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...

But as of today, I'm around...

I don't know precisely when I decided that it was my goal to document all four weeks of the Ryan Montbleau Band residency (with slight blur, due to refusal to blind the band with flashes), but nevertheless, here I am, with another set of photographs.



Click on the mosaic to go the rest of the set. And know that I was pummeled in the stomach, left dazed and grinning, during my first listen to "Love and Love Lost." One of those songs that you listen to and instantly know that it's going to be appreciated en masse.

(Much like how I felt the first time I heard "Collide" live - back in the pre-Ohmigodit'sHowieDay days.)

So good, so good, so good

I've mentioned the "Sweet Caroline" thing, I'm sure. My brother or I, upon attending a Sox game, call my mother during the middle of eight for the singalong? Or the rare occasion that my mother attends a Sox game without me, during which she makes sure to return the favor? And the two occasions during which flatmates (therefore, live-in family) called to pipe some Diamond into my cell phone?

I have a number of friends who are Sox fans. I have a number of friends who attend games at Fenway.

I've never had a friend call in "Sweet Caroline" until tonight. During a YANKEES GAME, no less!

Which is why, after I laughingly sang my "Bah, bah, bah"s into the phone as the television showed commercials, I officially welcomed Nicole into the family.

Shit.

It's 2 a.m. and I can't even begin to fathom the concept of sleep. My mind is wired and my body is following suit, ready to bounce.

Quietly. The flatmates are asleep, as are most rational people at this hour.

One afternoon in college, I returned to my room to find an email from my favorite radio station back home waiting for me in my inbox. In it, I learned that I had won tickets to see (then pretty freshly removed from the Five) Ben Folds in nearby New York state.

I was elated. Until two hours later, when I received a follow-up email from the station manager, informing me that there had been some electronic snafu and I was once again Ben Folds ticket-less.

For the time being, I'll simply say that I'm half-holding my breath, waiting for another follow-up to arrive.

Dear Mr. Sandman

Last night, I dreamt of good news.

I had settled into my desk chair to check in on my team. A quick jaunt to Boston.com to get the latest -- particualrly to see whether Eric Wilbur had yet to retract his Send In the Clowns column. A click on Sports, another on Red Sox.

The face jumped out at me, surrounded by the blonde curls. The headline was magic.

"Arroyo back home."

Bronson was back. A series of quick trades (I don't recall the other players or teams involved) that planted Arroyo back in the Boston lineup, just in time for the Nomar-spark Wilbur had written would never come this season.

Things were suddenly better. The Sox had defeated Detroit (my mother, father and uncle happily took in the game with the tickets I'd had to give up), Arroyo was to be back on the mound and the team was going to give it another shot.

I cheered out loud. Hallelujah. The fates have smiled again.

When I awoke, I settled into my desk chair to check in on my team. Boston.com. Click on Sports, click on Red Sox.

No Bronson. Instead, a photo of a monkey perched on Craig Hansen's shoulder.

I thought briefly of calling in Red Sox and returning to my dreams.

Jesus on the radio

It's not that I'm worried about looking like a moron in front of bold-faced names; I'm worried about looking like a moron in front of just about anyone, bold-faced name or not. I've met famous people and I've met complete strangers - I consider each equal opportunity to wind up coming off as an ass.

Which is why I found it so funny to have the question thrown my way. Or, frankly, more of a request to confirm than anything else.

"You've MET THEM?"

I laughed. I couldn't help it. "Yes, I've met them."

The girl dropped the corner of the six-foot wide sign she was helping to carry. Her jaw dropped in time.

There's something to be said about the sheer joy (and wonder, terror and everything else) that comes across some people's faces when they realize that one or some of their idols are actually meetable. That people do in fact have the opportunity to say hello, shake a hand, exchange names and chat about the weather or whatever the hell they would like to discuss.

You can do that???? Yes. You can. And kudos to you for having good taste; these idols are worthy of your star-struck eyes.

The trio (two girls and a guy) had pieced together multiple sheets of posterboard -- neon orange, of course -- to request a song. The six-foot-by-four-foot sign requested "Jesus on the Radio," complete with an image of Christ hovering above, well, a radio. A boombox, really. On the back of the sign, they'd added a second option. "Or...Two Points."

Contingency plan. I liked it.

When I told them about how everything worked with the raffle, they descended upon the table. As much money as they could. They singlehandedly contributed to about a quarter of the proceeds. Which meant that none of us were surprised when one of their names was drawn.

Turns out, they kind of won twice. As they had tried to wrap their brains around the idea of meeting the band, Adam had walked right behind them, smiling at the huge sign on the ground. They'd been completely unaware of this, of course.

And at show's end, when the band returned for their second encore, Ryan made reference to the "huge sign" shortly before the band launched into "Jesus on the Radio." The girls screeched and ran to grab the sign, pulling it back into the center of the crowd as they pumped their fists in the air and clutched at each other.

Had anything happened to them at that moment, they truly would have died utterly happy. One tried not to cry, the other stared raptly at the stage. The token male of the group hugged each, a huge, beaming smile threatening to crack his face.

It was a great rendition of the song, but I kept my eyes on this little group of Canadian fans that, while a bit louder than I tend to be, managed to strike a chord. People so wrapped up in a song or a band, alternating between disbelief and joy that That Band was playing That Song and mentioned Their Sign.

And that they were actually going to MEET THEM in just a few minutes' time.

Ruh roh

The next month of Tuesdays are going to be painfully difficult. In a good, set-up-the-coffee-IV sort of way.




Bleary eyes are the order of the day. Bleary eyes and multiple lattes (I'm on my second already, with at least one more to come). True to form, the evening's performance did not wrap up until the morning, with a 2 am. sendoff of "See you next week!"

Oh God. Next week. This happens again. And again. And then once more, for good measure.

I'm not complaining. It's the lack of sleep that's talking, and even that is with a dopey grin that can't quite translate onto the page.

Music and friends have seemed to be everywhere I turn. "Glorious" does not even begin to describe.

Truth is, there's been so much fun crammed into the last few days that my brain is reeling. And my body isn't overly pleased with me.

Memo
To: V
From: Your Body
Subject: What the hell?

You're not in college anymore, dipshit. You need to give yourself some rest. Seriously. Hello. Do you copy?

To: My Body
From: V
Subject: Re: What the hell?

Oh, shut up, you wuss. You can take it. You're the first to complain about being bored when there isn't enough to do.

One more show tomorrow, then a few days of relaxation. During those days, I sleep. And work on other projects.

In the meantime, keeping conscious is my chief objective.

And continuing to dance.

Chronicles of a Go-Go Dancer

There are no bad seats in the Corporate Mad Libs Pavilion, but I've actually grown rather fond of the space behind all of the crowds.

See, when you're dealing with seats and seatmates, there's an issue of common courtesy. You have to worry about your personal space, others' personal space...let's face it, there's nothing worse -- for both parties involved -- than an unexpected run-in between an elbow and a solar plexus. Painful, awkward, bad, bad, bad.

But beyond the seats? That, dear friends, is the land of dancing magic, in which energetic music enthusiasts can get their goofy rockout going on.

It had already been a great evening. I was working the RFAR table with three of my favorite women in the world, and concertgoers strongly supported our Greater Boston Food Band fundraising endeavors. $2 for a chance to meet Guster and help out a good cause? Yes, please. Can I get two? Rogue Wave and the Yonder Mountain String Band had set the happy mood, and I'd spent my time collecting tickets and chatting with the (surprising, delightful) multitude of familiar faces that I'd seen.

By the time the house lights dimmed and the audience began to roar, all but a few stragglers had made their way to their seats. We stood on chairs to look out at the stage to witness the first Guster Takes on Boston entrance I'd ever actually seen.

Lights out, sound cued. "Born to Be Wild" pulsed through the speakers as four blinking red lights emerged on the house right aisle.

The most dorky, glorious quartet of Segway riders ever made its way up the side, around the back and down the center right aisle, slapping hands with the screaming audience members before moving up a ramp and onto stage. Helmets and all. Brian kept his on. We went wild.

As the band kicked off "Barrel of a Gun," my friends and I were so excited -- about being together, about being on the water, about being at this show, hell, about being alive -- that we did what anyone else would do, given the space and carefree attitudes.

We began to jump around, dance, sing at the top of our lungs and otherwise just completely let loose. At one point, a friend from college M and I had seen earlier came over and joined our little line of dancing fools. As he left, he informed M that "you girls look like go-go dancers. I dig it."

Guster's Go-Go Girls. Rolls off the tongue, doesn't it?

We continued for two hours. We probably would have tired at some point, had Guster lowered the energy for a song or two, but the band instead decided to unleash the best set I've ever seen them perform -- and complete the single most enjoyable concert experience I've had. Impeccable energy, musicianship and fun. The crowd loved it, and joyously booed the band back onstage for its encore (band's idea: Let's do an anti-encore. If you like us and want us to come back, boo us. Turn your backs to us and flip us off. The audience added to it by breaking into a chant of "Guster Sucks." Lovely. Charming. Awesome.)

Barrel of a Gun
The Captain
Backyard
Satellite
Amsterdam
I Spy
Manifest Destiny
C'mon
Airport Song (now less Vincent Price, more straight up Satan)
Careful
The Beginning of the End
Ruby Falls
(Nothing But) Flowers (featuring former Guster drum tech and Lowell, Mass., native Sean Lynde on drums)
Demons
Center of Attention
Come Downstairs & Say Hello
------
e:
So Long (the evening's "one time this tour" treat)
The New Underground
Happier
Keep It Together

By the end of the regular set, we were busy dancing our way through breakdown, folding tables, packing boxes, cleaning up. L and I, both thrilled to hear the "Flowers" surprise, danced in time to the beat as we rolled up banners.

Roll it roll it roll it up, "now it's all covered with daisies" -- roll it, roll it.

By the walk back to the cars at the end of the night, after gathering, chatting and saying hellos, I was still bobbing my heads and laughing over the sheer joy of the night. I don't like to say that nights or events -- anything, really -- are perfect.

But this came awfully close.

Stop the boat

Another thing I can check off the list of Things I Never Particularly Wanted To Do But Should Probably Have the Experience of Doing for Life Lessons' Sake:

Sprint down a pier, in heels, trying to catch a boat (ship? dinghy?) before it departs for locations unknown (i.e. Boston Harbor). In this challenge, the pier pathway, of course, is alternately cobblestone and sand - you are, of course, wearing a wrap dress and occasionally showing a bit too much leg for anyone who might be observing the debacle from either of the cruises preparing to set off.

Nicole and I were late. Showed up just barely on time at the wrong pier kind of late. What are we going to do with our evening kind of late. And yet we still put in the effort, jumping out of the car in the parking lot, running in our heels down stairs, out a door, across a couple of streets, down a pier, across the aforementioned cobblestone and sand, to the gate and onto the boat.

It pulled away from shore about 30 seconds later. Hell of an entrance? You bet. Particularly as we breathlessly boarded, laughed, hugged each other to champion our success and then leaned against the railing, the very picture of nonchalance.

Another day, another crazy adventure.

We were rewarded with an amazing set. Truly. As we stood inside the main room, drinks in hand, I realized that I felt so proud of the band that has taken shape over time. Chad, Dennis, Steve and now drummer Max are locked into the same mode. The energy's there, the focus -- the addition of the drums takes already impressive tunes to the next level. During a performance of "Somewhere Beside Me," it seemed everyone -- onstage, in the audience -- couldn't help but bob their heads in time. It was electrifyingly good.

The boat itself was also a good time. Less sunset this time around (August, you kill me with your early to bed crap), but good conversation, good times. Good bad Chinese food, even -- bonus. A lot of faces I knew of (thanks, myspace, you evil thing you), some faces I definitely knew, and then a few that made my night (Hi, G!). And with the exceptions of 1) being hit by an obnoxiously drunk girl's purse -- twice -- and 2) reeling in disbelief at some Jekyll/Hyde behavior, it was a gorgeously friendly, funny sort of occasion.

Worth the wincing that occurred the next morning, when I awoke and instantly realized that my de-heeled feet were going to be angry with me for a long, long time.

Please fill out this form...

I don't like doctors.

Not the people, per se. In fact, the medical experts with whom I have carried conversations not dependent on doctor/patient confidentiality have been pretty cool at times. And I love "Grey's Anatomy."

I don't like doctors when they're within the constraints of that confidentiality. With me. Which is why I don't consult with them as often as perhaps I should.

And then there's today.

TWO appointments. One very, very necessary, as I'm about ready to start reading Braille (who needs new contacts? I'd say me, but I'd have to squint to see the right keys on the keyboard. No, not really. But close). The other a little scarier prior, much less annoying after the fact.

(N directed me to a post on Dooce while she was visiting me this weekend, where Heather describes an episode involving a bump on the arm named Ed. It turned out to be basal cell carcinoma - as she put it, "The Most Common of All Cancers." I have a similar bump on my arm. I proceded to channel the darkest of my dark sense of humor to laugh it off as I frantically scheduled an appointment with a dermatologist to find out what I'm dealing with here.)

I'm getting ready to hopefully see the light of day once again (again, I'm being overly dramatic, but what can you do?), and I'm thrilled to report that I was able to text N today with "I will live to rock out another day."

The doctor didn't seem to get it when I explained the good of the Internet, prompting me to check out something that I'd read about. Just to be informed and on the safe side.

I might as well have told him that I read online that Martians had landed in Helsinki. That old, familiar "ah, she's an Internet hypochonrdiac" eye glaze over.

Harumph.

So yes. I'm well aware of all the good they can do for me and the relief they can provide?

I still don't like doctors.

Will you catch me if I'm falling

I know, I know, it's a cliched song to freak out over. Oh well.

I'm standing on the lawn at SPAC, to which thousands of others have flocked to take in the spectacle, and I'm giddy. Beyond giddy. Think of a small child so excited and overjoyed that she can't express it. Instead, she stands still - hushed so as to not ruin the moment.

It's "Round Here." Adam Duritz is so far into his own head (seemingly moreso than usual, if you can believe it) that he's just spouting. He's going off into tangents that have stretched the song out into a glorious improvisation.

The moment is poignant and exhilerating all at once, and I can feel the joys and disappointments that have come over a short period of time fight each other, racing to get to the surface first. There's nowhere I'd rather be at that moment than under a hazy summer sky, standing on the grass with flouresent lights dimly burning off to my side, listening to someone wrench the emotions out of his mind and into the microphone...but at the same point, I can feel my heart breaking bit by bit as he continues on.

Few musicians or bands can tear my heart out. Counting Crows does it every single goddamn time. I just want it to stop...but not really. I just want Adam to keep on going. I want the band to keep him going.

I can feel the energy in the crowd, how they've been taking in the band's performance and are ready to give the proper, sungalong approval. We are all waiting to wail away with "round here we stay up very, very, very, very late."

I'm ready to belt out the words myself. But I don't want this moment to go away.

I mean, uh, yeah. Caught Counting Crows tonight and they, er, were pretty OK.

You know.

Whatever.

Sigh.

It's like that Mraz line from "Wordplay"...

I built a bridge across the stream of consciousness that always seems to be a flowin' but I don't know which way my brain is goin'...

I'm sitting in my dining room. Which is rather strange.

I don't often sit here - hell, I don't often dine here. And over the last week and a half, it's come to feel as if I don't often live here. A couple of whirlwind trips to Massachusetts and an otherwise hectic schedule has kept me pretty much out of the apartment. Not that I'm complaining. At all. I'm simply remarking on how strange it is to crawl into my bed at night and think, "Oh, so this is what my bed feels like. Huh."

I'm eating a bowl of Special K with Red Berries, which always amuses me because Special K with Strawberries would be a perfectly fitting name for a cereal. That's precisely what the red berry is - the cereal makers wouldn't be blowing any big surprises by being straightforward. I'm also sipping an iced caramel latte. Breakfast foods at non-breakfast hours...just the way I like it. The day's best food is always served at its worst time. I rebel in my own quiet, milk-soaked way.

Matt Nathanson's Providence show from April (the night of the Accidental Bodyguard post) is playing in the kitchen, and he's singing the version of "Car Crash" that left me grinning like mad at the show. He's piped through the speakers in the kitchen because I'd tackled a massive reorganization effort about an hour ago. The task has prompted me to bar my flatmates and I from purchasing any more of the following items: peanut butter, honey mustard, Jello, organic fruit snacks, tea, hot cocoa mix, candy sprinkles and vodka. Oh, and Wheat Thins. Propsective houseguests, rest assured: we will always be able to provide you with peanut butter crackers, and we'll always be capable of getting you drunk. Jello shots, perhaps?

Speaking of guests, I've one on the way. Having grown accustomed to having to hit the highway to see many of my Massachusetts friends (it's simply the way it works out - as I'm busy trying to make my way to Boston as often as possible), I was thrilled to find a friend up for a trip north to me. I happily straightened up the apartment and solicited preferences for snacks. Hosting - hurrah!

The house is completely empty, save I, and I'm enjoying the chance to stretch out and blare music if I see fit. Both of the flatmates are on vacation and the other apartment's tenants are off somewhere. My particular apartment has been deserted for much of the week, and I'm bringing some life back into it by lighting candles, opening the windows and letting sunlight stream in.

My sunporch smells like pink grapefruit; the dining room gardenias, the kitchen apple and the living room...I don't know what the candle is. It isn't marked. But it smells good. I periodically make the rounds to be sure no room is going up in flames.

My writing this last week has been alternately arduous and exciting. In fine tradition, I've been agonizing over some projects lately, convinced that I'm never going to get them to the point I want. And in time tradition, the results end up perfectly fine and enjoyable - I wind up exhausted and headachey. As Michelle remarked today during a phone conversation, such a process is hardly surprising - it's how I roll.

This is my little weekend reprieve, as next week is scheduled to pick up just as fast and furious. A couple of trips - Saratoga Springs for the Counting Crows at the beginning of the week, Boston for the boat cruise and Guster at week's end - and a whole lot of writing crammed into the space between.

In the meantime, I'm just taking a moment to enjoy the sensation of breathing and writing, for once, simply whatever comes to mind.

Memo

To: Boston Red Sox
From: Vix
Subject: Tonight's game

Are you serious?
You bastards.
I love you.
xoxo - V

In related news, the blackbird was signed to a two-year contract with the Red Sox, where it will serve as a pinch runner ala Dave Roberts

Last night was weird.

It was hot, and those who filed into the ballpark were sweaty, a little ornery and ready for the home team to justify the trip out into the oppressive heat. I suspect that many of the crowd were in our position - having purchased tickets in a frozen January, not knowing that Game Day would be one of Boston's hottest in a looooong time.

Varitek was out, and as of game time, we weren't sure of his situation. Johnson had been called up from Pawtucket because Snyder had to be pulled into Monday night's game; the Sox had hit at least four home runs the night before. The natural inclination was to worry that weak pitching and an exhausted offense suggested a frustrating kind of game.

So our pitching's shaky, the rock behind the plate is missing in action, the bats were tired and no one would actually be psyched to play baseball in this kind of weather.

Awesome.

But I decided to shake off the sense of foreboding and make the best of it. I was in Boston. Yes, it was broiling hot, but I was going to Fenway with friends, there was ice cold beer on tap and I was going to take in my first personal view of the team in a couple of months.

How bad could it be?

As Gordon Edes' Globe story succinctly sums it up today:

Instead of roaring for another walkoff home run by David Ortiz (bloop double and squibber single), the sellout crowd of 36,328 was reduced to directing its ninth-inning encouragement at the bird, which made it back to second and hopped toward third. In the middle of the ninth, the bird occupied center stage, appearing on the video scoreboard, while the PA system played the Beatles' ``Blackbird," at the behest of Dr. Charles Steinberg, the Sox executive vice president of public affairs.

`On a night like this," Steinberg said, ``this is what people go home and talk about. `Hey, were you at the game with the blackbird?'"

A quick sputter of a rally - thanks to Gonzo for making it interesting - but otherwise, the highlight was realizing that we had a lovely breeze blowing on the upper bleachers, while the box seat occupants were probably sweating themselves silly.

Ha. Take that.

It was just very, very strange. At one point early on, the bleachers were flooded with more beach balls than I've ever seen at the park (accompanied, inexplicably, by an inflatable Tootsie Roll?). I think someone on the third base side caught - or almost caught - a foul ball with a cup of beer, judging from the spray visible from our perch. The blackbird situation - which really did get the entire park chanting "Bird! Bird! Bird!" as loudly as if we were at the Garden in the 80s - and the worry over Lowell's foot...the fact that I wasn't yelling or chanting nearly as much as I typically do...

Weird, weird, weird.

The day itself was, well, hot. Damn hot. Insert-"Good Morning Vietnam"-sound-clip-here hot (ten points if you know what I'm talking about). And of course, it was the day that I wound up running all over Boston. Started in Central, stopped in Chinatown, rested in the Common, headed to Newbury and then, oh wait, went to Fenway.

It was a little spastic - by the end, I was busy apologizing to everyone because I was trying to make sure we could all meet up - and I cursed Mother Nature for being the spiteful bitch that she is, but I had fun. The best was probably being called a brat after casually mentioning that I was in town...

Ha. Good times.

But if it's this hot next time I'm in town (next weekend's CP/deSol boat cruise/Guster doubleheader), I'm going to throw down.

Or just beat someone with a water bottle.

Whatever works.

(more photos, as per usual, are up on the flickr)