In the off-chance that a civil war or other form of skirmish erupts in the middle of the night all around me, I can say with certainty that I will not be wise and duck my head, hoping against hopes that it all goes away shortly. Nor will I be brave and attempt to creep away undetected.

I will sit up suddenly, eyes wide and try to seek out the source of the noise. I know this because I awoke Monday morning to the sound of machine gun fire and occasional mortar explosion and reacted in just the manner I've described.

Thank you to my father, uncle and the creative team behind "The Great Raid," the DVD both were watching Monday with the volume seemingly cranked to 11. And thank you to my mother, who seemed shocked that my ability to sleep deeply kept me blissfully unconscious through several cinematic skirmishes and remarked that she "was sure you'd wake up during that first big explosion."

I'd fallen asleep on the couch late Christmas night, watching "Wag the Dog" to cap a relatively blissful, peaceful holiday. "White Christmas" viewing (for the first time no less - and I call myself a Bing Crosby fan?), laughter, a couple of travels and all. Peaceful.

As I sleepily (and angrily) huffed my way into the kitchen for coffee, I realized the holiday was decidedly over. Damn war movies.

But it was time. My brother remarked that the holiday weekend was the best ever, and I'd be inclined to agree with him. While holiday relaxation is never truly relaxed*, it was nice - a balance between running around to see loved ones not within the walls of Casa de Grandma and chill time.

At one point, my brother and I lounged alone in the living room, he working out lines on his electric bass, I sprawled on the floor, half-dozing, half-listening to the iPod sounds coming through the new speakers my parents gifted to me. I skipped ahead to "Thunder Road," and we both mouthed along the words, smiling as Springsteen belted out the chorus.

Then we went back into the other room and resumed catapulting** Swedish fish at people. Heh.

* Beth and I were discussing the nature of the holiday weekend last night, as we sprawled on couches, utterly exhausted. We decided that, while it's always nice to be able to sit and relax with family and friends, it's not your turf and it's really not your time. You've bequeathed yourself to family for several days and you wind up, of course, wrapping the guys' presents because they plead inability and making sure the older women in your family aren't going completely mad with the preparation of holiday meals and looking out for everyone else. Is it fun? At the end of the day, you realize it certainly is. But it can never truly be relaxing.

** I sincerely hope you've all seen "Monty Python and the Holy Grail." If you haven't, stop reading and go watch it now because you should have seen it years - nay, decades - ago. And if you have (thank goodness), think French castle. THAT catapult. My brother's favorite gift this year, hands down. Some may say small things for small minds, but I maintain that our fascination with the small piece demonstrates a creative, hands on focus on physics. Or something.

Somewhere in New York's subway system (where I inexplicably found myself with cell phone service), I receieved a phone call from a friend in which he relayed a phone number I was meant to call. A 217 number.

"It'll explain everything," he said as I expressed my utter confusion. Whether the confusion was over the number, the phone call or the fact that my phone was working will remain a question for the ages. "I'm super stoked for you to call it."

I hung up and began to dial, curious about what kind of "everything" this call was going to address. And, just as I dialed the final number...

I woke up. Still dark outside. I nestled back into my pillow and closed my eyes. I was just about to fall back asleep.

Which is, of course, the precise moment when my alarm went off.

So I'm left tired, curious and disgruntled. Because I was given a phone number that promised to explain everything, and I didn't get to find out what everything meant.

And, as Internet research reveals, the phone number that might explain the meaning to life is a number out of Illinois.

Apparently life is much easier to comprehend when you're coming at it with a Decatur point of view.

------
As today launches my weekend of holiday travel - and the fact that it is, after all, Christmas Eve Eve, I wanted to take a moment to wish you and yours happy holidays, whatever holidays those might happen to be. Or even if you don't celebrate holidays. Hey. You're cool. Thanks for reading.

Travel safe if you're traveling, have fun and, for those in snowy regions similiar to my own, keep warm.

And to those in warm climates?

I'm jealous.

Be well and take care.

Christmas came early!

Matt Nathanson
01-20-06
Burlington, VT
Matt is bringing New Year love to Vermont with a solo acoustic show at the Ira Allen Chapel...

There are the You Should Really Go shows. There are the Not To Be Missed shows. And then there's the I Can't Wait To See What the Hell Nathanson Is Going To Say In a Chapel kind of show.

I'll leave you to figure out into which category this will fall. In the meantime, I'll be brushing up on my Warrant and Twisted Sister.

There are some things that you just don't do.

You don't drag old ladies out of cabs just so you can get a ride that little bit faster.

You don't walk around in the snow barefoot.

You don't walk away from the Red Sox to sign a contract with the Yankees.

It's simply not DONE.

Say what you will, but I am fully aware of the fact that I'm not a grown-up Red Sox fan. When it comes to that team, I am still the embodiment of childlike enthusiasm.

Knowing that I'm going to go to Fenway on a game day makes me wake up with a grin on my face that morning. I've been known to yell at the television when I watch games. I follow the stats during the season; I follow the hot stove discussions during the winter.

And I stop rooting for any player when they walk away from Boston and sign with New York. Example? December. 1992. Wade Boggs is my favorite baseball player (he plays third base, at that point I play third base. A natural favorite player selection.) He signs with the Yankees. In my mind, he stops being Wade Boggs, ultimate Hall of Famer. He just becomes another Yankee.

Boggs? Oh yeah. Him. Yeah, he used to be good.

So here we are. December. 2005. Johnny Damon is not my favorite player - not even close - but I've been enjoying his role as a Red Sox leader. I view him as an essential component of the ever-dwindling Boston team.

He signs with the Yankees.

It's not as quick a switch this time, admittedly, as I've developed stronger language than when I was, you know, 12. So there's a lot of cursing involved today.

But ultimately? He'll cut off the hair, he'll don the pinstripes and, in time, he'll become just another Yankee.

But until that happens, I'll curse a lot. And not just at him. Or at the Sox front office, who continue to convey the sense of utter chaos that's ruining any prospects we have left for next season. Because they should have signed him sooner (sound familiar? Oh wait. We've learned nothing since Theo left. Go us.) and should have swallowed their pride in order to make it happen.

At the general absurdity of it all. To say no to $40 million over four years, for the sake of sticking with the team that made you a baseball icon. $10 MILLION A YEAR.

Loyalty is a big thing with me. I'm a fan of the lifers - the players who stick with their teams throughout their careers, the ones in which there's no question what hat you'll wear when you're immortalized in the Hall of Fame.

I know that there's a big gap between $40 million and $52 million. But at that point, does it really matter? Why face the wrath of the fans who fell in love with you just so you can make some more money that you'll never be able to spend?

Of course we're pissed off. And while I have to laugh as I commiserate with fans who are calling Damon "The Devil" today, I get why they're also swearing him off, just as we've sworn off everyone else who has made the choice to switch over to the arch rivals.

It's juvenile, of course. But this is baseball. Juvenile behavior is inherent and, therefore, justified. Because if you stop to think about it and be mature about what you're discussing, you take the wonder of the game right out of the equation.

You realize that you're talking about love for a group of guys for whom you scrimp and save so you can buy overpriced tickets and marked-up beer and watch them try to hit or field really little white balls.

So screw maturity. I embrace my immature, baseball-loving side.

And I'll continue to wind up pissed off when a player does one of the things that everyone knows you just don't do.

Mark the calendars, particularly if you live in Massachusetts (or, as is my case, are traveling to the area for holidays):

Those interested in either extending their Christmas-y celebrations or, in my case, preparing to kick off the new year early should make a trip over to Boston on the evening of December 29 (that would be a week from Thursday, for my calendar-challenged friends).

Chad Perrone & Friends, including Tides and Mister Vertigo.
Dec. 29, 9 p.m.
Felt
Washington Street, Boston
www.livemusicboston.com

Have you heard Chad's solo material yet? If not, go here, take a listen and be impressed. And with the addition of Tides (one of the area's top, in my opinion, up-and-coming bands) and Mister Vertigo (very fun, very talented), this makes for a not-to-be-missed evening.

Which means, of course, that you shouldn't miss it. Tell all your friends, acquaintances, even that next-door neighbor you've never properly introduced yourself to. Round up a crew of concertgoers. Make the trip. Swing on by. Say hi to me. Enjoy the music.

And then make note of what a good time you had, so you make the trip again come February. As a certain gypsy MC funk troubador, known and loved by many as Bushwalla, will be rocking the joint with the one and only Todd Carey on February 23.

Plug, plug? You bet. And you'll thank me after the fact.

The disbelief and snickers grew to tear-inducing, sides-aching laughter as the phone was passed around the room. As each of us spoke into the phone, the tinny sounds coming from the earpiece grew louder and more distinct for those listening in. It was starting to dawn on her, but she wasn't going to give in without a hilarious fight.

She thought we were all in on a joke of epic proportions. We'd gotten together for a party and hadn't invited her. Something, anything other than the reality that she had forgotten to come back to campus.

Absolutely forgotten.

After speaking to each of us and letting us tease her for a few moments - frankly, we each felt we'd earned the right to do so - she got off the phone so she could throw together some items for the first week of classes and get someone to drive her back. Immediately.

She'd just been relaxing at home and watching some Martha Stewart.

That was how Lexi was. She found misadventures - and if she didn't, they found her. Which gave her the opportunity to laugh with a booming voice that turned into a cackle when you really got her going.

For a few years, I had a hard time thinking of the memories, just because they made me fast-forward to this date.

It's been five years.

Today, I realize that I don't hurt when I think of her anymore. I'm back to being able to think of her life without those memories being laced so tightly to her death. I'm not sure when the process adapted to allow that, but I'm thankful that it did. I miss her, of course, but it's different now.

I just wish more of you could have been able to know her and be in on the stories.

Because the day she forgot to come back to school? That was pretty damn hilarious.

I just want it to get here already. The holiday. Relaxation time.

Ha. So I'd said.

Less than a week until Christmas and I realize I'm facing:
- Baking, Round Two (after a shockingly successful trial run that leaves me questioning key character traits as a result)
- Birthday celebrations
- Holiday celebrations
- The last of the gift purchases
- Wrapping
- The Label Game-ing*
- Packing
- Traveling

The holiday can take its sweet time. Really. Don't rush on my account. Please.

An extra day or two? No problem. My pleasure.

*The Label Game was born in the late 90s, after my mother decided that there still needed to be a sense of wonderment involved with the post-S.C.-era gift distribution process:

To: The Recipient
From: Someone Who Somehow Ties In To the Nature of the Gift, So Recipient Can Try To Guess Gift Prior To Unwrapping

An easy example:
To: V
From: Lloyd Dobbler
Gift: A DVD of "Say Anything."

Each member of the family works hard to come up with something that balances obscure references with the desire to give the recipient a fighting chance at guessing what's inside. You really have to know your audience in order to make the game work. I could, for instance, make reference to Kurosawa in a gift for my film school student brother, but go more in a John Wayne direction for my father. Perhaps a "How I Met Your Mother" reference for Mom that would make my brother scratch his head.

Everyone loves to struggle with it. Often, one member of the family will call another, asking, "Does this make sense to you?" We brainstorm together and laugh at the befuddled expressions on our loved ones' faces come Christmas Day.

It makes for a fun time. And the tradition has begun to spill over into other family circles. Beth informed me that her family has adopted the tradition and is likewise agonizing/cackling over the possibilities.

Heheheheheheh.

The holidays make you do crazy, uncharacteristic things.

Such as braving the crowded parking lots and even more crowded stores in order to get that one last thing you need to make someone you care about realize just how much you really love them. Somehow, that box set of music* will do the trick, whereas a simple, "Hey, I think you're the bees' knees" won't.

Such as baking, which any longtime reader will know is about as uncharacteristic for yours truly as it gets.



And, of course, including a photo of yourself from when you were a wee lass, so as to segue into the annual trimming of the tree process.

I traveled to my parents' house yesterday, where I conducted some of those necessary last-minute holiday tasks. Upon learning that I would be in town, my parents asked me to help them trim the tree. They hadn't done so yet, and, as my mother said to me, it wasn't quite the same if one of The Kids wasn't around to help out and laugh over the annual ornamental unveiling.

As the residents of my flat are restricted from ornaments on The Disco Christmas Tree (see Flickr for the groovy, hilarious image), I was pleased to be able to deck the halls and all of that good stuff.

There are two types of tree decorators, I've found. Those with the matching set trees and those with the mix-n-match designs. My family is a posse of mix-n-matchers. Each year, my parents get an ornament representing the year for them, and my brother and I each get one for us, similarly sentimental. The tree, therefore, is more a collection of memories than a clear and consise set of bulbs and lights.

We have four ornaments that my grandmother (paternal) put on her tree each year. The "First Christmas Together" ornament, circa late 70s, then the Baby's First Christmas ornaments (my parents got a little carried away with mine - I think we counted three from 1980 as my mother and I went through the boxes) and then the various and sundry guessing game pieces. A whale watch when Tom went on a field trip in thrid grade. A country store from the year my parents made the move to Vermont. A girl ready to swing a baseball bat the year I received my first all-league honors. A tie-dyed Santa the year Tom and I went to Woodstock. A turtle representing my role in "Arcadia," a hockey player the year Tom saw his first Bruins game.

It was a good thing I was around this time, as my mother would pull a piece out of the box, look it over and try to guess the memory.

"Who made this one?"

I looked over at the gold bulb with paint rings. "Tom."

"And this one?"

"Tom."

"And how about this?"

"Oooh! Me. That was the year we made them at Girl Scouts."

And so on.

As the Christmas music played, my mother and I sang along (I refrained - mostly - from dancing) and, just as the holiday CD ended, placed the last ornament on the final branch.

We sank into the couches and curled up with blankets as the lights flickered and caught the metallic sheen of a random piece.

"Looks good."

Mom smiled. "This looks great."

A happy marriage and a family's worth of memories on display. How could it not look lovely?

*Item detail changed to protect the gift recipients.

"That was, by far, the single most random night of 2005," I said, leaning back into an overstuffed armchair covered with crimson velvet. Beth laughed and sipper her coffee as we pieced back together that night and others that would make the list for Top Moments of the Year.

Oddly enough, I realized that most of the memories involved getting lost in some manner. Um. Yes. Anyway, that said:

A side street bar with side street conversation to match - a Hall & Oates video marathon on the television elicited memories and anecdotes from our unexpectedly created group. A French Canadian man attempted to join the conversation with inquiries about Vermont and the offer for substances that we declined with polite straight faces that later melted into laughter. Drinks and conversation seemed to come naturally, although my Driver status relegated me to water. I didn't mind, as I was too busy laughing and chatting.

Montreal streets later formed a maze of one-way roads and impossible turns, which left me near tears asking for directions "back to the States" from seemingly anyone who didn't speak English. Canadian candy was purchased by my commiserating friend as a kindly soul's eyes twinkled with amusement when he pointed me in the right direction - which required me to perform nearly every illegal driving device one could imagine at 2 a.m.

As the utter absurdity of the evening spiraled into surreal lunacy, I laughingly yelled into a phone held up in the backseat. The person on the other end was of absolutely no use to me, and I was as ready to heckle absolutely anyone who wasn't going to get me out of the city. I squealed with delight as I pulled the U-turn needed to get me onto the street on which I could hightail it back to my native land.

Chivalry was dead - I would receive no navigational assistance from the individuals on the other end of the phone receiving a play-by-play of our misadventures - but I didn't need it, dammit. I was one member of a group of independent women who just happened to have extraordinarily questionable navigational skills.

Blame Montreal. That's what I did.
October

I couldn't get from Storrow to Mass Ave. My brother was on the phone, guiding me down a series of streets that also led me toward the blimp that hovered over Fenway.

I knew precisely where I needed to go. I knew right about where I was. But getting from point A to point B was impossible and I was officially pissed off. When he led me onto Commonwealth, I thanked him profusely and bid him goodnight.

Later, I was feeling badly. Kind of. I was spending as much time watching the Red Sox battle the Yankees on television as I watched the bands performing on stage in the crowded lounge. I'd traveled to hear the music, but this distraction couldn't be helped - it was the final regular season weekend in Boston. Yes, life continued outside the green walls of Fenway, but everyone outside seemed intrinsically drawn to the events transpiring within.

Over the din of optimistically cynical baseball voices, I saw the band I'd most looked forward to seeing. When the game had ended with a win, I was able to focus - at least somewhat - on the clever, happy-go-lucky California vibes coming from the stage. I bought two albums for two reasons - the first that I wanted to finally have a collection of their songs on acetate, the second that I felt half-guilty for paying attention to everything around me other than the music.

But I'd known, walking in, that it was to be a night prone for distraction. I'd known as soon as I greeted my friends watching the game through the windows of the pub next door.
October

I wasn't supposed to be able to see Manny's back. The field wasn't supposed to be visible from this screwy angle. The wind wasn't supposed to whip into my face as fiercly as it was, and hot dogs were not supposed to be so incredibly gigantic.

Tom leaned against the railing next to the foul pole along the third base line. He was grinning, seemingly as confounded by the experience as I. For all the times we'd imagined what the view was like up here, as often as we'd stared above the green wall as youngsters and imagined home runs coming straight at us, I don't think either of us actually thought we'd get to see what the angle was like. He was cold. I was cold. But the cold didn't matter. Early season baseball, and the white uniforms of our team glowed beneath the blinding lights. The grass was an eerie green and the sky was just shifting from indigo to black.

He laughed as I pointed toward the scoreboard, where his name was listed among other happy birthday wishes.

He told me this was a great start to his twenty-second year.
April

He was quiet, but witty. If you leaned over to talk to your friend, you might miss the next quick turn of phrase. So we all kept as silent as could be.

When he sang, the voice filled the void where background chatter would typically be. A little husky, the voice complimented the raw lyrics and sound that had pushed $12 ticket prices up to $100 on the street. From my space by the side of the stage, I saw dropped jaws and dazed smiles in the first few rows. One girl, about my age, leaned back against the boyfriend who stood behind her, eyes closed in utter contentment.

The silent electricity in the room built throughout the set, despite the temporary releases of applause after each song. As he finished his set and prepared to say goodnight, Ray Lamontagne bowed. The water he held in a bottle against his chest spilled onto the floor, and he closed his eyes. Seemingly embarrassed, as if that little slipup would turn the crowd against him.

As his bassist patted his back and led him offstage, Ray didn't seem to realize that that humility made the crowd love him all the more.
January

I jumped up from my seat.

"WHAT GAME ARE YOU WATCHING?!? GOD!" I joined a chorus of thousands screaming at black and white-striped dots on the field seemingly miles below.

Dad looked up from the small hand-held television on which he was watching the instant replays. He laughed.

And he thought I'd be bored at a football game.
October

When the alarm goes off at 5 a.m., there's a second in which you want to rethink your plans.

Forget that you'd driven down to New York for this early morning wakeup. Forget that you'd laughed and joked about it with the friends who had come together from here and there.

The one thing that comes to your mind is that which we all say in unison.

"Damn you, Jason."

The July humidity is laced with an early morning city chill, and the sky has not brightened enough to cast the streets with the normal sunlight. The flourescent tinge remains, making concrete glow orange and the bright lights from the plaza look all the more bizarre.

L walks down the walkway by the stage first, then myself, then K. Each feeling intirely conspicuous, aware of the fact that the stage and the cameras are all right there. I realize that I'm trying not to look over at that which I've gone out of my way to be there to see.

Absurd. I turned and grin at the stage, laughing that I'm hearing "Wordplay" live, I'm up before dawn, I'm in New York and this is The Today Show.
July

The phone rang as I prepared to leave.

"What are you doing?"

Nothing in particular. Odd, as it was the one day of the year that historically proved bizarre, random and entertaining.

"Well, I was thinking."

Okay...

"Averi's playing on Killington tonight."

Uh huh...

"And I kind of want to go. I'll drive. You game?"

Pick me up in front of the building.

An hour and a half of laughing and traveling through the darkness. He and I never wind up crossing paths enough, so there's always plenty to catch up on. How we're doing, what we want to do, how life's treating us...

And then we're there, at the small club I swore after last time I wouldn't go back to. But it feels different this time. I'm just there with a friend for a random show I would normally never attend.

It was just the day. Anything and everything happens on the second. Don't question. Just smile, sing along, and above all else, do not think about how tired you'll be the next morning.
February

I walked back into the club, having left a voicemail for Beth to listen to after she left the Montbleau show in Vermont. I walked up a short set of stairs, then walked along the bar to the small collection of chairs and tables against the wall.

The star of the evening sat on a tabletop, positioned directly below a wall light that seemed to almost resemble a headpiece. It would have been fitting, as he looked the part of a master storyteller, a group of smiling listeners forming a ring around him.

He was smiling. He smiled a lot. Everything was new and exciting, it seemed. The focus on positivity was strong, and it carried over to everyone else. They smiled back, they chatted, they welcomed the tales.

As I returned to the group, I paused. A single figure stood between me and the rest of the assemblage, and he was dancing, seemingly oblivious to everything else. Just moving, grooving, doing his thing undisturbed.

I had to stand there for a moment and take in this comfortable rag-tag group. I smiled. This moment just summed the whole evening up just right.
May

I'm about to brush my teeth as Beth walks through the door and asks me how I'm doing.

"Weird dream," I reply.

"Weird dream? How so?"

The rest of it comes out in garbled bits of toothbrush-speak.

"I was at this show. In a church."

Brush, brush.

"Sometime before or after I worked with Ben Kweller at a record shop. Where we flirted a lot - I know, I don't get it either - and spoke of this rocket ship we were set to travel on with a bunch of other people."

Brush, brush.

"Which was a really cool ship because as you took off, you stood on this balcony-like thing, waving to everyone as you shot into space. Slowly shot into space. And mashed potatoes were somehow involved."

Brush, brush.

"So anyway, we're all at this show. In the church. We were there, sitting on a mattress that had been placed on the floor, resting our chins against the railing of the balcony. Because we were on the balcony. And Mraz was performing. With quite the hideous hairdo. Somehow, at some point, he decided to let the band play, and next thing I know, he's sitting by us on the mattress, watching the show. He gave me a hug. A really good one, actually."

Brush, brush.

"So the show's fun. Chill. We leave, but I have to run back into church after the show. I'd lost my shoes. And I run into Jason, and this time I mean I really run right into him, inside the church, because I'm looking for my shoes. I'd been wearing my running shoes. Don't know why. Don't ask."

Brush, brush.

"I'd asked if he'd seen my sneakers, and he said no. Why? Was I looking for some shoes?"

Brush, brush.

"And I stuck out my foot, showed him my sock, and then he said 'Oh.' He'd ask around."

Brush, brush.

"And then I woke up."

Brush, brush.

"Oh, and we were somewhere in Quebec at the time. The subway signs and everything else was all in French."

I swished, spit, and washed off my toothbrush before looking up at the perfectly perplexed look on Beth's face.

She tried to come up with a thought. I spared her.

"Exactly."

Some nights, when you get home late and your stomach is growling but you haven't the energy to make a really late-night dinner and you realize you've run around all day long for what feels at the end of the day as if it was to no avail, you need to just take a second.

Take a second, eat potato chips with ketchup, drink a Diet Orange Sunkist, watch "Gilmore Girls" despite the fact that it's a repeat because you know it'll make you laugh regardless...

And just breathe.

I commence breathing...now.

After I get a little extra ketchup.

Classic lightbulb moment.

Despite the shopping and list-making that was a major component of the weekend, it hasn't felt like Christmas season. Acutely aware of the two-week window between Now and Then, I'd been so focused on getting ready for the holiday that I hadn't focused on enjoying the season.

I wound up discussing Christmas music this evening and, naturally, mentioned Bing Crosby.

BING. Lightbulb.

Bing Crosby. A key, unwavering component of Christmas. Each year growing up at my parents' home, when the time came to decorate the tree, my mother played two records. First, Alvin and the Chipmunks for my brother and I. And then "Bing Crosby Sings Christmas Songs" for her. I grew up listening to her listen to Bing's take on the standards - as she started out humming along and wound up harmonizing by the time "I'll Be Home For Christmas" (Track 7) kicked in.

I'd dance about, doing my best to steer clear of the boxes of ornaments, when "Christmas In Killarney" (which remains my favorite Christmas song) kicked in. She'd laugh and tell me I was forbidden to touch anything until the song ended. I couldn't care less - I was happy with the song, my laughing mother and the holiday to come.

B and I poured the glasses of wine left over from dinner and cued up the seasonal music. Beth looked to see my reaction upon playing "Christmas In Killarney" first.

I set down my glass on the coffee table and quickly set in. Heels kicking about, quick spins, a breathless laugh as I sang along.

How grand it feels to click your heels
And join in all of the jigs and reels
I'm handing you no blarney
The likes you've never known
Is Christmas in Killarney
With all of the folks at home

She soon joined me, jumping about the living room until I clicked my heel against the leg of the couch and fell onto the cushions - amazingly, just as the song came to a close.

And then it felt like Christmas.

Sometimes it feels as if events transpiring around you are elements of necessary backstory that will come to play greater roles within the near future. They're hardly significant enough to bring to light, but you have a hunch that you might be making note of them a little later in the game.

Foreshadowing, if you will.

Every generation has its bad boy pinup. The poster child for affliction and misunderstood angst, the one that makes youngsters swoon and wait for the next bumbling attempt at character insight and depth.

Truth is, most of these characters (as they tend to be seen in television or film) are just pretty faced void of the depth. The titles of "a modern-day James Dean" are made and the little girls swoon and look for broken boys of their own to try unsuccessfully to fix. Only the real life broken boys lack the advantage of Hollywood writers scripting their lines.

It's happened time and time again, having reached the point of blatant cliche.

I could blame Jordan Catalano - er, Jared Leto - for so much. So, so much.

And lo and behold, he will be in my fair city of residence tonight. And I will be infinitely amused to be there as well.

Pick a memory from my life. Odds are good that somehow, at least in a fringe sort of way, a U2 song could be connected to it. Perhaps more so than any other band, if not simply because of the fact that the Irishmen's music has been around the whole time.

So the experience of actually attending a U2 show for the first time was a bit on the surreal, walk-down-memory-lane kind of side. Which creates a multi-level sort of evening.

On one level, the lights, the sound, the sights of the band members actually there, performing for me - and, well, 20,000 other people, of course.

On the other, the realization of just how much a band I've always liked on a cursory level has been woven into things without my realization.

And to a seemingly random assortment of things. Prom ("With or Without You"), getting ready for a night out in D.C. ("Elevation"), various trips to various locations (most of "The Joshua Tree," "Yahweh," "Sometimes You Can't Make It On Your Own" and "City of Blinding Lights"), school ("Pride"), concerts by other artists who busted out the covers ("One," "Where the Streets Have No Name," "With or Without You"), just feeling on top of the world ("Mysterious Ways") or below it entirely ("Stuck In a Moment You Can't Get Out Of.")

Cheesy? You bet. But I'm a strong proponent for the belief that the bands that truly affect you often wind up having that effect from time to time.

So there I am, six rows from the top of the Corporate Mad Libs Center, watching the stage light up with more lights than I ever thought I'd see at a performance, observing musicians with iconic names performing the songs I've heard countless times through countless sets of speakers. I'm standing, dancing, singing along at the top of my lungs because I can ever-so-faintly hear Beth and the guy behind me doing the same thing, and I know that it's just what we've paid to be able to do.

To sing, to dance, to holler out our approval and to see what else they decide to surprise us with.

And I realize that this sensory overload is well worth the price of admission.

And then the other shoe drops.

It's difficult to hear someone say no. But not as difficult as hearing someone tell you that they would have said yes were it based on your merit alone. That something completely out of your control - or, rather, something that your drive set into motion, but was otherwise out of your control - determined your fate.

Most difficult, however, is trying to play it off as if you're not, at least for a moment, completely devastated by the news.

But, in fine tradition, I'll brush it off and bounce back. And the first bounce will include Boston, brunches and Bono.

Not too shabby.

As I drove home, cell phone cradled to my ear, I smiled into the darkness. It had really only hit me at that moment.

"How am I? I'm doing really well. I've had a red-letter day."