Pink chalk.

I felt infinitely better as I was swept by a warm breeze pushing down the street. The belt on my light green trench coat (hello, spring clothing, how I've missed thee!) danced about a bit during the moments it wasn't slapping against my side in time to the rhythm of my steps. The rain was holding off for the moment, but this breeze hinted at its approach and I knew I should enjoy this last pre-shower excursion outside.

I walked to the park, noting those relaxing on the City Hall steps and on the benches surrounding the fountain that will soon begin to spring water once again. As I stopped to observe the spinning spheres (a random art installation that popped up late in the fall and has fascinated me throughout the winter), I noticed messages scrawled on the pathway in hot pink chalk. The second, located just beyond the place I normally stop, caught my eye.

"You may not always feel lucky, but be smart enough to try. Inspired by Ani."

I grinned. The timing of it could not have been better. I was feeling both lucky AND smart.

A few moments were spent smiling and contemplating the serendipitous series of events that led me to the park at that moment. Then I practically skipped my way back inside.

Random side note: I'm becoming addicted to Ben Lee's "Catch My Disease." I've liked it since I first purchased "Awake Is the New Sleep," but now I can't stop listening to it. I attribute much of it to spring. Happy song for a happy season.

DIY Commencement

I called Beth yesterday afternoon. "I've got a problem. I am craving Chipotle. And I learned today that I am 306.43 miles from the nearest Chipotle."

Plans for DIY commenced immediately. "That usually helps you with the cravings," Beth commented.

Overdramatic? Perhaps, but I'm not quite sure. I swear the employees of the Tex-Mex chain put something in their food that makes people immediately addicted. Additional consumption only makes the addiction harder to shake.

Which explains why I am still hooked. Maybe it's something special mixed in with the lime- and cilantro-seasoned rice. Hmm...

Having been warned by roomates warned, "You're going to get hooked," I was formally introduced to Chipotle goodness. It helped (or worsened?) that my apartment building was one building over (read: about 50 steps) from a Chipotle. It was one of countless in the greater DC area, as it seemed every street corner in the District had either a Chipotle or a Starbucks (everything this temporary District dweller needed in live), while signs in Metro stations wittily touted the aluminum-wrapped bundles of food.

But then I moved. From the land of Chipotle-everywhere-you-look to the land of What's-a-Chipotle? The closest is in New York Effing City.

A couple of months ago, I realized that I can't completely replicate Chipotle, but I could try. That night, my flatmates and I staged the first DIY Chipotle Night.

We make everything we need - chicken, green peppers, onions, rice, black beans, salsa, cheese, etc. Set up everything in a precise line of "stations" along the kitchen counter. Black beans first, chicken/pepper/onion, rice, salsa cheese, sour cream if desired (by the flatmates, not by me). Put too much on, realize eating with one's hands is difficult, if not impossible. Consume and bask in the wonder of it.

While shopping to pick up necessary items, Beth and I came across Mike's Hard Lime, apparently the latest product for a company we knew ever so well in college. We decided they would serve as a perfect alternative to margaritas and picked up a six-pack. It was, I believe, the first time I or someone I'm has bought a six-pack of Mike's since Beth came to DC for Dual Day and Tori Day. Appropriately enough, what was on the menu that evening? Chipotle.

I stretched out on the couch to watch American Dreams, stuffed with a fine attempt at faux-Chipotle and buzzing off fizzy carbonated Mike's.

Craving satisfied. For now.

De-hibernation

Everyone has suddenly reappeared. Restaurants feature full tables beneath awnings, hackeysackers are on the university campus green. Random run-ins, seemingly so infrequent during the icy months, now feel regular again, as one can't walk down the streets downtown without seeing a familiar face beaming in the sunshine.

The weariness is temporarily set aside, replaced by reveling in warmth (relative, of course) and the first deserved icy drinks of the year.

I'm in the process of preparing a batch of music to ship miles away - and feeling invigorated by the immediacy of selecting the right songs to include in the collection. I want to allow for a proper introduction to artists the recipient has not heard of, and I'm going to include a mix of still less-known artists who deserve a new fan. It's a project I haven't undertaken in awhile, and it feels good to be able to pick and choose among so many favorites.

It's also assisting me in focusing my thoughts and energy on tasks at hand - as I will also be working on a different project, intended for various other recipients. This project, more than the music, requires the utmost care, polish and drive - not to mention finally sucking up fears or apprehension and just doing what I know I need to do.

I was sipping a frozen coffee drink this afternoon with my perpetual idea-bouncing wall, Elizabeth, when she laughingly remarked that I fascinate her. Or, more appropriately, my transitory exapserations fascinate her.

I grimace and took another sip before I had to prepare to leave. I don't want to be fascinating, I want to be content. I just don't know what I need to do to somehow wind up being both.

In the sunshine, with "Trouble" tracks coursing through my car speakers, it felt like maybe I'd be able to figure it out.

Just have to give it a shot.

Racing the light.

DSCN2218
Originally uploaded by alternacoustic.

This one's for Paul. So it's a little (or a lot) after the fact...but hey. I finally had camera in hand for the sunset tonight and I wasn't going to miss it again.

He didn't seem to believe me when I said we'd catch the light.

From the top of the hill on Main Street, we could see ripples of magenta on the underside of dark layered clouds. The lake glowed pale blue. It was my favorite time of day on the lake, and he wanted to capture it on film. I turned my car down the hill.

At the first stoplight, he craned his neck to see if the lake was still pale. Becca and I snickered as we reassured him we'd make it.

At the second light, I kept my foot as lightly on the brake as possible, as the magenta had already appeared less vibrant.

As I pulled into the waterfront parking lot, we groaned. Two, maybe three minutes had passed, but we'd already lost the light. The lake scene had dimmed to subdued indigos too dark to show up on film.

Last hope?

gaiety2
Originally uploaded by alternacoustic.

I walked by the Gaiety several weeks ago and was relieved to see the building still stood. I've been waiting for word to reach me that it had been demolished and the hopes I'd had for its resurrection were similarly destroyed. Really, it's only become a matter of time, as far as I was concerned.

I'd completely forgotten (until today) that there was another round of legal procedings. The last (that I'm aware of) hearing is scheduled to begin in about an hour, as two city councilors and a cultural group have asked the ZBA to decide wiether to reverse the demolition permit.

I'm going to be realistic here, considering all the backstory and shady business that's gone on with the Gaiety, in particular during the last four months or so. The odds are slim at best. The permit will likely be upheld and demolition will soon begin.

But one can hope that the ZBA gets a clue. One can hope a 97-year-old theater can be preserved. One can hope the mistreatment it's languished under can be erased through renovation and preservation.

I'm not ready to completely give up on it yet.

For an interesting read, check this out.

Stalked by Lloyd Dobler

I bit my finger last night. I had to, as it was late, my flatmates were asleep and I needed to do something to stop from bursting into peals of laughter as I stared at the computer screen.

Let's face it, satire only works when it rings true...and the gem of satire titled "Meet the Whimpster" strikes more than a couple of chords with this reader. Check it out and see if you laugh as much as I did...my personal favorite?

The drunken apologetic phone calls, the Craigslist missed connections, the messages of his burning heartbreak sent through mutual friends.

Flashback to an IM conversation: "He talked about you a lot. I think he views you as the one that got away."

HAHAHAHAHA.

The article was the second reference to Lloyd Dobler I came across within about a week, the first being an excerpt from a book I picked up today. From Chuck Klosterman's Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs:

It appears that countless women born between the years of 1965 and 1978 are in love with John Cusack. I cannot fathom how he isn't the number-one box-office star in America, because every straight girl I know would sell her soul to share a milkshake with that motherfucker. For upwardly mobile women in their twenties and thirties, John Cusack is the neo-Elvis. But here's what none of these upwardly mobile women seem to realize: They don't love John Cusack. They love Lloyd Dobler.

Haha - 1980, bitch, and I'm right there with the rest of 'em. I admit it. I embrace it. But I'm more of the Rob from "High Fidelity" Cusack fan than Dobler. Although he did make kickboxing look pretty badass.

The one problem with picking up this book is, however, that I now have the book with me. It's sitting right next to the computer, waiting to be read. And I want to read it. Right now. It's early spring rainy and drizzly, and the gray light outside seems only condusive for being blocked out by a warm lamp glow while one curls up under a blanket, sips tea and pours through a humorous book. Pausing on occasion to read bits of the book out loud to friends similarly curling, sipping and reading.

The book is just calling for this, but it's going to be hours upon hours until I can actually give it justice. So I'm going to put it away in a drawer and ignore it, with the hopes that I don't forget it when I leave.

Weekend update

Random notes -

"The Incredibles" - it seems I'm one of a handful of people who hadn't seen the movie. That was rectified this weekend, and I'm happy to say I loved it. For some reason, the rest (read: significantly older) of those watching with me couldn't understand why I was so delighted to hear Jason Lee's voice. Hmm.

"Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow" - Critics be damned (I feel fine saying that, all things considered). I liked it. Suspend the disbelief, people. It was innovative and the acting was supposed to be contrived.

Seeing the family was great, per expected, and worth the quick trip to the North Shore.

And, to top off everything else? Plans for the weekend of Red Sox revelry actually managed to improve upon themselves. Friday - Fenway. Saturday - Phantom. Sunday - Fenway.

I shouldn't have to say anything else. Just look at that and smile with me.

Relativity

I never knew how to refer to my mother's father. Sure, I knew he was my grandfather, but I never had the opportunity to link myself to him like I could with my father's father. That grandfather was "Grampy," but the other man was a black and white photograph on the mantel of my grandmother's house.

I was digging through the bookshelf in the upstairs hallway of my house sometime during high school when I came across a red leather scrapbook filed away among photo albums. I don't remember what I was looking for at the time, but I spent at least an hour sprawled out on the carpet, leaning on my elbows as I went through the pages of newspaper clippings.

He was an accountant, a Navy veteran, a husband and father. He'd attended high school with my grandmother, but they did not begin to date until well after their school days. He was a city councilman and the city's first Little League commissioner.

There were countless photographs of him - tall, dark hair, strong face and build. He held a baseball bat in many of the pictures, standing next to young boys who looked up to his wide smile.

The quotes indicated that he loved to roll up his sleeves and tackle ward issues. He wanted neighbors to approach him with ideas and concerns; he loved to watch the local kids grow and succeed. He was looking forward to helping the city further succeed, and he believed the best way to do so was through the simple act of hard work.

He wore a dress shirt and tie in every photograph save two, both of which were taken while he sat in a hospital bed. He had the same healthy grin, but the captions explained that he had been hospitalized for chest pains. He told reporters that he felt fine and would be out of the hospital, back to work, in no time.

The next stories were the largest, accompanied by more shots in the shirts and ties. These had the largest headlines. Unexpected heart attack. City officials and residents shocked, the stories said. He was a vibrant, fit man until it happened. He was survived by a young wife and three very young children, a son and two daughters.

All of the extended family on her side was named in the stories and subsequent news obituaries, and it was surreal to read the names written decades before I was born. Strangest was reading about my mother as a four-year-old. It hadn't fully dawned on me just how little she could possibly remember about her father - and I cried as I realized that was probably why I hadn't been told many stories about my grandfather as I was growing up. I was born in the hospital in which he'd been pronounced dead.

I put the book away and leaned against the wall. My mother was young - that was frightening enough - but my grandmother was still young when she became a widow with three children to raise. True to form, she hadn't been quoted much in the subsequent stories - she was shy and tended to keep to herself. Rather than turn to the press, she focused on working hard and raising her kids on her own.

I started thinking about how she'd always been so giving as my brother and I, the first of four grandchildren, were growing up. I was the typical spoiled brat, always wanting more and always wanting the focus to be on myself. For the first time, I wanted to find out about her - how she did it, how she felt about her husband's death.

I went downstairs to ask my mother about it. She seemed surprised that I found the scrapbook, even more surprised by my red eyes. She told me what little she knew about everything when it happened - she, my uncle and aunt went to their uncle's house and didn't realize what was going on. She didn't remember much else about it - and she best remembered how tall her father seemed when he'd bend down to pick her up. My grandmother wasn't likely to say much about it if I directly asked her - she didn't like to talk about "it."

Rather than make it difficult, I've spent the time since that discovery finding out little details about my grandfather. My aunt and uncle have shared stories they heard at family reunions and the like, and I convinced my grandmother to go through photographs with me - his high school portraits, pictures of him in his Navy uniform. I saw some letters he wrote for work and was able to marvel over his impeccable handwriting. She's shared little stories with me, but I keep waiting for the opportunity to really find out what he was like - who the man was that she fell in love with.

My father and I drove to the grocery store this morning to pick up last-minute Easter dinner necessities, and he remarked on how he was glad my mother's family was so low-key on holidays. It's more about being together and laughing than dressing up and feeling uncomfortable, he said, because my grandfather enjoyed relaxed and casual holidays. My grandmother had told him years ago that my grandfather spent so much time in suits and ties that when holidays rolled around, he wanted to actually enjoy himself. No ties, no stress.

I thought to myself that it was yet another reason why, had I had the chance to meet him, he and I would have gotten along so well.

"All Jesus, all the time"

I received my first communion when I was a 17-year-old college freshman. No white dress, no veil - no one knew it would occur that Sunday evening. Least of all me.

I had gone to my college's Sunday evening mass to support my friend's roommate in her first performance with the college choir. It was my first venture into a non-Easter Sunday service, and I found it fascinating and unnerving at the same time. I didn't know the lingo - as a non-practicing Catholic, my service knowledge stopped right after the Our Father and Hail Mary - and I was amazed to hear everyone around me participating with ease.

When everyone rose to take communion, I looked wildly at my friend. I didn't know what to do. I couldn't sit - everyone around me was moving.

"Just go up with everyone else, but you don't have to do anything - you'll be able to walk right past," she replied. "The international students do the same thing."

Relieved, I focused on the back of the person in front of me as we moved forward, until I looked up and realized I was standing before the head priest. He held out the communion - and I blanked and took it, saying "Thank you."

My friend grabbed me before I reached the sacrificial wine and steered me away. "You were supposed to hold your hands over your chest and just keep walking!"

Well, she hadn't told me THAT part.

I got home and called my mother to tell her I'd inadvertantly taken communion. She laughed as I explained my confusion and the sudden realization that "I couldn't exactly say no to the HEAD PRIEST!"

"What did you do?"

"I took it and said thank you."

"THANK YOU?! Don't you realize? In church, if you don't know what to say, just say AMEN!"

She was cackling with laughter as she shouted to my father in the other room. "Guess what your daughter did in church tonight??"

I could hear him in the background. "What was she doing in church? She didn't even really like catechism when she went to that!"

She relayed the story, stopping on occasion to laugh. She sighed and returned to me on the phone.

It's a sad day, she told me, when you realize you've somehow raised a hapless heretic.

Happy Easter, boys and girls.

From the files

I dug through my archives last night, prompted by family members to remember the name of the Red Sox pitcher who started the first three games I attended during the 2003 season (for the record, it was Burkett - the Sox went 2-1 in those games). But as I searched, I came across the following snippet from March 25, 2002:

the good news: i think we have a band for the benefit concert.

And indeed, we did. Three years (and what? 18, 19 shows?) later, it amuses me to think of how I felt after realizing I'd found a band willing to help out with the show.

The project rules were pretty unforgiving: Dream big, work with no initial operating budget, put together an event and make it a success. Dreaming big, however, had kicked me in the ass, as the bands I thought would be willing to help out were quite creative in their ways of saying no. My initial thought was PMB (as I'd first seen them live at a benefit concert, after all), but that required thousands of dollars that I most certainly did not have (with that no initial operating budget component). The first hints at Mayer's imminent success became apparent when I was told he didn't have a set price, but took bids for shows. And Howie's manager told me he'd check with the musician to see if he'd be up for it, but schedules didn't work out and Howie, who was still touring around in his Explorer, didn't feel up for making the trip.

Michelle mentioned Averi, the band she'd seen at the Middle East the previous fall. I'd liked the CD she bought at the show (Funny to think of "At Wit's End" that way now), and I listened to her describe the energetic, well-received vibe created by the band during live performance. But I was shy and a little hesitant, which is funny considering I'd called up major managers and stated my case with no problem. Little to offer, but you WANT to perform at this show, people - that was my basic approach. She actually emailed to see if there was interest, then passed along a phone number for me to call.

So I did - and I explained what I was trying to do and that it was really an event with which people were "helping out."

And, for only the second time during the whole organization process (the first being the venue), I heard a voice on the other end of the phone say they were willing to actually help. Really help, actually.

I still have to laugh, remembering my dance of utter glee in the upstairs hallway of our house after I hung up the phone. "I've got a BAAAND, I've got a BAAAND!" Followed shortly after by "He was so NICE!"

I was so excited.

-------------
In other news. This whole Massachusetts thing is beyond absurd. I'm making the trip again tomorrow - this time for family purposes. Easter snuck up on me completely unawares until Tuesday, when Beth asked what I'd be doing for the weekend. I didn't think we'd be having the family get-together, as my parents have just returned from basking in Florida (as I picked them up at the airport at 1:30 a.m. yesterday morning, they actually dared tell me it was almost unpleasantly humid) and my brother's in Chicago. But it turns out most of the family (sans brother) will be spending the weekend together, so I'm hitting the road again tomorrow.

Which means Massachusetts this weekend, Vermont for the next two (at the moment, anyway). Massachusetts on the 12th to see Tori, with a return several days later for two-fold Red Sox revelry. And Nathanson at Endicott the following weekend.

Anyone else think I should just move already and save my car the anguish?

A very merry unbirthday to me.

Sound of a phone dialing and ringing. Click.
T: Hello?
V: Hello brother!
T: Hello sister!
V: Where are you?
T: On the road to Chicago. You?
V: Same old same old. Pause I've got a random question for you.
T: I've a random answer.
V: What are you doing on your birthday?
T: Not sure. Why?
V: Well, I had an idea, if you wanted.
T: What's that?
V: It involves this park known as Fenway -
T: Ooh.
V: - and this, like, TEAM -
T: Uh huh...
V: - and the chance to stand on this big wall or something.
T: What?
V: You might have heard of it. It's big and green and scary-like. They call it a monster.
T: You got tickets to sit on the Green Monster on my birthday?
V: Well, I got tickets to stand on the Green Monster for your birthday.
T: Who'd be going?
V: You and me. You in?
T: That's AWESOME! YEAH! Pause How'd you get those?
V: I know people. Pause Like, uh, your father.
T: Laughter You and me at a Sox game on top of the Monster on my birthday. Aw, thanks, big sister!

Yes, friends. Sometimes it is better to give than receive.

AAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!

I don't generally do the whole freak out jump up and down at a concert announcement sort of thing. I tend to be excited, of course, but I'll keep my composure.

That said:

RILO KILEY IS PLAYING AT HIGHER GROUND THE DAY AFTER RYAN MONTBLEAU BAND PLAYS AND I AM JUST RIDICULOUSLY EXCITED!!!!!!!!!

For the record, I deleted about ten extra exclamation points. I'm THAT excited.

Look - revelrevelrevel...

I'm seriously beyond giddy about this. I'm laughing at my giddiness, I'm so excited.

Pre-Web

I realized with a start that I'd never received an email from her before.

Then again, we'd lost touch years ago, during that all-important first semester of college that shows you who you keep in touch with from home and who you don't. It wasn't that anything happened - we just wound up going on different paths and, as a result, the steady exchange of letters written between friends during the first few months of school slowly disappeared as we both adjusted into new life paths.

She was my best friend for much of junior high and high school - back when I was a country music loving teenager who, with her, practiced all the words to John Michael Montgomery's "Sold." She sat in the seat next to me during the Garth Brooks show in Albany junior year (about which my 16-year-old self wrote this - which I just found and laughed myself silly reading. My first review/gush/published love letter to a musician?). We played basketball together, some softball and otherwise just found things to do in a small town without many options. My favorite picture from high school features us in our full school-spirit regalia from a couple of weeks before graduation.

I've had brief catchups with various people I went to high school with - there are some now that I've no problem seeing and just laughing with - but to think that there's so much that occurred between back then and now...it'll be funny to catch up and see what's changed on her end.

But what a random surprise...

Aftermath.

It's official, I'm sorry to say.

I rocked too hard.

It's something you joke about, but not something that's actually supposed to HAPPEN. Just like the aches, pains and cracks that feel as if they suddenly arrived upon the day I turned 24. I joked with my friends (all of whom turned 24 before my late-born-in-November ass) about it all going downhill once one hit the big 2-4, but it turns out karma got the last laugh.

Truth be told, it's not just that I rocked too hard during the crazy Paradise dancefest Saturday night. It's more that I pilated, rocked and bowled too hard this weekend. Take all three components and look at them individually - no problem. Add them together into one weekend and I'm walking around with aching muscles two days after the fact.

Wuss? Me? Yeah, it looks that way. But I blame the gym, the band and Tom's enthusiasm about candlepin in Davis Square.

And I still maintain that the pain's worth it. I loved the pilates (admittedly it was a love/hate affair throughout the class). I unleashed my inner dancing fool at the concert. And I bowled the games of my life on Sunday (unfortunately, however, my brother got past being amazed by my ferocity and bowled the games of HIS life. Which means I lost the epic battle 2-1. Bring on the rematch).

But it needs be said.

OWWWWWW.

Prelude to an exit.

I thought about waiting in line. Then I decided not to.

Had I waited, I could have said hello. Nice job. I liked what I heard, odd as it was to hear it. The cover was amazing. I was singing the harmonies to myself. It was a little strange, hearing the catcalls. The tease still cracks me up, although I don't think that's the intent behind it. C'est la vie. Yep, in town for the weekend. Again. What can I say? I love it here. How are you doing? What's been going on?

But more likely: Hi. Nice job. Oh, you're welcome, it was good to be here. Uh, yeah, I'm well, thanks. You? That's good to hear. OK. Bye.

Awkward, awkward, awkward. Ugh.

I briefly chat with someone else. Hiya. Yeah, I'm in town for the weekend. Indeed, it was good, wasn't it? Oh, I'm doing well, thanks. How are you? Good times. OK, we're heading out. Good to see you. Bye.

The whole notion of waiting in line leaves me a little baffled these days. It makes sense if you haven't met the person before, of course. The desire to say you were impressed, to introduce yourself, to get something signed. I don't generally go out of my way to do with most artists these days, but I used to, to say thank you for the impressive performance I'd just been able to experience.

But there's only so much conversation that can take place in a venue after a set. Or before, even. And I've had that conversation too many times already. The introduction came years ago. I've chatted and discussed. I've gushed and I've been a bitch. While I don't want to seem indifferent, shy or rude, I'd rather spare us both a pointless round of chitchat at a crowded show. You can't really say anthing of particular merit when you're standing in line - and I'm more for saying something worthwhile than going through the motions.

So instead, I start to walk away, look back with a smile in case there's a break in the line and he happens to look up, and walk out the door.

"True vibration spun into a tune"

The Ryan Montbleau Band performance last night was the most fun I've had at a show in a long time. Without question. It felt almost Bacchaenal by the end, as I realized I'd been dancing for over two hours and still didn't feel like I could possibly stop. And, judging from the crowd, that I was far from the only one who seemed to feel that way.

More later.

Ah ha

Consider this a P.S. of sorts. Yesterday, I wrote:

I wasn't terribly surprised, as a result, to see someone who looked suspiciously like Les Hall (Howie's keyboardist/guitarist on the full band tours and now keyboardist for Trey's latest project). Anyone happen to know if that was him?

Today, on Higher Ground's website:

Trey Anastasio will unveil his new project Friday, April 1st at the Higher Ground in So. Burlington. Doors will open at 8:00 pm, showtime will be 9:00 pm. This will mark the first appearance of Trey's new band, featuring Peter Chwazik (bass), Les Hall (keyboards), Ray Paczkowski (keyboards) and Skeeto Valdez (drums).

I think I was riiiiight. And no, I'm not going.

Speaking of not going...my four-concert week is down to three. Ryan's being wise and resting his throat tonight, which means Higher Ground revelry has been postponed. Hope he feels better soon.

And the weekend starts...now. Later.

S.P.D.

St. Patrick's Day! My second favorite holiday! The day before a long weekend!

Good times. Happy holiday to you. Enjoy. Wear green. Listen to "Barroom Hero" and "Green Kegs and Spam" (especially the latter, as it's .peter.j.).

As for me? I'm wearing the green. I've listened to the tunes. I'm looking forward to dancing around to Ryan Montbleau tonight. I'm happy to be Irish.

Etc.
Etc.
Etc.

In other news. Ryan Adams will be at Higher Ground in April. Listen to Tom McRae. Have a great weekend (as mine starts this evening).

Yep, that's it today.

Soul Singing

It's interesting, walking into a show that should somehow be "big" or "special." Of course I look forward to any show I choose to attend, but when it's a rare opportunity or, in this case, a not-so-secret secret show, there's a little extra flutter in my stomach as the house lights finally go dark.

My spot in the fifth row of a relatively intimate club last night marked quite a difference from the last and only other time I'd seen the Black Crowes perform - River Rave at Foxboro. Thinking about it now, the two settings are about as far from each other as one could get.

I laughed good-naturedly at the sight of many concertgoers proudly clad in their Black Crowes T-shirts - I let my anti-band-performing-t-shirt stance slide for the night (I know, that I have such a stance shows my music snob side, but I can't fight it - it usually drives me nuts). The crowd was as expected, a mix of significantly older fans, boisterous college kids and the twentysomethings like myself somewhere in the middle. Everyone was excited, no one really seemed to know what to expect.

Among those in attendance, I noticed shortly before the incense was placed on stage, was Trey. Seemed appropriate enough, and he was just minding his business on the small VIP balcony above the corner of the bar. I wasn't terribly surprised, as a result, to see someone who looked suspiciously like Les Hall (Howie's keyboardist/guitarist on the full band tours and now keyboardist for Trey's latest project). Anyone happen to know if that was him?

Anyway. The Crowes came on about a half hour late, but performed for a solid two hours. My ears were ringing by the third song. Full out driving, twangy, Black Crowe-goodness rock, led by Chris, in all his eccentric glory. The man is just fascinating to watch and listen to. They focused on the fast-tempoed portions of their canon, but truth be told, it's all blending together in my mind already. I just focused on the sound and dancing along.

After a long encore break, I started to get nervous. I saw the crew set up a small amplifier, and I had a feeling I knew what was coming. I was probably one of the few in the crowd who hoped it wouldn't happen.

When the band took the stage again, Chris actually said something other than "Thank You." Shock of all shocks! But it was part of an introduction for the musician sitting in on the encore...yep. Trey.

I should interrupt my recap for a moment to explain the Trey thing. I'm not a big Phish fan. There are two songs I like, the rest I just have never clicked with. Despite growing up in Vermont, despite college in the Burlington area, the Phish thing just never happened for me. No, I didn't go to Coventry. No, I wasn't upset about it. And my main Phish experience was walking into a Cumby's during college and having Trey run into my shoulder in the doorway. He didn't say excuse me, by the way.

Despite my Phish ambivalence, I've wound up seeing him perform in various locations. I admit it, he's good. But there's this whole hushed "Trey" vibe around this area that just makes me chuckle. He's just a musician, for Christ's sake.

Anyway, back to the story. The encore was great. Trey jammed and, I should acknowledge, he was great. I've never denied that he's a brilliant musician, composer, etc. And he certainly demonstrated it. I just get irksome whenever it seems like he comes close to stealing someone else's thunder - and I've seen that occur on several occasions. Whatever.

Everyone seemed into the show throughout, but didn't let completely loose until the last song. Myself included. How can you not just have a blast and dance around when you have an extended jam performance of "Hard to Handle" performed in front of you?

Exactly.

Faux Friday

Amazing how one little thing (a whole lot of stress disappearing), coupled with a few other little things (sunshine, relatively warm temperatures, several new music suggestions thrown my way), make the hours leading up to another little thing (I'm sorry, I'm gushing, but I'm really looking forward here) dance by with the giddiness generally reserved for a Friday.

I've been in a funk - who knows, probably still am - the last few days, and I think it's because I've simply been looking at everything ahead of me with a feeling of forboding. Feels like way too much in some areas, not nearly enough in others. I don't have the balance I want - hell, I don't have a number of key things the way I want.

I was being my typical smart-ass self when Beth commented on the idea of a point of view switch (read: if you're not sure, even half the times you are sure, if I'm being serious? I'm being sarcastic. Character trait. Learn it, live it, love it). But now? I'm starting to get the hang of it. I can't just wish away the things I don't like, but I can break it down and focus on the things I do.

Fun times to be had tonight - and I believe I'm going to use the experience to kick my ass into gear with setting up the new a&e blog. Someone say "review"? Spring is approaching, admittedly slow and lethargically, but it's approaching. Also approaching are a series of fun evenings and a 2.5- or 3-day weekend jaunt in Boston (read: I'm going to get into Boston pretty early on Friday. Likely to have afternoon free. Will happily meet up with friends. Contact me). Things, when I break them down into easily managable bites, really aren't as dire as my overdramatic self can often make them out to be.

It's all good, really. And will only get better.

For the Australian visitor...

...curious as to why Friar Laurence left Juliet alone in "Romeo & Juliet." For what it's worth (I doubt s/he will return here, as I didn't provide the answers s/he sought). Think about the scenario. Why would Father Laurence have stayed with Juliet? She was supposedly dead. Only he and she knew that she was in fact only in a poison-induced coma (of sorts, naturally). Had he remained with her, had he done anything to indicate that she required company or supervision, it would have raised some form of red flag with those he and she were both attempting to dupe into thinking it had actually been suicide.

Ah, star-crossed lovers...anyway. Consider that my public service of the day.

Today marks a big day. I complete something I've been agonizing over for most of my waking hours these last several weeks. I wash my hands of it - at least, one portion of it. I take what I can get.

Following the relief of being done, I prepare for and subsequently enjoy the Black Crowes at Higher Ground. One hell of a way to celebrate, I must say. Granted, it hasn't officially been announced as the Crowes (wink wink), but hey. I'm ready to rock out with no expectations other than the fact that it'll be the closest I'll come to the sense of being at a now-classic-rock show during its heyday. Curse my parents for waiting to have me until 1980.

In other news. Adding a link on the side to GunGuys, led by the Mike Magnum over at Mike Magnum's Liquor Store and Gun Emporium. Check it, yo. M^2 is packing wit and insight along with his Glocks. We all need some satire in our lives.

A Notice

Apparently the "V travels to Massachusetts every two weeks or so" pattern is kicking right back into gear. Sign of something?

Trust me. I know.

But anyway. For now. File this under "Concert Alert" or "V's Crazy." Either or.

Matt Nathanson
Endicott College
April 23

Which means I'll be at Endicott College (amusing side note: I visited Endicott. Thought about going there. Until I realized the journalism program wasn't all that great and my campus tour involved going into a dorm room and being greeted by the tour guide's roommate, still huddling under the covers of his bed at about 11:30 a.m. Nothing against Endicott by any means, but I was laughing myself off campus) on April 23. With, as I just confirmed, my Boston-area concert partner in crime.

Matty Nay headlining. Ah, visions of "Here I Go Again" and vials of Christ's blood are floating through my head more prettily than sugarplums ever could.

Technical Difficulties

Blogger's crashing left and right for me lately.

Had the program that allows me to share my rambles actually, you know, WORKED, you would have by now bright, sparkly posts on the following topics:

- Life, death and children
- The Odinero and a plane station
- My upcoming (knock on wood) three-day weekend

But blogger's not working. So the posts are now collecting dust in some deserted portion of cyberspace.

A moment of silence, please.

More when Blogger starts cooperating...

I unabashedly adore Nick Hornby.

"Thank you, Captain Obvious," comes the cry from the regulars. And they'd be right - this is nothing new - I've long regaled Hornby's works, ever since I first discovered the film version of "High Fidelity" because there was a Belle & Sebastian reference.

So yes, I've often said I enjoy Hornby's work. It's nothing particularly new. But when you love something (in this case, an author's work), it's important to restate that from time to time. Particularly when you have something new to further support your statement.

I'm reading "Fever Pitch." I'd wanted to read it for awhile now, but was finally prompted to seek the book out upon seeing a trailer for the American-ized, Red Sox-ized film version (xoxoJimmyFallonxoxo). I found the book buried in the "Sports - Soccer" section of the bookstore on Saturday and have been devouring it since, although I've forced myself to not read it in a single sitting like I often wind up doing.

I loved "High Fidelity" (how could I not?). "About a Boy" made my 2002 flight from Albany to Salt Lake City race by far more pleasantly than any inflight movie could have. "Songbook" had Bruce Springstein, Rufus Wainwright, Ani, Ben Folds Five, Badly Drawn Boy, and Van Morrison included, to my utter glee.

But it's been "Fever Pitch" that's made me realize just why I enjoy Hornby's work so much. Of course there's the fact that he demonstrates a plain-spoken, witty sort of conversational tone to his writing - which is what I enjoy best and aspire to with my own writing. But more so? He gets me - he thinks the same screwy way that I do.

I don't have the book here with me (I forced myself to leave it at home so I actually get something accomplished today), but there's a passage in which he talks about associating important moments in his life with the corresponding football games (football of course being soccer in its proper form). He remembers details about the games that few others would remember - date, score, opponent, et al. The memories take on a split-screen perspective in his mind.

I'll have to find the quote and include it here. It's really brilliant.

I have a list of calendar dates that remain firmly planted in my mind, a list that prompts chuckles and playful eyerolls from my friends. 1.7, 2.2, 4.30, 6.18, 11.12, etc. I always associate those dates with a particular musical experience. For the past two January 7ths, I've had at least some moment when I flash back to the lightheaded, faint feeling that forced me out of Iota during a soundcheck and onto the 10-show "Mraz Miss Tour" that finally ended when I saw Jason perform in Northampton (10.9, for the record). I recently wrote about my February 2 streak, one that started with the first time I saw Howie Day perform. On June 18, I think of standing in the front row at Paradise, looking up at Howie and John Mayer as they performed in front of me. There are many others.

I'm the person who will emphatically attach significance to shows without even really realizing it until my friends laugh. "Well, this is going to be great. First time seeing Guster perform in the band's homestate!" "First time seeing Howie solo since the Dual Day Day of 2002!" Yes, I admit it. I actually said both of those.

Sure, it's a little dumb of me, but it's the way my mind works. But I often keep those thoughts to myself, by which I mean myself and maybe my two closest friends who know me well enough to guess what I'm thinking. But reading "Fever Pitch," I've burst into laughter on numerous occasions. I read several passages to Beth over the course of the weekend, prefaced with, "Sound familiar?"

She laughed and nodded each time. It was clear to her, too, that Hornby has unknowingly found in me an extraordinarily captive audience.

Hey, hey...

sitemeter
Originally uploaded by alternacoustic.

I'm not generally one for the whole "number of visits thing" when I check out the sitemeter. I'm more for trying to figure out who my "readers" are (hint, hint, comment every once in awhile, my little poppets!). But I figured this was worth noting.

10,000 may be nothing to the more-read blogs I peruse on a regular basis, but as a little blogger, I think it's pretty neat. So thanks. Kisses, hugs and the like go out to each of you.

And let's give it up to my devoted reader(s) from UMaine! You earned the distinction of being the 10,000th visitor. Alas, the prize I'd planned - six days, seven nights in Aruba - fell through. Sorry. But I hope you'll accept my thanks as a worthy, Plan B kind of prize.

In other news, let's update the list. Four (4) concerts next week. It might kill me, but I'll go out with a smile.

Wordbytes.

status check - Friday fatigued
background ambiance - The Doors, "Who Do You Love"

A certain band, known for straddling the gap between contemporary and classic rock, will play a show at Higher Ground early next week under a fake name that's not really as fake as it may sound. I've a great deal of appreciation for the band and was fortunate enough to see them perform at a festival in 2001, a year particularly important to the band's fans.

A certain writer/"blogger"/music sucker might also be seen at this show. Hmm.

Anyway. The ever brilliant and insightful Beth made a remarkable statement during an earlier-than-usual-at-my-suggestion coffee break.

No, not the approval of attending two shows for the opening acts. Although that was funny. I meant the bit about changing the point of view so it all looks rosy.

She said it in jest and we both laughed, but perhaps its necessary in order for me to maintain any semblance of enthusiasm.

So. Rosy points of view.

Original P.O.V. - I'm so damn tired and worn out and I won't get everything done next week that I need to do.
Rosy P.O.V. - It's almost the weekend and I'll have a chance to relax, recharge my batteries and then get everything finished next week, just as I always manage to do.

Original P.O.V. - I've been carrying on what, for all intensive purposes, amounts to a conversation with myself.
Rosy P.O.V. - Conversation is conversation. Whatever.

Original P.O.V. - I don't say what I want to.
Rosy P.O.V. - I'm not shy and overtly self-conscious. I'm deep. Mysterious. Or something.

Original P.O.V. - Winter is never going to end.
Rosy P.O.V. - I'm going to be dancing around in skirts, linen and sandals in no time. I've made it through months of the white stuff, what's another few weeks?

Original P.O.V. - The writing's not going well.
Rosy P.O.V. - I just need one little thing before the floodgates open up and I can't keep up with the brilliant writing that will flow from my mind onto the page.

Original P.O.V. - I want something big, crazy and exciting to happen.
Rosy P.O.V. - Something big, crazy and exciting will happen when I don't expect it to.

Original P.O.V. - I'm in a Vermont funk.
Rosy P.O.V. - I've got two, possibly three concerts to attend next week. I'll be in Boston next weekend. And I'm keeping my fingers crossed about the near future. That's all I can do right now - and I'm doing it.

Original P.O.V. - Dammit, I've got "Lala" stuck in my head and I can't get it out.
Rosy P.O.V. - OK, not much I can do about this one.

Feeling link-happy? Photos from the revels in Manchester are available for viewing pleasure at Averi's dotphoto site. One features yours truly, several friends and a groovy gent with a super bitchin scarf.

Subatomic MC

(What follows is what happens when I decide to ignore feeling annoyed/frustrated/ready to run off to Tahiti and just focus on rambling about whatever came to mind. I haven't spellchecked. Haven't even read it over to see if it makes sense.)

Remember the days when I used to animatedly discuss the newest journal entries on one "Mr. A-Z"'s website?

You know, the days way after the days when I used to cue up my three-track demo CD so the opening chords to "The Remedy" started blaring into my speakers as I prepared to step into the Metro car to get to work?

Ah, memories. Actually wasn't long ago, all things considered. The journal days, not the "Remedy" days. Those were loooooooooong ago.

But sometimes it feels like eons ago, as they were the days before the overly self-analytical series of random, almost seemingly self-indulgent series of songs that began with "Geek In the Pink."*

Rambling? Yes. Deal with it. Anyway.

I still appreciate Signor Mraz's music on a regular basis. I certainly hope his upcoming spring tour makes a stop somewhere remotely near me so I can attend and scat along with the sounds. And I still make sure to occasionally swing by his website to see if there's a new journal post to chuckle or ponder over.

Mainly because Jason gets the whole journal concept. He actually writes. Shares things, no matter how incredibly random they might be. He applies his Sedaris-like skills to whatever screwy topics he choses, regularly creating something I wind up enjoying almost more than the music itself. You get the impression that, were an email from him to wind up in your inbox, it would be long, complex trains of thought strung together by some single statement that just makes the whole thing click.

In my opinion (the only one that matters in this forum unless you choose to comment and, thus, try to contradict me), he is a writer above all else. And he rambles. And that makes me smile.

Speaking of rambles, I know, I know. I'm still rambling. Shush.

Anyway. My timing was right, as I made one of those periodic jaunts over to the site today. Lo and behold, new entry. Random as all hell. I think pertaining to a supposed rumor about how he was dating a Victoria's Secret model (I know it's rumor, I don't know what the rumor precisely is. I've given up on RKOP and just about any other message board, so I'm often a bit more out of the loop these days). But enjoyable, particularly since I can, in many respects, feel like I haven't missed a thing in my indifference-provoked absence.

The comments about the peer-sharing/Supreme Court issue were interesting, but come on, man. I know I'm a New England girl and haven't gotten as close as I might like to the lands of really good Mexican food, but still.

Can’t you see I’m too busy to be signing petitions and traveling to Washington, the worst city in the world to find a decent set of waves and/or get a burrito?

My Chipotle-craving soul gently weeped.

Then he mentioned saying something bad about Mayer and I was too busy chuckling to think of the lime and cilantro rice...

*For what it's worth, I should note that I do enjoy "GITP." I just haven't been crazy about what I've heard since...

Love letter to Blogger

Dearest of blog-doms,

I turned to you earlier this afternoon. I wanted to get the thoughts in my mind out onto the page. I was feeling blue, a bit disconnected, very listless.

I thought your post screen would serve as some semblance of an e-sanctuary where I could vent and feel better. I crafted well-written sentences that explained a great deal, in which I opened up and poured out the thoughts in my mind and heart.

Well, OK. You know me better than to believe that. But I opened up more than I usually do.

And then, as I clicked "Post," you turned your back on me and crashed. Again.

Baby, I didn't mean it. I'm sorry. I won't bitch to you again. I didn't think you'd mind.

Please forgive me.

XOXOXO,
V.

"Have you made your wish today?"

status check - Feisty
background ambiance - Badly Drawn Boy, "A Minor Incident"

I'm in a love/hate kind of mood today. Blame it on the fact that I was up before bloody daybreak. Or laugh and be amused because I was up before daybreak. Let's be honest, I don't really care either or today.

Anyway, I've wound up viewing much of the day's events as either good or bad. A series of pros and cons in my mind, worthy of either kudos or curses. A sampling:

Kudos
- Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Thank you java gods for coffee.
- Elliott Smith for "Figure 8." I wrapped the songs around me like a much-loved blanket as I drove through the cold. I always abandon the album for too long, then pick it up again and love it like a long-lost friend.
- Beth for making me laugh and sing along to her amusing renditions of songs when I got home this morning. And, later, coffee (have you noticed a trend for the day?).
- Ryan Montbleau, for giving me a reason to make sure I stopped by Pure Pop to pick up a ticket for St. Patrick's Day revels.
- Badly Drawn Boy, for "Have You Fed the Fish?" I've meant to buy the album for, well, two and a half years now. Didn't until today. A brilliantly chaotic blend of Brit-pop, classic rock and flatout insanity. Kudos on top of kudos for "You Were Right" and the Jeff Buckley shoutout. Particularly in the bootleg version that came with the album.
- High school actors, for making me laugh.

Curses
- My alarm. For going off at 5:15 a.m., 5:25 a.m. and 5:35 a.m. I hate you.
- Mother Nature for this snowy hell.
- John Mayer, for "Daughters." Particularly when I had to hear it on the radio first thing this morning.
- Beth, for getting those songs stuck in my head during the one times I didn't want them there.
- Pure Pop/Higher Ground for playing upon the CD weakness I share with so many others. Go in to buy a single ticket, walk out with music. I'm a sucker for it every damn time.

For an amusing time, try calling me tonight. I feel sleep enough now - odds are good I sound either absurdly wired, loopy or half-asleep by 9! What fun!

Red light means photo is being ta-*snap*

status check - Amused
background ambiance - Michael Jackson, "Thriller" (I explain)

Because Blogger has been acting up lately and the posts didn't work the first time I tried posting them (last week and yesterday, respectively).

I think this is absolutely brilliant. Demonstrative of a real overabundance of time on one's hands, but brilliant nevertheless.

Who knew? Apparently not I...I just reeeeally wanted to use one and never had before.

(Wow, that sounds quite perplexing if you have no idea of the context, eh? Unintentional, but amusing, so I'll keep it that way.)

Snow blows

status check - Disgruntled
background ambiance - matchbox twenty, "Long Day"

The bus starts to cross in front of you the moment you realize your brakes aren't, well, stopping your car.

First tap on the breaks, then finally press them to the floor. You can feel them trying...but the car's still MOVING...and the bus is still CROSSING...

And you start to put your hand on your gear shift to jam it into park. A slightly screwed-up transmission is better than the front of your car in the side of a bus...

And finally, right before you slam it into park, your car stumbles to a stop. Bus passes by no problem. And you have a few moments at the red light to start breathing again. Not to mention curse the snow, your car, Vermont, the fact that you woke up this morning and that you don't get snow days anymore.

I loathe thee, damn winter...

---------------
In other, non-griping news. I've been listening to a lot of matchbox twenty lately. I know, I'm as surprised as you are, as I never really listened to the band other than singing along to singles on the radio. Never had a problem with it, just never went nuts over them...but Beth let me borrow a copy of "Yourself Or Someone Like You" and I've been listening to it regularly ever since - capped with yesterday's blare-and-sing-along-while-driving "Long Day." I don't know, sometimes I think songs, even those that have been out for years, are supposed to find you at certain times. Or something.

Call it "Ryan Montbleau, Take Two." Or four, I should say, but that doesn't rhyme. Adding to my list of upcoming concerts RM's Paradise show in March. Yes, the one two days after Higher Ground. What can I say, I'm a sucker for a roadtrip. And it'll be fun to see him with my Boston concert partner in crime. Again.

And, to file under "Notes to Self", Higher Ground shows: M. Ward 4.13 (the day after Tori...hmm), Carbon Leaf 4.27.

...

status check - Random
background ambiance - Ani, "Company"

***incoherence follows***

what's the point
of all this pointless proximity
if you won't talk
take me for a walk
through a little story

he claims to wear his heart on his sleeve
but it must be some other shirt
that he often leaves at home
because i'm unable to decipher
the textures and the cut.

I've been playing around today. I've a bittersweet little story developing, one that kept me up too late last night as I reminisced. I followed my younger self through birthdays and random Wednesdays, with a stop at a summer afternoon and a slow stroll through a weekend in May. For the first time, the memories were clearly sepia-toned, with well-worn edges.

I focused on a moment's realization, the instant I knew that I could finally file away the experiences under "Complete." I can, if I choose to, forget them now, as they're captured and recanted on the page.

I won't, but now I know I have the option. Which makes for an unconventionally happy ending.

As this story ends, another remains stuck, exasperating and as wrapped up in context as before...

Letter home.

status check - amused
background ambiance - Ani, "Swing" (can't stop listening...)

To: Dad
From: V
Subject: Photos
(Attachment: Photobooth2.jpg)

Right before the top photo, we looked at each other
and said we should take a nice picture for Mom and
Dad.

After the other three, we realized at least you'd have
one picture you could look at without rolling your
eyes, wondering where you went wrong.

Love,
V

Aurgh.

status check - Frustrated
background ambiance - Beth singing "The Bones Underneath"

I hate that I wind up just saying "It's good to see you" when there's so many other things I should say and don't.

But anyway. The weekend was grand. So enjoyable, actually, that I feel like I stumbled into a three-day weekend somewhere along the way. How can one actually be able to relax a bit in Manchester, Boston and Burlington during a Friday and Saturday? Perhaps the day moved into Sunday while Beth, Tom and I were laughing in the photo booth (yes, I finally reached the photo booth. Huzzah! Photos on myspace!).

Tired? Yes, my body's dragging today, after several days of what Beth referred to as our return to collegiate living (read: packing in too much into a short span of time, fatigue be damned). But worthwhile? Yep.

Granted, I've never run a soundboard for an actual concert. But I ran one for theater musicals and "Shakespeare set to rock, Puck's a rockstar" Midsummer. So I was feeling for Tides, Meet the Day and Suddenease on Friday night. The bands did the best they could, considering that their sets turned into glorified soundchecks with a few songs at the end. Beth had never seen Tides before - I told her we'd have to make the trip down for a headlining show soon.

The four of us noticed a guy standing partway across the room from us. Michelle said he looked like Oliver Hudson. Beth, Jared Leto. Nope, I thought Jeff Buckley, with just enough Lars thrown in to make me do a doubletake.

Laughing with A. was great - that alone was worth the trip.

The sound woes ended when Averi took the stage, as the band has its own sound technician. Great performance, a lot of fun. There was a group of underage fans that stood on the house left side of the crowd screaming along every single word - it added this level of adoration to the crowd that left me amazed on several occasions. Rather surreal.

But back to the performance. Everyone stepped it up. I've really been enjoying the added complexity to Matt's drum parts in the new music, while Stuart's guitar work always leaves me more impressed. Chris was doing particularly well considering the birthday celebration on hand, while Michael was the best I've seen him for about a year, in terms of both performance and health. The newly-shorn Chad did incredibly well. His voice was right on and he, like everyone else, seemed to be having a fabulous time. I don't know, it just felt good to see him laughing and enjoying the experience. And yes, I did dig the haircut.

"This Liminal Life" appears to have disappeared for the time being, much to our chagrin, but I'm enjoying the live interpretations of the new music...although there's something that just makes me grin hearing an older tune, whether it's "Flutter" or "The Bones Underneath."

It's just such a unique experience unto itself, attending an Averi show. The music, the people, the backstory all comes together to form this inexplicable thing that I'm still trying to sort through.*

But it was fun to dance around, and sing a bit...

"Don't you wish you could take a pill and get into someone else's head?"

Yes.
------------------------

*Beth walked by during the writing of this post and laughed at the grimace on my face. "Having a hard time writing?"

"Yes. Don't know what to say."

"You're thinking too much."

Exasperated laugh. "I KNOW!"

Up, at 'em, whatever

status check - No fatigue, no coffee (???)
background ambiance - Silence

Woke up this morning, stretched out lazily and looked out the window to see sunshine glinting off the bit of ocean view this apartment provides. I felt like I'd slept in for hours...until I looked at the clock and saw that it was about 7 a.m.

Forced myself to go back to sleep. A course of action that will, more often than not, guarantee myself that I'll oversleep if I have any plans that day. Once I try telling myself that I haven't gotten enough rest, my gullible body falls for it and then some.

So then? Woke up again feeling refreshed. Stretch, look at ocean - same as before. Clock. 8:32.

Decided to just stop fighting it and wake up. Thus ignoring falling asleep at 4 a.m., the honks of backed-up traffic on Congress in the middle of the night and a nearly very unfortunate incident involving a very large truck and an unexpected right-hand turn (note: "nearly very unfortunate." perfect driving record continues). And of course the random guy walking from car to car to talk during the jam (the Bostonian version of Michael Stipe circa "Everybody Hurts"? I didn't wait around to find out).

Recap of the inaugural foray to Milly's to follow at a point when I'm actually confident in my ability to make sense. Til then, Boston...

The angel and the devil on your shoulder

status check - Conscious
background ambiance - Martin Sexton, "Caught in the Rain"

I didn't know what to expect with Martin Sexton's set last night, but was trusting the my instincts that it would be a good show.

I felt the urge to bust into a Charleston. I was impressed with the latest gadgets designed to make a solo performer sound more like a full band (more on this shortly). I sang along to the audience supplied choruses while Martin's melody rose and dipped his melodies. I laughingly sang along to "Purple Rain."

All in all? Good times.

Martin set up two microphones for his performance. One for the normal vocals, the other for the electric guitar. A vocal electric guitar, that is. I couldn't see the stage floor to note any pedals, but perhaps there was a filter or it was a special mic? Regardless, he stood at the microphone, opened his mouth - and the wail of an electric surged through the speakers. A little trippy, very cool. I was already impressed by his vocals before - he has a lovely normal singing voice, but also can contort his sound to replicate the sound of a harmonica or trumpet (reminded me of Raul Midon in that respect).

It was just quite the cool experience. And I got to hear "Way I Am." Added bonus.

But now. One more day before the absurd week comes to a close. Rewarding myself for surviving everything with Averi and Tides tonight in Manchester.

It works out well, though, because I don't want to entirely sleep away my weekend...and I've almost reached a point where I can't stop moving for fear of completely shutting down. I want to do everything I want to do and not have to worry about feeling tired...and it feels like I've reached my sixth wind. Gogogo all week long...

Please dumb blind kind sir
Lend little Miss Listless a little bit of Christmas

Methinks not.

status check - Annoyed
background ambiance - Bushwalla, "Jesus Bo Beezus"

TD Banknorth Garden.
TD Banknorth Garden.
TD Banknorth Garden.

Getting the name down so I remember it in its entirety. Because there's no way I'm going to refer to the FleetCenter building just as "the Garden."

Ever.

Exercise in memory #1

status check - Contemplative
background ambiance - DMB, "Warehouse"

1999
I think Josh was surprised when I offered to move to the main stage alone, thus letting him enjoy the end of Everclear's set. Considering the travesty my sense of navigation had already proven to be, the fact that I was willing to get lost again, just for the sake of seeing a set in its entirety, demonstrated how determined I was to finally see the band. He laughingly refused to let me wander by myself and agreed to attend the set with me.

We walked from the west stage as Everclear finished with "Local God." I sang along to the words, thrilled that the song had actually made it into the setlist. As the guitar riffs faded behind us, the sound of cheers ahead grew and, after passing the overpriced concourse booths, I saw a huge swell of people moving to the tie-dye backdrop stage.

We moved to the house left side of the crowd, walking along the series of wall petitions set up to keep us in and non-ticketholders out. Scattered groups of weary-but-drunk spectators were perched at the top of the walls - Josh thought that taking a similar approach would be our best bet for seeing anything. I agreed and we climbed a metal lattice of pipes until we were sitting on a thick, sun-warmed iron rod. Perfect timing, as the band was just taking the stage.

I watched a small figure, clad in a blue shirt, come onto the stage and started cheering along the other 150,000 or so gathered. Josh smirked at the rapt expression on my face, but I ignored his attempts at cynicism. That he was actually there to hear it all was victory enough for me - didn't need to convert him to a fan.

Hearing the violin fill the outdoor space for the first time was the key moment - I'd spent so much time hearing that raw sound piped through CD player and computer speakers over the previous year that I almost couldn't believe it was being generated live in front of me. Dave rambled and scat-spoke through most of the set, the indescipherable one-sided conversation demonstrating just how much he was feeling the Woodstock spirit. I focused on following his figure on the stage, ignoring the large projection screen to the side. I'd spent enough time seeing him on monitors - it seemed cheap to rely on television cameras when I was actually there.

Still a relative newcomer to the band, I waited anxiously to see if they'd perform "Watchtower." Naturally they did, but I was surprised to discover that I enjoyed the performance of "Ants Marching" all the more. I clasped my hands on the hot metal supporting me as I bobbed my head and sang along - and I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, that Josh was actually nodding in time to the beat as well. Although he later denied any such perceived appreciation for the music.

2001
The summer sun was starting to fade, allowing weak breezes to infiltrate the parking lot. My head ached - too much activity, too much travel during the hours that led me here. I was sure the swigs of Sour Apple Pucker consumed from the backseat of the car during the drive over hadn't helped matters. Too sweet, too sticky, too hot for June and the warm car hood on which the four of us sat.

It was be pointless to give in to the aches right now, as there was nowhere I'd be able to go and little I could do for them anyway.

As the temperature slowly dropped, we entered the stadium and found our seats. My head cleared and I laughed as I looked over the crowd, amazed that a full Foxboro Stadium could ever seem like a small crowd. Compared to Woodstock, however, it was.

The stage was flanked by futuristic Grecian columns, tubes of fabric that tapered in their centers. Michelle and I laughed when we both commented that the first thing we thought of were the absurd "funnels" that hung from our college cafeteria ceiling. As the sky flushed in shades of purple and blue, the band took the stage and lights flashed over the columns, the stage, and the band. They started with "Rapunzel" and led into "When the World Ends" - my two favorite songs off "Everyday." Michelle laughed as I grinned and began to dance along.

If I focused on the stage, I'd only follow the movement of the light show - I'd become hooked on examining the technical side of performances over the course of the previous year - so I allowed myself to watch the projection screens - laughing at Carter's infectious grin, smiling at Stefan's intense head bobs and cheering at Dave's crooked smile. I sang along with the fans around us - all seemingly more interested in letting the music serve as the soundtrack to the experience, rather than keeping their eyes on the stage.

Except for the guys who kept yelling, "PLAY SPOON!"

We ran into a friend from college in the concourse, and he raised his hands, both clutching full, foamy cups of beer, when he saw us. "HEY!!!!" He hugged us both - spilled beer on us both, but the cool liquid felt good with the summer night heat.

2002
I stared at the temperature gauge and urged it to go down. We were parked, for all intensive purposes, in the turning lane, waiting to drive down the winding road the led to the venue parking lots. My car, which had performed so brilliantly during most of the two-hour drive, seemed perilously close to overheating.

We all rolled down the windows and did what we could to cool things, but at that point, there's little to be done. A late July afternoon in upstate New York, surrounded by other, equally broiling cars. I cursed the car for not having air conditioning - then promptly apologized when the temperature gauge crept up a bit more.

We finally pulled into the entranceway and crept past the parks and picnic tables. The venue was hidden behind a good mile of recreation areas and clusters of trees - while it was a pretty drive and fine at a slow speed going in, it was going to be a bitch when we'd try to leave.

Flashing lights in the opposite lane behind me - we all turned to watch a police car escort a large, purple tour bus with tinted windows - the four of us squealed and playfully waved at the musicians we assumed were inside. Even Becca got into it, despite her reservations about the band. She'd come with us for the experience of it - and with the hopes of hearing the one Dave song she genuinely enjoyed, "Dancing Nancies." I'd spent much of the day hoping she'd be able to hear it - despite the fact that the band hadn't performed it for over a year.

After finding a parking spot and louging in the sunshine with sandwiches and drinks, we headed into the venue to find a spot on the gently inclining hill. I hadn't seen anything like this venue before - a structure at the bottom of the hill held seats, but the hill cut into the side of the building, forcing a large hole in the near wall that allowed spectators outside the actual building a view of the stage below. We were among the lawn people.

Michelle, Beth, Becca and I spread out on blankets and chatted before the show began and crowds around us stood to dance to the evening's music. I rediscovered my love for "Warehouse" early in the set and cheered loudly to the Ben & Jerry's reference before "One Sweet World." Beth and Michelle seemed into the music, but Becca's face dropped slightly each time a new song other than "Nancies" began.

After singing along to "Ants Marching," Becca said she was OK with the fact that "Nancies" wouldn't be played. I grimaced, feeling disappointed that she wasn't feeling the same sense of exhileration I was.

When the band took the stage again for the encore, Dave tuned his guitar and began plucking out notes. Becca's eyes flickered toward the stage in surprise before all four of us instinctively shrieked. He was teasing "Nancies" - Becca's face shone as she stared with delight at the projection screen, mouthing along the words.

As we waited to crawl out of the venue (car still over-heating), she said she was pretty impressed with DMB after all.

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I realized this morning, upon seeing announced DMB dates, that I haven't seen the band in nearly three years. Doesn't feel like it was that long ago, but hey, the calendar doesn't lie...

Who's up for going to a show? Boston and SPAC are both on weekends, and I'm up for it...