Revelry

Dear Blogger

2006-10-29T21:40:00.000-05:00

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

2006-10-24T15:44:00.000-04:00

"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

2006-10-24T13:30:00.000-04:00

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)

2006-10-23T17:22:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-23T13:27:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-10-20T23:01:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-10-19T20:44:00.000-04:00

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!

2006-10-17T14:46:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-15T22:15:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-09T17:08:00.000-04:00

"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

2006-10-09T08:30:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-08T11:59:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-10-06T13:37:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-10-05T16:56:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-10-03T16:42:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-03T10:31:00.000-04:00

Fun times at Skybar in Somerville on Saturday night.

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

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

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

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

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

What the hell???

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

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

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

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

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

I'm so proud.

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

Insert appropriate animated fish pun here

2006-09-29T12:13:00.000-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

Saturday

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now seen in a two-hour block on ABCFamily

2006-09-29T10:56:00.000-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

An excerpt

2006-09-28T21:18:00.001-04:00

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

6:25 a.m. - Logan runway

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

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

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

It threatens.

2006-09-28T16:27:00.000-04:00

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

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

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

Not yet.

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

The cycle spins on and on.

I continue to sneeze.

Preparing for battle

2006-09-27T09:23:00.000-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You might be my new best friend."

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

A call from the roof.

"What are you doing?"

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

"She has plenty of room."

"She's nervous."

"She has plenty of room."

I stared back and forth. Are you serious?

"She's nervous about it."

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

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

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

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

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

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

A close encounter

2006-09-24T23:08:00.000-04:00

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

That said, this one amused me.

SCENE - EXT. ZILKER PARK. AFTERNOON. FRIDAY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On rotation

2006-09-24T16:08:00.000-04:00

Thanks to last weekend and subsequent radio listening, I've some new material dominating my playlists. For the sake of performing a (ha!) public service, I'll keep the commentary to a minimum and offer up some selections/recommendations:

- G. Love & Special Sauce, "Hot Cookin'": Saucy, sexy and easy on the ears, the song gives me a way of clinging to the final rays of summer sunshine. I can picture G performing it with his chicken leg shimmy when I listen to the tune...and I rather apperciate the image.
- Dana Falconberry, "Paper Sailboat": Chris made recent reference to this Austin gal on Gorilla vs. Bear, and I'm glad I checked her work out. Breathy, straightforward folk/acoustic/confessional tunes recorded in a style that capitalizes on her conversational melodic style.
- Paolo Nutini, "Loving You": If this isn't the new "Let's Get It On," I don't know what is. I still don't know how this voice comes from a 19-year-old body; I feel rather lecherous enjoying it as someone six years his senior. But then I get over it and realize I'm bummed I missed him at ACL.
- Pierre Guimard, "De l'autre cote": I have absolutely no idea of what the man is saying. But I know that I love the sound.
- Hector On Stilts, "Tongue Tied": I already mentioned the band. Now I direct you to check out the tunes.
- Ryan Montbleau Band, "Love and Love Lost": Finally, a recording of the song is on the Live Archive! Let us all rejoice and download! This song is a gem among an extensive list of keepers. "So much love to give, so much baggage to carry it in, you're just love and love lost."
- Jason Myles Goss, "Dancing Scarlet": Yes, I know he oversings it a bit on this track. But after seeing Jason perform at the NEMO singer-songwriter competition in Williston last month (was it last month? I think?), I know that he puts a lot of emotion and energy into his performance, and the oversinging bit is something that he will probably learn to tone down. It's a good love song that makes me nod my head in time and smile, despite the technical bits. I keep playing it, so that's saying something, isn't it?
- Patrice Pike, "Jackknife Girl": This girl is sultry and has a crazy set of pipes. I can't get enough of this song.
- Justin Timberlake, "SexyBack": Everyone, and I mean everyone teased me for loving "Rock Your Body" the way that I did. And while I hated "SexyBack" at first listen (I believe shouts of "get rid of that static, it sucks!" were involved), Justin's VMA performance turned me around. Now I enjoy the song. Cred be damned. I believe it to be hot and I don't care who knows.

How about you guys? What should I be checking out?

2006-09-23T22:14:00.000-04:00

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

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

There's a moment

2006-09-23T21:25:00.000-04:00

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

Why not?

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

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

But what is it really that's missed?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Roundup

2006-09-22T18:15:00.000-04:00

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

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

Everyone reaclimated post-ACL?

Yeah, me neither.

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

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

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

Simple answer: it's ACL.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I like daisies.

The best of both countries

2006-09-21T23:19:00.000-04:00

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

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

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

Miss something in America? Give Canadia a try.

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

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

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

Episode ends. Beth flips over to Canadian.

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

"GUESS WHAT I'M ABOUT TO WATCH."

"What?"

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

"You're joking."

"I LOVE CANADIAN!"

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

You know. Next week's.

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

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

"I got half a smile and zero shame"

2006-09-21T12:43:00.000-04:00

Typical morning scene.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I love me some ice cream

2006-09-20T00:58:00.000-04:00

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

"I want an Ice Cream Man sticker."

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

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

"Who?"

"Buttondown shirt, crazy hair."

"That's Ice Cream Man."

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

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

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

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

I liked Ice Cream Man.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Back in one place.

2006-09-19T14:37:00.000-04:00

I put my car into park in the driveway, turned off the ignition and took a deep breath.

I'm home. Aclimating again to the expectation of being in one place for a few days was going to be odd; it felt as if I'd been out on the road for at least a month, not simply a week and a half.

I'd even forgotten that I'd rearranged my bedroom and set up a new shelving system. I'd completely, totally forgotten.

I'm sifting through my notes to write an ACL Festival roundup post that will be sent in to Project DU this evening - as I look through the photographs and check out the schedule, it already boggles the mind that I was actually there, witnessing some of the things I captured in digital form.

I lucked out -- to say "thank you" to those that provided my opportunity to visit Austin doesn't seem enough -- and scored photo press priviledges for the festival. It meant that in most cases, I was able to stand in the photo pit immediately in front of the stage for at least three songs of whatever act I wanted to shoot.

Even my little digital point and shoot could work wonders with that. So as often as I could, I was right in there with the "real" photographers. You know, the ones with huge lenses and zoom capabilities.

I'd have a hard time describing the fun of that, were I to try.

I'm going to be writing little moments and thoughts in the coming days -- I'm still trying to process them all -- but in the meantime, I thought I'd encourage you to check out the flickr account. I've uploaded the images from Texas -- the Baltimore venture will be uploaded today, I hope -- and I've created a specific set that features my favorite ACL photos. You'll see the set on the right side of the main page -- "ACL Festival - Highlights."

Samples of what you'll find:

Thanks and a hello to those I had a chance to meet at the festival -- Sunni, Clare, Michael, Ryan, Amrit, Rachel, Chris and the like.

Random side note? After returning to the apartment, I logged onto myspace and had a message waiting for me from a guy I went to high school with. Turns out he lives in Austin now, attended the festival, checked the ACL Website and saw my blog entries. Had to write me and say "What the hell?!?!"

Which is funny, as that was precisely my reaction upon receiving said message.

Now, I'll get to the task of getting all these memories written down. In the meantime, if you haven't already checked out the misadventures, may I be subtle and encourage you to do so. Go either to the Daily Wrap at the official Austin City Limits Music Festival site and click on each day's blog (you'll see my smiling face when you do) or...

Two Down

2006-09-17T12:04:00.000-04:00

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

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

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

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

How could you not? Exactly.

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

Yep.

Greetings from Austin

2006-09-16T12:27:00.000-04:00

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

Damn not having instantaneous typing skills!

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

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

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

Red, blue, green, orange

2006-09-14T14:20:00.000-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The ultimate stress-free baseball experience.

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

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

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

(Also, several things should be quickly noted:

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

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

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

Ahh, hello big world

2006-09-08T16:04:00.000-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2006-09-07T13:45:00.000-04:00

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

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

Hey. I'm going to Austin. Texas.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Texas, baby. Texas.

2006-09-05T08:37:00.000-04:00

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

It has become convenient.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No."

Then I'll walk away.

2006-09-04T00:09:00.000-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was pretty goddamn glorious.

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

I know. How could I resist that?

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

In the meantime, how are you guys doing?

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

2006-08-30T12:34:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-08-28T14:02:00.000-04:00

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

2006-08-28T13:24:00.000-04:00

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!

2006-08-26T13:58:00.000-04:00

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...

2006-08-23T20:18:00.000-04:00

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,

2006-08-23T11:33:00.000-04:00

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...

2006-08-22T01:44:00.000-04:00

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.)

2006-08-21T00:41:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-08-18T01:30:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-08-17T14:00:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-08-17T00:11:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-08-15T12:04:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-08-14T10:51:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-08-14T10:50:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-08-10T17:05:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-08-08T02:23:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-08-05T15:41:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-08-03T00:36:00.000-04:00

Memo

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

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

2006-08-02T10:21:00.000-04:00

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)

2006-07-30T22:12:00.000-04:00

Ben Affleck gets jeered for not breaking up a foul ball catch during tonight's game.

The difference between watching an ESPN Sox broadcast and a NESN broadcast:

ESPN (channel on which the game was broadcast): "Let's comment on this throughout the rest of the game, supplying our television audiences with copious shots of Affleck and Jennifer Garner sitting in their seats right by the dugout. We will show replays and discuss whether Affleck looks dejected or not."

NESN (channel on which the game should have been broadcast): "Aw, man. That Affleck. If Damon was here, he totally would have taken one for the team."

2006-07-30T12:34:00.000-04:00

Catching up

When a lot of activity is crushed into a short period of time, it proves tricky to sort it all out in proper chronological order. It winds up getting all mixed up and coming off something like this:

I answered the phone with "I haven't been so happy to see your state in a loooooong time" and then realized we may or may not be in the same bar/restaurant as a couple of Red Sox players. Which is funny, because I was indignantly debating just what losing Mike Lowell would do to wreak havoc on the current Red Sox dynamic. I ordered us another round of the special on tap as I realized that this version of "Stop the Bus" was crazy differnt than the song I'd fallen in love with last year - but this version was still pretty amazing. T accompanied us on our walk to the car, and the show was over just as I finally realized that I'd had more to drink over the course of the night than I'd realized. I smiled as I heard piano playing in the other room, and I was busy packing slices of pineapple and red pepper pizza into a takeaway box as N was informed that she leads a double life as Hazel Mae. As I lay on my temporary bed, I became certain that the fan would cool me as long as I stayed as still as humanly possible. An emergency of some sort forced me to take a detour and get lost before I droped a cool, damp washcloth over my forehead and eyes, dozing for an hour before I headed off to catch my train.

Many thanks to the fabulous individuals who contributed to the jumble - the time there proved to be precisely what I'd been needing.

From about Wednesday on, the days have all proven extraordinarily random, but in a pleasant sort of way. Faced with surprises at seemingly every turn, I've decided to temporarily abandon my perfectionistic ways and just go with it.

So far? It's working out well.

2006-07-25T21:34:00.000-04:00

Wicked

After three weeks keeping myself firmly rooted within the green mountains, I'm busting out of this joint.

Hoo-ah. The highway awaits!

2006-07-24T13:56:00.000-04:00

If I'm gonna go down I'm gonna do it with style. You won't hear me surrender, you won't hear me confess cause you've left me with nothing but I have worked with less. - Ani DiFranco

We're taught to open ourselves up to other people. Part of learning and growing is to share yourself with other people, to let them see the good (and the bad, ugly, timid, frightened, zany and adorable) that composes who you are.

I know that there is inherent good to such action, and I'm realizing it again today, if not for a decidedly different reason.

Opening yourself up shows you who you can trust and who you can't. You learn who is worth it and who isn't.

It's one of the most painful lessons to learn. And I can feel the shell around me harden as I experience this rapid-fire education.

Simply put, the people I know are hurting me. They are disappointing me. They are making me realize that I don't register as nearly as important to them as they have to me. And while they can tell me they love me and adore me until they are blue in the face, I've grown tired of nodding my head at empty words. I'm not seeing any form of demonstrative action and
I
am
angry.

But at least I'm learning. I won't repeat these mistakes.

2006-07-23T20:56:00.000-04:00

Reason No. 23520 I'm happy to be single right now:

I enjoy singular pronouns far too much to be in a relationship.

I could sum up the last couple of days in several different ways, but I think right now, I'm just going to quote a song some dude wrote awhile ago.

I learned a year's worth of lessons in a weekend.

2006-07-19T23:51:00.000-04:00

"Something's coming this way"

Guster's then-unreleased "Empire State" struck me when I first heard it back in November. But my appreciation has grown to infatuation since I (finally stopped slacking and) purchased "Ganging Up On the Sun."

Pretty damn spectacular, if I do say so myself.

Anyway. I'm exhausted today and haven't the energy to post anything other than lyrics (oops, guess I blew the surprise). But know that they seem to fit me today. Somehow. Eh. A post of actual original content should land tomorrow (Thursday). Insight, literary reference and the 70s - oh my!

Til then, be well, enjoy lyrics and buy the album already. If you haven't. And if you have, make sure to get to a tour date this summer. If you haven't.

Um. Mmmmkaybye.

Empire State

Been the crawl of a mountain
Been a link in a chain
Been scolded for stealing
Been told to behave

Been reading the forecast
Something's coming this way
But it's taking forever
I'm too tired to maintain that
I'm slow

Been a scratch on the surface
Been a clog in the drain
Been melodramatic
Been sleeping for days

Been one in a million
Been a million to one
This is taking forever
It always seems to return that
I'm slow

All hands up, salute the Empire State
Faith be true, you know the way
Ten feet tall in this: an empty space
Fallen walls all around
Destroyed again
Destroyed again

Been digging to China
Been a fish in the sea
Been talking to Jesus
He's not talking to me

Been reading the forecast
Something's coming this way
But it's taking forever
I'm too tired to maintain that
I'm slow

All hands up, salute the Empire State
Faith is true, she knows the way
Ten miles tall in this: an empty space
Fallen walls all around
We'll build again
Rebuild again

Been the crawl of a mountain
Been a link in a chain
Been scolded for stealing

2006-07-16T16:06:00.000-04:00

I was a little nervous about the trip to the Northeast Kingdom this weekend.

You see, my last trip to the NEK had been senior year of high school. State soccer semifinal game. We lost the poorly officiated game, 1-0. (While I'm not a fan of criticizing referees, a reverend from my hometown present for the game told the officials they were bad men. When even a man charged with delivering God's message is telling the officials that they blew the game, I feel comfortable criticizing.)

It sucked. And I kind of hated the NEK for it.

But there I was, back in the Kingdom, sitting cross-legged on the floor. My back was very lightly resting against a basket of dog toys. A small fan blew cool air onto my face, relief from the ridiculous heat that had descended upon the state late last week. The dog to whom the toys belonged stretched out across the living room rug, gazing languidly up at Chad and Patrick from their seats near the window.

So this is what that whole house concert thing is like? Cool...

I'd never before attended a house concert. Informal jams? Yep. Extremely intimate gigs? Sure. Performances atop car hoods? You betcha. And a four-person singalong on a college townhouse porch in the early morning hours of, say, my 21st birthday?

Haha. Yeah, that too.

But no house concerts. Which is partly why I was so intrigued by the possibility of taking in the show.

I was able to partake in one of my favorite activities at concerts - studying the hands of the guitarists at work. Having attempted a few (read: many, countless) times to learn to play, I'm well aware of the fact that my fingers aren't strong enough to form the proper chords or to hold down two strings at once. Watching musicians contort so easily never ceases to amaze.

And frustrate, but hey.

I sipped raspberry lemonade from a plastic cup took in new songs, old favorites and covers that surprised and made me grin. The quiet of the audience gave me a chance to be even more touched by the phrases Patrick penned for "Fire Escape," for instance. And Chad's new material continues to reflect his foray into new territory - including one song (don't know the title, sorry) that uses a vocal register lower than I believe I've ever heard him use.

And there was a cover of "Fake Plastic Trees." That was an outstanding, we're-playing-multiple-octaves-of-the-chords-here-at-song's-conclusion performance that left me kind of giddy. Not gonna lie about it.

Got my "Metaphor" fix, and might have finally heard "Like Riding a Bike" live, had I not been completely surprised and confused by a question of "What do you think?"

What do I think? About the weather? The Red Sox? Oh...the next song? Whoops. It's probably for the best, however, as my first inclination would have been to laugh and suggest "Daffodils."

That would have been bad.

At one point, I was trying not to grin as Chad played "Let You Sleep." I focused my attention on my surroundings, noting with delight the framed family photos hanging from some walls, the concert posters affixed to others. A random little eclectic collection of memories on display.

Good times, and I felt pretty happy as I drove back south so I could once again head north.

Turns out that the NEK is much nicer when the playing occurs inside a house instead of on a soccer field.

2006-07-16T13:17:00.000-04:00

Well, it makes sense in my head, at least

Clickers and clackers. Both groups of charming people. It's tough to tell into which group a new friend or friendly acquaintance will go.

Take a clicker. You meet a clicker and it's instantaneous. You're there, he or she is there and, most importantly, the comfort is there.

"Hi, friend. Friend? Well, yeah, obviously. I'm me, you're you and we each clearly recognize the other's awesomeness. It's about time you showed up. We're going to be cool, mmmmkay? That's what I thought."

With a clacker, however, the gears seem to grind. With a clacker's clicker counterpart*, you don't even think of second-guessing your thoughts or comments. But the clacker makes you stammer a bit.

"Hi, I'm, uh, me. And you're you. I mean, obviously you're you - who else would you be but you? Sorry. So. Er. We each seem to recognize that the other's pretty awesome - or, at least, I think we each see that - and I know that I'd love for us to be cool. You know, if that's cool with you. Cool?"

You want to feel comfortable with a clacker. The clacker is unquestionably someone intriguing, funny, sweet, whatever. Often, a clacker more closely resembles your personality than a clicker does. And you do fall into a friendship. Of sorts. With a clicker, you'd be a zany wiseass, but with a clacker, you think things through a little more.

There's an X factor, and what's maddening is that you can't put your finger on what it is. In some cases, you and your fellow clacker (because afterall, the other person tends to think of you as a clacker as well, although he or she probably doesn't actually use the term - as I've, uh, made it up) even discuss that twinge of awkwardness that pops up with regularity. "I want things to be cool." "Well, I do, too." "OK." "Cool."

There are moments in which the clack clicks. You might make a quick-witted, snarky comment that would otherwise be reserved for the clickers or the close friends. Or you might have a really amazing conversation. You grin and laugh and think, "Hey, that was fantastic." Because it is. Clicks with a clacker are some of the best clicks around.

But then you start to wonder. Was it really? I mean, I thought it was, but was it? Did I sound like a dumbass? I didn't WANT to sound like a dumbass. The clacker really is cool and matters to me and all - wait a minute. Why on earth is this person still a clacker to me? We should have clicked already!

Fear not, friends. Sometimes it is possible for a clacker to ultimately become a post-clack clicker.

But here's reality: some don't. One must ultimately come to realize that while you click with some, you clack with others. You may have clacked with someone for a long time with the hopes of clicking one day, but it might just never happen. It's how it goes.

Which is when you have to ask yourself how you feel about being in a clack kind of friendship.

If you're lucky - which I've realized today that I am - you realize that you can be cool with clacking.

It's worth it for the moments you click.

*Try saying that five times fast. I did. It did not go well.

2006-07-13T15:35:00.000-04:00

Childlike wildlife

Seen today: A tiny little sprite of a girl, sporting a honey-colored bob and a frilly princess skirt. She's straying away from the other children in the park, and the camp counselor calls out to her to "stay on the sidewalk. No ifs, ands or buts."

She looks back, looks around, then extends one foot as far out as she can, smacking it onto the dirt and grass. The other foot remains on the sidewalk, connected by a straining tip-toe stance.

She looks back again with a satisfied grin on her face. She's not breaking any rules, but she's making them work for her. Why? Because she can.

I think we grown-ups should remember to do that with more regularity.

***
I've begun working on a little project that's surprisingly more difficult than I would have imagined.

It consists at the moment of sheets of notebook paper loosely gathered into a pile near my bed. I'm hoping today to get a suitable notebook into which I can create an official compilation.

I'm working on writing about concerts. Not like what I've done in the past and posted here - although, come to think of it, I think a couple of early concert recaps here will probably make the cut. Hmm.

Anyway. I've encountered some amusing misadventures through my concertgoing days, and it's about time I stop relying on my memory (faithful as it is) and jot 'em all down. Dorky moments, surreal moments, hi-I-look-like-a-Jackass moments.

It's going to be funny, it's going to be honest and it's going to be really challenging to force myself to think back to those days and how I was feeling at the time. In many cases, things have changed drastically, and I have to try setting aside those alterations...and then see how I do.

It's been fun so far. I'll keep you posted.

***
Red Sox fans (or any sports fans who moan over high ticket prices): really fun story in the Globe today about sneaking into Fenway Park. I recommend you check it out, as I have a feeling a lot of people will reminisce about the thrill of figuring out how on earth they were going to get into some event or another.

***
Finally, a question for you: How've you been? What's been new? What's your thought of the day? Inquiring minds want to know.

2006-07-11T22:04:00.000-04:00

The news out of Boston that reached me this morning was horrible, but I was dismayed to realize that I wasn't as surprised as I wanted to be.

People had murmured about how the debris and the water might only serve as the first act, as it were. I'd worried that something else would act as Act Two - although I wasn't really expecting a concrete slab - or three.

I don't live in Boston. I can't imagine what Milena Delvalle's family is going through, although I was among the countless others who thought of them today. I don't have first-hand knowledge of how hellish the Tuesday commute was (but believe me when I say that I certainly heard about it). But I drive there regularly enough to know how exasperating it is to have to detour to Congress Street at 1 a.m. because 93S is closed; I've sat in the tunnels in bumper-to-bumper Friday afternoon traffic, and I've checked to see if those water droplets falling onto my windshield are routine or something else.

Driving Storrow Drive is a nightmare, we all know. Weaving through the tunnels shortly before turning onto the roadway? That's supposed to provide the last few moments of relative peace, not a nightmare onto itself.

2006-07-09T16:49:00.000-04:00

Apple pie and flag-wavin'

I put the helmet back onto the shelf, slid the bat back into the tube and headed to the car. Climbed in, rolled down the windows, put on the sunglasses and turned on the ball game.

And hit the speed dial on my phone.

"Hello?"

"Hi. I just went to see 'Superman Returns.' When that was over, I headed to the batting cages. And I realized, as I walked back to my car, wearing my rolled-up jeans, a ponytail and Chuck Taylors, that my day has been so stereotypically All-American that it even makes me a little sick. And how are you?"

2006-07-07T12:59:00.000-04:00

Clickedy-clack

I gasped as I saw image after image of a round-cheeked baby girl. I minimized the window and returned to the chat program.

"Oh my God, she's absolutely adorable," I typed quickly. "How old is she now?"

Other baby-related questions flew out onto the screen from fingers that wouldn't allow the brain to fully register the words.

How were the first few months? Did she sleep throught the night? What are her little quirks? How are the Mommy and Daddy doing? What's it like to be a parent?

After about five minutes of back and forth with the proud parent on the other end of the connection, I paused and read back over our exchange.

This was beyond bizarre. I'm talking babies. With a peer.

Don't get me wrong: it's not as if I still view myself as a 21-year-old college kid most concerned about an indepth research paper. I'm fully aware of my 25-year-old-ness and the fact that when my mother was my age, she was a married woman with me around (joyously, of course, as I was the perfect child. If you ignore the rambunctious, possessive, self-centric character traits.) And each time my parents playfully remark on how they'd like to wind up with six grandchildren someday, to be split up between myself and my brother however we deem fit, any bit of me that tries to ignore my age is thoroughly trounced.

I suppose it was simply that I've been so busy dealing with rent, traveling (as relative as that is) and what I'd like to do with my life, surrounded predominantly with friends who are likewise doing the same, that I didn't fully recognize that friends from days gone by had taken on decidedly different projects.

The permanent kind - houses, spouses and babies. It's one thing to hear that So And So got married and is pregnant - it's another thing to catch up with an old friend and see their bubbly bundles of joy.

When did they make up their minds about things? How is it that they're ready to take care of new lives and I'm busy thinking about tackling the arduous process that would be balancing my checkbook?

And how is it that I can so quickly fall into the conversations that I remember hearing as a youngster, asking about things of which I have little or absolutely no knowledge whatsoever?

2006-07-05T16:21:00.000-04:00

"I just never felt so fantastically rocky in my entire life."

A point comes when you simply have to stop.

I walked from the driveway into my apartment, spoke briefly with my flatmates.

"You look pale," they remarked, adding "and wait, as if you're about to burst into tears. Are you okay?"

I shook my head and walked quickly into my bedroom, where I lay down and started to cry.

B had followed me, and she knelt down to look at me. "What's wrong?"

"I'm just...tired."

I didn't want to talk about it. I'd spent days wanting to talk about it, but it didn't make sense and it was the first time anyone had actually asked of their own volition. The time window had closed, and I simply wanted to channel the anger and disappointment, to convert it to fuel and use it for something.

I was tired of caring, of feeling alone, of hearing "Well, I thought you'd say something" when all I wanted was to be asked. I was tired of trying to trust people, to open up and eliminate the shyness. I was tired of driving. I was thoroughly sick of the seemingly inevitable disappointment that would settle over me, despite my attempts to brush it off with a casual, "Oh well, it happens and what can you do?" I was tired of being laidback and easygoing, I was tired of not doing what I wanted to do, of playing hostess and director and happy-go-lucky friend/daughter/acquaintance.

I was tired of smiling, and I was tired of waiting for someone to notice and ask about the fact that my eyes weren't shining they way they normally do when I grin and mean it.

I just wanted to cry and hate everyone for a few moments.

After I cried myself exhausted, I dozed before I rose, washed my face, got dressed and headed out for the afternoon's events.

Later in the evening, I began to read the copy of "Franny and Zooey" I'd been given as a gift earlier in the day.

She held that tense, almost fetal position for a suspensory moment - then broke down. She cried for fully five minutes. She cried without trying to suppress any of the noisier manifestations of grief and confusion, with all the convulsive throat sounds that a hysterical child makes when the breath is trying to get up through a partly closed epiglottis. And yet, when finally she stopped, she merely stopped, without the painful, knifelike intakes of breath that usually follow a voilent outburst-inburst. When it stopped, it was as though some momentous change of polarity had taken place inside her mind, one that had an immediate, pacifying effect on her body. Her face tear-streaked but quiet expressionless, almost vacuous, she picked up her handbag from the floor, opened it, and took out the small pea-green clothbound book. She put it on her lap - on her knees, rather - and looked down at it, gazed down at it, as if that were the best of all places for a small pea-green clothbound book to be. After a moment, she picked up th ebook, raised it chest-high, and pressed it to her - firmly, and quite briefly. Then she put it back intot he handbag, stood up, and came out of the enclosure. She washed her face with cold water, dried it with a towel from an overhead rack, applied fresh lipstick, combed her hair, and left the room. - J.D. Salinger

2006-07-02T23:53:00.000-04:00

A best friend

It was dark, but enough lights had been turned on to make out the shape of the skyline. I studied them as we glided back to the shore.

I felt a playful nudge against my left side. "Who here is going to know who you are?"

I pointed to a clump of three buildings. "Everyone who would fit in those. That many. They'll know."

She smiled at me, knowing how much I wanted it. These buildings, this ocean, these sounds, this place and everything that comes wrapped up with it. "Yes, they will."

Later, as I navigated the uneven sidewalk with my high-heeled shoes, she took my arm and pointed off to the side. "Those are the buildings you chose."

I took a quick count. Top floor, 12 rooms - and only perhaps a quarter of one row on one side of one building.

Gulp.

"You know, I meant those other buildings. You know, the smaller ones. Baby steps."

We laughed, she shook her head.

"No, I think you were right the first time."

2006-07-02T17:39:00.000-04:00

Dispatches

We leaned our backs against the ship's stern railing, looking over the top deck at the skyline as it peeked over at us. The band began to kick into "The Boat Song" just as we felt the gentle thrust of the engines kick in.

I had to chuckle along with the rest. Odds were good that at least three-quarters of those both onboard and on myspace had set that song as their default for the day. Hell, I'd done it, too. How could you not?

What if we were in the same boat
Rolling on a green sea
Listening to the water
No ordered future, no sorted old, wet memories?

The setup wasn't what I'd expected. I'd envisioned the band on the top deck, playing for the crowds assembled on three levels. But placing the band inside the main room made sense upon factoring in that not every boat cruise benefited from the gorgeous sunset beginning to glow in the distance. After a 45-second foray into the sauna-like crush inside, I settled into our friendly cluster of birthday revelers at the back, where we could lean, dance, sing or converse as we deemed fit.

We snapped photos, laughed and swooned over the skyline as the ship cut through the water - I realized that it finally felt like summer as I sipped a pineapple martini and pushed the hair back from my face. I don't find myself on the water often, but I love it each time I do. It was my first harbor cruise, and I was often found staring at the skyline, seeing it for the first time from a two-lantern point of view.

The band was on, as is seemingly always the case, with a vibe that seemed to compliment the crowd. Ready for a good time, but a little more laid-back than normal, just letting the music go where it wanted and smiling along the way. Or, at least, I have to imagine the guys were smiling. I felt as if I could hear Ryan's smile through the speakers.

It was odd, though, chatting my way through a Montbleau show. The music was what had brought everyone together, but it was background music, something I'd never found the music to be before. I guess it's because I'd never listened to it on a boat before. We sang along with some of the music, of course, and there was a crazy corner dance elicited by "You Crazy You," but there was a definite disconnect. Not in a bad way, either, although I'd always prefer to see them in a traditional club setting.

This was just different. And nice. More than a little surreal, particularly as the ship pulled back into the docks after our three-hour tour and several hundred voices could be heard singing along with "Stretch"'s chorus.

You just don't come across that too often, and I was glad to be there.

***
Yeah, I'm pretty much burning in hell.

This is nothing new, of course. My highway to hell was paved a long time ago, and the proper signage was put in place the moment I accidentally took my First Communion during a Sunday evening service early into my college career.

(True story, swear to God. Wait. I shouldn't be swearing to God - see? I'm doing it again!)

But I couldn't help it. I really and truly couldn't resist the opportunity that presented itself to B and I.

See, a morning in Beverly had turned into a meandering walking tour of Salem. There were five of us, and L served as our designated North Shore tourgide, pointing out spots and sights and whatnot.

It was rather odd for me. Having spent so much of my time only a town or two away, there were spots that jumped out at me, and I could explain how they'd popped into my life at various points.

("Ah, the Hawthorne Hotel was fun" sounds particularly eyebrow-raising until I add that "I was 9," "it was a wedding reception" and "get your head out of the gutter.")

But I'd never actually explored Salem. I'd enjoyed Salem Willows flavored popcorn, but I'd never been there myself. I knew of specific witch-related points, but I didn't know where they were. The House of Seven Gables could be on Plymouth Rock, for all I knew of how to find it.

After walking about, our group briefly broke up. Three went off to have their cards read (fitting, no?), and B and I decided to keep on exploring. As we sat in a juice bar, rehydrating, the idea struck.

We headed to the car, grabbed my iPod and headed back to the Old Burying Point.

Now, keep in mind that I do not disrespect the dead. At all. But I'm wandering around Witch Town, USA, in the baking sunshine, at a cemetery that has become a tourist attraction, right down the street from a wax museum and signs offering vampire tours.

This isn't exactly the most somber place.

And we followed every rule. Stay on the trails. Keep quiet.

I saw absolutely nothing that forbid cuing up "Thriller" on the iPod and sharing the earbuds. And there was no signage that prohibited a quick bustout of a music video dance move or two - out of view of everyone else.

C'mon, I think the ye olde folke of Salem would have totally dug it. I mean, Witchstock was supposedly going on right down the street.

But, that said, I suppose the whole thing came up because witches were supposedly going to go to hell anyway.

Hmm.

Oh well. Hell it is.

(more photos on flickr)

2006-06-30T09:56:00.000-04:00

"Honestly now, when this weekend will you wear your Red Sox hat?"
"I don't go on a trip without my Sox hat. It just doesn't happen."

Twelve in a row. Sixteen straight without an error. Four game lead in the AL East, two ten-win pitchers, stellar defensive play and run support. Even when Wakefield takes the mound.

I almost can't enjoy it. Don't get me wrong - I'm loving it. But still.

The other night, I listened to a Mets commentator who'd stopped over to say hi to the NESN guys during that evening's broadcast. During the conversation, he mentioned that the Red Sox are head and shoulders above the other AL teams New York had faced during interleague play. No question, absolutely, by far the best team.

It was great to hear, but I felt an urge to reach through the television and hit the guy.

You can't SAY that kind of thing about Boston. They'll go and screw it up.

Watching the team execute textbook-gorgeous double plays and congratulating each other with every run scored is a joy for anyone who knows the nightmare the team has been in past seasons. Despite being quite the fan of Gonzales, 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 worrying about when that's going to happen. We already had our magical season. Actually, wait. We had our magical fall - because anyone who was there throughout the 2004 season knows that at this time that year, we were ready to bang our heads against the walls.

Only two years later, they're playing with a professional poise and icy strength that leave me wondering "Could they actually...?"

Which makes me nervous. Remember, in 2003, I couldn't even watch the playoff games, for fear of jinxing.

Old habits die kind of hard.

2006-06-29T13:26:00.000-04:00

And it’s going to take microphones and stages,
Many people rearranging what their plans are for the night time
Hope they show up at the right time
And I’ll sing them my song
And I hope they sing along
I know they always sing along in my imagination.
- Ryan Montbleau, "Stretch"

Looking for that last-minute weekend adventure? Take to the high seas - or, at least, Boston Harbor.

The quick details:
Ryan Montbleau Band
Rock & Blues Cruise
Ship departs at 8 p.m. sharp
Tickets are $25, online purchase (and more information) is available by clicking here

Those attending can get in on the party within the party. One Miss Michelle is celebrating her birthday with the fiesta, and there's a posse prepared to celebrate it with her, sing and dance to the Montbleau gang.

Good time? Goodness, yes.

Be there.

2006-06-28T13:51:00.000-04:00

June 26, 1999.

Visiting family in Massachusetts (this was back in the day when Boston-area trips for me were rare), my father, brother and I decided to embark on one of those random adventures that always left my mother shaking her head in amusement.

"You're going to go pay money to stand at Fenway?"

Four words, Mom: It's a Pedro Game.

The game against the White Sox proved to be the only time I saw Martinez pitch in person. It was a massacre - 17-1 final score, an 11-run first inning, five Boston home runs (including two by then-favorite Nomar), and Pedro dominating in the five innings he pitched. Our standing spot was on the third base side, but the back row of seats was empty, so we decided to use them until their owners arrived -- which wasn't until the fourth inning. By the end of the game, T and I had made our way to seats in the second row behind home plate, sitting among the folks touting radar guns.

(Those were the days, huh?)

Our crew of three arrived back in Beverly with beaming grins, and my brother and I overlapped each other as we recapped the game for the amused family members who had stayed behind.

"TWO STRIKES, but I just KNEW Nomar would connect -"

"- you should have seen V's face as Dad picked on her about him -"

"- because he just doesn't have as much FAITH in Nomar as I do -"

"- you should have seen HIS face when Nomar hit the homer!"

"I never thought I'd actually almost get tired of the Red Sox scoring runs!"

I complained when Pedro left, but I'm now just looking forward to seeing him take the mound back at Fenway. The big question today has been "How would you greet him, if you had tickets to the game?"

Well, I'm going to be perched in front of the television at home, cheering for him.

That said, it would be glorious to see another Red Sox slaughter.

My nostalgic tendancies only go so far.

Update:
Dear Pedro - Sorry, dude.
Dear Red Sox - Whoo hoo! Many thanks!
xoxo - Vix

2006-06-26T12:45:00.000-04:00

Forget cats and dogs.

It is raining gerbils, lemurs, platypi and perhaps even a small pony or two.

The kicker?

I'm working a RFAR food drive this evening. Train and Anna Nalick.

Outdoor venue.

And this bad boy is supposed to go on rain or shine.

2006-06-23T14:44:00.000-04:00

June has become in recent years my own sort of New Year's Eve.

It's a time for reflection, contemplation, a chance to gauge where I am and where I want to be. Some years it kind of-sort-of-if-you-tilt-your-head-and-squint lines up. In other instances, I find the two disappointingly apart.

Why June? Well, over the past half decade, this is the month that includes the most random of the bizarre circumstances in which I tend to find myself. In one instance, I traveled a greater distance than ever before. In another, I saw two long-time musicians prepare for the (surprisingly) slow process of exploding onto the mainstream music scene. There was one June that I found myself chilling on a certain house's lawn in D.C. (or, more appropriately: trying to appear cool and collected while standing on the said lawn). It's also a month peppered with friends' birthdays - as they reflect on entering a new year of their lives, I become reflective by association.

So here I am at June 2006. Status check: 25 years old. Writer. Friends? Check. Family? Check. Misadventures? Absolutely check.

But I've felt as if I'm treading water. Not diving into something, the way I always have in the past. Get into the thick of it and then figure it all out. That's my M.O., and that's how I feel most comfortable. Too much relaxation makes me nervous. Complacency leaves me simply feeling as if I'm missing out on an opportunity I should have seen coming.

So, this June, I got to it. Projects. Contests. Groups. Ambitions. Miles. Minutes. I'm attacking it all. I'm determined to enact some change, make things happen.

I'm diving.

So it no longer involves the district city, and it has nothing to do with a plane ride. I get the feeling that it will reap just as delightful a result - if not more so - in the end.

Everybody starts out playing to win. But when sometime in their twenties they realize how hard it is to succeed, to fulfill their dreams, they give up. They make internal excuses. They become fans as opposed to players. They become shadows of their former selves. With no schoolmarm to push them, and out of their parents' sight, they're lost and broken. No, you just can't have it all. But you're entitled to quite a bit. But you've got to fight for it. - Bob Lefsetz

2006-06-22T18:00:00.000-04:00

Have you met Mr. A-Z?

OK, bear with me here. Unless you live under a rock, you've probably at least heard of the Mraz guy. One can only wonder how many times I've made reference to him here over the years.

But consider this a commentary of sorts. A discussion prompted by recent events and even more recent news. I decided to mix things up slightly for this week's "Have you met...?" - so enjoy and, as always, feel free to comment.

Week Three: Have you met Jason Mraz?

About a week and a half ago, I rode in a car with friends, traveling over rain-slickened Massachusetts roads on a gray, dismal sort of Saturday. The gloominess outside the vehicle was belied by the smiling faces within the car. We were belting out the words of the sunshine pop pulsing through the speakers.

The summer storm relief was courtesy of Jason Mraz, the San Diego-based troubador who graduated from coffeeshops to mainstream success with a couple of studio releases and several years of extensive touring. He's "The Remedy" guy, the "Geek in the Pink" known for his plucky "Wordplay."

Hey now, don't judge, naysayers. And don't squeal, teenage girls. We weren't listening to that Mraz. We were listening to a live rendition of "1000 Things," a song that has never made the jump to a recording studio. You know, the good stuff.

Whenever a musician hits the musical jackpot and becomes a widely recognizable name, there are those clusters of fans that grumble about how things were before, back when the music was still pure, unaltered by A&R guys or songwriting teams. The word "sellout" is always at least whispered, if not shouted aloud.

Many could assume that those fans are just upset over losing a secret, that the gem they've followed and gotten to know is now easily accessible to anyone with iTunes or a radio. Just another example of musical snobbery, one could say.

With Mraz, however, the difference in craft pre- and post-big break are startling apparent. Longtime listeners who tried to chalk it up to transitioning or concessionary changes are faced with the reality that the musician they touted to friends as "The Next Big Thing" is now the musician who elicits grimaces in grocery stores or elevators.

Which raises the question any invested music fan hates to ask: When does that fan stop trying to blame a label, manager or screaming new fanbase and accept the fact that she and the artist have simply taken different paths?

The best example of the Mraz I once zealously followed remains "Recorded Live at Java Joe's," a 15-track collection of songs performed at an Ocean Beach coffeeshop in 2001. Saucy, sweet and characteristically witty, Mraz and percussionist/harmonist Toca Rivera bob their way through the material; three of the songs on "Java Joe's" made the jump to studio production a year later on Mraz's debut solo album, "Waiting For My Rocket to Come."

On "Java Joe's," however, Mraz delivers the songs as they were crafted - stripped down and intimately playful or sensitive, depending on the nature of the particular piece. Unconfined, Mraz and Rivera unleash the scatting that has become a trademark of live performance but gravely underused in studios. Laughter, witticisms and banter are included on the tracks, providing a sense of what made Mraz stand out against the sea of sensitive guitar guys who have cropped up in recent years.

That warm and comfortable ambiance is a complete 180 from the slick performances captured on 2005's "Mr. A-Z," the album that listeners prematurely championed as a return to the Mraz they knew.

The major label initiation behind him, Mraz was going to be able to deliver the album he wanted to create, they (and I) thought, and live previews of the material delivered the summer before suggested a return to the intimate and introspective songster of old. Dispatches they received from the musician along the way promised the best collection of material yet.

Instead, the material had grown contrived, cliched, overthough and overwrought. Instead of simply being witty and clever, Mraz seems to elbow the listener, winking and chuckling with each "Oh! So! Smart!" turn of phrase.

The emotions that made an audience member lean forward and gasp with delight during the 2004 Curbside Prophet tour are buried beneath synthesizers and glossy pop beats; a sharp and tongue-twisting "Geek in the Pink" is transformed into a song noted most for trying desperately to be hip-hop - and failing.

Presumably intended to reflect a musician's wide-scope of interest and talent, "Mr. A-Z" instead indicates a musician uncertain of where he's going, who he wants to be. Rocker? Singer-songwriter? Freestyle MC? Teen sensation? Mraz's attempts to force each persona upon himself leaves an audience puzzled and unsettled.

Live performances in the fall of 2005 did nothing to help. The overproduction carried over to the previously untainted stage setting, with Mraz dancing like an animetronic doll, delivering a static set that offered none of the personalized touches for which he'd become known. During shows in Montreal and Boston, it appeared he was going through the motions, catering to the screaming teenage fans who clamored for his singles.

The journal entries that followed seemed to offer confirmation:

"I had too many expectations. I heard about too many expectations of others and I grew tired. I was giving up," Mraz wrote on his official website in January. "I subconsciously sabotaged my own projects in hopes of being released from the popular reality back into the wild, to have time once again to reclaim my own path, a path not written by another, a path that leads not to a predestined location based on a series of formulas one can follow to receive a lucrative reward."

Plans were announced today for four intimate acoustic summer shows, to be recorded, in Chicago, New York and Saratoga, Ca. In the announcement, Mraz described the "promise I made to myself to go back to my roots, pay tribute to the present and acknowledge the future of my fanship to music."

After the long journey of following the musician that has brought both memories and missteps, a listener must wonder: can a musician who has strayed from that path for so long every really get back?

2006-06-21T22:45:00.000-04:00

So. Soooooooo...hi.

A hectic few days have left me feeling as if it should really be Friday by now. Seriously.

I suppose I'm just trying to cram so much into my days that I'm bending the space/time continuum again. Much like how college used to be.

Huh.

So. A little catching up:

- B celebrated her birthday on Monday, and I celebrated with her. Huzzah! Play! Soccer balls! Waterfront! Forays into Lake Champlain! Check out the flickr, as we were shutter happy. Yay for birthdays! Yay for Bs!
- I've joined a new (to me) blogging group: blogcritics.org. Check it out - there is a mindblowingly immense collection of material there - I'm pleased to be a newbie!
- A couple of other ideas and projects are being kicked around inside my head. I'll keep you posted.
- The latest "Have you met...?" is being finished - I'll be posting it tomorrow.

Yep, there you have it. Now if you'll excuse me, I've more continuum-bending to do...

2006-06-17T16:02:00.000-04:00

What was all that aboot?

Is it the Canada thing? Is that the shtick? Because that's truly all I'm capable of coming up with.

Last night, I stood among a group of downright rabid Sam Roberts fans, who were flailing, hooting and saluting up a storm as they cheered on the Montreal-based contemporary classic rocker (stay with me on this one, I'll explain).

It was crazy - I saw a strange sort of hopping dance that could only be described as "premature conga-ulation" (V definition: dancing that might be acceptable in a conga line, but comes off as downright bizarre when performed by one or two people). I saw asses grabbed, arms twirled, beer sprayed and fists raised. I saw people jumping and singing the ole soccer chant whilst waiting for an encore. The people were going wild...

...and then there was me. Standing there, holding my bottle of Stella, looking about in utter disbelief.

People were actually enjoying this?

I don't tend to be mean when I go to shows. I believe that there is something inherently good in any performance or performer - sometimes it just takes a little digging around to actually determine what that good happens to be.

But when I realize that I am going to see a show to its end just to take in the surreal, wacky train wreck the headlining set is? That's when I get snarky.

He's extraordinarily earnest, I'll give him that. The people at the show last night - many of whom had made the trip from Quebec - LOVE his band. And he loves them, taking the time after saying goodnight to slap hands with every single person who extended their arms, grinning like a fool, basking in the glory...

But let's try to describe this in a manner that Roberts could understand. Since I bet he's the kind of guy who'd laugh and say "Hell yeah!" if anyone shouted out "Freebird," we're going to go back to "Almost Famous" and Jeff Bebe, who says:

I work just as hard or harder than anybody on that stage. You know what I do? I connect. I get people off! I look for the guy who isn't getting off, and I MAKE him get off!

Sam, I was one of those people at the back of the house, keeping tabs on the length of that ridiculous jam (oh wait. You don't know what one I'm talking about? That's because there was a musical masterbation jam session EVERY OTHER SONG). And I was most certainly NOT GETTING OFF.

I just don't get what is so special about that music! And it frustrates me because I spent a lot of time last night trying to figure it out. It's nothing particularly new, it's nothing done with a certain special flair or penache. I dig classic rock, I enjoy downhome stylings. But when I wanted to go out of my way to see that kind of a show live, I went to see it done well. I saw the Black Crowes. Or if I want to listen to it? I cue up some CCR or Allman Brothers.

It just made no sense at all.

Strangest, though, was the headlining set when compared to the opening acts (who, um, I'd actually gone to the show to see).

Slow Runner and The Damnwells? Yes, please.

See, I'm a person who loves to see bands or artists many (many, many, many) times. Repeat concertgoer, for sure.

But there's something particularly special about having a band whose music you really, truly enjoy and finally getting to see them live for the first time. You've never looked upon these people before, and yet you're grinning and mouthing the words that form lyrics you've known by heart for ages - and you realize that you're going to be following the tour schedule to see when you'll next be able to take in a show.

That was the Damnwells set. Three or four songs off the new album (including two I'd already been digging, thanks to the wonder that is myspace), with the remainder of the 10-song set coming off "Bastards of the Beat." I know I was smiling like an idiot the entire time, but I didn't care. I loved it.

And then there's the experience of seeing a band whose material you thought was decent enough on album and then being delightedly surprised in a live setting.

Hello, Slow Runner. Fun and charming, the band adds a warmth to the electronic-heavy material in a live setting. There's an added bonus in watching them perform, as they get so intensely wrapped up in the music that the rest of the world seems to just disappear to them.

It's engrossing, it's entertaining, it's a good compliment to The Damnwells...

...and it makes the lunacy of the headlining act all the more evident.

2006-06-16T17:23:00.000-04:00

I receive mailings from Bob Lefsetz. The mailing list to which I'd subscribed boats that it is the "first in music analysis."

It tends to be interesting, I'll say that. I look forward to the little bits of insight that can come across sometimes, amid the huffing and puffing often contained within the work.

(I don't use those words disparagingly - doesn't all music discussion boil down to huffing and puffing in the end?)

"True Companion," one of the latest mailings, however, included something I thought quotable and then some. We're not talking music here. We're just talking about life and relationships in general. And it's painfully accurate.

I don't want to talk about things. I want to talk about you, who you are, what you feel. Not only your victories, but your losses. Hold back, and probably we won't be spending too much time together. For not only is our interaction unfulfilling, you make me feel like some kind of freak, for wanting to know. And, if you tell enough, and feel the warmth from the bond, and gently investigate, I'll tell you my story too. Which is so hard for me to do, but what I'm dying to do.

Have a great weekend.

2006-06-14T14:28:00.000-04:00

Week Two: Have you met The Damnwells?

It's That Band.

You know, the band that seems to be doing everything required to do to make it in the highly fickle pop-rock scene. Loyal following? Unique sound? Savvy lyrics bolstered by catchy hooks?

Check, check, check.

The Damnwells teeters on the fine line that separates Obscure Indie Rock Bands from Widely Recognized Indie Rock Bands. It could make the jump -- and listeners are clamoring for the chance to take in as much as they can now, just in case lightning strikes and the rest of the world starts to take notice.

In the meantime, the Brooklyn-based five-piece (as the typical quartet has added keyboardist J Barlcay for their current tour) continues to hone songs of Sensitive Tough-Guy Pop Rock (a genre that doesn't officially exist, but should, considering the multitude of such bands in existance). Electric guitar riffs and snare drum rhythms back the love-centric lyrics belted with gravelled intensity by lead singer Alex Dezen. Dezen and company serve as brilliant couple rock -- rock and roll enough for the guys, insightful and sweet enough for their girlfriends.

Mutually beneficial music from Brooklyn. Who could ask for more?

The Damnwells will perform with Slow Runner and Sam Roberts at Higher Ground in South Burlington on Friday. Information about the band and tracks available for listening can be found at their myspace. A new album, "Air Stereo" is scheduled for release on August 15. Recommended tracks: Kiss Catastrophe, Sleepsinging, Golden Days

2006-06-14T12:18:00.000-04:00

A 232

"A 232" won't make sense if you haven't read the book; actually, odds are good that it won't make sense even if you have.

All I know is that I'd finally picked up the book I'd inexplicably been incapable of finishing, and then I read a paragraph that made me want to throw the book down onto my bed and yell, "THAT'S IT! EXACTLY!"

I didn't. But I came quite close. Instead, I jumped out of bed, plodded barefoot into another room in my apartment and held out the book. When my flatmate took it, I jabbed my finger onto a page with a silent command. READ.

Sometimes it's easy -- natural, even -- to feel as if an experience or mentality is exclusive to yourself alone. There can't be anyone out there who has gone through it, because it is feels so unique, personalized to you -- for better or worse. Sure, people might have come close, but they didn't really get it - not the frustration and stress somehow still laced with optimism. You're left wondering what the hell is wrong with you for your to quasi-willingly subject yourself to the absurdity of it all.

You just can't quite shake it when you try to. A moment will just come along when you realize that you already have.

I'd like to think that perhaps there was something inherent within the 200-odd pages I'd already read that suggested that this particular insight would appear. That's why I held off on finishing the book -- I waited until I was primed for it, ready to agree wholeheartedly with what was being said.

It's more likely that I just didn't want to keep on reading right then. That I had other things to do and kept forgetting to bring the book with me on my travels.

But the timing was pretty crazy, as I'd come to the conclusion on my own about a week and a half prior. During a long drive that reduced to a standstill in Friday afternoon traffic. Crawling forward intermittently at five miles an hour gave me plenty of time to think (and curse other travelers, but that's neither here nor there). That moment came and passed and that was that.

And then, about a week and a half later, I read a paragraph that told me that it wasn't exclusive. The details were a little different, of course, but it wasn't particularly out of the ordinary or special.

It just was what it was.

2006-06-12T13:26:00.000-04:00

Museums exhibits on music tend to feel jarring. A study of sound in a location known for its silence - it's not quite right.

That the silence helped the experience within the National Heritage Museum on Saturday was almost more of a surprise than the quality of the special exhibit. "Gerswhin to Gillespie: Portraits in American Music" focuses on music photography, but the spirit evoked is one that seems sacred, a look back to different times.

Ghostly. The silence suits the sights.

The collection's 50 photographs run the gamet, loosely separated into four rooms of specific subcategories: Champions of American Music, Great American Composers, Legends of American Jazz, and Icons of American Pop. The overall collection is tied together by a predominant - although not exclusive - theme of black and white photography, and the shift from one section to another feels natural, continuous but marked by small signs noting each change.

Fans of American music's historical twists and turns will find delight in seeing the musicmakers whose names often stood above musical revues. George Gershwin, for instance, sits at a piano, studiously hunched over music with a hand-rolled cigarette dangling from his lip. Cole Porter leans toward the camera, hands folded with the intensely sad gaze that belied many of his most well-known songs. Jim Morrison kneels behind a television, framed by empty closet walls and unused hangers.

But it is the jazz section that draws the strongest gasps. Predominantly a collection of Herman Leonard images, the photographed subjects jump out in lines shockingly crisp are clear. Louis Armstrong's eyes bulge in an intense closeup, complete with spittle.

They are images that capture sound's creation -- but deserve silence. The only way it would feel fitting to take in music while looking at a portrait of Sonny Stitt would be if the jazz saxophonist were able to be in the room, wailing away on his instrument.

Without that, any other sound would serve as a pale substitution - almost an insult.

"Gershwin to Gillespie: Portraits in American Music" is on view through Sept. 17 at the National Heritage Museum, Lexington, Ma. The exhibit is free and open to the public.

2006-06-12T12:09:00.000-04:00

You can burn a show, but you can't burn the experience of being there. - John Mayer, 2001

Concert posters dominate the collection of art, photographs and otherwise visual pieces in my personal collection. Nearly six years of memories, marked (most often in the essential black Sharpie ink) with dates, locations, age restrictions and ticket or cover charges.

The collection provides an eclectic mix, tied together by one theme: all from shows I attended*. There are pieces commissioned by musician or venue, posters that once hung on lamppost or bulletin boards and, in one case, a poster I personally hung on door after door on my college campus to promote a show I'd organized.

Two of them were signed by the musician or bands they promote, but those are early submissions, from before the time I decided I'd rather not solicit a signature.

I made the decision to focus on my experiences because I enjoy the association each conjures. Don't get me wrong - if a vintage Doors poster promoting a show at the Fillmore came my way, I'd be happy to rethink the collection's parameters. But since the odds of that are painfully nonexistent, I'll stick with what I know.

As pieces accumulated over time, and as I made the transition from residence hall masking tape to clean lines and frames, I began to purchase oversized poster frames in which I could create collages. Tickets, photographs and mementos were carefully arranged and assembled. Three of the frames were hung on the largest wall in my bedroom. A fourth waits for me to find a proper place for it. Pieces for a fifth are ready for assembly.

I enjoy noting how an artist conceptualizes a particular style of music or personality of performer. The way little details on a relatively generic piece come to specify an musician's style.

I have a number of Howie Day posters - the broody singer-songwriter never looks at the camera, and all but one are black and white shots. Speechwriters LLC, one of the quirkiest bands I've seen, likened a show with The Alternate Routes to the pairing of coffee and doughnuts, dinner and a movie. An Averi poster got the time of the show wrong, which was fitting. Rufus Wainwright lay spread out on the ground in full Lancelot armored regalia, a nod to his then-recent album release and his extravagant taste.

After I began collecting, I began appreciating. The Museum of Fine Arts, Boston is currently offering a special exhibit on rock art, known as "Light My Fire: Rock Posters from the Summer of Love." I made the trip shortly after the exhibit opened and found myself standing rapt before 60s era posters, many of which shifted in moving black lights. Victor Moscoso? Amazing.

When I happen to find myself at a record store or art shop, anywhere that has rock posters for sale, I flip through the racks, studying the pieces.

Which is a long-winded way to explain how I found myself at a Newbury Comics this weekend, drooling over a Belle and Sebastian poster that I would not buy, but certainly enjoyed. I flipped to the next poster and grinned.

Ray LaMontagne.

I thought to the Paradise, packed with bodies that created sauna temperatures despite the fans near the stage and the January chill outside. Lights blue and purple, drenching LaMontagne's profile with color as he unleashed a molasses-and-whiskey voice. Watching a musician battle painfull shyness as he tried to share his work with a rapt audience.

Just seeing his name on a poster took me back to the show and the five minutes of awe-inspired silence that accompanied our walk out of the venue and down the street.

I studied the poster. Stock cardboard, silkscreened with a green box and LaMontagne's name in simple white. The design included several streaks of paint, evoking the thought of wanting to hurry to get the poster finished and up for display before LaMontagne changed his mind about the show.

I lifted the piece to take it all in, noting that it was signed and numbered by the artist. And in the lower left corner, the date and location.

January 15, 2005. Paradise Rock Club. Boston.

The poster is now ready and waiting for Frame Five.

*Rules and themes, of course, have their exceptions. There is one poster for a show I did not attend: a Howie Day poster for a show in Chicago. I bought the poster on eBay, justifying the purchase with the knowledge that there were many poster-less HD shows I attended and the name of the theater is a nickname of mine. Totally works.

2006-06-09T00:07:00.000-04:00

I'm a gonna get-get-get-get you drunk...
OR
The Neverending Joy of Cohabitation

The composition of this entry requires the disclosure that I have "My Humps" on my iPod.

I think it's worth it.

So, anyway. I'm packing my bag for the weekend's journey, letting iTunes provide some background music. The player reached "My Humps," and I'm bobbing my head around, shimmying a little bit...good times.

Now there are three of us in my apartment. A V, a B and a C. V and B are the ladies of the household; C is our token lord, as it were.

Which of us is the one to walk through the room, accompanying Fergie?

2006-06-08T13:10:00.000-04:00

You do it to yourself...you do...

Sometimes I wonder about this whole technological advancement thing.

As I ranted last month, I missed out on Radiohead tickets for the BoAP shows that took place earlier this week. After some cursing and badmouthing Ticketmaster, I came to terms with the fact that I'd just have to wait a bit (or a lot) longer to see the band live for the first time.

And then I read on Stereogum that Monday night's show was available for mp3 download.

A dilemma. It's available. Do I download it and listen to what was refused to me? Will it make me feel better? Worse?

Am I overthinking this a bit too much? Probably.

So I downloaded all 23 tracks and loaded them into the iPod last night. As I wrote in my notebook before going to sleep, I cued up the show.

And became bitter. Very, very bitter.

(If you're a glutton for punishment, same as I, you can download the tracks from Bradley's Almanac. Recording quality, all things considered, is quite fantastic.)

2006-06-07T21:23:00.000-04:00

Have you met...?

One of the most difficult things - for me, I should say - is to write short about music. I've tried to do so on several occasions lately and decided that I'm a bit too rusty for my own personal comfort.

With that in mind, I'm starting a weekly writing exercise, which I'm calling the "Have you met...?" series. Every Wednesday, I'll write a short snippet about an artist or a band. And I stress "snippet." Brevity is key. A quick introduction.

On a related note, if you have a recommendation for a musician I should check out, send it my way. Email, comment, whatever. Please let me know.

So. Saturday night's trip to Manchester included the perfect inaugural introduction. Here you go...

Week One: Have you met Patrick Thomas?

A singer-songwriter based in New York but with roots in Detroit, Patrick Thomas brings elements of soul and alt-country to the acoustic realm. But it's good-natured humor and an intangible aw-shucks factor that makes new listeners quickly feel as if they've known both the musician and his music for years.

"Maybe that's the way, an answer to a love that's gone astray," he sings in the plaintive title song on his 2005 "Here's To You" EP. "One of us the devil, one's the angel, that would mean I'd have to go to hell."

Whether backed by the rollicking band he urges to "country it up again" on "Metaphor," on stage solo or joined by regular touring companion (and fellow songster) Syd, Thomas shows balances insightful turns of phrase with a straightforward approach to conveying an emotion.

A song may be simply put, but when done right, it can be just as emphatically felt.

Selections from Patrick Thomas' "Here's To You" EP are available for listening and download at his myspace page. He will perform at New York's 169 Bar on June 15. Recommended tracks: Metaphor, My Sweet Time

2006-06-07T10:19:00.000-04:00

Geeked Out.

What do you think? I decided to finally eradicate the annoyance that has been nagging at me each time I've looked over here for the last couple of weeks - how small the actual window proved to be - and tidy up the place a bit. I like clean lines and neat spaces...and this design (thanks, francey.org!) is pretty lovely.

If you note, there are a few different features that I added into the mix, all easily accessible through the navigation bar to the right. First, a permanent link to my flickr site - I upload new photos almost daily, although I may not make reference to that effect here.

Second, last.fm, the newest little geek-out gadget I've acquired. Thanks to the wonders of technology, one can see what music I've been playing and when I've been playing it. Each time I charge my iPod or update it, last.fm gets an update. Want to know if I really liked some album? Go look and see if I'm playing it. Want to know who's gotten into my head? Check it out. Want to know if I really did wind up blaring Lindsay Lohan's "Rumors" on the trip back north, after being denied the right to play it (in my own car, no less) on the way to Milly's?

Er. Hypothetically speaking.

The most-played artists each week are listed in the little chart here - click on the link to go to the main profile page, with additional information.

My email is also included, so drop me a line and say hello at any time. And check back later for the launch of a little weekly feature I'm going to kick off today. Because I'm feeling productive and whatnot.

In other news, today's is June 7...while she's not a computer person - at all - I'll say it anyway: Happy birthday, Mom!

2006-06-06T15:43:00.000-04:00

Don't judge me, man.

I know that I look silly. I'm crouched down along the edge of a puddle-turned-pond in the Common, snapping photographs of the duck calmly wading through the shallow water, moving toward me with no concern.

I could justify the apparent goofiness if I feel the need to, you know. And here you are, gazing at me with a quizzical glance beneath your three-cornered hat.

Paul Revere, you're probably the last person with any right to pass judgement on me. And you're musket's crooked.

We exchange quick smiles as I walk away and he moves in to toss bread to the ducks. Bread stored in his musketball pouch. Ahem.

The smiles clearly translate. I won't ask if you don't.

***
Little known fact: The Milly's Tavern site falls within the New Hampshire equivalent of the Bermuda Triangle. It's true. I don't know what the NH triangle is called. Or if it's a triangle, even - it could be a square, a hexagon, maybe even a trapezoid. I'm not aware of anyone investigating the crazy stuff that happens there. I don't expect to see a Time Life book about it.

(Anyone else remember that book? I had it. I was obsessed with reading about paranormal events when I was younger. I blame Robert Stack and "Unsolved Mysteries.")

It's pretty trippy, though. Time stands still. The Red Sox are always playing a game, no matter when you happen to walk in. Full pints of beer are suddenly empty, and then there's another one waiting behind it. Long sets pass by at the blink of an eye.

There's just something that happens on when you walk down those steps and through the door. I'm sure of it.

More than seven months had passed since my last trip to Manchester -- back in AT (Averi Time). And yet I fell right back into the familiarity. Our regular seats at the back of the bar were open and waiting for us. The ballgame was airing from three televisions within easy view. The sound guys were still making me wince with the soundcheck feedback.

It's just how Milly's rolls.

But it felt good to be back. It's not my favorite venue -- not even close -- but I always have a good time. Some of my favorite show experiences have transpired between Milly's walls.

And this evening managed to join the shortlist of favorite concert nights. For two reasons.

First, the music. Great performances. They didn't suck (as I deadpanned at the time). Syd and Patrick Thomas, Mieka Pauley, Chad with Dennis and Steve.

Frankly, it would take a lot of effort to screw up a lineup like that. Two people who just bring me joy; someone I've wanted to see live for quite a long time; and, well, Chad, Dennis and Steve.

The sets were goofy and brilliant. Humor and talent woven together to show just how good you have to be to make silliness really work.

Trying to describe specific moments is tricky. I was determined not to overthink this show. No analysis, just fun, which means I can't look at the moments with a critical eye now.

Besides, it was an evening that made much more sense sense if you were there. Let's say I decided to tell you about P's face when C personalized the "Freak Me" tease. It's an image that is now seared into my brain. It's hilarious. But I'll guess that you'd get puzzled -- or disturbed -- the moment I mentioned the nipple rubbing, right?

Well, it made perfect sense if you were there. Sort of. Anyway. See my point?

There were many highlights: S's smile as he sat in a chair onstage, bobbing his head as he mouthed along the words to "Metaphor." Hearing "The Way It is" when it was not being butchered by my car karaoke rendition. The delight I felt in hearing "Used To Dream" songs come alive, interspersed with older songs presented in an entirely new context.

I suppose what I can say is that there were many smiles in the audience. Mine among them, from a little spot near the soundboards. It was the first time in a (really, really, I can't even begin to tell you how) long time that I went to one of these shows and just enjoyed it.

Second, the people.

See, I tend to be pretty quiet by nature. With many people, I find it difficult to let down my guard. Can't help it. I'm shy.

But among those in the crowd were people with whom I've never felt anything but comfortable. So my inner extrovert came out and I was ready to celebrate.

Laughter, shared stories. Conversation that included earnest catching up. And hugs. A lot of hugging went on, and it felt glorious.

There was one moment, in which a small group had come together. An overall conversation was underway, and people would contribute to that while falling occasionally into smaller chats. Part of this organic assemblage, I looked around me with a smile, realizing that I adored each of those around me and there was nowhere else I'd rather be right then.

A little cheesy, I know. But hey.

Don't blame me, blame the New Hampshire Parallelogram.

2006-06-05T16:02:00.000-04:00

As I drove north on 89 yesterday evening, bobbing my head along with the Eliot Morris sampler I'd recently received (good stuff, I recommend checking it out), I noticed a white car zooming up from the passing lane behind. With sparks flying out from behind.

Having just seen the trailer for "Ghost Rider" earlier in the day, I half-wondered if Nicolas Cage's demonic alterego was going to lean out of the vehicle as it passed, lashing a fiery chain whip at my innocent little spark-free vehicle. He didn't, I'm pleased to report. But the car did flash by me, probably going about 80 or so (for once, I wasn't speeding myself), its muffler dancing along the pavement as it clung precariously to the car's metalwork.

Four thoughts went through my mind:

- Thank goodness that wasn't Nic Cage. I don't like him much.
- Who speeds along the highway that fast when there's a MUFFLER SPARKING AS IT DRAGS BEHIND YOU?
- That muffler is going to fall off the car and smash into my windshield. It is going to suck and I'm going to be pretty pissed off. Or hurt.
- That driver probably had a pretty lousy weekend and just wants to get home. I did not.

I was worried though, standing beneath the rain-drenched awning on Stuart Street on Friday evening. Everything that could have gone wrong with the trip up to that point had - capped with a walk from South Station to the theater with no umbrella (left behind at the T station from which I'd departed) and plenty of rain.

The part of V would be played that night by A Drowned Rat.

That's when things turned funny. I'd arrived at the theater ready to take in a friend's show, accompanied by another friend and a whole bunch of people I didn't know.

By the time the house lights dimmed, I was sitting with L, a new acquaintance (hello, Nicole!), M's parents, another acquaintance and a whole bunch of people I didn't know.

And my friend was walking out on stage with the other four ladies of "I'm the Rhoda."

Now, I know I mentioned the show last week. And you can naturally assume that I would get a kick out of being anywhere a friend - let alone one of my best - is debuting a show, so I would come back to you with glowing things to report about the performance.

And it's true. I knew that the odds were good that I was going to enjoy myself and be thankful that I was there. But if anything, my expectations were even higher than they might be for another show. I knew who the Rhodas were and I knew of what they were capable of accomplishing.

They rocketed right up and through the high bar. Seriously. If you're in the area, you should just trust me and go to see that show while you can (the next three Friday evenings). If you're a woman, you'll connect with the funny-because-it's-true-but-the-truth-also-hurts frankness of the piece. If you're a man, you'll hopefully get a clue. And if you at all appreciate seeing vulnerability beautifully shown on stage, you'll want to hug all of the women by the end of the night.

I found myself wiping at my cheeks a few times - some because I laughed so hard, but also because I was just so incredibly proud of everything that The Rhoda Five accomplished.

I felt my grin beaming through the darkened house as I watched Michelle lean forward in her chair and describe a Sunday brunch in Southie, with four friends assembled to share, laugh and sigh.

L's face shone as she listened to the same description and remembered the experience.

And M, shortly before wrapping up her piece, looked at the two of us and blew us a kiss.

Turns out that all of us were misty-eyed at the same time.

But I did NOT spill that candy bowl, thank you very much.

Celebration turned to Cambridge, a shot of tequila (brief dalliances with Jose Cuervo always turn out well, it's the serious relationship-caliber encounters that leave me with two-day hangovers), and 80s night. Dancing like mad, hair in face, arms raised, livin on a prayer.

I'll get into Saturday tomorrow.

Consider this intermission.

2006-06-04T02:50:00.000-04:00

You know how it goes: you're riding along Wollaston Beach at 2:30 a.m., quoting the instant classic line from a Pete Thurston musical movie review:

"Snoop Dogg, hell yeah, he's Huggy-to-the-mothertruckin-bizzer."

Good times, you Know what I mean?

Wait, you don't? Is it just me?

Huh.

An Open Letter to My Electric Company

2006-05-31T11:58:00.000-04:00

Dear Electric Company:

I would like to thank you and your dedicated crew members for going above and beyond this morning, providing a personal wake-up call at 7:50 a.m.

See, I have a habit of sometimes hitting the snooze button, and this morning was no exception. I'd been planning on giving myself an extra twenty minutes or so, so I reset my alarm and drifted back into peaceful, sublime slumber.

You, the wise beings you are, knew that I should have awoken. Since phone calls are done to death by hotels and overly chipper parents, you took early morning cheer to a whole new level. You parked your utility vehicle about seven feet from my sleeping head and just let 'er run! Flashing lights, idling engine and all!

Wow! You guys are great! There was no way any sleeper, even a deep one such as myself, could block that out! A really big, loud truck! Parked in the driveway right by my bedroom window! You did all that, just for me?

I truly thought that it was the ultimate gesture -- risking me running out and beating your head against the hood of the truck and all (you know how cranky I can get when I've been unexpectedly woken up).

But then? Oh, then you improved upon yourself.

In order to maintain the facade of general public service, you cut my power! You knew that the best way for me to fully awaken would be for me to have to shower in the dark. To find clothes in the dark (because, after all, I did appreciate your efforts, but I wasn't going to open the blinds, let light in and flash you), and brush my hair in the dark!

And you were right! Did I wake up quickly or what! Unfettered with the things that usually provide early-morning distractions -- such as, you know, light, music -- I was a real spitfire this morning! I mean, you should have HEARD some of the really fully-conscious things I was saying to you guys as I walked around, squinting into my mirror! I was in rare form, that's for sure. I don't know if I've felt that AWAKE in a REALLY long time!

Now, I don't want to take up too much of your time. I know there are a lot of people out there who are still sleeping, maybe tossing and turning a little bit, waiting for you guys to roll on up with your flashing orange lights and serious muffler issues.

So, in conclusion, I just want to say again that that really meant a lot to me. It demonstrated that special something, the way you all rolled out of your beds at an unspeakably early hour so you could force me out of my own before 8 a.m.

I'll never forget this gesture, Dearest of Electric Companies. And if you ever do it again, I'll be able to wake up really quickly and thank you in person.

I apologize in advance for slamming you into your vehicle's orange hood.

With utmost appreciation,
Victoria

2006-05-30T16:04:00.000-04:00

After popular, overwhelming demand (read: Hi, Michelle):

Irish accent. An impressive tan, close-cropped hair, blue eyes and a blue shirt that matched perfectly. Strong build. I decided he was a footballer.

An Irish footballer. Did I mention the accent?

There I am, standing outside an Irish pub. I have a pint waiting for me inside. And an Irish footballer is walking up to me.

Hi. Hello. Hellllloooo.

That's when he asks me if he could give me a piggy-back ride.

?????

Did I mention he asked me for a piggy-back ride with an accent?

Thank God I am on the phone with Beth, who can now vouch for the authenticity of the exchange.

A piggy-back ride? Haha, no, no piggy-back rides. I'm on the telephone.

"That's OK. I'll run fast."

The double entendre is making me laugh out loud. And he is laughing too. A wonderful, warm Irish laugh.

Did I mention the accent?

Now, maybe it's just me. But when did introducing oneself - wait, no, not even introducing oneself, as he's still known only as Irish Footballer in my mind - with a piggy-back ride offer become something that's done? Why does this happen when my friend is inside the pub, completely unaware of the fact that I'm weighing the pros and cons of accepting a piggy-back ride from an Irish stranger who could run fast and carry me away to God knows where?

And why do I somehow decide that I don't accept piggy-back rides from strangers - even of the hot, Irish, could-be-footballer kind?

Questions for the ages. Harumph.

Now, in other, non-requested news. If given an opportunity within the next few weeks, here are some things I recommend doing:

- Feel like a walking iPod commerical (in a good way). Walk around listening to any of the following: Ryan Montbleau Band's cover of "If You Want Me to Stay" (04.29.06, available on archive.org); Pat McGee Band covering "Stuck In the Middle With You" (04.23.06, on archive.org and from a show I attended) with Stephen Kellogg and the Sixers and Tyler Hilton; Matt Nathanson's "Amazing Again" (10.20.05, on archive and also from a show I attended). Feel your footsteps dance along. Check your shadow to make sure it's not going crazy as it trails behind you.

- Really look closely at flowers, plants, shrubbery ("You must return here with a shrubbery!"). I've been taking a number of photographs of greenery lately, as it gives me good practice working my digital camera's closeup features. But it's turned into something that's fascinated me for two days.

- Ride in a convertible/top-down Jeep south on 93 in Boston. At night. Stare up at the bottom of the roadways and the top of the Zakim Bridge. If you've done so, no explanation is necessary. If you haven't, just do.

- Go to see the debut of a new show at The Tribe. "I'm the Rhoda" will grace The Tribe Theater's stage on Friday night, and I'll be there to support some of the funniest, most glorious ladies in Boston. You should be there too. Info about The Tribe (which always provides a good time) is available right here.

2006-05-30T11:00:00.000-04:00

Click above to see the latest.

2006-05-29T15:33:00.000-04:00

Sometimes you simply luck out. One thing leads to another and you realize you have, for whatever reason, been given a bit of a reward.

I stood alone in an elevator traveling up, and I knew that this was the one bit of alone time I would have to be able to express the brilliant jubilation I'd been trying to contain.

So I did what I'd like to think anyone would do. Taking advantage of the moment, I jumped up and down, squealed and danced about for a good solid 15 seconds. And when the doors opened, I walked out into the hallway - and one of the most surreal, fun experiences I've ever had - the very picture of composure, style and grace.

***

I can't help it. This kind of thing doesn't happen at home, but I always wander into magical moments in Davis Square. Which is why...anyway.

I'd hopped from the green line to red, on a trajectory that would land me at the Someday in time to meet up with M and R before Anna's and a singer-songwriter night at The Burren. I'm standing on the corner near the cafe, and Michelle has just told me that she's parking her car and will meet up with me in a moment.

The trees in the park glitter, golden lights shimmering among the leaves. Everyone seems to be taking advantage of a gorgeous night that will be followed by a leisurely Monday - most of the benches are full, the tables are spoken for and people are eager for any other available flat surface.

I cross the street and lean against a lamp post as the busker launches into the familar hum of "America."

(When it comes to all-time favorites, I tend to select songs over bands. "America" has long been among the top five on my list, and I have been voraciously listening to the Ryan Montbleau cover of the song downloaded about two weeks ago.)

The busker's audience - young, old, couples, singletons - nod heads in time, sighing and smiling as they close their eyes or lean back to look up at the sky and the twinkling lights...

Let us be lovers, we'll marry our fortunes together, I've got some real estate here in my bag...

***

Red walls, dark tables. Benches and booths, with a clientele that seems composed of regulars who sip their favorite pints of beer.

As I drink ale with an orange slice garnish, I could see why. I would be a regular at The Burren as well - in the meantime, I might have to make a habit of stopping by.

The band performing has prompted a guy and gal near our table to dance like mad. I think a lot of beer also helped them along, but hey. They're funny - drunk, but definitely not obnoxious drunk. I'm dividing my attention among the band, the dancers and the guy in the corner booth who caught my eye.

When the band launches into a cover of "What I Got," we bob our heads and sing along - and suddenly Drunk Dancer Guy is taking my hand and trying to pull me from the bench.

"DANCE with me," he says as I laughingly shake my head and point to my beer. He's persistent, so after several refusals, I laugh at M and stand to dance in the tiny space between our table and the stage.

Applause breaks out and my face turns bright red. The table behind us cheers and hollers as a huge grin breaks across Drunk Dancer Guy's face. I shoot M playful death daggers. She's too busy laughing to care.

The song ends and I receive a Drunk Dancing Guy kiss of the hand. Which, when all is said and done, is awfully sweet, in a hilarious sort of way.

Added bonus? Shared smile with Corner Booth Guy.

Teehee. I love this place.

2006-05-25T15:44:00.000-04:00

I walked up the street this afternoon to meet up with Beth. I was feeling plucky in my "Welcome back, sunshine" skirt and ballet flats. As we walked toward Starbuck's for our iced lattes, I found myself skipping.

It felt great to actually feel good.

2006-05-24T21:43:00.000-04:00

Georgie James!

Yes!

Know when you hear a song or an artist for the first time, and your ears perk up and you really start to pay attention?

It's something like that.

2006-05-22T10:22:00.000-04:00

Ever the embodiment of grace and poise, I've already managed in two hours to outdo my usual self. Hiding away within a roll of bubblewrap today might not be that bad an idea.

8:30 a.m. - After accidentally (read: half-consciously) ignoring two alarms, wake up. Realize one doesn't feel particularly well, attribute this to Monday-itis. Roll over, reach for contact lens case.
8:32 a.m. - Finally find contact lens case after it falls under the bed. Open case. Drop contact. Growl menacingly at contact lens. Contact lens does not respond.
8:33 a.m. - Reach for towel. Drop towel. Pick up towel, reach for other towel. Drop other towel.
8:34 a.m. - Walk toward bedroom door. Run into dresser.
8:56 a.m. - Realize one has nothing (read: a whole lot but nothing that seems quite right today) to wear.
9:01 a.m. - Drop hairbrush.
9:05 a.m. - Realize boots one wants to wear have fallen into Bermuda Triangle.
9:10 a.m. - Realize boots are precisely where one left them - and where one already looked twice.
9:12 a.m. - Misplace phone.
9:13 a.m. - Find phone.
9:20 a.m. - Prepare to turn off bedroom lights, realize one hasn't packed one's phone.
9:21 a.m. - Realize one doesn't know where phone is. Again. Briefly consider Calling In Destructive. Decide instead to take one's chances.
9:23 a.m. - Find phone. Explain morning to laughing roommate and wonder what calamities await oneself if one decides to run on treadmill later in day.

2006-05-19T16:50:00.000-04:00

Blame it on the rain...yeah, yeah...

C'mon. How could I not bust that out? I haven't heard any references to Milli Vanilli during this whole Shoutout to Noah experience that began for me in Massachusetts last weekend and continues now for me in Vermont.

Frankly, I was rather disappointed in such a grievous oversight.

But, in all seriousness (as much as one can be serious when referencing the MV lipsynchers), I could blame (or at least attribute) the rain for a lot right now:

- for not asking myself what the hell was going on at 2:15 a.m. Saturday morning, as friends and I scurried to our unexpected detination

- for having to rock my little black dress with little black and white Chuck Taylors as I watched my brother graduate (this was funny and fitting at the same time)

- for wanting to check in with various potential flood-ees

- for jumping into a huge puddle so as to document the (absolutely minimal) flooding in my grandmother's driveway (I made my way through the Great Floods of 2006 in as equally as fortunate - and wussy - a manner as I got through Hurricane Gloria in '86 - only this time, I didn't get a t-shirt documenting my presence for it)

- for longer than expected (and decidedly less relaxing) drives to and from Massachusetts last weekend and early this week

- for feeling lethargic, cranky and tired all week

- for agreeing to, and feeling happy to, see "The DaVinci Code" this evening, even as the reviews suck

- for feeling absolutely certain that the storm clouds have followed me from Massachusetts to Vermont

- for looking into how much it would cost to round up two of every animal and herd them all into some big boat

- and for the vending machine giving me a Sierra Mist when I selected an Orange Crush just now, the one time I decide to drink a soda.

OK, so maybe the last one has nothing to do with the rain. I'm blaming it anyway.

'Cause the rain don't mind
And the rain don't care
You got to blame it on something...

2006-05-17T00:36:00.000-04:00

Why commencement activities are more fun in 2006 than they were in 2002
OR
Why text messaging rules

CAST:
T - A student, sitting among his graduating peers in the orchestra seats
V - T's sister, sitting in the front row of the balcony

T: this is the WORST stage production i have ever seen.
V: oh my goodness. ouch.
T: Omg. wtf.
V: lol
V: (during Kerry commencement address) Beer? tom cruise? MANNY? wrong on so many levels.
T: ha! indeed. wait. does he even know which one manny is?
V: isn't he the one who went to new york?
T: Yeah. big pappi manny ramerez
V: this is kerry gone wild! i think he needs a hug. i'll give you ten dollars. dooo it.
T: Somehow i feel that would end badly.
V: Define badly. taser?
T: whos hungry? dis kid right here.
V: (shortly before T walks to accept his degree) Don't trip. Heh.
T: Yer mom tripped.
V: I adore you.
V: (after T accepts degree) Wouldn't it suck to have to walk that if your foot was asleep?
T: Yeah, it would. i want food.
V: pizza, row ten? eat your degree.
T: Mmm. $120000 of yummy.

Shortly after this, I left the ceremony to walk up to Winter Street. T spent the first moments of his post-collegiate life enthusiastically devouring a falafel I had waiting for him upon exiting the theater.

After all, our parents would have been terribly upset to find his degree marred with bite marks.

(A whole slew of new photos are available on the trusty flickr account - click on the photo to go to the rest.)