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.