4/20 doesn't make me think of Burlington. It often feels as if I live in a city that, save perhaps Amsterdam, celebrates the date with more laid-back panache than anywhere else I know or have heard of. Yet I think less Vermont in April, more upstate New York in July.

Woodstock '99 gave me my first DMB experience, a whole lot of anecdotes and my first (and thus far, only) stories involving medical tents and IVs. Each night I attempted to sleep in the humidity-drenched discomfort of my tent, I'd listen to the sounds of the campground between, say, 2:30 and 6 a.m. I'd hear the call echo from somewhere between Abbey Lane and Strawberry Fields.

"4:20!!!!!!" The shout was followed by cheers, whistles, cowbells or whatever else someone had handy. And then a collective moment of silence as, from my sleeping bag perspective, everyone lit up.

Every half hour on the hour. Which was funny to be, considering that the actual time doesn't fall on a half hour.

I walked outside this afternoon to enjoy a little bit of the sunshine when I heard the call come from across the street.

I checked the clock and was surprised to see that I actually was hearing the rally cry at the proper time.

Go figure.

In other news. Each night, for about the past week, I've said goodnight to whomever was inside whatever residence at which I was staying. I've climbed between the sheets of whatever bed in which I would sleep. And I've opened my notebook to write about whatever day happened to be coming to a close.

Considering that I intended to post the contents of those notes on this space...and there hasn't been anything posted in a week...well, you figure out the rest of the story.

I'm a writer. It's what I do. I write when I'm happy, I write when I'm sad, I write about writing. I'm one of those "I'm going to write a novel" people. And while I suppose there's material worthy of being blogged, the utter exhaustion that has dominated the past few weeks leaves me absolutely brain-dead when it comes to writing it.

And what would I write that I haven't already written? I feel like a broken record. Same things, same people, same whatever. Same me.

It's not that I'm complaining. I am tired, this is true. Each day feels more rushed and tiring than the one that preceeded it, with the weekends often even busier than the days for which they are intended to provide relief. But I gave up the right to complain - and, in many respects, any reason to complain - the moment I decided to spend two weekends zooming from Burlington to Boston and back again.

I just don't have a hell of a lot to say. And the more I really want to write something, the fewer words I'm coming up with.

So earlier this afternoon, I was online, reading other people's blogs while cursing myself for continuing to neglect my own, when I found myself reading a commentary.

And then, somewhere between the bedsheets and 6 a.m., I realized something: Blogging wasn't helping me write; it was keeping me from it.

Wait. What's this? She went on:

I had come to this realization before, but the moment would pass, and I would find myself percolating with small, quotidian stories that I wanted to share

Amen, sister. I'm still with you...

...Thus the blog I started, thinking no one would read it and secretly hoping they would. The blog was the perfect bluff for a self-conscious writer like me who yearned for the spotlight and then squinted in its glare. When I needed to pretend that people were reading, I could. When I needed to pretend that nobody was reading, I could...

Hello, kindred spirit. I clicked over to her blog, where she had reflected on the space she had occupied for about five years.

...it is a verbose, at time cringe-inducing, record of the last five years. I like this. I am ridiculously nostalgic...and having a public record of my life pleases me, makes me feel a little taller in the world.

She was describing precisely what I had tried to say several times over the years - usually when either my parents were asking me why on earth I'd put my life out there on THE INTERNET for STRANGERS TO CONSUME, or when I was getting into one of the (rare) arguments/debates about the merits of writing out of my mind and onto a screen.

I kept on reading, seeing phrases and thoughts that had recently come to my mind. It wasn't just me! Hallelujah! I'm not a doomed would-have-been writer burnt out or forever incapable of stringing together a witty or heartfelt sentence!

Back to the commentary - titled, I should note - "Why I shut down my blog."

As much as I loved writing online, it's a relief writing offline: taking time to let a story unspool, to massage a sentence over an afternoon's walk, to stew for days - weeks even - on a plot line. What a modern luxury.

And that's when I started to feel better.

Posts might be less frequent for a bit, as I'm going to try getting back into this whole "Love Thy Notebook" mentality. I'm not shutting it down...but don't wonder if I've run away or anything.

I haven't yet, anyway.

But please note the link on the right.

Email.

I love receiving it. I love writing it.

Want to know what's going on? How I'm doing?

Just ask me yourself.

I just received my first "Sweet Caroline" call of the season.

Love it.

Off to Boston for another long weekend. And Fenway.

Happy Easter...

it depends on how you look at things
whether or not you can consider yourself
one of the special ones

maybe you know something that we
as a populous are largely unaware of

it depends on what the world and
the people well above it
consider to be special

because in every story of the heroes
and the saviors and great ones
there are infinite passers-by and which one are you?

because you walk past a lot of people
in any given day on the street

and maybe they're on the way to finish
the great american short story
or lead the men into battle

there can only be so many special ones
and i don't think we know which one we are
until the moment we realize we're about to be gone.

because until then, anything could happen
and you could, in any way, change the world.

someone may consider me to be something special
but if they do, i don't know about it and i suggest to you:
tell the special ones that they are so much that

because lots of us will go away, soon,
without so much the idea that
you were there and that you loved us.

- ben chappel, simplesimon mailing
"just a word before tomorrow," 04.15.01

I never met him. I never wrote him. He never knew of me. I was just an email address on the mailing list to which he sent little anonymous packages of insight and poetry. And they just happened to impress me. I made numerous references to them in posts during college, about how I looked forward to the next time I would be surprised to find a mailing waiting in my inbox.

I thought of him again in November, went back through the mailings, reposted this piece (it had always been my favorite). And again I thought of how much I liked knowing that he was in the world...

Odd, these Internets. You can never hold a conversation, exhange a hello or even share a breath. And yet somehow you feel like you've come to glimpse a side of a person. Otherwise, you may have never known that person - or perhaps that side of that person - even existed.

And hearing of that person's passing saddens you. But you're glad to have been given that glimpse.

I'm thinking of those who actually did know and love him.

i never quite figured out the
spacing
involved
in being a poet, and i never could get the plot together, the words forever, to be a novelist, and i never quite managed the lifestyle it takes to be a rogue, a rebel, a writer. i always wanted to know what they know and see the world like that,
think in line breaks
and fragmented
bits
and pieces
of sentences
with only a couple words
here
and one or two
there but
you really just know
what i'm trying to say

Since a cold has left my head really foggy and thought about much else leaves me either frustrated, seething or exhausted, I'm going to continue my Red Sox theme.

See, my cousin is preparing for her first Sox game. My parents - saints and otherwise a stellar set of aunt and uncle - will introduce her to all that is Fenway tomorrow night. I had initially hoped to be able to join them, but it wasn't in the cards, so I'll instead take in the game on the television.

Since this is the first Fenway venture for her, however, I'm putting together a little list of things to look for/do/think about while she's there. And while I've come up with some ideas, I thought I'd solicit your advice or suggestions so I have a great little suprise for her tomorrow.

So what are your little Fenway quirks?

Among those I've already included, condensed for this format:
- Fenway Frank (unless vegetarian or vegan, of course). If there's one time, one place all year that you consume a hot dog (and, with the exception of Spike's vegan dogs, this was the case for me last year), it's a Fenway Frank at a Red Sox game.
- Take a second to grin when you first look at the ballpark after you walk up the ramp into the grandstand. I got into a long coversation about this over the weekend, prompted by the cinematography in "Fever Pitch" that so aptly captures the moment. As someone explained to me, "When you walk up the ramp and look around, it's what I imagine Dorothy felt like when she stepped out of the sepia Kansas house and through the doorway into technicolor Munchkinland. And it's like that every single time."
- Walk around Yawkey Way. Take in the sights, the sounds, the smell of the roasted peanuts. Look at the banners along the side of the park and the sight of endless red, white and blue t-shirts and jerseys. This is the event part of the ballgame.
- Learn the words to "Sweet Caroline."
- Look around for Theo. If found, give him my number.
- Watch the vendors as they throw the peanuts across rows of fans. Note the impeccable aim and wonder why they weren't signed by a team. They're that good.
- And, following family tradition, call me during the seventh inning stretch.

So. Anyone up for helping me add to the list? Keep in mind: the girl's about to turn 13. So obviously beer and the like is off the list...heh.

Beth, whilst waiting for Starbucks goodness, proving yet again how she is capable of making me laugh even as I'm ready to cry. Oh, and following the news I'd just broken (bad choice of words) to her about the status update involving one Coco Crisp:

Well, good. Because I'm not going to see him play until August. And since I liked him BEFORE he was a Red Sox, I want to horde him to myself. Less time for everyone else to think he's amazing.

I could see her logic, much as I responded with a dropped jaw and impulse to hit her in the arm - oh wait, I believe I did actually do that - but there's one problem.

I was supposed to see him play on SATURDAY.

No, this works out better. Because when we see him - er, THEM - in August, we'll be in the bleachers. His territory. It works out PERFECTLY.

The good news? Well, I do find myself always rooting for Adam Stern anyway...

...and it sure as hell made me laugh when I really needed to.

Oh, and sign that you're a complete and utter dork when it comes to the written word: you notice, and are a little shocked and distressed by, the change of FONTS of the letters spelling out "Fenway Park" on the grandstand.

And you point this out to others, surprised they didn't notice.

No, it used to be more of a Times New Roman or Bookman style font. And how it's all Arial Block-ish. No, I'm serious. I'll show you some photos from last season...

A Wishlist (in no particular order):
1) An hour, to cry myself into exhaustion
2) Another hour, to nap
3) A shoulder rub
4) A bag of Luden's Wild Cherry Throat Drops
5) A Frappuccino, to sooth my throat

Since items 1-3 just aren't gonna happen and I don't really need need item 4, please excuse me as I go to check item 5 off my list.

By the time I walked through the door yesterday evening, I was tired. Pale tired. Roommates ask if you're OK, you're so pale tired.

But good tired. Mostly. I think.

My last Boston venture included a lot of writing time - in coffeeshops, on benches, on the T (that I can actually read that last collection of notes still amazes me). I have pages upon pages of thoughts that resulted, much stream of consciousness recorded because I simply had the time to think.

Not so much this time. I'd planned on having streches of alone time, armed with my journal, iPod and the book Beth and let me borrow earlier in the week. And while I did manage to devour "The Lovely Bones" (note to anyone: read it. Just read it now.) during a voracious late-night reading session, the other items were quickly rendered unnecessary.

I'm a strong proponent for me time. But it felt lovely to set that aside and focus instead on feeling loved, spending time with the people I care about. So it was a busy, tiring weekend. But a good one...

- The window bar at Starbucks was hot property. The only property, actually. The only available seating space consisted of six or seven chairs positioned below a narrow counter spanning the floor-to-ceiling window. There were about 10 people in line, with five seats already occupied by patrons in various stages of coffee consumption. The odds weren't good for those hoping to sit and sip.

But then I saw people start to stand behind those finishing up their drinks. Not close enough to encroach on the person sitting, but close enough to warn off anyone similarly minded. My spot. Find your own. The caffeinated version of parking spot battles, minus the blinkers.

Yet one seat was free. One without counter space, thus rendered impractical by those carrying messenger bags or laptops. But perfect for me to settle into, my latte in one hand, the book I was about to begin in the other. And no one to stand behind me and grimace as I fell into Susie Salmon's narrative...

- Instores are strange. Or at least this one was - and I haven't any other experiences to which to compare it.

It's the middle of the day, and you've studied every single copy of Ryan Adams' available discography, including the German import of a Cold Roses album with two stickers. One marking up the price by six dollars, the other proclaiming the import status. Other than that, no difference to the good ol' American copy.

But this is your spot, in the As, among those who have cut class, ducked out for a long lunch or taken a similar trip to partake in mid-day music. You're not going anywhere, they're not going anywhere, and the instore has yet to begin. So you study the albums. Again.

You turn back to check out an Aerosmith box set when you see the beautiful grin of a dear friend you hadn't expected to see here; you happily relinquish a spot alone in the As for a place next to a friend in the Fs and Gs.

You and she are a different kind of instore audience, demonstrated when the set begins and you're both still absentmindedly flipping through the rows of CDs. You see her long fingers pass over the merchandise, her eyes down with a soft smile on her face. You're reveling in the warm consistency of music that manages to soothe you, make you chuckle and sigh at the same time. Matt's music brings you subtle joy, and this atypical performance setting makes you take a step back and just let it comfort you.

While the giddier fans crane their necks for a better view and belt out the words, you and she just hum along and smile.

- My presence in City Hall Plaza is unusual enough. But a circus ringmaster, top hat and all? A patriot I can write off, but this is just strange. He tips his hat as I walk by with a quizzical look. I can't help but giggle.

- The breeze that has been whipping my hair about gusts up as I cross an intersection of Cambridge Street, and I temporarily feel as if I'm being hurried by nature down the road to the base of Beacon Hill.

- I'm pleased to see that chivalry isn't dead. I am a highly independent, self-sufficient kind of girl. But it's lovely to be looked out for on occasion. And if the occasion happens to be the moment a maiden fair realizes rain drops are beginning to speckle cars - and that she has seemingly everything imaginable in her bag other than an umbrella? All the better.

- She jokes that she's unintentionally ruined two of my favorite songs for me by linking them to real life, and I playfully grimace, roll my eyes. But she hasn't - I'd long ago created the same links in my mind. That's actually why they are among my favorites...

- I meet him in Central Square, and we chat as we walk to the T. We continue on the red line, to the green line, the walk to Allston. About 45 minutes of animated, comfortable catchup.

When we settle into our chairs at Grasshopper and the waitress sets down the pot of tea, he folds his arms and looks expectantly across the table at me. "So..."

I burst into laughter as he explains that he'd been waiting for me to bring it up. He wanted to ask as soon as he'd seen me, but he forced himself to hold off until we were sitting face to face, armed with tea.

So.

- Two things:
1) I like vegan cheesecake ala Grasshopper almost as much as I like real cheesecake.
2) I really, really, REALLY like cheesecake.

- We were both heading back to Central Square, so we settled into seats and stared out the opposite windows. Both tired, full and content, we let each other sit in comfortable silence, our minds dozing since our bodies couldn't. Occasionally, I'd rest my head on his shoulder. Sometimes he'd do the same. I loved the fact that we didn't need to fill every moment of our meetups with the act of catching up. I might be a few hours away, but we are still close enough siblings that we have time to just sit there.

- First song of the set: All Been Said Before. Need I say more?

- I heard the scratch of pen on paper as I edited a monologue and smiled. Our writing summit had resumed, and I was happy to see what had come of the previous venture.

What I Love About Friends, Reason 73824: The writing sound was the act of card composition. A thank you to me for helping with the project. Yet there I was, feeling flattered, honored to be allowed to assist...

The bodyguard

I'd joked that I was the bodyguard.

By the time I realized his post-show spot would be directly in front of where I had stood for most of the evening, I hadn't many relocation options. The crowd swarmed around him on all sides, save mine. I was comfortable in my spot, neither he nor his manager seemed to mind and I was available if either of my friends working merch needed assistance. So I leaned back against the wall and folded my arms. I laughed over to L about the responsibility I had decided to assume and then worked on looking tough.

It offered a fascinating view. From his perspective.

I watched as giddy faces took on new expressions as he turned to them. Some coolly nonchalant, others unabashedly giddy. There were a few that flickered between demeanors as their owners tried to settle on one particular approach. Almost every set of eyes widened significantly during the initial exchange of greetings.

It was overwhelming, the number of shining faces and blinding smiles that spread out before him (and me). I thought of riding in the backseat of my parents' car as a youngster, staring ahead at the nighttime road. I could never understand how my mother or father could tune out the line of painfully bright headlights well enough to keep the car on the road. I always had to blink or close my eyes entirely. It was too much - far too bright.

I leaned my head against the wall as I watched the greetings. Some offer a simple hello before extending a CD case, ticket or bookmark. More outgoing individuals mentioned previous shows or cities, where there had been another exchange of mutual admiration or photo opportunity.

And that was what struck me most about the display before me. Mutual admiration. It truly seemed as if he wanted to be sure to thank them for coming, just as they wanted to thank him for putting on a show. He sought out names if they weren't offered, and he found ways to tough a shoulder or elbow. Camera mugs involved hugging. He laughed, he joked, he showered each with a special moment of undivided attention before one more thank you before a turn of the spotlight onto the next person.

I had my own copy of the album in my bag - same as I'd had it earlier in the day at the instore - and could have asked for a similar turn with silver marker. But there was no reason for me to. I'm not an autograph seeker (unless we're talking about something where it's funny or exciting for the person signing), and I liked standing where I was. I had no desire to go onto the other side of the exchange. I'd been surprised into saying a hello and making an introduction earlier. And I found that expereince preferrable to this.

Although as I watched him, I did feel an impulse to hug him, thanking him for never ceasing to amaze me.

But I was the self-proclaimed bodyguard - and hugs aren't tough. I kept my arms folded instead.

With the days of the maple latte winding down to their ultimate, expected-yet-still-distressing end, there's no doubt where one will find Beth and myself supplementing our caffeine addictions.

During this precious time, the other coffeeshops will serve as no succedaneum(1) - we will turn to them for solace soon enough. At that point, without the luxury of maple-drizzled decadence, we'll find ourselves feeling pococurante(2) toward precisely what concoctions we consume.

In our latte world, right now, there's maple, nothing else. No caramel yet. Vanilla? Maybe soon.

The cambist(3) manning the counter this morning, whom we greet by name each day, commented on how we're sticking it out until the maple end. We laughed about the empty void that will appear in our lives. We've been given the euonym(4) of The Maple Girls, those who nod and grin when asked if we'd like The Usual, who get our names and smiley faces written on the cups containing brunneous(5) java goodness.

I'm going to miss the eudaemonic(6) routine the maple latte has provided. Meet up, place an order without really placing it, sit around at a tiny table, laugh at the beginning of our days. It is a brief respite from the elucubrating(7) necessary for the rest of the day.

And it works our minds - as we sat today, pouring through a box of cards that had been left on the table. We laughed as we realized how few of the words we, two pretty intelligent, well-educated women, happened to know. And the lack of short-term memory demonstrated when we had to relook at cards to recall their definitions?

Well, that just made us feel antediluvian(8).

1 - Succedaneum: a substitute
2 - Pococurante: indifferent, apathetic
3 - Cambist: one who's skilled in currency exchange
4 - Euonym: a well suited name
5 - Brunneous: having a dark brown color
6 - Eudaemonic: producing happiness
7 - Elucubrate: to produce by working long and diligently
8 - Antediluvian: extremely old and antiquated
(Thanks, Starbucks!)

To be filed under either "You Know You're Tired When" or "Um, Yeah, Go With It":

"I learned relatively recently that there's Newfoundland blood running through these veins. Apparently my people were a whaling people...yes. Exactly. If you're ever in a dingy on the open seas and a whale comes along, fear not. As long as I'm there with a plastic knife, we'll be good to go."

The above quote is all me. Apparently, I really have lost my mind.

Some musicians you like, some you admire, some make you laugh. And then there are some that you feel this odd impulse to protect, promote and celebrate, with recommendations given to those who will really appreciate the music and love the maker.

On an entirely unrelated note, email sent to Matt Nathanson's mailing list. Or: email sent to The Guy Whose Live Album You Should Totally Buy (and Download Bonus Tracks Off iTunes) Comes Out Today's* mailing list:

hello my fine, classy peeps!

i am currently in a hotel room just outside of washington, D.C.,
enjoying a little Law & Order: CI and a snickers bar, and thought i would drop you all an email.
tonight was the start of the solo, mini tour... not to be confused with the solo minotaur,
who wanders greek mythology alone, with the head of a bull and the body of a man.
tomorrow, my new live record, 'At The Point, comes out. and by friday...i figure, i'll be
as big as the Beatles. so this might be my last chance to take time out of the juggernaut
that is superstardom to write to you all myself...

seriously though, i'm psyched...
i think this record is a really great representation of a solo, live show.
just me, my guitar, the usual goofy between song stuff...and a whole truck load of swears. oops.
also, this CD is my first real attempt at releasing something in stores and on-line/iTunes on my own, using
completely independent channels. no big corporations to help or hinder the process... so, every little bit helps.
if you don't find it in one of the stores you frequent, tell the manager of that store to order it...
and then go buy it at a store that DOES carry it!
and if you can't find it at all. order it here: www.awarestore.com

anyway, enough of that. it comes out tomorrow... please buy it, spread the word and all that good stuff.
you are all superstars! i can't wait to hear what you think!

that's about it for me.
most shows in the first part of the tour are sold out... thank you for that!
but there are still some shows where tickets are available.
check out www.mattnathanson.com for all that info.
also, there is more touring to come. so if you haven't seen your city yet, don't fret, you will soon.
all sorts of other cool info listed below, so make sure to read on...

see you all on the road,
matt

******************
Tuesday, April 4th:
'At The Point', my first live record, is released in stores and online!!! to huge fanfare.
the streets are flooded with people trying to buy it. like the cabbage patch kid dolls, and
playstation 3 before it, supply can not keep up with demand. pandemonium ensues.

wxpn, a fantastic radio station in philadelphia, will have me on air at 4 p.m. EST for a quick interview
and a song. and later that evening, at 8:30 p.m., they will have a live broadcast of my entire show from World Cafe Live.
both of these events can be streamed by anyone with a computer, in real time, on-line at www.wxpn.org

Wednesday, April 5th
I'll be performing a few songs live on the air for my friends at WBOS(92.9) in boston @ 8 p.m.
for all you non-bostonians, this can be streamed, in real time, on www.wbos.com

*********************

below is a list of INSTORES i'll be playing. they are FREE and OPEN TO EVERYONE!
some of them are happening around lunch time, during the week.
i highly suggest ditching school or playing hooky from work. it'll be way more fun.

Boston, MA
Friday, april 7th
Newbury Comics - Government Center
1 Washington Mall, Boston
@ 12:30 PM
(617) 248-9992
* parking is a real pain , so make sure to come early if you drive. or take the T. *

Chicago, IL
Wednesday, april 12th
Borders/State Street
150 N. State St, Chicago
@ 12:30 PM
(312) 606-0750

Austin, TX
friday, april 14th
Waterloo Records
600 A. North Lamar, Austin
@ 5 PM
(512) 474-2500

St. Louis, MO
saturday, april 29th
Streetside Records
6314 Delmar Boulevard, University City
@ 1 PM
(314) 726-6277

Happy Matty Nay Day, gang.

*If you're in the Burlington area, I can assure you that you will find his album in both FYE and Borders. Look on the special shelves above the Ns. Somehow the album found its way to the eye-level shelves, in front of other albums (sorry, Neil Young, but it's not your day and you belong in the Ys anyway).

Amazing how a phone call that starts out with "I just wanted you to know that I'm fine" never fails to freak the recipient out.

"What happened?" I started to imagine the worst. Work-related accident? Fire? Another run-in between his bicycle and a car?

My imagination wouldn't have been able to come up with a crane crash situation.

"Oh my God, are you OK?" Amazing how a phone call that starts out with "I just wanted you to know that I'm fine" still makes one ask if the person on the other end is fine or not. Huh.

He was perfectly fine, didn't see it, but wanted to make sure he'd checked in with me. He knew that I'd come across the news shortly - he knows of the frequent Boston.com checks I make throughout the day - and figured that Emerson would be mentioned in whatever news was reported (a good assumption, as the college was included in the first breaking news reports). He was in one of the college's buildings, two doors down from the scene of the accident.

And he was fine. A little spooked, but fine.

I told him I loved him and that I'd talk to him later in the day before hanging up and realizing that "I'm fine" is a necessary start to a phone call or conversation...the only thing one can really say to start off a call like that...

...but talk about the second worst possible start to a conversation one could think of.

One more thing today and then I'm done. I swear.

How's everyone doing? I ramble and rant and all that jazz on here, but how about you guys? See, I have this comment feature, and I love to be able to use it...

So. How are you? What's been going on? Who are you? What's on your mind? Got a question about this random girl who writes about herself and music and whatever else strikes her fancy? Ask away and I promise to answer - honestly, candidly, etc. (unless it falls under the "I don't discuss my job" rule, that is.) Just want to say hi?

I'm in the mood for some conversation. Please, drop a line.

(This idea has been partially inspired by Krissa over at petit hiboux, who never fails to come up with brilliant ideas at just the right time.)

I'm not one for complaining.

OK, fine. I'm not one who LIKES to complain. Particularly when it's related to something I think it a pretty positive turn of events.

But the concept of the early show irks the hell out of me.

Unless I'm referring to a show that is specifically labeled a DAY show - with the exception of the wonder that is the summer sunset Battery Park concert series - I should begin a concert recap with "So last night I saw..."

That said, late yesterday afternoon and early yesterday evening, I partook in Charlotte Martin's set at Club Metronome.

AHEM.

There are various dilemmas posed by a 6 p.m. start time on a Saturday. Do you eat dinner before the show or after? How do you get past looking out of windows and seeing daylight? What do you do when you get out of a show at 9:15 and the bars have waiting lines? When precisely did a Pavlov scenario arise, in which the show ends and you feel that it's been a long night? Do you shake the suspicion that ordering a drink - your usual procedure upon entering a venue - is ill-timed or do you hold off?

I appreciate the fact that Metronome's increasing the number of shows - and bringing in the likes of Charlotte - but c'mon. This is tough stuff here.

The show itself? Opener Zak Clark gets props for putting himself out there, but it seems he has the Ben Folds awkwardness without the Ben Folds charm. That is, Ben Folds KNOWS he's awkward and he works it to the extreme (kung fu moves atop a piano, anyone?). Zak is young - 19, I believe - and I admit that I felt a certain impulse to root for him as he was doing his thing.

But "he's only 19" only gets you so far. My first experience seeing Howie Day live was back in the day when HE was only 19.

It had been about two and a half years since I'd seen Charlotte Martin opening - here's synergy for you - for Howie Day at Avalon in Boston. I'd picked up "On Your Shore" and enjoyed it, although the album never became a frequent play. For me, Charlotte is one of those There Artists. It's great when they're There, I was happy to see that she was playing There and I was definitely going to be There for it.

Dynamic and intense, capable of transforming her voice into one of anger, then sweetness, then back again, she's incredibly talented. Her lyrics just scream for a female listener to cheer out loud, thanking her for saying all the things the listener has wanted to say. "In Parenthesis" became a favorite song during the first listen and remains one today.

It was amazing to see what's changed since the "In Parenthesis EP" was the principal purchase at the merch table. A ring of white roses circled the keyboard and organ, and the catalogue of songs I've missed during the time gap made me realize I have some catching up to do. There's more of a focus on percussive beats (recorded and brought into the performance) these days, with a funky style that gets the head bobbing and - in the case of the die-hards in the front row - bodies grooving.

It took a few songs to get into it, but I believe that to be primiarly because those particular songs did little to speak to me. But she got into her groove and she rocked out, reminding me yet again of how many artists I've been turned onto thanks to that Day guy.

I'm working on a review review of the evening - I'll let you know when that's done and posted somewhere (if you're interested, leave a comment and let me know).

In other news: There's a distinct possibility that I'll I will be making a trip to Massachusetts early Friday morning and will be in the area until sometime Sunday. I'd been disappointed that I was going to miss Matt Nathanson's Paradise show on Thursday (with Blu Sanders opening? Hello.), but Beth reminded me today that I have a long weekend. And while I can't make the Thursday show, I could will playfully chuckle at that which is the Newbury Comics instore. And I could make now have tickets for the Friday night show in Providence.

Yes, I'm in Boston the following weekend for the Red Sox, but when has that ever stopped me before?

Anyone going to these shows? Lemme know.

And, finally, I was absolutely delighted to see the feature on Ryan Montbleau in yesterday's Globe (heh, the reference to Burlington - hello, crazy Nectar's gig - made me grin). Check it out here and enjoy...

I cheated.

I've been eagerly awaiting the release (Tuesday!) of Matt Nathanson's "Live at the Point" album, but a friend mentioned to me last night that the album has already dropped onto iTunes...

...which means I had to go check it out and see what made the cut. I'd even held off the tracklist, planning to be oblivious until I gave the disc its first spin.

And then I had to download one track. I'm still waiting until Tuesday for most of the album, but I had to make the exception.

I used to hate it when I was asked what one song best embodies who I am/my personality/any other variation on the topic. There were so many possibilities that reflected the various aspects of who I am that I found it hard to pick one.

Until I realized that one song did sum it up. "All Been Said Before" is me. If you want to figure me out - fine, let's be accurate here - if you want to have a starting point for figuring me out, Matt unknowingly provided you a starting point.

So I couldn't NOT download it, right?

(By the way, it sounds GLORIOUS.)

So, that rant aside. I'll be writing later in the day about seeing Charlotte Martin perform at Metronome last night. Look for it...

I love the vibe that emanates from the city-town's South End.

It's the artisian area, full of lofts and old factory buildings-turned studio spaces. Large window spaces broken up into iron-latticed squares of glass that offer glimpses of the industrial style within.

Funny how buildings tend to best reflect the modern style attempted in more contemporary counterparts.

It's the neighborhood that comes together annually to transform shops and restaurants into art galleries for the Art Hop, the area that takes a self-assured step away from the ever-examined spirit of the downtown. While Burlington tries to figure out if it's crunchy or metropolitan, progressive or quaint, the South End knows what it is, what it's been and what it's going to be.

It's comfortable. Consistent. Confident and, as a result, a cool place to spend some time.

Saturday mornings are meant for breakfast at Great Harvest. A bread company that offers you a thick slice of warm bread when you walk through the door, a free treat to tide you over as you try to figure out what selection you will make. A wire-dangled chalkboard outlines the day's selections, each marked with the time they were pulled from the ovens.

The employee manning the counter will laugh with you when you order a cinnamon roll and she actually asks if you'd like one that has been iced.

"Silly question, I know." Exactly.

Cinnamon complimented by coffee as you sit at a table near the window, watching the rain splash onto the panes or observing a young child pulling at the massive teddy bear the staff set in a corner. Periodic bursts of chocolate, maple or honey air that warms your face as you smile and inhale.

Relax. Take your time. Enjoy your treat. Stay awhile and hang out. We're glad you're here.

(This post was written while listening to the unexpected treat provided to me yesterday...I'd pretty much given up on ever finding the mp3 of Jeff Buckley's "3 is a Magic Number" cover. Through the wonder of technology and message boards - RKOP - someone knew I'd been looking for the song and sent it my way. J is my new heroine; I'd forgotten how much I love this. Thanks again...)