Dear Blogger

It's not you. It's me. Well, it's you AND it's me.

I wasn't seeking out something new, but WordPress was charming. And handsome. And he promised me ease with comments and a fun layout and an "about page" and...well...

I was signing up and writing my first post before the heady intoxication wore off. And there I was. Away from Blogger and all that I hold dear that comes with it.

The problem is that I really liked it. What started out as a possible blog fling turned into the promise of a long, nurturing relationship.

(Which can be chronicled quite snazzily through the post calendar I can use over there -- I mean...)

Blogger, I'm sorry. But it's time for you and I to part ways. And if we do it now, I hope that we can continue to be friends and share custody of our couple thousand posts.

You've been glorious, Blogger, and you'll always have a fond place in my heart.

Yours with love,
Victoria
(now of vickievictoria.wordpress.com -- update your bookmarks, get over there and say hello!)

All alive and brand new

"You know when Matt goes up to that high note at the end of 'I Saw'? The 'I swea-AH-AAAR'? Whenever I'm in my car. listening to live versions of that song, I crank it loud so I can belt out that note at the top of my lungs. Every single time. So when I'm seeing him live, I'm right there in that moment, shout-singing that note. I forget that other people are there and I wait for it every single time." - In the car, 10.24

I kind of forget that Matt Nathanson can be a rockstar.

Don't get me wrong. He should be one. He certainly deserves to be one. As far as I'm concerned, he is one.

But my version of "rockstar" pertains more to devout underground followings than a fancy light show. My rockstars are dorks more often than badass.

We scampered from the car to the front door of the venue, hurried along by the only-slightly muffled sound of "Sad Songs" audible from out back. A quick run inside, presentation of ID and a stroll through the doors into bliss.

Brightly lit, pulsing neon, Matt before a packed house of fans kind of bliss.

It took me a moment to adjust.

Matt is a rocker.

He then proceeded to play the dork. He elicted lighter waves with a full-length cover of "Don't Stop Believing" that brought singalong shrieks of delight from the typically undercover Journey fans. A "new" song (new, perhaps, to those on hand for Carbon Leaf's panflute rock) was prefaced with the interpretive reading of a romance novel cover; Matt requested that the band bust out "something porny" to back up his saucy reading voice, and it lustily obliged. Three words: I have video.

But the songs were tight as ever. The crowd loved him. And I found myself staring at the stage with that expression reserved specifically for Matt*: eyes wide to take it all in, jaw slightly dropped for both laughter and the sense of awe that washes over me at each of his shows.

By the time he approached the end of "I Saw," I was ready for it.

And I saw pictures in my head
And I swea--AAH-AAAR
I would be heavenly if baby you'd just rescue me now...
I saw pictures in my head of you...

My voice, drowned out by the sound of the rockstar's.

*Adding, of course, to the list of V Facial Expressions That Only Appear For Certain People.

Little things

A kind word can warm three months of winter.
- Japanese proverb

A small gesture lit up my face with a beaming smile and blazing red cheeks.

I knew I was about to have a great night. Syd and Patrick Thomas were beginning a set that was sure to make me smile early and often. I was going to have to regretfully look over my shoulder once more when we left early -- but I would be heading to Higher Ground and a full-band Matt Nathanson set. I would get to enjoy Matt's special blend of sweetness and raunch. I would most likely spend part of the evening singing at least one rock song from the 1980s. I would try to zip from Matt's set back to Syd and Patrick to catch the very end of their set.

Unless laryngitis were to suddenly strike all three at the same time, my enjoyable evening was guaranteed.

But I wasn't thinking about that. I was instead trying to mask my utter dorktitude and joy about a small, unsolicited gesture.

When Patrick stepped up to the microphone, he said that he was going to kick the evening off with "Metaphor." A friend really liked the song, he said with a smile, and he knew she probably had to leave early, so he wanted to play it.

"So after this, you're good to go," he said, looking at my table with a grin.

Big deal. A song. A small gesture.

But a gesture no one else would ever think to make.

That meant a lot to me.

Solicitation (updated)

Photo buffs, lend me your eyes.

I'm going to be upgrading my digital camera within the next couple of weeks, and I'm looking for suggestions as to what to check out. Basically, here's what I'm thinking:

- Looking between the $300-$400 range
- A step up from compact point-and-shoot, but nowhere near SLR territory
- Relatively user-friendly for someone still learning the ropes
- Crisp, quality shots possible in a variety of settings (from still shots to concert photography)

Suggestions? At the moment, I'm researching the Sony Cyber-shot DSC-H2, Kodak EasyShare 2710 and Canon PowerShot S3 1S -- and actively seeking input from those familiar with any/all of those cameras or others in that genre I should check out.

(***UPDATED, thus rendering the snippet immediately below said update absolutely moot, but hey: Research is fun. Am now lusting after the S3 1S. Lusting. A very dirty, hot-damn-I-can-play-with-color-replacement, ooh talk to me about optical image stabilization, get that into my hands NOW kind of lust.***)

A recap of yesterday's trip to the New Hampshire Parallelogram will come tomorrow (I hope - if not, Tuesday)...I'd give it a shot tonight, but considering the headachey drive back to my apartment and the sheepish admission to my visiting mother that the pumpkin ale was flowing quite liberally at Milly's last night (read: "Yeah, Mom, I'm a little hungover")...might be best to save it until I can tackle the roundup appropriately.

So over this intuitive thing

I'm standing on the dance floor, looking up and over at the stage when I start to feel my weight shift onto one foot.

My head starts to tilt shortly thereafter.

Next thing I know, I'm peering up at the stage with a thinly veiled expression of puzzlement on my face.

Huh.

It is a fundamentally strong performance. The instrumentation is tight. I know that I dig the material. The vocals are on, the audio levels and mix sound just about right...

And yet my instincts are nagging at me. Attempts to ignore are proving futile -- and dulling them with another pint of pumpkin ale certainly didn't work.

Something is off, and now I'm busy dividing my time between second-guessing myself and enjoying the set.

It's been a fun night, the random kind of evening that only seems to unfold at Milly's. The assemblage for this particular gathering includes more circles than usual, but it's been cool -- the friends coming together to laugh and converse are actually in the same place for the first time in at least a few months. A couple of guys with whom friends had been chatting wound up leading my friends in a blush-enducing toast "to blogs!" The New Hampshire equivalent of Turtle on "Entourage" was on the prowl, an encounter that prompted me to flip over my cladagh ring and joke with N and M about which of the boys would be game in pretending to be my boyfriend for the evening. There were warm hugs, kisses on the cheeks, introductions, playful banter and high-fives galore -- as well as a text message or two to folks that we wished could have made it out for the night.

And, true to form, the Soundguy Complex has already made itself evident, peppering TC's set with feedback and frustration, both onstage and off.

It's Milly's. It's how that place rolls and I long ago grew accustomed to it.

There are new friends, old friends, those acquaintances who happen to fall somewhere in between...and tonight a person or two to whom I am thinking of walking over to introduce myself and say hello. I hold off, however, cognizant of the potential awkwardness that could follow a "Hi, we know a bunch of the same people, I'm pretty sure we each know who the other is and we've both attended a number of these shindigs. How about I just say hello already?"

So for the moment I'm focused on feeling relaxed and content, standing with dear friends, listening to much-loved music performed by the friends I will be sure to hug at least once more before evening's end...

...and I can't shift that weight off my foot, get that little voice out of my head that's inquiring as to what precisely is wrong.

I hate that voice.

You just gotta keep on livin', man. L-I-V-I-N.

Tonight brought the infectious smile and all-consuming performance style of one Todd Carey Music Dot Com to our own little Chittenden County hideaway. A bottle of Red Stripe, a shared plate of gravy fries, and Todd kicking off his set with a cover of Teitur's "Poetry & Aeroplanes"?

Exactly, friends. Exactly.

I remarked in a phone call today that every time I've sat down to the computer over the last week and a half, the only thought running through my mind is "Jesus, I'm tired." And some point as I slept last night, my body realized that it didn't necessarily have to do everything I've been demanding of it. So when I awoke, I realized that it had all but shut down.

Nope, don't even think about keeping this pace up, child. You are out of commission today. Mmmhmm.

Think of a zombie, minus the craving for brains. That will bring you close to me, circa the daytime.

But a relatively short night out with friends and good tunes helped, and I'm now ready to tackle the weekend and all that comes with it. Todd "Anywhere But Memphis" Carey once again raised the bar of my expectations, which means he's going to have to once again improve upon himself tomorrow night.

Tomorrow, you say? Why yes, dear reader, I do say.

Here's the deal: The Dial-Up and Mr. TC will be sharing the stage with the ne'er before mentioned here (ever - click on the links) Mr. Chad Perrone and his posse of musical peeps. Milly's Tavern in Manchester, the center of the New Hampshire Parallelogram.

A Milly's show always proves memorable, one way or another, and I'm looking forward to finally imbibing in this whole pumpkin ale business while seeing familiar faces from several musical circles, all mushed into a single space.

It'll be a good time, I'll be there and you should be too. Check out CP's myspace for the details and get yourself there.

In other, decidedly less enjoyable news: the first snowfall descended today. While most of it has already melted away, I realize now that I have to sit down and chat with Mother Nature, who blatantly broke the agreement I'd made several years ago.

There shall be no snow before Victoria's birthday. Simple. Straightforward. Easy to comprehend and, frankly, not a hell of a lot to ask for. Yet she decides, with exactly two weeks to go until I ring in 26, to pull this?

We are not amused.

There are certain television shows meant for watching with certain people. "The West Wing" was seemingly intended to provide commercial commentary with my parents. "The Bachelor" was nights in D.C., sharing the couches with the flatmates after we individually abandoned our desire to look cool and gave in to the addiction. "Gilmore Girls" involves any of my closest friends, often with text messages sent back and forth from our various states of residence. "Dawson's Creek" brings to mind Chris, the one guy with cojones enough to waltz into my freshman dormroom and plunk himself down in front of the television.

"Grey's Anatomy" is a Beth show, which creates a problem. It's Thursday night, 13 minutes from an all-new episode, and Beth is out of state.

I'm taping. I'm holding out until she gets home so we can giggle and swoon appropriately, resuming our debate over who is more worthy, McDreamy or McVet (all the while looking for McSteamy to appear before the camera). It wouldn't be the same, declaring my love to George O'Malley to an otherwise empty room.

But this is going to be a test of willpower, knowing that they are right there, waiting to be seen and heard...

Seriously.

Newsflash!

We interrupt your normal Revelry reading for a special thank you to our sponsors. The last 10 days have been fueled equally -- and almost exclusively -- by the following: Coffee, Adrenaline, Sleep Deprivation, Understanding Flatmates and Friends and, last but certainly not least, Bizarre Turns of Event.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled reading.

(When I get a chance to actually write, that is...)

Awk and awe

I extended my hand with a firm grip and ready smile.

I said: "Hi there. It's great to meet you."
I thought: "Thank God you were here tonight and I was here for it."

The evening had been precisely what I'd needed - easy good time filled with laughter, dancing and clap-accented whoops. I couldn't stop smiling, from the time the vamp kicked in until that last wave from the stage.

It felt so foreign, the sensation of relaxing. It had been the first soothing span of time in a week, and I could sense the tension release from my shoulders as I raised my arms to applaud.

Rather amazing, the way a week of frustration and surreality makes you realize a need to almost retrain yourself into simply having fun again. Add to that the fact that I'm so often drawn to the heart-on-sleeve music that elicits thoughtful tears that I manage forget about the joy of laugh-until-you-cry style of performance.

Stephen Kellogg & the Sixers drove into town at just the right time. I relaxed. I felt better.

I rather felt like me again. Just dancing and singing along with friends.

I respect SK6 immensely for the way they are capable of seamlessly blending talent with a flair for the absurd. A musical play-off between kazoos and keytars. Kit's shirtless Sprinkler and "Material Girl." The water-chugging contest and "Bust a Move."

Each time the laughter peaks, a glorious three-part harmony fills the room.

And then Boots wins the movie quote contest by brilliantly delivering "You only think I guessed wrong! That's what's so funny! I switched glasses when your back was turned! Ha ha! You fool! You fell victim to one of the classic blunders! The most famous is never get involved in a land war in Asia, but only slightly less well-known is this: never go in against a Sicilian when death is on the line! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Ha ha ha -- TWO THREE FOUR!"

It proved an...interesting juxtaposition to the previous night. Mid-sized room at Higher Ground versus the tiny Radio Bean space. SK6 zaniness versus CP contemplation. Stella versus Switchback. Musicians I don't know versus friends. Full set versus a half hour.

Definitely a change in gears, transitioning from one to the other. Both excellent, but clearly Granny Smiths and tangerines.

I have to wonder if my temprament for most of the rest of the weekend would have been different, had I taken in both performances in an opposite order of appearance.

It's all speculative at this point anyway, but I have to think I would have been better suited to stand on the sidewalk, in a skirt in the cold, waiting for who knows what, had I spent the previous two hours laughing myself silly.

Instead, I found myself up to my eyes in the Awk, realizing that what I'd gone there for -- precisely what I'd come to find one night later, to feel that stress slip away -- was simply a notion fading fast.

(YouTube captures the brilliant dichotomy of this band in...Atlanta? Yeah. View both for the full effect.)

Blinded by the light

"I noticed that something was different today, but I couldn't figure out what it was."

Hair? The same. Outfit? Adorable, yes, but I've rocked it before. Lip gloss? Nothing new.

The difference was that my eyes, normally pools of limpid blue (ha) were jet black. As black as my soul.

(Fine, as dark as my sense of humor. That better?)

A visit to the optomitrist left me channeling Wes Borland and hiding in the shade of a column as Beth went to pull around the car. The liiiiiiight! Keep it awaaaaaay! Hiss! Hiss! I'm burning!

Dialated pupils: trippy.

But make for funny, demonic pictures.

Relaxing the third verse

My subconcious scares me.

VICTORIA: I have "Curbside Prophet" stuck in my head. Random? Yeah.
BETH: That IS random.
VICTORIA: Now I'm relaxing the third verse
without even rehearsing
Lacing up my Converse
and conjugating the verbs

A SHORT TIME LATER
VICTORIA: I KNOW WHY IT'S IN MY HEAD. I'm rather frightened.
BETH: laughing And what anniversary is this?
VICTORIA: October 9, 2003. First time I saw Jason Mraz perform a full set.
BETH: I'm not going to lie, your memory kind of frightens me.
VICTORIA: How did my subconcious KNOW that? That frightens me, too.

Say it ain't so, Joe

I stage managed my college theater department's production of "A Midsummer Night's Dream" during the fall semester of my junior year. It was a quasi-modern, stylized production of the play, with techno music, a seemingly infinite number of stage cues and our department's first experience with moving lights.

They were the best of times...yeah, the worst, too. I can look back at the production and grin, almost miss it, but recognize that I was a highly wound bundle of stress for a good three months.

On opening night, the run went well and we were all estatic. As I oversaw the equipment being broken down for the night, the director approached me with notes about what to work on for the next night.

It involved changing some of the cues.

I looked at him -- a New York-based artist in town on a guest director position -- and kindly but firmly informed him that his part of the creative process had come to a close.

"We're performing before audiences now. No changes," I told him. "Trust the production."

I offer that to segue into Yankees baseball. Once again, the pinstripes were knocked out of postseason play in the first round. Once again, I was gleeful (if my team can't be in the playoffs, I wanted to watch the Yankees lose).

But today, the news that Joe Torre would be either fired or expected to quit infuriated me. Sure, as a Sox fan, I would love to see the Torre dynasty fall; as a baseball fan, I have to protest such an asinine move.

I have issues with the Yankees organization. I acknowledge that such distain comes primarily from the fact that I have been bred to dislike them.

I have qualms with specific players, although I again acquiesce. They are athletic dynamos. But...yeah. There's always a but when it comes to the Yankees.

Jeter is one hell of a shortstop, but he radiates icy composure when I see him play, not the heart-sweat-fire intensity I look for in a player. A-Rod demonstrated in the 2004 ALCS that he cheats and is a crybaby, two qualities I simply can't condone. Giambi - steroids. Damon lied.

The one member of the organization I can honestly say I respect -- I'd almost go so far as to say LIKE is Joe Torre. A lot.

The man is talented, and he's classy, which earns big points with me. He demurs when given chances to bash other teams, players or managers, even as the man probably most in position to make such digs.

He's also spent years answering to the will of a man who really might be one of the world's most ridiculous, expectant, obnoxious bosses. He could have left a couple of years ago - thought about it - but stuck around because he was told that things would get better, in terms of dealing with the man upstairs.

I know what you're saying...but what about the playoffs?

Let's look at the math, much of which was laid out today by Boston's moptop snarkster, Dan Shaugnessy. The Yankees are 0-6 in championships over the last six years. The biggest choke in baseball history back in '04, followed by two first-round eliminations (tee hee -- sorry, couldn't help myself).

But when does the responsibility fall on the players out there on the field, in the lineup? When a team simply does not perform, what can a manager do to get them to flip the switch?

Here's the real situation, gang: The Yankees have earned, what, nine straight East Division titles? Since Torre's come on board, the Yankees have been consistently the team to beat in the AL.

The payroll helps, of course, but I believe it's because Torre is capable of taking superstars and making them conform within a team dynamic. Talk to any manager about how that works out -- hell, talk to Tito about Manny.

He prepped the team throughout the regular season. Worked out the kinks, encountered the hiccups that come along the way, created a cast most condusive to delivering.

I have a hard time blaming him for a cast that knew all their lines during dress rehearsal, but choked on opening night.

If his players can't step up and realize the importance of post-season play, what is Torre supposed to do?

The director can't take a spot beneath the spotlight.

My parents surprised me this week with an offer for a lunch getaway and a bag of cider donuts from the autumnal version of Shangri-La. As I halfheartedly prepared to resume my normal afternoon activities, all three of us were looking for reasons to delay the final rounds of hugs and goodbyes.

"Hey, you'd made reference to seeing Tom Petty in Texas, and we saw the photos. But how did he do? What was it like in the...photo pit, right?" God bless my mother. I'd completely forgotten that this was my first face-to-face encounters with the folks since Austin; my telephoned anecdotes had all been quick bursts, not in-depth explanations.

The white paper bag of fall's finest baked items were temporarily set aside atop my parents' car. I needed to talk with both hands.

You know when something big is taking place, but you have to focus on the series of small tasks in order to get the job done?

That was Tom Petty's set. If I were to take it all in, I would have been overwhelmed before the performance even began. I had the roar of at least 50,000 people hitting me in the back as I stood among professional photographers, each seemingly armed with lenses longer than my forearm. The two men who had been overseeing security in the photo pit all weekend were shouting over the cheers, telling us that we would have to clear out of the pit if people in the crowd -- some of whom had been standing in the sunshine and heat for more than eight hours -- started to require medical care. Apparently, the crowd began to drop like flies during the last set at Lollapalooza, and they were worried that this would be the same kind of situation.

We were all supposed to take seats along the metal benches that were built into the crowd barriers. We had to wait there until the band took the stage; we weren't allowed to approach the stage until we saw Tom. Imagine a slew of photographers playing musical chairs, trying to get a seat as close as they could. Somehow, I wound up with a seat immediately to the right -- and I'm talking about maybe a foot and a half -- of the microphone.

So we're waiting, the crowd is chanting (and some photographers are joining in), and I'm busy trying to keep my energy contained by checking my battery, chatting with another photographer who tells me he shot off 500 frames during The Flaming Lips. I'd been psyched to get 50 shots, some of which were blurred. The difference between a point-and-shoot and the real thing. Yeah.

The lights go down and the crowd is whipped into more of a frenzy than I've experienced live. I'm craning my neck, trying to look up onto the stage and off to the stage right side...and then I see the band walking out. A moment later, I see the light fall on the blond hair. We've already stood up by this point, and now we walk up to get the best spots each of us can get.

I'm pointing my camera up, and Tom Petty is right there in the frame. I start taking photographs and then it hits me that there is absolutely no one - nothing but a level of stage - between me and Tom Petty. Someone I never even thought I'd see live is right in front of me, smiling out over my head at the thousands upon thousands of people who are screaming as if Jesus Christ had taken the stage.

When the band starts playing, I'm trying to get shots AND groove at the same time. I'm not the only one. Lots of the photographers are enjoying the vantage point. The band is tight and, were there anybody in the crowd not into Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers, they would have been excited simply feeding off of the crowd's energy. The singalongs are intense -- his voice is drowned out by the audience and he appears to be absolutely loving it.

It was insane. Unbelievable. This huge spectacle of light and sound and lenses, and then just me, fully aware of the fact that if I don't focus on working with the light and getting these shots, my head really might explode from the utter shock of it all.

But then my camera's battery is dying, so I get out of the pit and meet up with Michelle. We had a good spot already picked out, right near where the exit to the photo pit, so it was relatively easy to reach her. We're dancing like mad, along with the rest of the people in our area, when we start to see the lightning flickering in the distance.

We're hoping that the storm will bypass us, but soon the wind is picking up, whipping the band members' hair as they continue to play. It adds to the weird, crazy nature of the experience -- kind of like that time I saw Grace Potter in Boston and it felt as if she was channeling nature, you know? It makes them look all the more like rock stars.

The rain starts slowly, a few drops here and there. All of a sudden, drops become drizzle, which morphs into a light shower. The band plays as long as they can, before the water threatens to ruin the equipment and pose a safety hazard. But during those two songs when they kept playing? It felt almost Dionysian -- everyone just frolicking in the storm.

Tom promised everyone that the band would be back, but they hid out back as the rains really started to come down. It was cold! We just laughed and looked up and whooped about the fact that this was happening. How was this happening? How were we here? For this?

Ultimately, the band came back and we continued to rock out and be amazed. There were a lot of the hits, as to be expected, but I didn't expect "Refugee" to be a highlight. Huh. Anyway, then the band covers Van's "Mystic Eyes" and I am just so damn excited that I jump up and down with delight. Michelle laughs at me, of course, then joins in the rockout.

And then it was over.

My parents are grinning, as I've been jumping around, providing near interpretive dance of the experience. I laugh at myself, fix my hair and shrug my shoulders.

"So yeah. It was cool. Yep."

Yawn.

Bloggers all over are in a twitter about the fact that OMG! Clear Channel posted a list of band prices for private shows! Hot damn, I so wanna have Death Cab play at my birthday parteeeeeee! LOL!

Yeah. And?

Guys and dolls, this list has been out there for a nice long time. To the point that the most surprise registered with me was that the price for Jason Mraz's onstage presence had dropped and how much Clap Your Hands Say Yeah!'s price has increased. Well no, actually, neither were surprises at all, but hey.

This has been, for at least a couple of years now, a good way to measure the mainstream popularity of an artist. For example, the aforementioned Mraz used to command a higher total (I'd include the figure, but I can't recall it), with the specification that the cost covered the entire show, production and all. Bands such as Rilo Kiley are now costing more, because people listened to "More Adventurous," realized (finally) that the band didn't suck and started clamoring for live gigs.

It's simply that no one knew it was there. Except for, of course, college SA officials, venue bookers and tend-to-just-be-curious folks such as myself.

You know. A lot of people.

Why is everyone flipping out?

Seriously. I'm curious. It's how I roll.

Only 84 to go.

I know a young guy that became hooked on the Red Sox during the 2004 season.

No, he wasn't one of Those Fans, the ones that jumped on the bandwagon to wave new Sox hats during the victory parade. C had been a youngster without prior proper introduction to the hometown team. 2004 provided his first trip to Fenway - relatively early in the season - first chance to gobble up statistics and the first opportunity fall in love with a baseball team.

He got lucky. He spent a season getting to know a baseball team. That team won the World Series on what amounted to his first try. As if the fates weren't smiling down upon him enough, Game 4 fell on his birthday.

We all laughed about it at the time, the way he would one day get a dose of reality and learn the other side of the team he loves. He was going to have to realize what it's really like to be a Red Sox fan.

And here we are.

Yesterday was my third consecutive "first Monday in October" spent in Massachusetts, the first time in those three years that I didn't stand in line for a seat at Fenway Park. I thought in June that the day's events were set in stone -- I attend Rally Monday once again, my baseball team off on a post-season quest, visible through live video feeds on the big screen. I'd have a towel to wave, Jerry and Don would be sitting atop the Red Sox dugout and Larry Lucchino would be pissing me off with his smarmy "look, I'm an approachable guy" shtick.

I spent my day elsewhere. The season over, ended a few innings early on account of rain, a few weeks early on account of team implosion.

Interesting, really. There's a lot of discussion about when things started to go wrong and when they officially took a turn toward disaster.

Many point their fingers at either A) the Yankees series or B) the Blackbird Game as the latter. In a season that left fans searching for silver linings, saying that one was at the Aug. 1 game when rock bottom became visible signifies grasping at straws.

It wasn't pretty, but I stuck around until the end of that game, man. I sung "Sweet Caroline." I kept on cheering. I rally-capped. I wasn't one of those that gave up and left AT THE TOP OF EIGHT (Ahem).

You take what you can get.

A few months ago, I remarked on a team that was leading the AL East by four games, had gone 12-0 with 16 straight error-less games. "Two ten-win pitchers, stellar defensive play and run support. Even when Wakefield takes the mound," I wrote before I described the feeling such a team evoked.

"I almost can't enjoy it. ... I still instinctively hold my breath when a ball is hit to shortstop. I half expect simple throws to first to sail wide. I worry that the throw from the outfield will miss the cutoff man. Now? I'm worry about when that's going to happen. We already had our magical season."

Something had to go wrong. We'd been trained to expect it. And after the All-Star break, they delivered.

EVERYTHING went wrong. The fairytale notion of a twenty year Sox/Mets reunion fell to the wayside as the team slowly staggered over to the disabled list, Tito began coughing up blood and Theo's gleaming veneer started to tarnish.

The blackbird tried to steal third base; the Red Sox dragged themselves to third place.

So now I wait for next year. I think of the amazing games I witnessed, and I grimace over the painful games I wanted to ignore. I prepare to miss Dirt-Dog Nixon in right field, I keep my fingers crossed for Loretta and Lowell. I say my goodbyes to Papa Jack and Dave Wallace, waiting to hear about who else is heading out. I roll my eyes at any word of Manny, and I start to root for Minnesota to take the Series.

And I make a note to check in with the youngster, see how he's holding up and officially welcome him into the fold.

For the sake of clarification

Fun times at Skybar in Somerville on Saturday night.

The Official Joe Feloni Sendoff Extravaganza featured a lineup of Skybar standouts -- Jen Murdza, Jude Nemo, Cahill, Tommy Dempsey and Tides -- gathered to say thank you to Feloni, whose myspace suggests is leaving the night-to-night club business to focus on his own creative endeavors, including his music.

It was a musical roast, in that everyone good-naturedly teased the guy and then invited him on stage to jam during their sets.

Must admit that my presence at the show had more to do with the headliner than the man of the hour, as I've met Joe exactly once -- and that was only a couple of weeks ago. But hey, I was there, I was cheering and then I was happily taking in the sounds coming from Tides.

But shortly before that set* began, M provided a terrifying thought.

"If a child was born the day you met Andrew, he or she would be able to legally drink by now."

What the hell???

Amazing, how a reference to alcohol will make me realize my age. My jaw dropped, I started laughing and, later, passed along the newsflash to Andrew, who responded similarly.

(Side note: it's nice to have maintained ties to someone who's known you since you were five. I believe he's one of the only people, family aside, with whom I still have that connection, even on a very periphery sort of way.)

But during my drive last night, I did the math again and realized that that little factoid wasn't accurate.

That child would be 20 this year. Which means that he or she isn't quite yet strolling into bars with proper ID.

That said, he or she will surely be out tonight, doing keg stands at a frat party.

I'm so proud.

*I've always found Tides dynamic and engaging, but Saturday's set kicked things up a few notches, much to my delight. The new material presented is tight, filled with strong hooks and more of that "You can tell we all dig U2, but we're branching off in our own direction of pop rock" style the band has honed over the last couple of years. It's the same sound I've come to enjoy, but it felt as if the band has matured infinitely over the latest recording process.

Insert appropriate animated fish pun here

In honor of NEMO and my normal, Massachusetts-centric tendancies, I will be among those in town this weekend, partaking in some live music and otherwise digging the Boston vibe.

For those in the area, may I recommend a couple of events? I'll be at some, I won't be at others (and, truth be told, I've yet to decide into which category most will fall), but all are worth checking out.

Friday
Todd Carey - 3 p.m., Boston Center for the Arts (Cyclorama): Todd is one of those musicians who just loses himself in the joy of performing. A singer-songwriter channeling the blues, Todd also happens to be talented, charismatic and a hell of a nice guy. I'm looking forward to seeing him in full-band, back-to-back performances in October (Oct. 20 in Burlington, Oct. 21 in Manchester, N.H., opening for Chad Perrone). Try listening to him perform "Voodoo Child" and not tap your feet in time by song's end.

Pete Kilpatrick - 4 p.m., Boston Center for the Arts (Cyclorama): Start inside for Todd, run outside to catch Pete. Fun, funky vibe that I wish I could expience live more often.

Emilia Dahlin - 9 p.m., Toad: I've only seen her perform once - at the Williston NEMO singer-songwriter competition, but when she opened her voice, I sat up straighter in my chair, then leaned forward. A sprite of a girl with a big voice and Ani DiFranco-reminiscent straightforward style. "God Machine" was played constantly after I caught her three-song set.

Saturday

The Long Winters - Harpers Ferry: Have I mentioned lately that I love The Long Winters? Oh wait. I have? Whew. OK, good. If you haven't seen the band live, you really should.

Grace Potter & the Nocturnals - Paradise: Viva la Vermont!

Heath Brandon/Tim Blane - Club Passim: Two talented singer-songwriter men I've never seen live, but have wanted to for quite some time. Won't make it to this show, but you should go instead and let me know how it goes.

Meika Pauley - Lizard Lounge: Meika has a ballsy, husky-voiced approach to music that I love; she tends to leave an audience engrossed in the sound when you see her live. Plus, if you act up, she has a song that talks about beating people in the head with her guitar. Hello. Awesome.

Jason Myles Goss - BCftA Cyclorama: Earnest, talented, on the rise. Catch the singer-songwriter now.

In non-NEMO-related performance (and the one that I believe I will be attending tomorrow night): a band of five guys (and friends of mine) are going to be taking the stage at an undisclosed location. Check out the band's myspace to get the info or inquire.

Now seen in a two-hour block on ABCFamily

I'm pleased to report that Revelry today joined the ranks of a club that includes "Gilmore Girls," "Friends," and "Home Improvement," among others. This blog will soon be translated into French, Italian and German, with posts from three years ago reaching readers abroad as if I'd written them yesterday.

That's right.
Well, no, that's actually wrong.

But Revelry is now in syndication, and I believe that to be rather neat.

Quick greetings to those who have made their way here after becoming link-happy over at Outlet, the Lowell-based creative webzine/entity that has begun to feature excerpts from this here blog (insert thanks to the Outlet peeps - and Robbie - here).

Welcome. Please feel free to stick around and say hello.

An excerpt

I found the following in one of my notebooks this evening. I had forgotten the act of writing it two weeks ago. That, friends, is what happens when one writes before 7 a.m.

6:25 a.m. - Logan runway

Fine. I understand the notion of the War on Terror. But I still have to ask: what does the War on Terror have to do with my Mimosa lip gloss? Why did I have to throw away sheer orange-tinted joy? Mimosas are friendly, neutral. As are my lips.

The sky is pink, and the airport windows show the reflection of sunlight glinting off my plane. It was dark when we arrived here; I have slowly watched the sun rise on my first day of this adventure.

I have no idea of where the hell I am supposed to plug in my headphones.

It threatens.

I prepare to fight it, but each time I muster up the energy, a quick sneeze knocks me down and mustering must begin anew.

The first cold of the season. It approaches with careless disregard of the fact that the season has yet to arrive.

If the tips of the leaves haven't begun to crisp into autumn reds and ambers, I should not be turning to the NyQuil.

Not yet.

I know that a combination of elements are starting to affect me, but I can't discern between factor or result. Tossing and turning at night results in pale skin and a floaty head. But the pale skin leads to chilly hands. The chilly hands lead to feeling cold outside. The cold outside leads to sneezing. The sneezes lead to a desire to curl up under blankets. The desire to curl up under blankets leads to tossing and turning at night.

The cycle spins on and on.

I continue to sneeze.

Preparing for battle

Those of you who know me know well that I'm not exactly what one would call "a morning person."

I stay up late. Not necessarily of a desire to burn the midnight oil, it's simply the way my body works. Late to bed, (ideally) late to rise makes a Victoria healthy and at least tolerable in the a.m. hours.

On a related note, I do not well handle being abruptly woken up.

That said, I have been awoken thrice in three days by the carpentry crew renovating the house in which I live. With shouting, blaring radio or, in Monday's case, the sound of what I still maintain was a schoolbus being split in two by a chainsaw.

I haven't handled it particularly well, but much better than I'd imagined. Save a terse introduction to the carpentry crew on Monday morning, during which I can neither confirm nor deny that my eyes glowed with the fires of hell, I've kept my mouth shut.

Angry? Yes. Accomodating? As much as I could be.

This morning, I tried to wake up early (early for me is shortly after 8 a.m. - no need to comment on how I'm lazy, thank you). But they still beat me to it. Right around 8 a.m., hammers start pounding, shouts begin and the radio kicks in.

Beth was in the apartment to see my rage, and she kept me in check, which in turn meant that I snapped at her and stormed off to my shower, nearly in tears, with a seething "Well, YOU haven't been awoken by this EVERY DAY THIS WEEK. I HAVE."

But she kept me from storming outside and I later apologized.

As I prepared to get into my car, much earlier than I normally do, one of the crew members approached me. The bright and shiny yellow truck in which they came was parked behind mine in the driveway (of course). "You want me to move this so you can get out?"

I smiled. "Please. And I was curious. What time do you guys plan on being here in the mornings? My hours are really different than yours, and I'm trying to be accommodating by waking up before you get here, but the last three days I've been woken up with some really loud noises coming from you guys. The walls in this house are thin and sound carries. I felt badly about snapping at one of you guys on Monday and I don't want to be the bitch tenant, but I don't at all handle well being woken up, particularly by such loud noise. I want to work with you guys, you know what I mean?"

He smiled back. "I'm really sorry about that. We're trying to work as fast as we can. We usually start at 8. And we're almost done with most of the heavy stuff on this side of the house."

"That's great, but my bedroom is on the other side, so I'm worried. But hey. If I'm awake at 7:30, you won't be here yet? I'd just hate to snap at you when it's that I haven't had my coffee yet."

He laughed. "What if I bring you coffee?"

"You might be my new best friend."

The conversation continued briefly and brilliantly. I felt infinitely better and we were on good terms as he opened the door to the truck and prepared to move it.

A call from the roof.

"What are you doing?"

He looked up. "Moving the truck so she can get out."

"She has plenty of room."

"She's nervous."

"She has plenty of room."

I stared back and forth. Are you serious?

"She's nervous about it."

The call from the roof turned surly. "So move her car for her."

"I'm just going to back into the lawn. You saying you don't want me moving your truck?"

Niceness is one thing. Being given a hard time in my own driveway was too much.

"Just move THE DAMN TRUCK!" I shouted before I jumped into my car. Beth, her eyes wide in surprise at the exchange, climbed into the passenger side. The one nice member of the crew moved the truck so we could leave, and I resisted the urge to hit the ladder with which the asshole crew member had climbed the roof.

"Ooooooh, I can't believe he said that!" I said as I turned onto the street and prepared to properly begin my day. "I can't WAIT for tomorrow."

Anyone have any blue face paint handy? I'm going to have to end up going "Braveheart" on these guys.

A close encounter

***NOTE: What follows is the exception to the norm - the description of an encounter with a music type. I've tended to keep these from the blog because 1) they don't tend to be particularly interesting, 2) I don't like dropping names, particularly when I've hardly the right to even consider dropping and 3) these encounters, like those with non-celebrities and music types, often end with me looking like a dork. I don't get starstruck (at least not most of the time) - I just happen to make an ass of myself.

That said, this one amused me.

SCENE - EXT. ZILKER PARK. AFTERNOON. FRIDAY.

An outdoor stage, with a waist-high barricade separating audience from stage. The barriers extend beyond the house right side of the stage, to a small stopgap armed by a festival volunteer. Were one to enter this space, one could move directly to her left to reach the photo pit or turn to the right and move to a VIP/artist area.

VICTORIA stands near the stopgap. She holds a camera in her left hand, her arms crossed lazily over the barrier. A messenger bag of sorts dangles across her frame. She is waiting, attempting to appear nonchalant, before she enters the photopit.

She looks to her immediate left, half-startled to see a tall, lean man standing next to her. He is wearing a blue plaid button down shirt, with slightly reddish-brown hair and a grizzled beard. He looks at her with wide eyes.

VICTORIA: Thinking to herself Holy hell, it's Ray LaMontagne.
RAY LAMONTAGNE: Seemingly thinking to himself I think she recognized me. Please have not recognized me.

VICTORIA and RAY LAMONTAGNE look at each other for a moment. The absolutes in this situation are clear. She knows who he is. He knows that she knows who he is. She has a PHOTO band around the wrist closest to him, and she is holding a camera. She knows that he is notorious for social awkwardness. He knows that he really, REALLY does not want to carry on a conversation with a stranger. VICTORIA and RAY LAMONTAGNE continue to acknowledge each other.

VICTORIA: Thinking to herself Part of me thinks I should say hello, but I'm scared that he'll run off or snap at me or refuse to play his set later.
RAY LAMONTAGNE: Thinking to himself Please do not say hello to me. I don't know you.
VICTORIA: To herself I'm not going to say anything. I'll just nod. That's acceptable, right? Nods to RAY LAMONTAGNE
RAY LAMONTAGNE: To himself She's not saying anything. Nods to VICTORIA
VICTORIA: To herself Whew. Looks back at stage
RAY LAMONTAGNE: To himself Whew. Looks at fesvial volunteer. Volunteer moves to allow RAY LAMONTAGNE access to artist area. He proceeds behind a sheer tarp acting as a wall.

VICTORIA follows RAY LAMONTAGNE, but continues on to photo pit to take pictures of MATT NATHANSON's set.

A SHORT TIME LATER
VICTORIA is moving through crowd, when she feels a sudden grip on her arm. She turns, sees A, an old acquaintance from Boston. VICTORIA and A hug.

A: What are YOU DOING HERE!
VICTORIA: I could ask the same of you! How are you?
A: I'm great, I'm great. Guess who I just met a bit ago.
VICTORIA: Who?
A: Ray LaMontagne.
VICTORIA: Oh God, I was standing by him. I refused to say anything. Didn't want to scare him off.
A: I had to.
VICTORIA: And?
A: The most awkward encounter ever.
VICTORIA: Yep. That sounds about right.

Sometimes you simply can't be where you want to be. But that doesn't stop you from trying to help other people get to where you want to go.

Victoria: Say that in the original script for "Garden State," Natalie Portman was supposed to tell Zach Braff that listening to the Ryan Montbleau Band would change his life. Unfortunately, Zach couldn't get permission to use that band, so he went with The Shins instead.
Nicole: WHAT?!? Really?
V: No, blatant lie. But it sounds good, doesn't it?
N: laughing to the point of gasping cackle I completely believed you.
V: And if you did, you know that he will. Use it. Get him there.
N: Gasping cackles
V: And if that doesn't work, tell him that I'll shiv him if he doesn't go. And we're not talking about a pleasant shivving.
N: No batting his eyes to get out of it.
V: No. He will be incapable of enjoying the process of shiv.

There's a moment

There's a moment in which you look over to your phone.

Why not?

A simple call. A hello upon pickup, perhaps a message left at the beep.

Hey you, it's me. I was just thinking of you and thought I'd call to say hello. So hi. Give me a call sometime. I miss you.

But what is it really that's missed?

You're actually thinking of what might have been missed. What maybe, given a different location or turn of events, could have given you reason to miss.

You can't miss him - you've only have had a periphery glimpse of who he is.

But you like to think that might have mattered. If only. Maybe. Perhaps.

You look over to the phone, your head filled with idealized notions of the conversation that might unfold. The hope that saying "I miss you" will be lead to a "Hey, I miss you too. I'm glad you called."

There's a moment. But you remember the other times that moment has come, when you seized it and were left with arched eyebrows or a frustrated click of the phone.

You don't miss him. You truly don't. You miss the idea of feeling as if you might wind up with reason to miss.

You wait for the moment to pass. You keep your hands far away from the phone.

The Roundup

I'd waited to see if this would make the DU site -- as of yet, it hasn't. But with a desire to wrap things up, I thought it important to get this out there.

Although I'm sure I'll be offering little insights and quips about the experience that was ACL in times to come, I present to you what was my final roundup whilst officially writing about the Austin City Limits Music Festival. Written on Tuesday, published, well, now...

Everyone reaclimated post-ACL?

Yeah, me neither.

I spent a portion of my plane ride back east yesterday (the portions in which I wasn't watching a marathon of "Blow Out") sifting through my notes and thoughts about the weekend. ACL had already started to become a jumble of frenzied, sweaty events, capped Sunday night with a set by Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers accented with winds and a storm. People were left either scurrying for ponchos or dancing and whooping in the rain.

It seemed rather fitting that a girl waiting out the set delay looked up with a silly, slightly drunk grin on her face.

"It's RAINING!" she said. "I live here. IT DOESN'T RAIN. What IS THIS?"

Simple answer: it's ACL.

Here are eleven aspects of the festival that continue to stand out for me. They are listed in no particular order other than that in which they come to me -- and in the shadows linger countless other moments.

- Cat Power & the Memphis Rhythm Band (Friday): You know that at least 70 percent of the crowd gathered at the AT&T Blue Room stage was wondering whether Chan Marshall would take the stage and perform a full set; just as uncertain was what her temperament would be for any performance that would take place. The songstress dazzled with a smooth set that, from my spot lying in the shade to the side of the stage, hinted at languid playfulness with a tease of Gnarls Barkley's "Crazy" (this came shortly after the original version was performed at the other end of the park). The buzz about Cat Power often refers more to Marshall's demeanor than the music itself, which makes it a dicey venture for an audience member. For the ACL crowd, however, she channeled Friday's heat and gave the crowd reason to pause and appreciate.

- Sylvia St. James and The Gospel Stars/Patrice Pike (Sunday): In each case, I was heading elsewhere when a strong female voice made me stop, turn and veer over to her stage. Sylvia St. James, decked out from hat to toe in white, wailed away within the Washington Mutual stage tent, delivering an electric performance that prompted audience members to stand up, hands waving, legs pumping. Over at the Austin Ventures stage, hometown gal Patrice Pike's rocker girl vocals captivated, making one reconsider one's vow to never watch a reality television show hosted by Brooke Burke.

- Matt Nathanson (Friday): I've loved me some Matt for a long time now, whether the singer-songwriter is operating solo or with band. But with a new album on the way and good word starting to spread, I was looking forward to seeing how the Austin crowd responded to his full-band performance at the Austin Ventures stage. I was pulled away early (so disappointed that I missed "Detroit Waves"), but the portion of the set I saw indicated that this guy could finally get the recognition he's deserved for years. A crazy, sweetly raunchy and fascinating performer, Nathanson simply made me grin like a fool. If the photos posted on Perez Hilton are of any indication, he made Matthew McConaughey smile like mad as well.

- John Mayer (Friday): Can we please just forget about "Your Body Is a Wonderland" and focus on the fact that Mayer has finally begun to fuse the sensitive singer-songwriter thing with sizzling blues guitar chops? Listen up, cynics: I was right there with you until Friday night's set at the AMD stage. But now know that it's now perfectly acceptable to own up to liking John Mayer. Thank you.
P.S. If I hear one more thing about the aforementioned "Wonderland" having been inspired by Jennifer Love Hewitt, I may be forced to shiv someone. It wasn't. Move on.

- Van Morrison/Willie Nelson (Friday, Saturday): Seeing these guys perform proved just why they are the living legends that they are. They've still got it and they still know how to make a crowd go wild. I hope that the younger crowd was taking notes so we can look forward to performances like this in a few decades. Even if Van or Willie weren't audience members' particular style of choice, concertgoers were still making sure to catch the sets. If nothing else, it was all about being able ot say, "I saw these guys perform."
I find that awfully telling. Free Willie!

- The Stills (Sunday): I gushed like a dopey fan on Sunday, so you know I dug the set. What I didn't mention is the excitement that radiated from the AT&T stage during the Montreal band's performance slot. The band members seemed genuinely fuelled by the crowd and the festival as they ripped through their set, which heavily featured songs off the 2003 "Logic Will Break Your Heart." Tim Fletcher dedicated one song to Austin sushi, describing the way the band was treated to a free meal at a sushi bar over the weekend because someone at the restaurant dug the band. In a time of celebrity freebies galore, hearing a musician sound genuinely psyched about such a gesture was pretty unexpected. Dig it.

- Ben Kweller (Saturday): It was one of the most discussed parts of the weekend. Ben takes stage. Ben's nose bleeds. Ben puts tampon up nose. Nose still bleeds. Ben keeps playing. Guitar gets bloody, keyboard follows.Ben is forced to leave stage and splatter of blood behind. Alternately awesome and gag-worthy at the time, true. But I know I spent a portion of the evening thereafter hoping the Texas-raised, Brooklyn-based musician was, you know, actually OK.

Turns out that he was, which means audience members can continue to discuss how badass it was of the guy to push his body as far as it would go for the sake of the show. It should be noted that the songs Kweller and his band did perform during the shortened set were tight and polished. If a set is that good during a bloodbath, just think of how it could be when no bodily harm is involved.

- KT Tunstall (Sunday): The girl can loop tracks like a pro, but can laugh at herself when little technical difficulties do pop up. The small sprite of a woman walked onto the large AT&T stage and kicked the mid-afternoon energy up a notch, seemingly with ease. Charming the crowd, she touched upon many of the songs from "Eye to the Telescope," making material that comes off as decent when recorded sparkle on stage.

- Iron & Wine (Saturday): I'm actually considering digging out my copy of "The Creek Drank the Cradle" to give it another listen. Actually, maybe not. I think I'll give a different album a shot, as Iron & Wine surprised the hell out of me with a lively performance that belied the image of overtly self-engrossed, whispered folk. Standout: "Upward Over the Mountain."

- The Flaming Lips (Sunday): I still don't know what the hell that performance was. I suppose that outs me as a first-time Lips concertgoer. Dizzied by the sensory overload, I had to force myself to refrain from laughing, dancing or singing in the photo pit. It would have blurred my shots and, thus, pissed me off.
The band is one of all-out entertainers, led by ringleader Wayne Coyne, who had the gumption to Bush-bash in Texas and was rewarded with one hell of a cheer. Good set, one that should have headlined the festival, if not for...

- Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers (Sunday): By the time Tom and Company took the stage Sunday night, the crowd was feeding off itself, whipped into a frenzy that exploded when the spotlight fell on Tom's blond shag.

The band confidently sauntered through the beginning of their set, as lightning flickered in the distance and the winds started to pick up. When the rain came, the band persevered, raindrops projected onto the huge screen to the side of the stage. The precipitation fell sideways onto the stage throughout "Handle With Care" and prompted a set break shortly thereafter. Petty promised the crowd that the band would be back to provide an "extra long set."

A half-hour later, it returned with a fevered cover of Chuck Berry's "Monkey Business" and another hour of audience singalongs. Tens of thousands of voices rose to join Petty's for the duration of the set, prompting kisses blown from the frontman, ever-increasing cheers from the crowd.

- Leaving the park (Sunday): The crowd snaked toward downtown Austin, past impromptu water vendors, restaurants and T-shirt stands. Pedicabs was the only acceptable non-pedestrian mode of transportation among the water-logged crowd.

The sound started somewhere closer to the park and surged up the street. A roar of voices cheering and hooting. I didn't see a single person who chose not to join in.

One last release of energy and sound, a cheer of approval of the festival just concluded.

Thanks for reading, guys and dolls - it's been a pleasure dispatching ACL to all of you. To those who were at home, hope it helped keep you connected; to those who were there, hope you enjoyed.

And, a final note: while Matthew McConaughey, Lance Armstrong and Jake Gyllenhaal didn't accept my blogged meeting invite at Matt Costa's set, I'm sure they know they can make it up to me with flowers sent to Burlington, Vermont.

I like daisies.

The best of both countries

I was running late, as had been expected. I called my flatmate to assure her that I'd be home soon, that we'd be able to revel in that which was the first episode of "Grey's Anatomy," season three.

"Did you know that they broadcast it at 8 on Canadian?" she asked.

See, where I live, about an hour from the Canadian border, we get Canadian. I can say with authority that the CTV (you figure out the acronym) does a better job of covering the Olympics than we do here in the US of A. Most of the network shows are broadcast up there, occasionally at different times.

Miss something in America? Give Canadia a try.

So, as it were, Grey's is broadcast an hour earlier north of the border. Duly noted, Beth decided to TiVo both, primarily so she could say she was getting a Grey's fix from two countries.

It made sense to her. And to me, when she told me.

I got home around 9:30 and happily settled in front of the television to swoon over George O'Malley and figure out who Meredith would choose -- McDreamy or McVet. We take in the episode, laughing at the appropriate spots, sighing where applicable (and in my case, even when not). It feels good to have Seattle Grace back.

Episode ends. Beth flips over to Canadian.

And we start dancing up and down. I call my mother, giddy, jumping up and down.

"GUESS WHAT I'M ABOUT TO WATCH."

"What?"

"NEXT WEEK'S EPISODE OF GREY'S!!!!!"

"You're joking."

"I LOVE CANADIAN!"

I'm assuming it was a glitch, as the previews at the end of the episode featured the episode we'd just watched.

You know. Next week's.

And I can say that it was so incredibly crazy when --

Nah. Nevermind. Just know this: I have it on TiVo.

"I got half a smile and zero shame"

Typical morning scene.

I'm getting ready to start my day, walking around the apartment, bobbing my head to music.

Unusual selection. Mayer's "Continuum." The bobs are in time to the hot blues licks in "Belief," and I'm singing along -- in that "I half know the words and will scat during the rest" sort of way that comes with learning an album's material.

Belief is a beautiful armor
That makes for bah dobedo do
La la da da da
You never can hit who you’re trying for

Mayer's back, and I'm right back there with him, much to my disbelief. I'd sworn the guy off, had bid that music goodbye.

It began a few days before "Continuum" dropped. I found a website that was streaming tracks and took a listen, intrigued by the sound that resulted. Not half bad, Johnny.

Over coffee in Central Square on last Wednesday, the next step was taken. Nicole handed over her iPod so I could listen to "Slow Dancing In a Burning Room." I grinned.

I didn't realize at the time that I was being set up for a sucker-punch on Friday night.

I'm standing, smirking in the photo pit, waiting for Mayer to take the stage and listening to screaming calls for "JOHN MAYER JOHN MAYER JOHN MAYER." I promise myself that if the set to come at all evoked thoughts of the Counting Crows co-headling debacle, I'm out of there without a second thought, ready to happily take in Van Morrison's set at the other end of the park.

The screams are firing me up, though, and I realize that I'm excited to see what Mayer has up his sleeve, particularly when he'll be delivering the goods so close to where I stand. I grin as he walks out on stage and takes his guitar.

"Belief" kicks off the set, and I'm grooving. Head bobs as I move into position to get some shots, shoulders moving as I walk from spot to spot.

This music is hot. Confident, dynamic without straying into showy territory, the riff is a seemingly effortless hook, and the chorus dances off the tongue. Earnest without the schmaltz that drove me mad with "Heavier Things."

Mayer is similarly transformed. No more of the guy trying so hard to be the rock star everyone says he is; instead a musician confidently prowling the stage, dazzling the crowd with ease. It feels as if the singer-songwriter who quipped his way through the Higher Ground interview five years ago has finally morphed into the Stevie Ray Vaughan devotee he'd then claimed to be.

I don't see it coming until it was too late. Hooked, I grin up at the stage as I keep snapping off photos.

I thought John was lost and gone forever. Here he is. And through inexplicable turns of fate, here I am, standing right there to look up at him and welcome him back.

I love me some ice cream

On Saturday afternoon, we were working to get the Ben Kweller photos up on the Project DU flickr site* when S looked behind me and smiled.

"I want an Ice Cream Man sticker."

Uh...okay...I turned around to look. Didn't see anything particularly ice cream-y, but did do a doubletake at a man in a peach-colored buttondown shirt.

Jeff Buckley, back from the dead, milling around the media tent? What the hell? I remarked on the sight.

"Who?"

"Buttondown shirt, crazy hair."

"That's Ice Cream Man."

Shortly thereafter, she went to get a sticker. I asked her to get me one as well; when she inquired and pointed at me, he smiled and requested a photograph of us.

She asked for one on her camera as well. Having absolutely no idea of who this man was, I happily smiled, took my sticker, was surprised with a popcicle and smiled for the camera.

Whatever, man, it's all good. I'm sitting here in 90 degree weather and you're giving me a popcicle. I'm liking Ice Cream Man.

The photo upload process was aided by the cool refreshment of frozen ice shaped into faces, complete with gumball eyes.

I liked Ice Cream Man.

The next day comes, and I'm in the photo pit for The Flaming Lips. I'd arrived early so as to get a good spot, but I'm melting in the heat. A photographer approaches with one large brown box in each hand. I'm thinking that perhaps earplugs are involved, so I smile and head over.

"Compliments of Ice Cream Man." Boxes of frozen fruit bars. Pineapple for me.

As I munch of the bar and taste the sweetness of the frozen fruit shortly before Wayne takes the stage and assumes his position within the bubble, it's clear.

I love Ice Cream Man. You should love him too. Click on the link to find out what he's all about.

========
All of the ACL photos are up and available for viewing on the flickr, as are the baseball games in Boston and Baltimore. Check 'em out, let me know what you think.

*Rolling Stone's Rock Blog touched upon the Kweller incident, describing what went down. The link for more of the story was my post on DU - the link provided to check out more images sends readers right over to my shots on the DU flickr. I found this to be pretty cool.

Two Down

I'm sitting here in the media area at Zilker Park, sipping an iced coffee (inexplicably served in a hot cup, complete with lid), listening to everyone set up for the last day of festivities. You can tell things are getting ready to kick off when the soundguys at the AT&T stage start piping the "Star Wars" theme through the speakers. People are entering the gates! Festivities are set to begin! Woot!

Earlier, I was writing up my Day Two roundup for Project DU, listening to a soundcheck for Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers. As they played the instrumentation for "Last Dance With Mary Jane," I was fighting the urge to run outside, storm the stage and rock the vocals.

That would have been bad. Or glorious. Not sure which.

Austin's crazy -- or, really, ACL is crazy. My glimpses of Austin proper have been somewhat limited -- I'm here at Zilker Park for 12 hours each day, after all -- but last night, Michelle and I headed down 4th Street to check out what was going on. Went to The Ginger Man, a bar with endless beers on tap -- GLORIOUS SIGHT -- and then stopped by (I kid you not) Doggy Style Hot Dogs on the way back.

How could you not? Exactly.

I haven't taken in a set I haven't liked as of yet. Today's going to be a particularly good day. After TP&tH finish up the night, the task is to get out of here, sleep and then head to the airport in the morning. I'm back in Boston tomorrow afternoon.

Yep.

Greetings from Austin

As has been the case for the past day and a half, I've volumes to tell you, mere moments to type.

Damn not having instantaneous typing skills!

But, for the moment (I hope to post later on today), please know the following:

- I am in Austin.
- It's hot as hell here. I believe hell may actually have cooler breezes.
- My Flickr account is going to be The Shit when I get home (photo pass = me right up by the stage for artists - thus far: Guster, Matt Nathanson, John Mayer)
- I'm having fun, despite the quirks and goofs that have come up along the way (there have been many).
- It's hot as hell here.

Kisses, darlings. Keep cool, I'll bask in air conditioning vicariously through you.

Red, blue, green, orange

Are there rules? Of course there are rules. You're talking to the person who set up rules for the Vice Favorite Red Sox Player position. Hello.

The rules for seeing a much-loved former Red Sox player battle against his old team are pretty simple, though. Easy to understand and to follow.

Overall Objective: To see Player do well. NOT to see Player win.

Offense: Player is encouraged to hit the ball well and get on base. A strong offensive effort is supported by Fan, assuming, of course, that this offensive effort does nothing to score Player's Current Team any runs. Home runs are hereby forbidden. Player is not allowed to cross home plate or pick up any RBI's. Stolen bases, if applicable, are encouraged.

Defense: Player is encouraged to demonstrate precisely why he earned Favorite Red Sox Player status during Boston seasons, but only if Current Red Sox team is enjoying a lead. Diving catches are always cool.

Outcome: Player makes Fan proud. Rightful Team (Red Sox) win game. No Fan loyalties tested.

Kevin Millar followed most of the rules on Tuesday night. He did cross home plate, but such an oversight was far more Timlin's fault than Millar's. With a good lead racked up midway through the game, I was free to enjoy Millar's turns as Baltimore's DH, cheering him while hollering for the Boston boys to bring home the win (I did in fact proudly wear my No. 15 Boston shirt to the game, one of only two that I saw at Camden Yards that night).

Everything was glorious, if you ignore the near disaster that was the bottom of the ninth. We won. Let's focus on that.

For those who haven't made the trip to Baltimore, you should. Particularly if you're a Red Sox fan. With a team that hasn't done much of note since that World Series in 1966, Baltimore has become a haven for opposing teams' fans looking for a good ballpark and easy ticket acquisition. The city is laidback and accomodating, the fans are game for seeing superstars roll into town and Orioles Park is breathtaking. Tuesday marked my third trip to the park (first since moving back to Vermont after the District City days) and the third time my jaw dropped at the beauty of it all -- the factory stretching the length of Eutaw Street, the markers for home run balls, the brick and green steel color palate...

We were seated in Section 262, halfway between third base and the foul pole and, unbeknownst to us, a swanky area of seating. A private entrance, Hall of Fame Lounge directly behind us and waitresses ready to take whatever orders we wanted so we didn't have to miss a moment of the game. I left my seat once.

Oh, and the beer is better than it is at Fenway. And cheaper.

Trying to compare Fenway and Camden is akin to a showdown between (Granny Smith) apples and oranges, I know. Old/new. Tradition/innovation. Obstructed view risks/no bad seats in the house. Sellout crowds/bargain night specials.

It's really no contest anyway -- I'm a girl in love with her Yawkey Way. But were Fenway not around? Camden would have my heart, no question.

What makes it even easier is that the place might as well be Fenway South. Different color scheme, fancier scoreboard, no "Sweet Caroline," but the place still echoes with cheers for the Sox when they're scoring, boos when Timlin's walking off the mound after nearly tying the game in the ninth. You see more red and blue than orange -- a fact that I'd almost feel badly about, were the Orioles fans not so excited to see the Red Sox themselves.

Millar. Millahhhhhh. Couldn't we bring him home with us? I don't think it would have required much arm-twisting. Pre-game, I raced to the Os dugout to find Millar laughing with his old teammates; hearing that cackle made my face instantly break into a grin. I've missed him. Sure, the fielding was spotty. Yes, I know the hitting was streaky. But I loved the X factor he brought to the team -- slow baserunning, frosted tips and all. Millar is, in my mind, still a Red Sox player displaced.

He was why we were there. After the move, seeing him once more at Fenway was out of the question. We opted for Baltimore instead. And after the chaos and tension of the Red Sox Virtual Waiting Rooms, the ticketbuying process had been glorious. Might as well have come with a backrub and a Pina Colada, pink umbrella included.

The ultimate stress-free baseball experience.

Baltmore itself was surprisingly new, not at all what I'd expected. We spent the entire day in the Inner Harbor, which I admit lends itself to overall city juding much in the way Back Bay belies Boston, Adams Morgan falsely represents DC. But I was expecting to see a city with a little more historical meat on its bones, presented instead with modern structures of turquoise windows and brick, with a huge Hard Rock Cafe guitar serving as the cherry atop the former Power Plant building.

I'd gone looking for Edgar Allen Poe and found space more befitting Nicole Ritchie instead.

That said, not at all bad. Far from it -- actually quite enjoyable and lovely (guitar aside). As we walked the quiet city streets, we encountered Sox fan after Sox fan, making me wonder if the city residents proper had decided to take a few days off and head to the hills once they learned Boston was coming into town.

(Also, several things should be quickly noted:

- Ellipsies in text messages = rather bizarre. Doesn't that go against the very nature of the quick communication process? That said, thank you, cell phones, for letting me laugh from my bleacher seats at a Monster Seat friend during Sunday's home game.
- Hector on Stilts. Band out of Western Massachusetts that I caught at Bill's Bar on Friday night. OUTSTANDING. A friend described the band earlier in the day as "really smart, just really good indie pop." He was right. Go catch 'em live. The lead singer reminds me of Scott Weiland crossed with Gene Wilder, circa Willy Wonka. In a good way.
- Read Bill Simmons' "Now I Can Die in Peace" cover to cover during the trip from Baltimore to Boston yesterday. I highly recommend.)

Now, back from this set of adventure, I prepare for tomorrow's -- Austin and all that comes with it. Bags are packed (I think), itineraries set (as much as they can be) and the promise I made to myself to get to sleep early tonight.

I have a hunch that that will be easier said than done.

Ahh, hello big world

"Goodbye Little World" closes out the brilliance that is Remy Zero's "Villa Ellaine." After the exhilerating musical rollercoaster of the previous ten tracks, the closer is a charming little ditty that leaves one bobbing one's head with a smile on one's face.

Well, in our little house
There's always room
For all the friends
That help us through
These struggling days

It was in my head last night, shortly before The Damnwells took the stage at TT the Bear's in Cambridge.

I'd moved to the bar to order a beer when I cast a glance back, to the spot to which I'd soon return. Five people were gathered into a loose clump, some standing, others leaning against the partition that separated bar from performance/dancefloor space.

They composed my group for the night. Familiar and friendly faces that have played roles in shaping my experiences in this area over the years - in one case, well before even that. Demonstrating the deceptively tiny nature of that which is the music scene I delve into, all had traveled to Cambridge for the night, arriving in pairs or solo, gradually meshing together with smiles and hugs of greeting.

Others that I knew were interspersed throughout the crowd. It was difficult to scan the audience without letting my gaze fall on a recognizable face.

A random, whirlwind impulse had prompted me to throw clothing into two bags and head to Massachusetts a night earlier than originally planned. It was the prospect of seeing one of my closest friends, bolstered by the promise of a good show by one of my favorite bands.

But as I returned to my spot and shared a smile or two, it felt most as if I had simply come home.

And we got heavy traffic on the stairs
With darlin' Sherrie over there and Sarah's back in town
Kim and Kay sit on the floor
While Zelda hides the closet doors,
Never to be found
See John smile and Mia sigh
Katie cries
Mia plays the violin.

This little world is all I need
And hey, this little world needs
Not much more to be a
Completely perfect world
We will be leaving soon
And we might never get back to you
But before we do
Goodbye and fare thee well

I'd been wondering when the mental Plinko game would come to an end and next week's events would actually register with me.

As it turned out, it was while writing a brief bio about myself, attaching a digital photograph and sending off the email.

Hey. I'm going to Austin. Texas.

I've held off saying anything, as I was waiting to be sure that everything is in place and good to go. As I write this now, I believe it all is. If not, well...I'll take my chances.

The quick story: after the adventures in DC (hello, old brief stomping grounds) and Baltimore (otherwise known as Victoria sees Kevin Millar At Least One More Time), I return to Boston briefly (overnight) and then head off to Austin for the Austin City Limits Festival. As it is being touted, "8 stages, 3 days, 130 bands."

It's my first largescale festival in some time. Since Woodstock '99, actually. I also like to think of it as "Van Morrison, Willie Nelson, Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers and Countless Others." Including, amusingly enough, Matt Nathanson, Guster, Tristan and a slew of other people that tickle my fancy.

I'll attempt to refrain from seeking out John Mayer and slapping him upside the head for the Jessica Simpson debacle.

So yes, a pretty outstanding lineup. But why would I make the trip to Texas, you ask?

Because I'm going to be writing about it. The contest I to which I made brief reference in June proved to surprise the hell out of me. By which I mean that I won it. I'll be an official field blogger for the festival and Project DU.

(Insert adoring, thank you so much sentiments here. Kisses to those hooking me up for this adventure - I'm most appreciative.)

Texas, baby. Texas.

I know I'll make the slightest of efforts - no more going out of my way - to see how it works out. Once. If it's convenient to me. - 11.30.2005

It has become convenient.

Averi is slated to perform at Nectar's on the 28th - which is, I believe, the night of the day after the Boston Music Awards (have I mentioned that congratulations are in order, by the way? Kudos to a bunch of folks whose music I enjoy, but particular congratulations to Ryan Montbleau, Matt Nathanson and the thrice-nominated Chad). I will be back from my travels come the end of the month, and will take in that which is the shell of the band I followed for a few years.

It is going to be...well, it is going to be something, I'm sure. The cackle with which I responded to the news hints that perhaps I'll wind up getting my snark on.

In other, less eyebrow-raising news, it seemed as if everyone was just trying to reach the finish line last night. The last of four late nights at Nectar's, the Montbleau Monday series came to a close with strong, albeit seemingly sleep-deprived performances. There were bleary eyes on stage, yawns from spots in the audience.

It's not that people were bored, but even dancing was difficult last night. When you have to work the next day, shows that kick off at 11 just aren't particularly condusive...even just an hour would make a huge difference. 10 is managable. 11 has you trying to keep your eyes open, even when you're leaving at the set break.

That said, it was glorious to be able to fit such an incredible band into the schedule on a weekly basis - particuarly knowing that the guys are slated to be back in Vermont in about a month (thank you, Higher Ground...). Made it easier to say "screw this, I have to go home" at 12:30...

P.S. Guys? You know that line? The "Excuse me, I just got this new cell phone, could I get your number to put in it" bit? The one we laugh about because it's supposed to be a joke line?

Do not attempt to actually use it. At least not on me. Because I will look you in the eye, hope to God you're joking about it and then reply.

"No."

Then I'll walk away.

Unsurprisingly, Sunday's Grace Potter and the Nocturnals show in Shelburne proved to be perhaps The social event of the summer.

It's always rather odd, concert run-ins. I can think nothing of traveling three and a half hours from "home" and waving at familiar faces; I find it crazy to see their Vermont counterparts when I'm a short drive from my house.

The logic? Well, it often seems as if I hit up more Boston shows than Vermont -- and the Boston scene circles tend to run smaller than one might think.

Anyway. Back to the sloping greens of Shelburne. It seemed as if everyone in the surrounding communities packed up and moved over to the stage-adorned hill for the night. I found myself busy offering greetings and offering commentary on who was who.

Hi! Helloooooo! Oh, hi there. Yo! Hey, you!

It was nice for a girl accustomed to knowing of people who don't know her to receive many a greeting. Refreshing. A change of pace.

It should have been expected, though, as people had been waiting for this show for at least several months. The homestate boys and girl GPatN have been off traveling the country, bringing the blues/rock/soul sound from Vermont to new ears and seemingly enthusiastic crowds. The buzz has been growing, the label is getting ready to bring the band in for new recording sessions, and the Green Mountain folk have patiently counted down the days until we got another dose of the music.

The rains that had threatened all weekend held off just long enough for a long, tight, energetic set. New material indicated the band's foray into more of a rock sound, but with the storytelling lyrics for which Potter has grown renowned. Some of the older tunes are being reworked -- my personal favorite, "Stop the Bus," continues to take an electric slant and gets better each time I hear it.

(Which is why a bystander looking into the third row during that song's performance would have seen me, huge grin on my face, joyously singing along.)

The rules for the concert series specifically limit dancing to the sides of the stage, and the band held off provoking the crowd as long as they could. But as the skies deepened in hue, Potter told the crowd that she thought it was time they stood and danced -- which meant that a few thousand people sighed of relief, jumped up and boogied away. An older (and by that I mean Old) man a row ahead did all but flash the band the devil horns.

It was pretty goddamn glorious.

Apparently, the band will be back for a few Higher Ground shows leading up to New Year's Eve -- I'm playing around with that idea, as well as the Paradise gigs lined up for (I believe) at the end of this month. My favorite Vermont band at my favorite Boston venue?

I know. How could I resist that?

In other news, sorry for my absense. Unintentional, and I'm returning with some anecdotes and ramblings in the next couple of days. Some news, too, but I can't really share that yet.

In the meantime, how are you guys doing?



(in the fine tradition that is photo posts in blog entries, click above to go to the rest of the set.)

I want a moment to breathe.

When you have time, the minutes stretch out before you. No one is calling, demanding, hoping, expecting. When you have time, you wind up with seemingly infinite time.

And you're bored. Of course.

But when you're pressed for time -- that's when walls you didn't know existed start to crowd in on you. Everyone wants something. Everyone expects you to spend borrowed time with them. People are left disappointed, angry, frustrated.

And it falls on you. Why are you bailing? Why are you not around? Why are you running late? Why can't you just be there and do this and be the way you are supposed to be -- the way you always are?

I've grown tired of saying "I'm sorry, I don't have time." Or, moreso, using it as a form of apology.

I'm tense. I'm prone to snap today. I know that another day, a few more hours' sleep and I'd be looking at everything in a different manner.

But it's today, and I didn't get that sleep.

All I see is red. And it's so bright that I want to cry.

My eyes are vague blue, like the sky, and change all the time;
they are indiscriminate but fleeting, entirely specific and
disloyal, so that no one trusts me. I am always looking away.
Or again at something after it has given me up. It makes me
restless and that makes me unhappy, but I cannot keep them
still. If only i had grey, green, black, brown, yellow eyes; I
would stay at home and do something. It's not that I'm
curious. On the contrary, I am bored but it's my duty to be
attentive, I am needed by things as the sky must be above the
earth. And lately, so great has their anxiety become, I can
spare myself little sleep.
- Frank O'Hara

Pitcher woes

It was either my sophomore of junior year of high school. Game day, and I was scheduled to take the mound that afternoon.

It was a big game for my little team. We were playing one of our rivals -- not The Rivals, but a team with which we had a decidedly competitive history. I was fired up and ready to go.

In science (it was either chem or bio, can't recall which), we were working on display boards outlining the projects on which we'd been laboring for the previous week and a half. I knelt on the ground, cutting cardboard with an Exactoknife, when the blade slipped.

I sliced my right middle finger. And while it hurt, and while I bled, my anger had nothing to do with the pain.

There was no way I could take the mound. Just like that. One quick little cut, and I wasn't getting the start.

According to reports, Josh Beckett is facing the same situation right now. Not that he had a mishap with a science project -- but there's a cut on his middle finger.

We hear about a lot of questionable injuries that land baseball players on the bench. So and So sprained his toe after running into a doorframe (oh wait. I've done that too). Another has a bruised muscle. Another hit his wrist against a kitchen counter and is out for eight days.

For many, a cut on a finger registers as just as silly. Wait. You got a papercut, and now you can't start a game. What the hell is that, Beckett? Wuss.

All I know is that when that afternoon arrived and I took my place at first base, whenever the opposing team reached base, the girls looked at me between pitches.

"I thought you were supposed to pitch today."

I'd extend my right hand, showing the bandage on my finger that rendered it impossible to grip the ball for a fastball, let alone a changeup or curve.

"Cut my finger today. Can't pitch for a few days."

Lame? Yes.

But much more valid than, say, a possible, sure-if-you-squint-your-eyes-and-turn-your-head hamstring injury...

Whee!

Dear Blogger:

Thanks for heeding the call, my darling dears.

Love & stuff,
Vix

As you can see, Revelry has joined the Blogger Beta ranks...still playing around with things and will be adding the homey touches.

But in the meantime, hi. I'm baaaaack...

A technical, about-the-blog sort of post

There are some neat things abrewin' on the Blogger front - which means I'm agettin' antsy.

Recently, I flirted with the idea of moving Reverly over to TypePad. Well, "flirted" isn't really accurate. I went over, signed up, began to play with the interface and prepared to export the content here, import it over there.

In real-life terms, think of it as flirting, exchanging phone numbers, getting a call, agreeing to meet up for dinner, going on the date and leaning in for the kiss at the end of the night.

In the end, I couldn't quite lock lips, as it were.

Not that I felt guilty -- I've had every intention of getting my own domain and buying myself MoveableType for quite some time now -- but Blogger begged me to come back home and offered up promises of some sweet lovin'.

Blogger Beta, baby. Doesn't it just purr?

If you're not a blogger (or at all into webby design stuff), most of the new features that will be offered with the Beta won't make sense -- ease of template modification, labels, the speed and ease (for us, anyway) of dynamic publishing. But it's pretty good news. My big thing is the label addition -- I'll be able to file posts under categories, which means you and I will be able to click and peruse all of the posts similarly labeled. This is a very good thing. I can, for instance, write about something that happened a long time ago, post it with a label of "past" and you'll know that it happened a long time ago. Not, say, two days ago.

That was one of the biggest things that TypePad offered me over Blogger. If Blogger was going to offer it, problem solved. I cancelled the free trial and came back home.

There is one problem, though. "Gradual launch." Boo. I have no idea of when these magical features will become available to me -- and now that I know they're out there, I want them now.

The kicker? If you set up a NEW blog, you can hop right into Beta. If you happen to have, say, more than FIVE YEARS OF POSTS on one blog (an even earlier seven months of posts on another, by the way), you have to wait.

Dear Blogger: You and I have come a long way, baby. And I'm here for the long haul.

So how about you, uh, show me a lil' love? Eh?

By the way, if you could take care of that whole, nasty, "Hey, Vix, you have to fill out the word verification in order to post" thing, that would be lovely. I assure you - only a real, live human would come up with these rambles.

XOXO,

Always look on the bright side of life

"Hey, let's look at the silver lining here." I leaned back, resting the back of my neck against the back of my chair. "Now we have, what, six weeks of enjoying baseball for the sheer love of the game."

Laughter and commiseration mingled in response. I spun the chair around.

"I mean, no need to worry about completely unnecessary things. Like, say, winning or even playing well. Who needs a high-fallutin' POSTSEASON, anyway? Ball going to get away from you? Dive! Somersault! Do a split! You've got nothin' to lose! There really is no tomorrow! You're gonna have months to recuperate!"

It hurts. The dull ache of the olden (read: pre-2004) days, mixed with a new fresh agony.

See, back then, we knew to expect something like this. It didn't matter how well the team was playing. They'd do something, and they'd make the breakdown something spectacular. One could make predictions during spring training as to what it was going to be. Offense? Defense? Bullpen? A complicated cocktail of all of the above?

But this team...as N and I lamented this weekend, this team was a well-oiled machine. Purring. And then? Implosion.

Now don't go saying it. I'm not one of those who got greedy after one little (glorious) victory parade. My hopes this season, same as any season, were simple. Postseason.

The shortlist. The invitation to keep on playing as the leaves fall and hats are pulled on above scarves. I often say my favorite season is autumn, but it's not entirely accurate: my favorite season is the Red Sox postseason.

Have I yet joined to Wilburs and Ryans and others who are saying that there is No Way In Hell that the Red Sox will make the postseason? It's the big question, the one everyone who wears a red B on their head has been asking themselves.

Not quite. I'm close, but still fighting it.

It's part of following the Red Sox to complain. You cry out and think occasionally of actually crying (and ometimes you can't help it. Yeah, that's right. I've cried over dem Sox and I ain't ashamed to admit it). You curse and then carry on insightful, informed, surprisingly statistics-driven conversations about the team, it's history and the decisions made over the course of the last season/decade/century.

(Sometimes, because you're a girl, your opinion is ignored and you're left with no choice but to school the people with whom you are speaking. AHEM.)

Even as I find myself accepting the fact that the season will most likely end on Oct. 1, I'm going to keep on watching, keep on cheering/yelling/sighing and see what happens. I have tickets to two more games this season. I might wind up with at least one more.

I intend to enjoy them.

Everyone knows that the Red Sox have a habit of surprising people. So if 99.99 percent of the fanbase expects the continuation of a meltdown...

Hey. Crazier things have happened.

That said, I found myself watching this on repeat a couple of times today. Memories...