you going to get? Venti?" I'd called her earlier and left a voicemail. Coffee. Call me. Um, yeah.

"I think so, yeah. You?"

She paused. "Know what sounds good right now? A grasshopper." Espresso and cocoa blend with a shot of mint. Reserved for those days when you Really Need It.

"Done. Let's go."

It was a good call.

Are you still mine all mine for a portion of the day Sunday?
We miss you. When are you getting down here again?
Grasshopper brunch. You know you want to go.

When I was younger, My Massachusetts consisted of a very small swath of land. My old house in Middleton and the route to my grandmother's house in Beverly - that was the main patch. There were small offshoots, branching off to family and familiar spots in Lynn, Peabody, Danvers and the like. And, in rare occasions, a foray into Boston.

I remember riding in a car from Lynn to Boston and traveling under a tunnel, but the recollection is seriously skewed. In my memory, I closed my eyes upon entering the tunnel and was in Lynn. When I opened my eyes after the tunnel, I was in Boston.

As I grew older, my favorite state bulked up. I moved from traveling the familiar routes in the backseat to taking control of the trip from the driver's seat. Ventures to the South Shore surfaced; the trip to Quincy became second-nature. Then I learned about getting into Southie. Driving into Cambridge. Demonstrating to Vermont friends how one drives on Storrow. Where on Commonwealth to turn so you can get in the right direction en route to Paradise. Traveling to Somerville and Mission Hill. Taking a quick trip to Braintree. Riding over to Franklin.

But the best part of adding a new location to the V map of Massachusetts is when someone wants to see you. When Massachusetts feels less like a place you want to take on and get to know and more like a place you just happen to be displaced from for the time being. Because it's not just that you want to live in a place and make friends with those you come across; instead a place where many of the people you've befriended happen to live.

And when you prepare to visit this place, you realize you've a list of people you want to see and a list of people you will see. And you're pleased to know that the third list, the people who want to see you, is growing. And that feels pretty lovely.

It will be a good weekend.

It was just another night
with the sun set
and the moonrise not so far behind
to give us just enough light
to lay down underneath the stars
listen to all the translations
of the stories across the sky
we drew our own constellations...
- Jack Johnson, "Constellations"

"Hey, it's me. I hope your run went well. We're down at Battery Park, and we're going to do some reading and relaxing until sunset. We brought out cameras. You should come join us! Give me a call, talk to you soon. Bye."

I brought my notebook, with every intention of doing some writing as I relaxed in the grass. But I never got the chance. Instead, I walked along ledges, climbed onto rocks and tried to capture the oranges, pinks and blues shining across the lake.

The three of us had each remarked on the fact that the summer has been so busy - and that we hadn't been around for very many weekends - that we hadn't appropriately appreciated the fact that we live a short walk from one of the most gorgeous sunset sites around. We'd made a few ventures, of course, but the days were quickly starting to shorten and the air would soon grow crisp with the approaching autumn.

I tried to look at everything as if I'd never seen it before. I played with light and shadow, using my camera to capture the backlit trees, buildings and visitors against the quickly deepening oranges. I looked into the canon, actually read the Battery Park sign. I watched C's profile as he propped his foot against a railing; I tried to sneak a photo of his contemplation without his knowledge. I did the same with a bicyclist, a nun and a couple of pedestrians. They all looked so peaceful as they stared out over the water.

I likewise tried to remain oblivious to the fact that B was again turning the photographic tables on me, laughingly documenting my documentation of an evening sunset.

We walked toward the waterfront, stopping first at a fountain that I'd never seen actually spout water, then a cafe along Battery Street, where we ordered black raspberry soft serve cones. C took his raspberry-vanilla swirl and held it against the sky.

"Look, I'm eating the sky," he said. The pink and white swirls streaked in a pattern not unlike that above our heads.

B turned to look at the darkening sky, which had taken on shades of green, blue and purple.

"Looks like the sky is bruised."

As the bruises faded, we turned to return up the hill toward the dark blue night sky.
----------
In other news. I'm starting to put together the Madness That Is October Schedule and figuring out when I'm going to take a vacation and take in all of the craziness scheduled to approach that month.

Thus far, I've got two "Mr. A-Z" stops (Montreal and Boston); one or two Nathanson Paradise shows; a possible Montbleau CD release; one Nickel Creek and, from what I hear, Alex Woodard. I know I'm missing something. Can't think of what it is.

Anything else I should add to the list of probables? Drop a comment and let me know.

Speaking of shows. THE HOTEL CAFE TOUR AT PARADISE LOUNGE ON SEPTEMBER 10. Hello.

That weekend will be lovely. SK & the Sixers Friday in Vermont. Cary Brothers, Joshua Radin and TOM MCRAE Saturday in Boston.

Game on.

Drool

No two shows are the same - therein lies a large part of the appeal. But if I were to encourage replication...

Tori Amos
August 13, 2005
Koka Booth Ampitheatre at Regency Park
Cary, NC

Original Sinsuality
Little Amsterdam
Leather
Amber Waves
Goodbye Pisces
China
Playboy Mommy

Dreams (Fleetwood Mac cover)
The Long and Winding Road (Beatles cover)

Cars and Guitars
Northern Lad
Crucify
A Sorta Fairytale
The Beekeeper

Encore 1:
Gold Dust
Tear In Your Hand

Encore 2:
Toast
Baker Baker
--------------

Leather. Amber Waves. China. Northern Lad. Crucify. ASF. TIYH. BB.

AND GOLD DUST.

but the song that truly got me was "gold dust." i have my own very personal connection to that song, and to hear her perform it solo on the piano was almost too much. i'll never forget how i felt listening to that song. - 11.13.02

She's dusting off "Scarlet's Walk" tracks, it seems - this is a good thing - and I'm finally starting to get excited about seeing her again on Sunday.

(How did the months since last time pass by so quickly?)

She can play whatever she wants and I'll be happy...but if she were to happen to add "Gold Dust" to the mix, I might be over the moon.

The Rock Boat

The Rock Boat.
A contest.
Averi is among the 10 finalists for the band competition.
Please vote.

Check out the Icehouse Web site, where you can register your email address and vote up to three times per day for any of the 10 finalists vying for a spot on the boat this fall.

You can vote for whichever you think is best, but I highly recommend Averi. God knows the guys have worked hard enough for an opportunity like this - they deserve it. And, if you haven't listened to them yet, you'd have a good chance of really enjoying them.

And if you vote for the winning band, you're entered in a contest to win a spot on there - a spot for two, actually.

Win-win situation, my friends. Just three votes a day. One visit to the site. And voting ends on Thursday.

Not too difficult, right?

Not to mention that I'd appreciate it.

Thanks!

Cagey (updated)

It's raining.

I'm not amused.

I don't mind a good downpour, much as I don't mind a nice sunny day. But as I stare out my window, I see this ridiculous, murky middle ground. It's not raining raining, but it's not clear enough to go for a walk or run (although I'm not allowing myself to do that for another day anyway). The humidity has just collected and formed a mass of haze, with the occasional spurt of water droplets falling to the ground.

It's a movie kind of day. But I already did that.

("Wedding Crashers." Wrong on so many levels, yet I still burst into laughter too often to keep track.)

It's a book reading kind of day. But I've already read the book Beth loaned me. I'm considering a venture to Barnes & Noble to see if something else catches my eye, but I'm as indecisive today as the weather. Nothing seems particularly horrible as I click my way through the online store, but nothing that strikes me.

(Book I read, you ask? "Jemina J," by Jane Greene. Don't bother reading it. I was more annoyed by it than anything else.)

It's a writing kind of day. But I don't have much inclination to write about anything substantial. Hence a lethargic post.

I've already exhausted the photography option. I'm not sleepy, so a nap is ruled right out. My flatmates are baking and getting work done, respectively.

Beth turned from her bowls and measuring cups to see me standing in the kitchen doorframe earlier this afternoon. I was staring outside, a look of disgust on my face.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing. That's the problem."

But, in good news, I'm pleased - and more than a little surprised - to note that I'm really, really digging a song featuring John Mayer. "Stitched Up," Mayer's guest appearance on Herbie Hancock's latest. Soulful, funky - the John I enjoy.

Don't wanna be stitched up
Out of my mind
Feeling strung out, lagging behind
Trapped in, because I can't do a thing because I'm locked down
Trapped in, can't do a thing because I'm locked down

Makes me feel like I'm right back in 2000. Oh, how the time goes by...

Daaaannnnnneeeeeeeey

Outdoor, alley barspace. Red lights illuminate the ironic crowd assembled around round tables, against the rope barriers, along the wall of the building. A four-piece power indie intelligent pop band is taking a quick break.

One table features several small groups carrying on several small conversations. As one member of the patchwork table party returns to her seat, another raises her eyebrows and takes a quick intake of breath.

"I meant to tell you!"

"Tell me what?" She is wearing a black, almost 40s-reminiscent dress with tiny polka dots. Her long hair is pulled into a casual updo, and she has flats on her feet. That are just a little too big, she complains good-naturedly.

"Saget is going to be here for a stop on his comedy tour."

The previous time this part of the group was assembled, part of the conversation centered around "Full House." The status of the Joey-house relationship. Friend, uncle, cousin or foe? Phone calls were made. The truth was discovered.

"BOB SAGET? THAT'S AWESOME!" Her eyes light up with incredulous delight.

The word quickly spreads around the table. Saget. Vermont. December. "Worth every penny of the ticket price, man." People who casually nodded at each other twenty minutes prior are now laughing warmly as they each admit they'd really love to see Saget on stage.

Polka Dot is still chortling. "That's so awesome. I'd just want to stand there and scream." She throws her head back. "DANN-EEEEEEEEEEEEY TAAAAAAAAAAANER!"

The group cracks up. Those sipping their drinks choke as they burst into laughter. Others are just red-faced with shaking sides. Danny Tanner remains the hot topic until the band hops back onto the stage and resumes with the instrumental intro to "Billie Jean."

Saget - icebreaker extraordinaire.

Run, Girl, Run...

And I'm running to catch up again... - JMraz

I felt like I was right back in high school. The annual excursion to pick out the coolest basketball sneakers I could justify. The chosen pair was always black (with the exception of some God-awful white, yellow and blue picked out senior year for a reason I still can't recall*), to best compliment the uniform (the Phantoms were maroon and white) and reduce the amount of visible wear (there's nothing worse than the first smears on a pair of white sneakers). I was primarily a Nike girl for basketball, as my favorite athletic shoewear brand was relegated to soccer cleats and the ever-present casualwear Sambas.

Despite living in Vermont, Massachusetts was always the go-to destination for basketball gear. I would stand in front of walls of sneakers at the Sports Authority (or, before SA, MVP Sports), trying to figure out which pair I could convince my parents to buy for me, which would look coolest and, if I had the common sense to think about it (and this was rare), which would best prevent the broken ankle that could come with any attempt to pull down a rebound.

So there I was, back in front of the Wall o' Sneaks, trying to figure out which ones would best aid me in my return to running. Only this time, I had to convince myself, as I was the one doing the buying. Amazing how The Cool Factor becomes less of an issue when you're plunking down your credit card to make the purchase. "I want shoes that won't kill my feet. That aren't overly expensive, as I'm just starting to return to this whole running thing. And, if both of these criteria are met, some cute ones would be nice."

Those are the new standards when you're buying your first official running shoes since high school.

Looking back on today's excursion, perhaps I should have gone on the Internet before heading to Dick's Sporting Goods (I won't even get into how weird it was to buy sneakers and have only a 15-minute drive back to my house). Because I bought my new running shoes after my flatmate (ever-wise, much as I hate to admit it at times) decreed that I was forbidden from running until I got new running shoes and did not complain of The Stupid Food Injury, I didn't bother to actually see if I could figure out what TSFI is. I assumed it was just a slightly pulled muscle on top of my foot.

Pretty simple process. 1) Get shoes that will better support foot. 2) Run, feeling foot recover. 3) Endure flatmate's chortling about being right. 4) Enjoy running process one has started to love again.

But I waited until making the purchase to check out the various running Web sites. And I've learned from my research that the list of possible ailments was pretty much narrowed to two finalists.

1) I could have a stress fracture in my foot.
2) I could have had shoes that were too small.

So, that in mind. How does one figure out which is the case? Because if it's a stress fracture, I could be out of luck for about six weeks. And need to go to a doctor to have the thing checked out.

(This does not please me. It's not that I'm not a fan of doctors, but I'm certainly not a fan of myself as a patient. It is not a role I am suited for.)

But if it's just that my shoes were too small before, I'd have to run to know if these new sneakers help.

See the dilemma?

I know, I know, the rational voice says, "So have your foot checked out, cough up the co-pay, find out your foot's fine and go from there."

But then there's the V voice. Which says, "You know if you go, the doctor will say you have a fractured bone in your foot. And you won't be able to run for six weeks. And that will suck. And the cute sneakers you bought? Shit out of luck for a little bit. Deal."

I've never had a broken bone in my life. I don't like the fact that I could have a fractured one now in a stupid location because I started running on a treadmill.

Talk about a wussy injury to have to own up to. Why couldn't I just possibly fracture an arm or something? At least then I'd have a cool cast and the resulting sympathy votes from others.



* not to be confused with the white, blue and yellow sneakers I decided on today. These are cute. The others? I still shudder at the thought of them. Well, no I don't. But they were pretty wretched and I cursed them for pretty much the entire season that year - despite having a much better season than the Black Sneaker Era.)

Tell me now...

Worry just will not seem to leave my mind alone...

I looked up in surprise to see an entirely unexpected source singing Ray LaMontagne to himself.

I grinned. Just hearing the melody made everything seem better for a moment or two. "Ray. Nice."

"You weren't at the show."

"I know, I was out of town." Discussion of our respective RM experiences followed. A short exchange, but one that took me away from the frustrating tasks for a few moments. Therefore much appreciated.

There's been a lot of Ray discussion lately. His name has popped up with pleasing frequency the last week or so.

As he walked away, I turned back to the tasks. Humming, then singing ever so quietly.

Sometimes I swear it feels like this worry is my only friend...

The realities.

People will not call you back; but when you call them a second time and casually mention you've been trying to reach them all day, they'll provide more information than you've time to work with. The information relayed will never be simple; "I need more time, it's gotten far more interesting" will never sound like a feasible excuse, honest as it may be. The cold will never free you of coughs, fine as you feel; you will tweak a muscle on the top of your foot just as you start developing the emotional need to run. Checking your email will not make you feel better; people won't write you when you are desperate for something, anything, interesting to read. You will not get the praise you deserve when you deserve it; you might get praise for something foolish far after the fact. You will not have time to work on the letter you want to send out; you're too busy waiting for the phone to ring to draft the letter that demands your entire focus and concentration.

I don't care if it's dark or raining kittens. I'm going running today, even if that run takes place upon arriving home from an unexpectedly extra-long day. The foot muscle (honestly, how can one complain about such a stupid discomfort) must be worked a bit so it doesn't tighten up and render moot the running progress made.

Notes to self: Buy new running shoes. Buy iPod (or at least dream of buying iPod). WRITE LETTER. And breathe.

I should stick with "The Bachelor"

I missed "Grey's Anatomy" during the regular television season, but have grown quite fond of it in its rerun form. It's become a fixture on the "To Be Tivo'ed" list, and I caught up with the latest last night, once it became clear that Boston was going to crush Texas at Fenway.

(Truth be told, I admit that last night, I simply wasn't in the mood to see whether my Sox were going to find a whole new creative way of blowing a lead.)

So I'm watching the episode with Beth, laughing at the quips and jabs as I usually do, and cooing appropriately at a cute little girl with long blonde curls and a history of seizures. I'm looking forward to Dr. McDreamy saving the day by operating on half of her brain.

Pretty standard stuff.

But then there is The Scene. One of the young interns has been booted from the OR because he dared to ask the anesthesiologist if he had been drinking. The "Sideways" woman was brought in to assist on the procedure, and Patrick Dempsey was operating brilliantly (as always). All of a sudden, McDreamy looks down at the little girl's face and realizes she's waking up while the procedure is underway.

I don't realize what I'm doing. I start saying, "No, oh no, no!" and jump up from my cozy corner place on the loveseat. As Beth looks at me in surprise, I bolt into the kitchen.

"What's going on?" she says.

"I CAN'T WATCH THIS!" My heart is in my throat, and I'm waiting to hear the faded sound of a little girl screaming as consciousness sets in. I don't want to hear it, I don't want to see it, I want the anesthesiologist (who has fallen asleep/passed out in the corner of the room, for those still curious) to put her back under. Now.

Beth walks out into the kitchen. "It's on commercial. It's OK."

She laughs at the horrified expression on my face.

"What was that all about?"

I'm still trying to figure it out. "Um, I think I just had my first real maternal instinct."

We burst into laughter. Me - the person who has said many, many times that I'm going to make the best damn aunt EVER - was just ready to kill a fictional character for potentially harming a fictional little girl on a fictional television show.

Ack.

Le suck.

What's the best way for a writerly type to piss herself off?



Right smack on the tip of my middle finger. A piece of glass as I cleaned my room. Slice! Ow! Dammit!

Aurgh.

The Name Game

I didn't expect to get a new nickname at at nearly the quarter-century mark.

I've always been pretty traditional, where the nickname is concerned. When I was younger, the formal first name was put on the shelf, brought out and dusted off only for report cards, graduation and those times I got caught by my parents doing something I shouldn't have. The formal name was pretty, to be sure, but certainly more appropriate for a dead queen across the ocean than the young, spunky girl who preferred the nickname her mother gave her as a baby.

As I grew older, I started practicing with the full name. Seeing how it felt, how to balance the regal sound of it with the fact that I was still pretty young, certainly still spunky. I had to grow into the name, and as I molded to it, I alternated between it and the nickname. It almost felt as accepting the name meant I had to become - gasp! - mature.

Now I have no problem being known as the formal name and, to be honest, really enjoy it. People stop for a moment after introductions and comment on the fact that it's old-fashioned, but lovely. I chuckle as people let the name roll off their tongues with an extra flourish on the end. It prompts people to speak in a British accent - and I'm always a fan of that. And I've only met a handful of people who share the name with me - so I still feel that it's distinctive. There aren't too many me's running around.

I've often thanked my parents for going with this name, instead of Jennifer (as they'd originally planned to do).

But over the last couple of weeks, the new nickname has been popping up with increasing frequency. Nothing too outlandish, but a long name reduced to three letters. A nickname used sporadically by Beth over the past year and a half, but never before embraced by a group of people and never used on a regular basis.

It fits me now. It's a little bolder, a little sharper, a little more to the point. Someone who rocks the teal (although technically, it's considered ivy) eyeliner with only one second thought. I've never had a monosyllabic nickname before, and as I see references to it, I almost have to pause for a second and realize, "Hey, that's me!"

But I'm getting my kicks out of it. And there's always something pleasing when other people come up with a nickname for you. Because they've taken the time to come up with something that suits who you are - that being someone they care enough about to bestow upon you a name.

[/dork]

This just in...

October is going to be ridiculous. There's already Ryan Montbleau goodness, rumors of Matty Nay enjoyment, and then Jason goes and announces his fall tour...

10/06 Spectrum, Montreal, Quebec with Carbon Leaf and Raul Midon On Sale August 20th

10/09 Orpheum Theatre, Boston, MA with Carbon Leaf and Raul Midon On Sale August 20th

10/11 University of New Hampshire, Durham, NH with Carbon Leaf and Raul Midon On Sale September 12th

(Side note: Have you listened to Raul Midon? I hope you have. He is amazing. Ridiculously so. Please check him out.)

Hmm. And those are the ones not involving a crazy roadtrip. There are also two NYC shows.

Hmm...

Mind the lessons in your dreams.

Beth took in the sight of my flushed cheeks and irrepressible grin and shook her head with a laugh.

"You're always so optimistic, idealistic," she said as she sipped from her iced espresso-based beverage. "You're like the little kid specifically told not to touch the stove. You just have to reach over and try anyway."

I snickered, but had to give her credit. There's a reason why she's a best friend - she knows me better than I know myself.

I'd rather get burned than wonder; I'd rather know than not know.

Not knowing sucks.
--------------
I hadn't expected last night's trip through photographic memory lane to carry over into sleep. Yet I found myself back at college, walking through the warm, early May night.

The field was taken over by revelers moving from party to party.

As groups stopped to catch up or say goodbye, it seemed the rest of the partygoers realized the best way to see everyone was to move the party outside. The grassy space separating houses from the rest of campus was quickly teeming with people hugging and sipping from beer bottles. Light spilled out onto the grass from open townhouse doors; music from various parties mixed together in the night air to form a indistinguishable soundtrack for goodbyes.

I'd found him while I said goodbye to other friends, and we began to walk to his house so he could mix me a drink. As we walked, chatted and tried to ignore the fact that it was likely the last time I'd see him, he draped an arm over my shoulders and leaned his head on top of mine.

"You know, we should have gone out." I forced myself to keep walking without hesitation.

"What?"

"We should have gone out." He said it simply, as if it was as commonly known as the fact that he was graduating in a week. Granted, I knew it to be the case, but I'd never had any idea that he'd thought so as well.

I tried to play it off casually. He had a girlfriend; I was among the first groups to congratulate him after learning that she'd accepted his proposal.

"Yeah, I know." He gave my shoulder a squeeze.

I'd never even hinted at the fact that I'd had a crush on him - I knew his girlfriend; I liked his girlfriend. Besides, he had taken me under his wing during my first weeks of college as his little sister; and that he was one who preferred to tell you you were cool than that he cared about you made it easy to avoid any potential awkwardness.

We should have gone out. Who knows if we would have, had either of us opened our mouths to say something.

We each thought about the statement for a second, chuckled and carried on the conversation it interrupted. Nothing to be done about it now.

As the night drew to a close, I hugged him and forced myself not to cry. I promised to make the trip back to campus for graduation and really say goodbye then. I didn't know if I'd see him in the crush after graduation, but it seemed easier for us both to at least feign that we'd see each other.

He hugged me tight and quickly kissed the top of my head. "See you next week. Be safe," he said. And I smiled, turned and walked away as quickly as I could while still looking casual.

Cursing myself the entire walk home.

P.S.

The nominees for the San Diego Music Awards have been announced and, if things are at all like they were last year, online voting will be held before the awards ceremony (scheduled for September 12).

Why should one care about a scene thousands of miles away from oneself? Among the nominees:

- Best Pop: Steve Poltz & the Rugburns
- Best Pop Record: Grevory Page, "Sleeping Dogs"
- Best Acoustic: Tristan Prettyman, Saba and Pete Thurston*

And Jason is nominated for Album of the Year and Song of the Year.

Check it. When voting starts, vote. Get your parents to vote. Get your siblings to vote. Get that next door neighbor who always smiles at you but has never said more than "hello" to vote.

SDMA's bring people together.

* Beth laughed at me as I scanned the nominee list last night.

B: What are you looking for?
V: Nothing...HE'S NOMINATED! YEAH!
B: Who?
V: Pete! That's WONDERFUL!

Congratulations to all the nominees, but particular, special Gold Star congratulations to Mr. Thurston, one of the nicest and most deserving people ever.

A Complimentary Weekend

At a certain point, one must accept that one is in the midst of a comedy of errors. The only question appropriate at such a time is, "OK, what next?"

After the debacle that was The Ticket Incident (which ended - for now - with assurances that compensation would be involved), our three main characters decided to climb out from beneath the boulders from which we were living and join the masses who have seen "Batman Begins." And we were going to do it in style. IMAX, baby.

Now, keep in mind that prior to this excursion, I'd never seen an IMAX film (with the exception of the IMAX-like experience at the Omni Theater at the MoS, but "The Great Barrier Reef" doesn't exactly pack the same wallop as a Hollywood film, now does it?). I have had plenty of chances to do so, but I intentionally held off. I live in IMAX-free lands, and I feared that the cinema-going experience after IMAX would pale in comparison.

But the thought of soaking in the sight of Christian Bale on an even bigger screen? I couldn't say no.

So we trapse off to Jordan's in Framingham. We get our ridiculously huge 3D glasses (might I recommend that you check out the Flickr) and settle into our luxurious seats. 3D previews come and go. Off with the glasses. Back into Gotham.

About an hour and twenty minutes into the film, as Christian is crouched in the rain -

White. Silence. House lights up.

All of Route 9 was hit by a power outage. We walk out the exit and wait to get back in. Yellow glasses piled into armchairs and couches serve as the moder, movie-going version of Hansel and Gretel's trail. Follow the glasses back to the flick, friends.

After waiting, returning and jostling for the seats everyone had prior to our unexpected intermission (and the fight that nearly broke out), we're told that they can't reboot the system. Comps or refunds available as you leave.

DID BATMAN TRIUMPH OVER EVIL?!?!?!

(And moreso, any more shirtless shots of Christian Bale?)

IMAX, shimax.*

So I was treated to a complimentary hour and a half of IMAX. After a complimentary concert of sorts.

Then my cell phone battery runs low, so I can't make any calls and, subsequently, can't retrieve my address book and call L. Thanks, technology, for making me look like a schmuck. I can do it well enough on my own...

And THEN, to top it all off, B and I find ourselves on the side of 89 in Vermont (thankfully, with cell phone reception), trying to figure out what the vibrant orange "Check Engine" light might be indicating. How many women does it take to inspect a car?

Two. Both on their phones with their fathers.

Of course. Figures.

"OK, what next?"

* I've got to admit, the experience prior to the outage? Awesome. I am now an IMAX fan.

Goodnight, Peter

He was my favorite of The Big Three and made me want to be better at what I wanted to do/do.

More than a note, less than a love letter

To the powers that be at MusicToday and the Corporate Mad Libs Pavilion:

Great concert Friday night, ladies and gentlemen.

Against a dazzling harbor sunset, a sold-out crowd assembled for the musical wizardry of Ben Lee, Ben Folds and Rufus Wainwright. I was among the masses, having rearranged my schedule, battled a cold and otherwise prepared to take in the sound of three of my favorite performers with two good friends.

Ben Lee kicked things off right, following up on his promise to provide "the best music you could ever file in to." The set was peppered with selections from "Awake Is the New Sleep," "Hey You. Yes You" and even older albums. There was even a Jonathan Richman mention prior to Ben jumping off the stage into the audience for "We're All In This Together."

(Jonathan Richman. Yes. Have you heard of him? No? Well, check him out. Venerable musician of whom Boston should be proud. Doesn't tend to play the Pavilion, however. Hmm. Perhaps you should work on that.)

Ben Folds sauntered onto the stage to a full-blown dorkfest musical vamp, using two bandmates to kick things up a notch. New songs and much-loved classics were presented to the adoring, standing and dancing crowd, and he attacked the piano with his customary blur of fingers and aggressive style, more crouching above the piano seat than ever really sitting on it. He took a pause to break things down a little with a little ditty he'd collaborated with Dre and Snoop Dogg on - only without Dre's knowledge. He brought enthusiastic, somewhat disbelieving screams from the audience as he kicked into "Bitches Ain't Shit," creating glorious melodic melancholy to lines such as "It's a real conversation for your ass." We helped out, too, singing "Bitches can't hang with the streets," when prompted. Over and over, as Ben looked out to us with a mock-melancholic gaze, singing softly, "All the children sing." "Bitches can't hang with the streets..." And he, of course, brought us to our school-choir bests with "Not the Same," finishing the song standing on his piano, leading us in a singalong that included two counterharmonies and a round. He's been making things trickier for his adoring audiences, and we were ready to rise to the challenge as he tapped his knee against the piano for a percussion beat and led both sides of the audience.

Rufus Wainwright had a tough act to follow up, but he strolled onto stage with his usual arrogant gusto and brought a dreamy smile to my face the moment his 40s-remiciscent voice soared through the Pavilion. With a band this time, he was able to bring a live sparkle to his complex album songs and was much more extroverted than his previous Pavilion appearance. Tossing his hair about like the diva he is, Rufus did not provide as all-out insane a followup to Folds as many would perhaps think necessary (and even I agree that Folds should have closed the show), but for those in the audience who love his music, it was heavenly.

How could it not be? He played "Hometown Waltz," "The Art Teacher," "Little Sister," "Vibrate," and "Hallelujah" PRECEDED BY "MEMPHIS SKYLINE."

But here, dear ladies and gentlemen, is the problem. My ticket was purchased within five minutes of the opening of the presale for this show. When the ticket order was processed, the seat numbers included 19, 20 and 42. Same row, same section, screwy numbers. We immediately called the Pavilion and spoke with a representative who assured me that it was the way the seats were ordered and that my friends and I would all be sitting together to enjoy the show.

ASSURED ME.

So why is it that, upon entering the Pavilion last night, my friends had to go sit on one side of the soundboards and I had to sit - by myself - on the other? Why is is that when I complained (politely) to the Pavilion ticket staff, I was told to complain to Ticketmaster? Why is it that when I called MusicToday to (not as politely) complain, I was told to talk to the Pavilion?

After a passionate call worthy of an Oscar (I wasn't furious, but they certainly thought I was), I was told that some form of compensation would be possible.

You think? Because I didn't travel from Vermont for a show - therefore missing another show I would have happily attended - to sit through Ben Lee by myself.

(I convinced the couple next to me to switch with my friends during the first set change, but frankly, I shouldn't have had to go through all of that.)

Great show, yes. But both groups of you, dear Ticket People and Pavilion People, aren't off the hook.

Most cordially,
V

Encore.

Colleague: Hey, how was the big concert?
V: Which one?

I just detailed the V North America Concert Tour, and was met with an expression alternating between being impressed and shocked that I'm still conscious.

Yep, that about sums it up.

The cold has been battled with medicine and cough drops (Insert product placement pitch for the wonder that is Robitussin's Sunny Raspberry Vitamin C Supplement Drops - LOVE THEM), and I'm giddy about hopping into the car and heading to Massachusetts for Ben Lee, Ben Folds and Rufus Wainwright.

I have no idea of what the weekend holds, but I'm looking forward to whatever comes my way.

Have a good weekend, dear readers.

Lovely love

I do it too, you know.

I have my various blogs that I love to read - and when I happen to miss out on checking the sites for a few days, I happily trapse back over to see what I've missed, how everyone's doing.

It's the nature of the blog - you at least feel as if you know someone that you really don't know at all.

Two of my favorites bloggers as of late have been the fabulous New York couple of Krissa and Stuart. Both brilliant writers, both hopelessly in love. And married to one another, so I suppose I ought to strike the hopeless. 'Cause there ain't nothin hopeless about loving someone who loves you back, right?

Anyway, I came across Krissa's latest and had to encourage you to check it. This, dear readers, is what I hope love does for me.

Whenever it happens to find me.

It's hard to be cynical and jaded when you read something like this. Which is why I am particularly grateful to find it today.

Safe travels to the lovebirds!
--------
In other, independent woman news, I am proving to be quite amusing with this cold. When I'm not busy dazing off into space, that is. My eyes are all bright and shiny (thanks, watery eyes), my cheeks are nice and rosy (thanks, feeling flushed!) and my lips more times than not appear pursed into a glossy little bow (thanks constant feeling that I'm about to sneeze!).

Who knew it would take a cold to make me look like a freakin' china doll! What fun!

The added bonus is that I also have a husky little voice going on. So consider me a phone sex hotline-voiced china doll.

I don't think it gets any hotter than this, friends. If you've got the number, you'd have a riot calling my digits tonight.

Who knows? I might be so loopy on my medicine (need more...) that you might just convince me to talk dirty. Ha. The fun never stops on Medication Lane.

O Canada

(per usual, click on the photos to go to the rest)

We sat in a coffeeshop, sipping caramel caffe lattes. I'd been humbled by the barista who prepared our drinks - her ability to slip from English to French and back again made my high school German seem pretty damn inadequate in life.

A sex shop was across the street, next to a seemingly high-class clothing store. People walked by in Burlington-appropriate garb, followed closely by designer-clad women and Euro-chic (ahem) men. There seemed no rhyme or reason to who wore what, who spoke which language, who stopped in to pick up a coffee or not.

It felt as if home was a lot farther away than the car ride (less than two hours - hurrah!) indicated. It felt as if I hadn't already worked that day, it felt as if I wasn't seeing Coldplay that evening, and it felt as if we weren't due back to our normal lives the next day.

And the caramel caffe latte was pretty damn good.

I don't do big shows. I'm more of a club and bar venue kind of girl. The Orpheum is a large show for me; FleetBoston/Bank of America Pavilion is really big for me.* I'm used to and gravitate toward the shows where one could be spotted dancing or singing along. I'm a big proponent for immediately feeling the connection between those at an event.

I like to know that the person performing before me could, in theory, be acutely aware of the fact that I'm there.

So you take a girl with that kind of mentality and place her on the floor of the Centre Bell in Montreal last night. For not a large show, not a really big show, but One of the Most Highly Anticipated Epic-Proportioned Rock Shows of the Summer. Coldplay's Twisted Logic Tour. Surrounded by probably 18,000 screaming fans.

Hmm.

Added to this is the fact that the heroine of the tale still somehow regards Coldplay as the little British quartet that put out the sensitive little album that connected with her early in her college career. Sure, she knows they're popular; she thinks "A Rush of Blood To the Head" is one of the best albums put out by anyone in recent memory. But they don't strike her as the Aspiring Greatest Rock Band Around. I think of "Yellow" Coldplay - Chris walking on the beach. I don't think of "Clocks" Coldplay - Chris looking like a rock god in front of blue shards of light.

But then the opening act (finally, mercifully) leaves the stage, the crowd starts grooving to piped-in Beck and old Britpop tunes, the lights dim and the countdown comes up on the screen behind the stage. And I realize I'm holding my breath, watching the numbers count down to zero, the band is taking the stage and holy shit this is a rock show and I'm so glad we made the trip to Montreal for this.

And then I take a breath as the percussion tears through the stadium and the screen creates the sense of watching an iPod commercial come to life.

We lucked out, I know. Thanks to the fact that Coldplay's lottery system is actually fair and fan-friendly, it was surprisingly easy to get what turned out to be incredible seats. The crowd gathered for the show was cooperative, energetic and so damn happy to be there. The band visibly soaked in that energy and threw it back at us tenfold.

But it was just so much fun to be able to jump up and down, clap, scream, sing along and dance to a crazy huge rock show. No need to worry about anything other than the way the music hits you, the dazzling lights, and keeping in time with the beat as the audience clapped to an ever-faster outro to "Clocks" that left hands stinging, arms tired. To know you look like a dork because you squeal as the band starts playing "Yellow," but it's one of those songs that became overplayed for a reason, dammit, and you've just loved those opening chords for so damn long and you're going to sing along.

Square One
Politik
Yellow ("Fuck it, arret, arret!" "Let's rewind the last five minutes. This is a song called "Yellow.")
God Put a Smile Upon Your Face
Speed of Sound
Low
Hardest Part
Everything's Not Lost ("If you've fucked up "Yellow" and the audience isn't cross, everything's not lost")
White Shadows
The Scientist
Til Kingdom Come
Don't Panic
Clocks
Talk
----
Swallowed In The Sea
In My Place (Chris appears in the empty upper seats near the stage, lounging in the seat, wearing a Canadians jersey, to wrap up the song)
Fix You

It required a sense of giving something up, leaving something behind at the Centre Bell as we left. Much as I walked out with ringing ears, a hoarse voice and exclamations of "That was fucking incredible," I had to realize that it's not quite the same band who penned the song Patterson sang to me on my 21st birthday as we all sat on the front porch (I told you I've loved "Yellow" for eons). It's certainly not the band that played River Rave in 2001**.

It's one of those Epicly Huge Rock Bands.

And know what? That's cool with me.

But finally, I ask this: do customs agents think you're being cheeky when you reply to a question of "Did you purchase anything while in Canada" with, "Well, I bought a coffee, actually." I was just being honest...
--------
In other news. My head feels as if it is filled with cotton balls. The rest of me? Completely fine. But this is an epic head cold and it's pissing me off.

But it didn't stop me from going to Montreal and it sure as hell will not stop me from Boston tomorrow.

* That said, I do acknowledge that I have attended/are attending a rash of large/big/epic shows. Looking at tickets with Dave Matthews Band, Coldplay, Ben/Ben/Rufus, Tori and the mother of all, U2, written on them has messed with my head. This is not normal V activity.

** I was head over heels for "Parachutes" pretty early on, and I was beside myself with giddiness at the 2001 River Rave because Coldplay was performing:

5.28.01
...
- coldplay: i had been waiting, WAITING to see coldplay forever. unfortunately, there were three factors playing against coldplay. 1) outdoor venue 2) large crowd 3) no one knew who the hell they were. i need to see coldplay at a small venue such as paradise. i walked out of their set after i heard "yellow". i never thought that would be possible.

Coldplay was followed up at that show by Dropkick Murphys. You do the math.