"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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?"

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?

"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

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."

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)

"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.

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.

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

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.

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

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?

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...

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.)

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

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!

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.

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.

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

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

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.

Click above to see the latest.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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...

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.)

Let's kick things off with a moment of thanks sent to the Boston Red Sox, for defeating the Yankees and keeping Johnny Damon hitless after five at-bats. Lovely!

So. A series of high-energy days approach.

Tomorrow (I write this Thursday night, referring to Friday) brings traveling friends and local friends together to watch the five men of the Ryan Montbleau Band tear up Higher Ground (a show, as my prior post indicates, to which I am very much looking forward). At some point this weekend, I steer my trusty steed, DT, onto familiar highway territory, as I'm Massachusetts-bound. I'm to get my graduation glam going on before attending/celebrating my brother's acceptance of a degree from Emerson College on Monday. (Insert sisterly pride here. This is also the spot at which we ignore that Friday marks four years since our narrator graduated from college.)

Good times. I'll return with tales and digital snapshot goodness, as my camera has returned from the black hole into which it sank when I left my battery charger in Maine over New Year's. All charged up and ready to go - er, snap, capture? Right. Moving on...

In other news: I recently wrote a music biography - my first - for singer-songwriter Chad Perrone. The bio, which includes information about Chad and his upcoming debut solo album, is now up and running on his website, so check it out - and note that a few of the tracks are available for your listening enjoyment. The album, "Used To Dream," drops on May 23, and I highly recommend it. Those liking what they hear (or those who just trust my music recommendations - AHEM) can pre-order "Used To Dream" from the fun, friendly computers that keep things orderly over at the Awarestore.

4:48 a.m.

I'm lying on my side, staring at the window near the corner of my bedroom. I can see the faint glow of early sunrise seeping in, casting subtle illumination against the walls.

I'm not a fan. I wasn't a fan of staring at this window when it was midnight. Or 2 a.m. Or at 3:12.

I've been tired, stressed and dangerously close to tears all week. But I haven't cried - I haven't let myself. I'm instead gritting my teeth or biting my lip until the point comes in which I need a release.

That said, I haven't found myself lying awake in the middle of the night until tonight. Or this morning. Whatever.

It doesn't feel like I'm there quite yet. But I'm awfully close.

9:47 a.m.

And now I'm living the real-life, driver's version of "Paperboy" - and I'm hating my younger self for loving the game as a youth.

Two routes I could take on my daily morning drive. The usual - a turn to the right - is blocked to one lane by power line maintainance. I turn left instead. Another quick left - and the road has been reduced to one lane for the same damn thing. I navigate. I avoid the woman who opened her car door a nanosecond before I passed by. I steer around the bicyclist, around the utility vehicle, stop short when the car ahead decides to suddenly switch lanes AND avoid the UPS truck that has parked in my lane (as well as the large truck approaching in the opposite lane). As I pull into my parking lot - avoiding the truck that is blindly trying to navigate its way out, I notice the my hands have an iron grip on the steering wheel.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow. I just have to get through two more days before I receive my reward - hours of stress relief, through dancing with friends and singing along with Ryan Montbleau.

For the first time in a long time, I feel myself preparing for some serious musical theraphy. My focus is entirely on myself feeling better. I've earned the right to be a little selfish.

In the meantime: keep the eyes focused ahead and get through.

V: (Answering telephone) Hello?
Mom: Are you sitting down? I have bad news.
V: What's going on? Real bad news or fake bad news?
M: Are you sitting down?
V: Fake bad news. OK. Yes, I'm sitting.
M: Your brother is smarter than you.
V: Huh?
M: He's smarter than you. You just have to accept this.
V: How is he smarter than me?
M: He got his GPA today.
V: And?
M: (Says a very admirable, magna cum laude grade point average.)
V: Oh, come on. He's a film student. All he has to do is make things pretty.
M: He said you'd say that. After all, he's smart like that. Don't worry, your father and I still love you. You're still special to us.
V: Uh, huh. Thank me for being your guinea pig.
M: What?
V: The trial run. You know, you have the first one, work out all the kinks, then have your superior child.
M: You've been a good guinea pig.
V: Thanks. Besides, it's your own fault.
M: How's that?
V: Well, if you'd wanted me to be smart, you should have pushed for me to be a lawyer or something. You know, with a lot of Latin.
M: I'm glad you're taking it so well.
V: Don't worry, if it starts to bother me, I'll consult my wiser brother. The Tommy Lama.
M: Call me later?
V: If I remember. Don't blame me if I don't. You know how it is. Remembering things is tough on my feeble little brain.
M: I love you.
V: But just remember this - I was always a smart kid! I was a marathoner! Tom's a collegiate sprinter!

(Later)
Tom: (Answering telephone) Hey sister.
V: Hey brother. Thanks a lot.
T: What?
V: I spent 25 years cultivating my reputation as a smart person. It only takes you four little years to shatter that.
T: (Laughing) Mom and Dad told you, huh?
V: Congratuations. You suck.
T: Ha. I love you too.

My little city-town is known neither for its taxicabs nor its catcalls.

So forgive me if I seem a bit puzzled today, having walked up the street past two groups of people in the midst of a taxi hail-off and then back down the street, past a man who actually whistled and drawled "yummy" as my friend and I passed by.

So where am I today? I knew I should have taken that left turn at Albuquerque.

Thought for the day - er, night:

"Songs are what I listen to, almost to the exclusion of everything else. I don't listen to classical music or jazz very often, and when people ask me what music I like, I find it very difficult to reply, because they usually want names of people, and I can only give them song titles. And mostly all I have to say about these songs is that I love them, and want to sing along to them, and get cross when these other people don't like them as much as I do ..."

- Nick Hornby, Introduction to "Songbook," a brilliant collection of essays about songs that if you love music, you need to read. If you haven't already. I'd love to assume that you have. It's one of the three books I'm reading at the moment, the only one of which I am re-reading (for the millionth time).

The man sitting at the window table has light brown curls, a pair of sunglasses atop his head. His eyes are down, focused intently on the book he's been reading, but I'm imagining them to be warm and light brown. Perhaps with flecks of amber in them. For some reason, I've always looked for a pair of eyes like that - but the ones I've found have always been either chocolate brown, blue or one particularly memorable pair of green.

He is foppish, I've decided, strictly because the word seems to suit him. Beth and I will later debate the proper meaning of the word and how it applies to a man in a coffeeshop, but foppish it is. In the Hugh Grant, pre-prostitute manner of the word, with more of a New England, master's degree spin.

The analysis is making me giggle a little as I sip my latte and converse with my friends. Although the giggles may also have been helped along by the margarita I enjoyed with other friends about an hour prior. Who knows. What I do know is that I had a lunchtime drink and am now drinking coffee, a combination of upper and downer that makes me feel mellow and caffeinated at the same time. I'm rather fond of the sensation.

Muddy's is as sublime as it always is on spring Sundays. We sit at a three-top, one of us working through a stack of papers, two of us reading our respective books. I have Chuck Klosterman's latest propped open before me, and I'm chuckling regularly at the healthy doses of self-deprecation included within. Reading Klosterman is an experience aided by today's coffeehouse music selections - a mix of obscure and familiar pulsing through the speakers and eliciting headbobs from my chair. One particular song kept me guessing about the band until I jumped up to ask the barista.

Death Cab, which explained the sense of familiarity, but (surprisingly) a song I'd never heard of, which explained the puzzlement. It was included in his iPod playlist, and we chatted about the tune for a few moments before I grinned and returned to my chair. I wondered during the short walk whether he was the same employee I'd chatted with about Bright Eyes' "First Day of My Life" several months prior - that gent had been equally charming, but was a different kind of handsome.

That past guy had also been foppish, actually - this one was more James Dean than Hugh Grant.

(And I've demonstrated in the past a particular penchant for James Deans.)

A few minutes later, a song is playing that possesses elements of both rockabilly and alt-country (yes, Virginia, there is a difference) that sounds a bit like Ryan Adams when he's playing with the Cardinals, but I'm not confident enough to make a guess.

(No, I'm not returning to ask James Dean about another song. I will write down snippets of lyrics and find that the song is actually The Weakerthan's "A New Name for Everything" and purchase the song off iTunes.)

I feel good. Better than good. A puzzling mix of sensations running through my body, a good book to read, a hot latte and friends. And - and I believe this to be important - my hair is in pigtailed buns and I have Chuck Taylors on my feet. It's a Sunday afternoon and I am ignoring the work I should do because I've been thinking about it all weekend and my pre-margarita shoulders tensed just thinking about it. I am imagining flirtations with men who make or drink coffee, men I can imagine to be caring and charming, possessing admirable tastes in music and who will likewise appreciate my own.

I'm rebelling and relaxing at the same time. Two things I rarely do, combined to form another mixture of upper and downer, all nestled next to a warm pot of peppermint tea.