Still in it.

Early mornings are usually pretty quiet in this downtown, and it makes those walking the cobblestones and bricks more inclined to converse with strangers as they walk by. It feels as if autumn proves all the more condusive to conversation. Everyone has the same things on their minds.

Coffee. Something warm. Pretty leaves. Bundle up. Rosy cheeks.

As I made my way up the street for my coffee and conversation, my eyes lit up upon seing Red Sox caps above bleary-eyed faces.

Fourth only to the ALCS comeback, the championship and the victory parade, baseball conversation on Church Street was my favorite part of fall ball last year.

From October 2004:
i immediately walked into a number of walk-bys greetings and smiles from my boston bretheren. it was a huge surprise to me, as i'd just walked the same street minutes before and seen only a smattering of red sox gear. on my post-purchase travels, i've graciously received compliments on the hat and remarks of "can't wait for tonight!" after buying my hot caffeinated bevarage, i had the door to the coffeeshop held open for me by a charming fellow wearing a boston hat of his own. he had held the door for the older woman leaving before me and remained at the doorman perch for longer than most would consider necessary, letting me pass through the doorway unencumbered. he smiled as i said thank you, replying that he wouldn't hold the door for a yankees fan.

I couldn't fall asleep last night, after the jumping, shouting and cheering at the televised game. When I woke, I felt exhausted. Yet jubilant.

We're not dead yet.

We're nearing the post-season, uncertain about whether our name will be inscribed on one of the few invitations to the party. It's back to the Boston-New York rivalry, a little early this year, but just as desperate. A playoff within the regular season, for all intensive purposes - as do or die as the ALCS last year, in many minds.

Boston fans roll their eyes upon seeing the NY cap bobbing down the streets, and we grin at those who wear the same blue and red as we do. "How about that game last night?" "Ortiz is the man!" "Hell of a weekend coming up, huh?" "Hey, good luck this weekend."

We wish each other luck. I've had three people wish me luck for Sunday. I'm sitting in the upper bleachers, near the back of the park. The luck is necessary, but in a spot far away from where I will be sitting. Yet I wish the luck right back. Good luck to you too, man.

As I stood in line, waiting to pay for my latte, I saw the straight brim of the barista's Boston hat. I decided to embrace the time of year.

"What did you think of the game last night?"

"Oh man," he said. "I was ready to give up, but loved the outcome. It was painful, most of it, wasn't it?"

We chatted about how we watched or listened as he rang me up and handed me my change. As I prepared to turn away, I looked back and smiled.

"Good luck this weekend."

He grinned and rolled his eyes up toward the brim. "I'll need it. You too."

Where men are from

If my memory serves me correctly, Mars should be visible about this time of year. Which means I wasn't crazy for being startled at the sight of an incredibly bright, amber pinpoint of light in the sky as I stared up.

Or there's another satellite spying on me. Whatever works.

I decided to borrow and adapt the iPod meme I've seen on several other spaces as of late and see what my song selection has to say to me. Since I am iPod-less, I'm going with my collection of songs on my computer's Media Player - shuffled of course. Let's see what they have to say in response to my inquiries...

1. What do you think of me, Music Player?
The Honorary Title, Dilute
(Distance dilutes and rewrites and rewrites. Hmm. You might be onto something here, MP. That's kind of my cynical credo, isn't it?)

2. Will I have a happy life?
Megan Slankard, Lose Me
(I would certainly consider my pen leaking poetry to be a good thing...although the defective and insomniatic nature of the lyrics make me feel a little too close an inferred kinship to Ms. Plath...)

3. What do my friends really think of me?
Ben Folds, Still Fighting It
(Great. I've grown bitter as I've grown older. Thanks, friends. Love you too.)

4. What does my (V. edit - imaginary) S.O. think of me?
Amos Lee, Keep It Loose, Keep It Tight
(I'm in love with the world. I'm liking this...not to mention the easy, natural flow of the music. This is how love should sound. Warm, smooth, but saucy...)

5. Do people secretly lust after me?
Heather Nova, We Can Work It Out
(Um...life is very short, and there's no time for fussing and fighting over me, my friends.)

6. How can I make myself happy?
Averi, Flutter (live)
(HAHAHA. I need to walk across Storrow to the water and watch Cambridge wipe the sleep from its eyes. This implies living in Boston...Also applicable: I can make myself happy by remembering the words to the things that I write. Or: I need not call phone numbers that I possess.)

7. What should I do with my life?
Tristan Prettyman, Anything At All
(Always be true to myself seems to be the easiest theme to draw from this...although the process of letting go also comes to mind.)

8. Why must life be so full of pain?
Matt Nathanson, What You Need
(BECAUSE THE PURSUIT OF LOVE SUCKS AND RUINS EVERYTHING.)

9. How can I maximize my pleasure during sex?
John Butler Trio, Treat Yo Mama
(It's all in the attitude, baby. Or: do what you can to better mankind and you'll be rewarded? Um...)

10. Can you give me some advice?
Averi, For Better or Worse
(I officially dislike this meme. Heh. OK, here goes. Don't dwell on the past. Remember the difference a few years can make.)

11. What do you think happiness is?
Jason Mraz, Land Down Under
(I knew I needed to go to Australia one of these days.)

12. Do you have any advice to give over the next few hours/days?
Ben Taylor Band, A Good Day to Be Alive
(This must mean the Sox are going to the postseason after this weekend! Thanks, Music Player!)

13. Will I die happy?
Ryan Montbleau Band feat. Julian Velard, Use Me
(Awwwwwww yeah. Well I'm gonna spread the news, that if it feels this good getting used by you, oh you just keep on usin' me until you use me up. And I die. Happy.)

You knew I wouldn't stay away.

About a week ago, I sat at the corner of a long bar in New Hampshire, sipping a pint of beer I'd been led to believe was known as The Fisher Cat. After an attempt at confirming the name from a friend - and the ensuing cat-like gesturing that followed - I was told by the bartender that I had to move my hand like a cat's paw cutting through the air each time I ordered the drink.

Of course I obliged. Several times. It added to the surreal nature of ordering beer at a bar. It was all pretty new to my vodka cran-loving self.

So as I sipped the brew, marveling in my determination to develop a taste for malt and whatever else goes into the mix, a gentleman approached and introduced himself to me.

I spared a scene - and an unpleasent Fisher Cat incident - by not spitting out my beer. I was floored - and delighted - to discover that this was P Squared.

We chatted about the Red Sox, about Vermont and Massachusetts and numerous other things that came to mind, when he remarked on his disappointment about the cessation of this little space. It had become part of his routine, he said, and he'd enjoyed being able to read my little rambles.

I also felt disappointment - in that I had to remark about my move to another space. I suddenly wished I hadn't made the move.

The writer's block, the self-editing, the label I had affixed to the blog - that being "I Can't Write What I Want Here" - it made it feel as if I needed a new space in order to actually write my mind.

Well, screw that.

I should be able to write anywhere, and Revelry is my turf. I'm not giving that up. I like my readers - pretty quiet as you are, I know you're there - I like the URL, and I like having my history here.

So I'm tweaking things a bit, giving myself a new redesign, and then Revelry will be up and back. A little different than before, but in a good way.

But here's the deal. There are some ground rules.

I don't write about work. I don't write about what I do, where I do it and how I do it.

I write about what's on my mind. When it comes to talking about other people, I'll make reference without specificially identifying. First names might be used, or perhaps initials if I deem it appropriate. But if it's a performance I'm referencing, that's a different story.

If you don't like like what I'm writing, it's simple. Don't read it. I'm not going to feel guilty or embarrassed about what I have to say.

If you do like what I'm reading, COMMENT. Leave a note. Let me know who you are. I'd like to be able to start a dialogue at times, and I figure that I'm sharing a great deal with you guys, so I'm not being too out of line by asking for a "Hi" every once in awhile in return. Even better would be an anecodte or observation.

That said, observations and advice are two completely different things. Observations? Good. Advice? Uh-uh.

And, finally, enjoy it. I like writing, and I wound up being able to enjoy Fisher Cat (meow) and conversation with someone who felt like a friend because of it. A completely unexpected twist to a Friday night made my evening and helped me out. I'd like to see more of the same.

And, by the way, it turned out that the beer wasn't called the Fisher Cat afterall. But I'll just prefer to think of it that way.

An Open Letter to the U.S. Senate

Dear Sirs and Madams,

I cannot cook.

Seriously. Despite efforts by friends, family and a flatmate who should be thoroughly exasperated by now, I have not demonstrated an ability to prepare on my own anything other than a small assortment of meals. I cannot even make rice. It turns out soupy.

Therefore, I am left questioning my role in society, particularly as the nominee for Chief Justice of the Supreme Court has stated that woman's primary function in America should be that of the housemaker. The purported "gender gap" has left me, I fear, somewhere in between that which I should be - capable of culinary excellence and an immaculate home for my husband - and that which I have been aspiring - a successful professional with a long-term, out-of-home career.

Adding insult to injury, I don't even have a husband. I am sure John Roberts would be appalled, aghast at the fact that I am an abnormality. I hang my head in shame as I write this.

You are preparing to vote on whether to appoint Judge Roberts to the highest seat in the highest court in the United States. Media reports predict a relatively easy appointment for the nominee.

I wonder what will come of myself - and others in a similar state - after Roberts assumes his position on the Court. Will we be scrutinized, held to a standard separate from our male counterparts, simply because we possess ovaries and, thus, lack the ability and intellect to hold the positions we now hold? Will we be denied our right to decide whether to procreate - despite the possibility that we could bring a lifeform into the world without the proper economic support or, I daresay, emotional capability to raise that child?

Will those who fail to find a compatible mate in college - which will therefore become known as Mating School for the "fairer" gender - be left to languish in apartments? Will our futures dim upon Graduation Day?

Or will Mrs. Supreme Court Justice-To-Be Roberts personally visit my home and teach me to cook so I can land a husband and fulfill my half of the American Dream?

As always, I am looking to you for answers,
Victoria

A bottle of red

Song: Love, Love, Love - Tristan Prettyman

Diner coffee. Quixotically strong and bland at the same time, it's the only kind to prompt me to stir in creamer and sugar. The squat white mug looks just like the one from last week, served to me in another diner, another place, a couple of states away. It's contents serve the same purpose - wake me up, get me moving.

I blow on the steaming surface and grin across the booth's table. "No, no, no. It's Sunday brunch. This is dish time. Spill it."

Michelle nods from her place next to me, eating some of the whipped cream atop her hot chocolate. She also looks expectantly at John, who beams his best Cheshire cat grin. "You're holding out on us."

We're catching up on our weekends before delving into our various adventures over the last several months. I can't recall the last time the three of us have been in the same place, but we've relayed snippets in the duration, whenever two of the three are around, we chat about or ask about the third.

Each of us drank more than we probably should have the evening before; John at a club eager to serve cocktails, Michelle and I as two-thirds of a trifecta that polished off a bottle of red, a bottle of white and a blush. We take turns confessing to being ridiculous, not knowing why we don't have headaches. We're keeping our fingers crossed that the pain stays away - our various selections of eggs, toast or pancakes will hopefully help our causes.

***

I began sipping the wine around 6:30 Saturday evening, as I realized that the wine-ing was as key to the cooking as it was to the dining. I wasn't nearly as worried about screwing up a meal with a glass of wine on a counter across the kitchen.

The blush was sweet and pleasant as pots of water boiled, sauces simmered and bread baked in the oven. I pulled a floret of broccoli from the wok and popped it into my mouth. Hot but still crisp, more lemon than garlic. Perfect. Done.

The pasta would be finished in a moment or two, and the bread was warm and crusty. I poured olive oil onto a plate and added garlic. The spinach and artichoke dip Michelle had made before leaving to pick up KJ was perfect, and the salad only needed my bright pink plastic tongs.

Table set, a vase of bright flowers in the center. Michelle had brought them home from the last-minute grocery run, along with the extra-virgin olive oil and the lemon I decided I needed. For garnish. If I was cooking, I was going all out - and if the meal didn't taste right, at least it would look lovely.

A little more wine. Two of my close friends, women who impress and astound me, were coming over for my house, and I was giving my first dinner party. I was set to photograph the event so we could send images to the fourth, currently missing member of our group.

It appeared that blind confidence had prevented me from screwing up the meal, and I took care of the last minute accents and tasks that needed my attention. I was focusing on the colors, the smells, the texture of the pasta and the giddiness that comes with taking an assortment of items and pulling them together into a single result.

I heard a car pull into the driveway, then footsteps and voices coming up the stairs to the back porch. As the girls walked in, I grinned and walked toward them. "Velcome! Velcome! Vee hope you are prepared for zee dinner, come eeeen, come eeen! Some vine, yezzz?"

***

We laugh as John recounts the end of his night. "And did you have a good night?" he asks.

Indeed, dear friend. A good night was had by all.

As You Are

I'm sitting in a chair at a table among tables, sipping a too-strong vodka and cranberry. It's bringing a grimace to my face each time I take a sip, but I'm not going to waste the alcohol and take a chance with something that will be equally ill-prepared.

A friend sits to my left, taking log drags off a Camel Light as she tries to nurse her own equally toxic vodka cocktail. An acquaintance joined a table behind me a few songs ago, and I've made a mental note to say hello at the next pause in the show.

The rest of the assembly appears divided between those who adore you and others who have never before heard your name. One of the latter came to realize I'm not there for the drinks, as well as the fact that I'm not keen on tuning out the music long enough to hear him discuss the failure of his third, latest and, he says, final marriage.

The former group has also cast glances at my table since we arrived. I'm a stranger among them, not a regular and not recognizable, yet I know the words. I note that they wonder what I say when I lean across the table to talk to my friend, laughing over some perceived private joke as I cast my eyes quickly at the stage. The looks sent our way are laced with curiosity and suspicion; I am rather enjoying the intrigue.

You stand in your place beneath the spotlight, seemingly oblivious to this display of stares, sloshing drinks and cigarette smoke. You have retreated to some place in the recesses of your mind, eyes closed as you strum out serenades to mystery women you've loved and lost. Despite the inherent melancholy in each song, you remain hopeful, with bits of melody that hint at optimism and your endearingly cynicism-tinged earnestness.

We've all been at the places you travel to in the music. You get it. You know. You care. You've been scarred, you know you're flawed, but you're ready to work on them. But you're appropriately frightened at the prospect.

Armed with a microphone and a songbook of revised and polished reflections on life, you and your contemporaries deliver the words we all hope and dream to hear men say. You tell us that you cried when you turned your backs to us and walked away, you explain that you thought things would work out better, too. You confide that your personal demons were responsible for your decision to not call, and you tell us that you love more than you let us know.

We sit at these tables, waiting to hear the particular lines that sums up how we feel about the promise of love. We mouth along bitter cries and laugh when you let down the wall just enough to show that you also possess the sense of humor that only adds to your appeal.

I know you - all of you - worry that people will forget that you're human.

But as you stand before this crowd, of which I happen to be a member on this particular night, I sip my drink, scowl at the straw and realize that I worry that you forget.

Get real.

I like to think you know I'm aware of your human condition. I know only a fraction of your weaknesses, and I, whether fair of me or not, can't help but demand that you work on them as much as anyone else does. You're supposed to learn from the mistakes, not harvest them.

You're a guy. Who happens to perform. I don't believe that everything should be relegated to material for the next broken song.

I take another sip and draw up air and water. I'm out of cocktail. You're not finished with your set.

The waitress comes over to see if I want another. Why not?

It'll be too strong. But, then again, sometimes I think that so am I.

So Long, Skipper

Women talk about just about anything under the sky.

Men. Lack of men. Their bodies. Politics. Dreams. Fears. Food. Whatever can fit into The Three Categories - Past, Present, Future.

But we never talk about playing with dolls as little girls.

So I have no idea of knowing if this is a Me Thing or an Everywoman Thing, but my attempts at creating stories for my Barbies, Skippers and Whitneys always wound up turning into stories about me. Skipper might have walked into the pizza parlor to meet up with Joe McIntyre, but Vickie took over just as Joe Doll started singing "Please Don't Go Girl." And it was always Vickie who wound up in a rigid plastic embrace.

It might have looked like Skipper, but oh no. I knew what was really going on.

I think it's continued over the years. I live my life with what seems to be a completely different take on me than everyone else.

I don't look like the me in my head.

B let me raid her digital camera files today, so I could update the photos on my myspace account. I wanted to do it because I easily fall prey to the narcissistic nature of myspace; but also because The Boy now has a profile. I wanted him to see how dazzling I can be. Wait. Scratch that. How dazzling I am, dammit.

(Hey, I'm going with complete honesty on here. Go with it. This is my logic.)

I hated every image of myself that I found. B's good with a camera, don't get me wrong, but I just didn't look right. Big nose here. Weird smile there. I looked puffy in that one, like a ghost in the next. Strange. Bizarre - UGH! What? That's not me!

"Are you adding them?" B asked as I stared at my computer screen.

"Um, I'll add them later," I replied.

I've got to settle this difference in perceptions - my take and life's take on me. After that is accomplished, I'll turn to being happy with what reality shows me. Flaws and all.

I spend so much time worrying about what others think of me, how they view me, partly becasue I don't want to have to take an actual, honest look in the mirror and take stock in what I am. Who I am. I've let myself cling to the idea of myself as, for all intensive albeit embarrassing purposes, Skipper as a Grown Up.

It's time I started to get to know Victoria.

1991.

According to the blogspot counting gods, this is Post No. 1991.

It's also, at least for awhile, my last post on here. I've set up a new space, blank and waiting to be filled with my rambles and mishaps and whatever comes along.

It'll be nice to be able to really write what I'm thinking for a change. Call me a coward all you want, but I've realized that I've been self-editing and imagining readers looking for me to slip up and speak about things I probably shouldn't address. At least not here. When search engines yield interesting results and people wind up stumbling across things not originally intended.

I've been cryptic or flat out exclusionary in my writing for months now, and it's just gotten too frustrating to continue that way.

I'm a blogger. I write about my life fully aware of the fact that others can read it and infer what they will. It's become more comfortable to me than my notebooks, actually.

But I need a little vacation from it. Or, rather, a vacation from it here.

If you really want to know what goes on through this head of mine, drop me a comment and include an email address. Introduce yourself if you haven't already - and most of you haven't, might I add (haha, luuuuuuurkers). I've been wondering who you are. Introduce yourself and I'll keep you posted on what's up with me.

When I switched over from madder rain to Revelry - almost four and a half years ago, I was psyched to have a blank page awaiting me.

I'm feeling the same way now.

Thanks for reading, hope to chat with you soon.

X's and O's from a V.

I don't have to be happy all the time.

I can sit here in my apartment, listening to my flatmates' shoes crunch through the gravel driveway as they embark on a walk. I did not feel inclined to go; they did not ask me, anyway.

I think I'm going to make some tea and curl up in my favorite blue velvety armchair in the sunroom. I'll write until the light drifts away, then I'll turn on the lamp.

And just write and write and write. Block out everyone else except those whose figures I intend to pull into my writing. It's an invitation-only event to be included in my rambles tonight, you see.

And I'm going to be strict about the guest list.

L quoted a SK song earlier today, and I was intrigued by the snippets of lyrics I heard. I tracked it down on my own and think it fits today. So, with a humble apology from lifting it from her own thoughts:

I could say "fare thee well" and pass it off like I don't care
Or we could meet up in St. Louis,
if both of us should happen to be there
I'm like a clown that isn't funny,
as I dance across your door
You're on the verge of something big,
I'm on the verge of something more.
- "I Know Why"

Dammit.

It's not a guy that is making me want to cry, thank you.

It is the fact that I have nothing I can say to a guy that made me upset - and that I can't write about being upset without sounding like a pathetic girl - that is making my eyes sting a bit.

I sat at the Paradise Lounge last night, surrounded by friends brought unexpectedly together by the small world nature of the scene. I was taking in oustanding performances by Jarrod Gorbel, Josh Radin, Cary Brothers and Tom McRae. I was drinking Red Stripe, for Christ's sake.

And yet a particular song made me start thinking about someone who didn't deem it important to return a phone call I'd left with nervousness in the pit of my stomach.

(I'm not even going to get into the haughty form letter response component of my weekend.)

Thoughts of an idiot managed to invade the Hotel Cafe Tour performance I'd been looking forward to for weeks. Granted, they were fleeting. But they were there.

I'm done.

A riddle, if you will

What do the following musicians have in common?

Alicia Keys, Averi, Barenaked Laides, Black Eyed Peas, Blondie, Ciara, Chingy, Dashboard Confessional, G Love & Special Sauce, Hawthorne Heights, John Mayer, Julie Roberts, Matt Nathanson, Mirah, No Doubt, Phil Collins, Prince and Raffi.

Beyond the fact that they are all under consideration for the concept compilation CD I am going to create for tomorrow's drive to Massachusetts.

If you can figure out the link between now and Monday, I will send you a copy of the mix.

SK & the Sixers/Carbon Leaf tonight. Hotel Cafe tomorrow. A lot of driving. Good times.

Happiness.

I hate to be horribly cliched and quote one of Kerouac's most oft-cited snippets, but sometimes there's nothing else that sums it up quite right.

the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace things, but burn like fabulous roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue center light pop and everybody goes "AWWW!"

I am a contradiction in terms.

My biggest fault is that I possess a ridiculous amount of self-doubt; I often feel that there's little I'm going to be able to bring to a conversation led by someone clearly brilliant/witty/poised. Yet at the same time, they are the people above all others with whom I hope to interact.

My eyes light up during the first interactions with someone who possesses those qualities, because I realize I'm going to have to work my ass off to keep up. To prove myself, if you will.

Biting wit and brilliance do not come naturally to me. I can be dippy, I can possess a glaring lack of common sense. I often think of things after the fact that would have been fantastic to say in a conversation, quips that never see the light of day because my mind sometimes just doesn't work quickly enough to keep up.

But I still think of them and I store them for next time. See, much as I doubt myself, I love a challenge.

It is, in many respects, why I wind up keeping quiet much of the time. The people who know me well love me, regardless of the fact that they all know I'm an idiot. And I'm comfortable with that. So an idiot I am - although I like to think I'm more of an idiot savant.

The brightest (insert "coolest" if you think it applicable) person I've ever met kept me on my toes the entire damn time I was in his presence. It was a fascinating experience to me, and I trilled silently to myself when it appeared that what I had to say about things mattered to him. We were rivals, technically, each vying for the top prize in a competition. But we bypassed the heated competition aspect of things and instead focused on the intellectual stimulation such a competition could provide.

Well, when we weren't playfully bickering like little kids. Heh.

I never really thought of him as a rival until they announced the name of the competition's winner.

(For those inquisitive minds, he won and I was runner-up. Bastard.)

But even when away from the competition itself, I found myself striving to be interesting enough, bright enough, witty enough and knowledgable enough. And each time I did so, I discovered that he could keep up with me. Easily. And I'd like to think that I was able to do the same during his attempts at insight.

We've kept in touch sporadically, and during a instant messaged conversation a few months ago, he mentioned that he thought we should start a blog together, with commentary and observations about news, live, whatever.

We never did it - both of us were too busy and it fell through the cracks.

But I had a huge grin spread across my face for a good solid two days afterwards.

I recently received an e-mail from someone that instantly left me impressed and a little awed.

And I realized that this person was brilliant. That I definitely wanted to find out what makes her tick. I could learn from her.

And that I was going to have to work my ass off to keep up.

Tomorrow is the start to the Fall Concert Season - and I'm in the process of setting up a new space for the a&e/review/music blog I've been threatening to set up for ages now. With at least 12 shows within the next two months coming up, this is the perfect time to get cracking on the reviews and pieces I've been wanting to get back into for ages now.

I'll have more information about the new space shortly, and after it's set up, I would certainly invite/request/beseech you to give it at least a once-over. I'm psyched about it - it should be fun to do and I've missed doing something along these lines.

In other news...is there other news? Not particularly...except that I need a backrub.

That is all.

Updates.

Short sentences from a short temper. But at least it's information.

- I highly recommend checking out Intercept. California band. I like what I hear. Formerly known as Flathead, a band I've been hearing about for eons but hadn't had a chance to actually hear.

- Portions of five Averi songs were featured in the latest "Red Sox Rewind." Talk about a surprise, hearing almost half of "Drawn to Revolving Doors" while catching up on Sox news ("When You Gracefully Creep In," "Attention to Details," "Mouth Full of Sand," "Empty Pages" and "The Way We Go Out Tonight" were played). But I got to watch clips from Millar's two-homer effort (read: the one game I actually missed this season, dammit) and smile again at Sox wins while humming along with the songs. NESN managed to take two things I dig and bring 'em right together. Worked for me.

- The question posed to me numerous times today: "Catch the game last night?" Answer: "Of course I did. I'm surprised you didn't hear me cheering as soon as Ortiz made contact."

- I haven't been able to get "Stitched Up" out of my head the last two days.

- Finally saw the clip of Kanye West's anti-Bush rant. I applaud him for speaking from the heart - it was clear that he wasn't just trying to look cool with it; he was shaken and flying by the seat of his pants. Made Mike Myers look rather foolish and cold when he tried to stick to the script.

- I made banana bread last night. And yes, it is edible, thank you. Very tasty, actually. And I, er, THEY said I couldn't do anything but microwave. HA!

(Admittedly, I did have Beth in stitches as I brought my own special sense of style to it. A comedy of near-errors.)

- I'm just trying to get to Friday.

I'm a bit delayed, but well-intentioned.

I started and stopped posts about Katrina and its aftermath, but everything I wrote seemed terribly cliched. It's easy to write about the horrific devastation and how I hurt for those affected when I'm sitting in northern lands free of floodwater, with all of my friends and loved ones accounted for.

In fact, I'm not even aware of anyone I know having been remotely within harm's way.

So I haven't written, haven't commented beyond the "I'm in a funk because everything in the world looks like it's gone to shit" post from last week.

That said, I've been following the news. I've been figuring out how I am going to help, and I encourage you to do the same.

I've been amazed (albeit at the same time not surprised) to see how Americans have rallied to help those hit hardest. My one hope is that people remember that it's going to be difficult for people a week from now. A month from now. A year from now.

Let's help victims now and continue to help them as they begin the process of recovery.

American Red Cross
America's Second Harvest
North Shore Animal League
Oxfam America
Salvation Army

"It's like riding a bike."

I suddenly became more wary of trying things I hadn't done in a long time.

Perhaps inspired by the bicycle races whipping through the downtown today, perhaps prompted by the ever more absurd cost of gas, or perhaps because I finally realized I'm running out of time available to take advantage of it, I decided to dust off the old bike and take it for a short spin. Fill up the tires with air at the corner shop, cruise around a little bit before turning back in.

Oh my God.

I looked like I was drunk as I began. Swerve here, quick turn there - I suddenly felt too tall for a bicycle I'd purchased only two years ago. The cars passing me must have wondered what the hell my deal was as I kept putting my feet down on the ground and laughing at myself.

I made it to the store, filled up the tires and headed back, only slightly embarrassed that a car traveling behind me had to wait as I moved. I was going quickly enough - it's not my fault we're not allowed to bike on the sidewalks. Deal, brother car driver.

By the time I made it home (after a quick trip around the block to further acclimate myself), my legs were sore, my back felt strange and I remembered my adolescent fear of curbstones.

But it felt marvelous, all at the same time.

But that whole "riding a bike" analogy? Noooo siree. That doesn't work. 'Cause getting right back onto the bike to give it a ride?

It ain't that easy.
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In other news. I had traveled to a store to pick up a lock for my bike (see how it all comes together?) and was listening to the Red Sox game on the radio. As I pulled into the parking lot, I kept the radio on as I rolled up my windows. An older woman, almost certainly a grandmother, was loading purchases into the car next to me.

"Excuse me, what's the score?"

I was surprised. Pleasantly. Grandma follows her baseball! "I had just turned it on, and they hadn't announced the latest score. Last I knew, it was 3-0 Chicago."

She gave a smirk and I laughed. "I know, it's hurting me too."

The smirk got wider. "Oh no, that's not what that's for."

"Excuse me?" She stared to laugh as it dawned on me. "Please tell me you're a Chicago fan."

She let out a gleeful peal of laughter. "YAAAANKEEEES!"

I laughed. "OK, I'm going to walk away now." She grinned. "Good luck with the rest of the season and the playoffs."

"You too, dear."

The home stretch for the baseball season. Everyone hunkering in. The playful jabs among strangers who know only of each other's rival affiliations.

God, I love baseball in September.

Stream of consciousness

I was just planning on updating a random thread on a message board before going to sleep, but I wound up really liking how it came out, so I thought I'd add it here as well.

Thank you, Labor Day - sucks that summer's ending, but yay for a three-day weekend.

And yay for fairs. Yep, I said it. The questionable safety in temporary, spinning and flipping rides, the fried dough and the candy apples, the obnoxious clown you want to send into the dunk tank, the beer tents and karaoke, the promise of a prize with every play of the game.

One of the best places to people watch and see how the various walks of life come together to mingle and collectively vie for the extra ride tickets someone's trying to give away. That is, when you're not standing in line for five-ticket Freak Out ride.

The first glimpses of fall. Love it. And you'll find me welcoming it in from my spot near the maple tent.
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Today has just provided that picture-perfect day you want to freeze in time and go back to whenever you wish. The weather is warm enough, yet cool enough for comfort; your baseball team wins the afternoon game in style; you go running and feel as if you never want to stop because it feels incredible; you have time to get things accomplished, sit back and read a book on the sunporch, enjoy a homemade dinner with friends and still play around like a child at the fair; and you know you have an additional day to do whatever you want to do, particularly if what you want to do largely amounts to nothing of consequence in the end. Contentment stretches out before you for at least another 24 hours.

In the cards

Perhaps the tarot reader knew what she was talking about. I'll be in Boston on Saturday, taking in the Hotel Cafe Tour show afterall.

As to the rest of what she said, we'll just have to wait and see.

She says
I know your face
But something's strange
In your eyes

Your voice I know so well
Your words I don't
Recognise

And darkness creeps
Borne on cold win
Blows my footprints away

And I see myself
Turn into something else
Turn into someone else
For a while
And I know I'm right
Running into this night
Running another dream to the ground

The girl who falls down stairs
She calls my name
Through the air

She says I loved you once
I'd love you again
If you dare

So wipe the sleep from tiger eyes
And put this moment aside

And I see myself
Turn into something else
Turn into someone else
For a while
And I know I'm right
Running into this night
Running another dream to the ground

Needles buzz like
Neon light and
I am stained by
This town

And all my faith gone
All maps welcome
The stairs have twisted around

And I see myself
Turn into something else
Turn into someone else
For a while
And I know I'm right
Running into this night
Running another dream to the ground

Pull me out
Pull me out
Pull me out
- Tom McRae, "The Girl Who Falls Down Stairs"

...instead of knocking on my door...

I'm going to focus on this for a couple of minutes. Then I am going to resume my pre-game, get gussied up, blare Phil Collins' "Don't Lose My Number" and then hit the town. Yep.

B looked over at me as she read.

My eyebrows were raised.

"You don't think..."

I quickly hushed the thought. "No, I really don't think so."

It isn't, is it?

Can't be. Why would it be?

Nope.

So, if not, why did I feel badly as we walked down the street?

And, likewise, why did I feel a bit of indignation fire up within me? Because if it is...

Nah.

Related: a quote from "Candy Freak," the book Beth is reading. By Steve Almond.

Art is what happens when things don't work out, when you're licking your wounds. Art is, to a larger extent than people would like to think, a productive licking of the wounds.

MDFest 2k5

I'd been living a lie and I didn't even know it.

"Alright, we're going to do this once before we start. Because we've seen some pretty weak attempts over the years. And if you're not doing it right, we're going to stop, right in the middle of the song, point at you and laugh."

Glad they ran us through the steps. Because I'd been doing it wrong for years on end.

The Y was fine. As were the C and the A. But the M? I'd never done it correctly.

My mother burst into laughter as most of the people around her - myself included - adjusted to the new movement.

"So next time you're at your weddings, your bar mitzvahs, you'll do it right," the Contstruction Worker said as he stepped back into line.

Yes, last night I saw The Village People perform. And KC & the Sunshine Band.

Before Monday's Clay Aiken incident, I hadn't attended a concert at the fair since college. Sophomore year, I believe. The Goo Goo Dolls with Tonic opening (great show, for the record). But this year provided the opportunity to attend Laugh Out Loud performances to bring smiles to the faces of people I care about.

Monday. Clay Aiken. The Best Cousin Ever Show.
Friday. TVP and KC. Mother Daughter Fest 2k5. I brought my mom, B brought her mom, G somehow got suckered into attending, and we took in the sights and sounds from spots in the front row. Where the bass pulsed through the speakers so loudly that I felt it vibrating in my throat. Where my ears began to ring so loudly I honestly did have a hard time hearing well upon arriving home.

Good times? Actually, yes.

B and I laughed our way through the (surprisingly raunchy) sets, dancing and shaking the groove thangs our mamas gave us. The mamas, likewise, swayed back and forth, sang along and clapped their hands in time.

My mama does not dance. Seeing her moving about a bit was worth the price of admission. She was having fun, and it made me have that much better of a time.

As KC greeted the crowd, he commented on the fact that he had been peforming for 32 years. "For those who weren't around when we started, we were your mothers' NSYNC," he said. "So this is what Justin Timberlake is going to look like in 32 years."

Haha. Gotta love the fair.

And this is why friends rock

Myspace message. Ooh, goody.

To: V
From: [Friend]
Subject: No Subject

...HOBBES IS A STUPIDFACE THAT IS NOT WORTHY ENOUGH TO STEP ON THE SAME SIDEWALK AS YOU, LET ALONE BE GOOD ENOUGH EVER TO SMOOCH YOU!...

To: [Friend]
From: V
Subject: Re: No Subject

I just totally blogged that shit, yo...

Friends are tops on my list.

But cryptic nicknames come in at a close second.

Thank goodness I was in a church and using my phone would wreak havoc on proper ettiquette.

The reverend was bringing the service to a close, and the sobs that had echoed through the space had just begun to subside. Everyone present knew they'd get louder upon arriving at the cemetery.

It was time for the "love each other" moment and I was ready for it. But what I wasn't prepared for was such an impressive delivery of the message.

As the assembly nodded and hugged each other, I stared in surprise. And my first impulse was to reach for my cell phone and make a call.

It was important! These are things that need to be shared among one another! What if something happened and I didn't get a chance!

Seriously. I was ready to call.

But wait. Location. Church. Service in session.

Not so much.

And then I came to my senses as I walked to my car.

And this, boys and girls, is why we wait when we have impulses to do something foolish. Fortunately, these impulses pass.

And yet I still occasionally drool over the Lacoste display

When did my life become dominated by polo shirts?

I packed a change of clothes into my backpack last night, after tearing myself away from the much-anticipated (seriously) re-reading of my second favorite book of all time.

I flipped through the assortment of brightly colored shirts, the kakhi pants and the black dress pants I'd recently washed, folded and put away.

Every other shirt was a polo shirt. Bright green, short sleeves. Slightly brighter green, three-quarter sleeves. Dark green, long sleeves. Turquoise. Pink. Navy blue. Stripes. Pale pink.

Some work best with a knee-length linen skirt. Others with professional clothing. Still more with jeans (much like the one I'm wearing today). The last with shorts. Each has a distinctive purpose, a different way it fits.

But when the hell did polos take over my life? I wear other things, of course, but most fall into the similar this-works-for-work-and-play category. Which caused just as much alarm.

What happened to the well-worn concert t-shirts? The simple, long-sleeved shirts?

The yuppification of my life flashed before my eyes, and I wanted to rail against the polo-button-sewing machines.

I went to sleep instead. And, upon waking, contemplated what to wear during what would be a very, very long day.

Ah, a polo shirt and jeans would be cute. Let's go with that.

Aurgh.