8.15.2005
Drool
No two shows are the same - therein lies a large part of the appeal. But if I were to encourage replication...
Tori Amos
August 13, 2005
Koka Booth Ampitheatre at Regency Park
Cary, NC
Original Sinsuality
Little Amsterdam
Leather
Amber Waves
Goodbye Pisces
China
Playboy Mommy
Dreams (Fleetwood Mac cover)
The Long and Winding Road (Beatles cover)
Cars and Guitars
Northern Lad
Crucify
A Sorta Fairytale
The Beekeeper
Encore 1:
Gold Dust
Tear In Your Hand
Encore 2:
Toast
Baker Baker
--------------
Leather. Amber Waves. China. Northern Lad. Crucify. ASF. TIYH. BB.
AND GOLD DUST.
but the song that truly got me was "gold dust." i have my own very personal connection to that song, and to hear her perform it solo on the piano was almost too much. i'll never forget how i felt listening to that song. - 11.13.02
She's dusting off "Scarlet's Walk" tracks, it seems - this is a good thing - and I'm finally starting to get excited about seeing her again on Sunday.
(How did the months since last time pass by so quickly?)
She can play whatever she wants and I'll be happy...but if she were to happen to add "Gold Dust" to the mix, I might be over the moon.
Tori Amos
August 13, 2005
Koka Booth Ampitheatre at Regency Park
Cary, NC
Original Sinsuality
Little Amsterdam
Leather
Amber Waves
Goodbye Pisces
China
Playboy Mommy
Dreams (Fleetwood Mac cover)
The Long and Winding Road (Beatles cover)
Cars and Guitars
Northern Lad
Crucify
A Sorta Fairytale
The Beekeeper
Encore 1:
Gold Dust
Tear In Your Hand
Encore 2:
Toast
Baker Baker
--------------
Leather. Amber Waves. China. Northern Lad. Crucify. ASF. TIYH. BB.
AND GOLD DUST.
but the song that truly got me was "gold dust." i have my own very personal connection to that song, and to hear her perform it solo on the piano was almost too much. i'll never forget how i felt listening to that song. - 11.13.02
She's dusting off "Scarlet's Walk" tracks, it seems - this is a good thing - and I'm finally starting to get excited about seeing her again on Sunday.
(How did the months since last time pass by so quickly?)
She can play whatever she wants and I'll be happy...but if she were to happen to add "Gold Dust" to the mix, I might be over the moon.
8.14.2005
The Rock Boat
The Rock Boat.
A contest.
Averi is among the 10 finalists for the band competition.
Please vote.
Check out the Icehouse Web site, where you can register your email address and vote up to three times per day for any of the 10 finalists vying for a spot on the boat this fall.
You can vote for whichever you think is best, but I highly recommend Averi. God knows the guys have worked hard enough for an opportunity like this - they deserve it. And, if you haven't listened to them yet, you'd have a good chance of really enjoying them.
And if you vote for the winning band, you're entered in a contest to win a spot on there - a spot for two, actually.
Win-win situation, my friends. Just three votes a day. One visit to the site. And voting ends on Thursday.
Not too difficult, right?
Not to mention that I'd appreciate it.
Thanks!
A contest.
Averi is among the 10 finalists for the band competition.
Please vote.
Check out the Icehouse Web site, where you can register your email address and vote up to three times per day for any of the 10 finalists vying for a spot on the boat this fall.
You can vote for whichever you think is best, but I highly recommend Averi. God knows the guys have worked hard enough for an opportunity like this - they deserve it. And, if you haven't listened to them yet, you'd have a good chance of really enjoying them.
And if you vote for the winning band, you're entered in a contest to win a spot on there - a spot for two, actually.
Win-win situation, my friends. Just three votes a day. One visit to the site. And voting ends on Thursday.
Not too difficult, right?
Not to mention that I'd appreciate it.
Thanks!
Cagey (updated)
It's raining.
I'm not amused.
I don't mind a good downpour, much as I don't mind a nice sunny day. But as I stare out my window, I see this ridiculous, murky middle ground. It's not raining raining, but it's not clear enough to go for a walk or run (although I'm not allowing myself to do that for another day anyway). The humidity has just collected and formed a mass of haze, with the occasional spurt of water droplets falling to the ground.
It's a movie kind of day. But I already did that.
("Wedding Crashers." Wrong on so many levels, yet I still burst into laughter too often to keep track.)
It's a book reading kind of day. But I've already read the book Beth loaned me. I'm considering a venture to Barnes & Noble to see if something else catches my eye, but I'm as indecisive today as the weather. Nothing seems particularly horrible as I click my way through the online store, but nothing that strikes me.
(Book I read, you ask? "Jemina J," by Jane Greene. Don't bother reading it. I was more annoyed by it than anything else.)
It's a writing kind of day. But I don't have much inclination to write about anything substantial. Hence a lethargic post.
I've already exhausted the photography option. I'm not sleepy, so a nap is ruled right out. My flatmates are baking and getting work done, respectively.
Beth turned from her bowls and measuring cups to see me standing in the kitchen doorframe earlier this afternoon. I was staring outside, a look of disgust on my face.
"What are you doing?"
"Nothing. That's the problem."
But, in good news, I'm pleased - and more than a little surprised - to note that I'm really, really digging a song featuring John Mayer. "Stitched Up," Mayer's guest appearance on Herbie Hancock's latest. Soulful, funky - the John I enjoy.
Don't wanna be stitched up
Out of my mind
Feeling strung out, lagging behind
Trapped in, because I can't do a thing because I'm locked down
Trapped in, can't do a thing because I'm locked down
Makes me feel like I'm right back in 2000. Oh, how the time goes by...
I'm not amused.
I don't mind a good downpour, much as I don't mind a nice sunny day. But as I stare out my window, I see this ridiculous, murky middle ground. It's not raining raining, but it's not clear enough to go for a walk or run (although I'm not allowing myself to do that for another day anyway). The humidity has just collected and formed a mass of haze, with the occasional spurt of water droplets falling to the ground.
It's a movie kind of day. But I already did that.
("Wedding Crashers." Wrong on so many levels, yet I still burst into laughter too often to keep track.)
It's a book reading kind of day. But I've already read the book Beth loaned me. I'm considering a venture to Barnes & Noble to see if something else catches my eye, but I'm as indecisive today as the weather. Nothing seems particularly horrible as I click my way through the online store, but nothing that strikes me.
(Book I read, you ask? "Jemina J," by Jane Greene. Don't bother reading it. I was more annoyed by it than anything else.)
It's a writing kind of day. But I don't have much inclination to write about anything substantial. Hence a lethargic post.
I've already exhausted the photography option. I'm not sleepy, so a nap is ruled right out. My flatmates are baking and getting work done, respectively.
Beth turned from her bowls and measuring cups to see me standing in the kitchen doorframe earlier this afternoon. I was staring outside, a look of disgust on my face.
"What are you doing?"
"Nothing. That's the problem."
But, in good news, I'm pleased - and more than a little surprised - to note that I'm really, really digging a song featuring John Mayer. "Stitched Up," Mayer's guest appearance on Herbie Hancock's latest. Soulful, funky - the John I enjoy.
Don't wanna be stitched up
Out of my mind
Feeling strung out, lagging behind
Trapped in, because I can't do a thing because I'm locked down
Trapped in, can't do a thing because I'm locked down
Makes me feel like I'm right back in 2000. Oh, how the time goes by...
Daaaannnnnneeeeeeeey
Outdoor, alley barspace. Red lights illuminate the ironic crowd assembled around round tables, against the rope barriers, along the wall of the building. A four-piece power indie intelligent pop band is taking a quick break.
One table features several small groups carrying on several small conversations. As one member of the patchwork table party returns to her seat, another raises her eyebrows and takes a quick intake of breath.
"I meant to tell you!"
"Tell me what?" She is wearing a black, almost 40s-reminiscent dress with tiny polka dots. Her long hair is pulled into a casual updo, and she has flats on her feet. That are just a little too big, she complains good-naturedly.
"Saget is going to be here for a stop on his comedy tour."
The previous time this part of the group was assembled, part of the conversation centered around "Full House." The status of the Joey-house relationship. Friend, uncle, cousin or foe? Phone calls were made. The truth was discovered.
"BOB SAGET? THAT'S AWESOME!" Her eyes light up with incredulous delight.
The word quickly spreads around the table. Saget. Vermont. December. "Worth every penny of the ticket price, man." People who casually nodded at each other twenty minutes prior are now laughing warmly as they each admit they'd really love to see Saget on stage.
Polka Dot is still chortling. "That's so awesome. I'd just want to stand there and scream." She throws her head back. "DANN-EEEEEEEEEEEEY TAAAAAAAAAAANER!"
The group cracks up. Those sipping their drinks choke as they burst into laughter. Others are just red-faced with shaking sides. Danny Tanner remains the hot topic until the band hops back onto the stage and resumes with the instrumental intro to "Billie Jean."
Saget - icebreaker extraordinaire.
One table features several small groups carrying on several small conversations. As one member of the patchwork table party returns to her seat, another raises her eyebrows and takes a quick intake of breath.
"I meant to tell you!"
"Tell me what?" She is wearing a black, almost 40s-reminiscent dress with tiny polka dots. Her long hair is pulled into a casual updo, and she has flats on her feet. That are just a little too big, she complains good-naturedly.
"Saget is going to be here for a stop on his comedy tour."
The previous time this part of the group was assembled, part of the conversation centered around "Full House." The status of the Joey-house relationship. Friend, uncle, cousin or foe? Phone calls were made. The truth was discovered.
"BOB SAGET? THAT'S AWESOME!" Her eyes light up with incredulous delight.
The word quickly spreads around the table. Saget. Vermont. December. "Worth every penny of the ticket price, man." People who casually nodded at each other twenty minutes prior are now laughing warmly as they each admit they'd really love to see Saget on stage.
Polka Dot is still chortling. "That's so awesome. I'd just want to stand there and scream." She throws her head back. "DANN-EEEEEEEEEEEEY TAAAAAAAAAAANER!"
The group cracks up. Those sipping their drinks choke as they burst into laughter. Others are just red-faced with shaking sides. Danny Tanner remains the hot topic until the band hops back onto the stage and resumes with the instrumental intro to "Billie Jean."
Saget - icebreaker extraordinaire.
8.13.2005
Run, Girl, Run...
And I'm running to catch up again... - JMraz
I felt like I was right back in high school. The annual excursion to pick out the coolest basketball sneakers I could justify. The chosen pair was always black (with the exception of some God-awful white, yellow and blue picked out senior year for a reason I still can't recall*), to best compliment the uniform (the Phantoms were maroon and white) and reduce the amount of visible wear (there's nothing worse than the first smears on a pair of white sneakers). I was primarily a Nike girl for basketball, as my favorite athletic shoewear brand was relegated to soccer cleats and the ever-present casualwear Sambas.
Despite living in Vermont, Massachusetts was always the go-to destination for basketball gear. I would stand in front of walls of sneakers at the Sports Authority (or, before SA, MVP Sports), trying to figure out which pair I could convince my parents to buy for me, which would look coolest and, if I had the common sense to think about it (and this was rare), which would best prevent the broken ankle that could come with any attempt to pull down a rebound.
So there I was, back in front of the Wall o' Sneaks, trying to figure out which ones would best aid me in my return to running. Only this time, I had to convince myself, as I was the one doing the buying. Amazing how The Cool Factor becomes less of an issue when you're plunking down your credit card to make the purchase. "I want shoes that won't kill my feet. That aren't overly expensive, as I'm just starting to return to this whole running thing. And, if both of these criteria are met, some cute ones would be nice."
Those are the new standards when you're buying your first official running shoes since high school.
Looking back on today's excursion, perhaps I should have gone on the Internet before heading to Dick's Sporting Goods (I won't even get into how weird it was to buy sneakers and have only a 15-minute drive back to my house). Because I bought my new running shoes after my flatmate (ever-wise, much as I hate to admit it at times) decreed that I was forbidden from running until I got new running shoes and did not complain of The Stupid Food Injury, I didn't bother to actually see if I could figure out what TSFI is. I assumed it was just a slightly pulled muscle on top of my foot.
Pretty simple process. 1) Get shoes that will better support foot. 2) Run, feeling foot recover. 3) Endure flatmate's chortling about being right. 4) Enjoy running process one has started to love again.
But I waited until making the purchase to check out the various running Web sites. And I've learned from my research that the list of possible ailments was pretty much narrowed to two finalists.
1) I could have a stress fracture in my foot.
2) I could have had shoes that were too small.
So, that in mind. How does one figure out which is the case? Because if it's a stress fracture, I could be out of luck for about six weeks. And need to go to a doctor to have the thing checked out.
(This does not please me. It's not that I'm not a fan of doctors, but I'm certainly not a fan of myself as a patient. It is not a role I am suited for.)
But if it's just that my shoes were too small before, I'd have to run to know if these new sneakers help.
See the dilemma?
I know, I know, the rational voice says, "So have your foot checked out, cough up the co-pay, find out your foot's fine and go from there."
But then there's the V voice. Which says, "You know if you go, the doctor will say you have a fractured bone in your foot. And you won't be able to run for six weeks. And that will suck. And the cute sneakers you bought? Shit out of luck for a little bit. Deal."
I've never had a broken bone in my life. I don't like the fact that I could have a fractured one now in a stupid location because I started running on a treadmill.
Talk about a wussy injury to have to own up to. Why couldn't I just possibly fracture an arm or something? At least then I'd have a cool cast and the resulting sympathy votes from others.
* not to be confused with the white, blue and yellow sneakers I decided on today. These are cute. The others? I still shudder at the thought of them. Well, no I don't. But they were pretty wretched and I cursed them for pretty much the entire season that year - despite having a much better season than the Black Sneaker Era.)
I felt like I was right back in high school. The annual excursion to pick out the coolest basketball sneakers I could justify. The chosen pair was always black (with the exception of some God-awful white, yellow and blue picked out senior year for a reason I still can't recall*), to best compliment the uniform (the Phantoms were maroon and white) and reduce the amount of visible wear (there's nothing worse than the first smears on a pair of white sneakers). I was primarily a Nike girl for basketball, as my favorite athletic shoewear brand was relegated to soccer cleats and the ever-present casualwear Sambas.
Despite living in Vermont, Massachusetts was always the go-to destination for basketball gear. I would stand in front of walls of sneakers at the Sports Authority (or, before SA, MVP Sports), trying to figure out which pair I could convince my parents to buy for me, which would look coolest and, if I had the common sense to think about it (and this was rare), which would best prevent the broken ankle that could come with any attempt to pull down a rebound.
So there I was, back in front of the Wall o' Sneaks, trying to figure out which ones would best aid me in my return to running. Only this time, I had to convince myself, as I was the one doing the buying. Amazing how The Cool Factor becomes less of an issue when you're plunking down your credit card to make the purchase. "I want shoes that won't kill my feet. That aren't overly expensive, as I'm just starting to return to this whole running thing. And, if both of these criteria are met, some cute ones would be nice."
Those are the new standards when you're buying your first official running shoes since high school.
Looking back on today's excursion, perhaps I should have gone on the Internet before heading to Dick's Sporting Goods (I won't even get into how weird it was to buy sneakers and have only a 15-minute drive back to my house). Because I bought my new running shoes after my flatmate (ever-wise, much as I hate to admit it at times) decreed that I was forbidden from running until I got new running shoes and did not complain of The Stupid Food Injury, I didn't bother to actually see if I could figure out what TSFI is. I assumed it was just a slightly pulled muscle on top of my foot.
Pretty simple process. 1) Get shoes that will better support foot. 2) Run, feeling foot recover. 3) Endure flatmate's chortling about being right. 4) Enjoy running process one has started to love again.
But I waited until making the purchase to check out the various running Web sites. And I've learned from my research that the list of possible ailments was pretty much narrowed to two finalists.
1) I could have a stress fracture in my foot.
2) I could have had shoes that were too small.
So, that in mind. How does one figure out which is the case? Because if it's a stress fracture, I could be out of luck for about six weeks. And need to go to a doctor to have the thing checked out.
(This does not please me. It's not that I'm not a fan of doctors, but I'm certainly not a fan of myself as a patient. It is not a role I am suited for.)
But if it's just that my shoes were too small before, I'd have to run to know if these new sneakers help.
See the dilemma?
I know, I know, the rational voice says, "So have your foot checked out, cough up the co-pay, find out your foot's fine and go from there."
But then there's the V voice. Which says, "You know if you go, the doctor will say you have a fractured bone in your foot. And you won't be able to run for six weeks. And that will suck. And the cute sneakers you bought? Shit out of luck for a little bit. Deal."
I've never had a broken bone in my life. I don't like the fact that I could have a fractured one now in a stupid location because I started running on a treadmill.
Talk about a wussy injury to have to own up to. Why couldn't I just possibly fracture an arm or something? At least then I'd have a cool cast and the resulting sympathy votes from others.
* not to be confused with the white, blue and yellow sneakers I decided on today. These are cute. The others? I still shudder at the thought of them. Well, no I don't. But they were pretty wretched and I cursed them for pretty much the entire season that year - despite having a much better season than the Black Sneaker Era.)
8.12.2005
Tell me now...
Worry just will not seem to leave my mind alone...
I looked up in surprise to see an entirely unexpected source singing Ray LaMontagne to himself.
I grinned. Just hearing the melody made everything seem better for a moment or two. "Ray. Nice."
"You weren't at the show."
"I know, I was out of town." Discussion of our respective RM experiences followed. A short exchange, but one that took me away from the frustrating tasks for a few moments. Therefore much appreciated.
There's been a lot of Ray discussion lately. His name has popped up with pleasing frequency the last week or so.
As he walked away, I turned back to the tasks. Humming, then singing ever so quietly.
Sometimes I swear it feels like this worry is my only friend...
I looked up in surprise to see an entirely unexpected source singing Ray LaMontagne to himself.
I grinned. Just hearing the melody made everything seem better for a moment or two. "Ray. Nice."
"You weren't at the show."
"I know, I was out of town." Discussion of our respective RM experiences followed. A short exchange, but one that took me away from the frustrating tasks for a few moments. Therefore much appreciated.
There's been a lot of Ray discussion lately. His name has popped up with pleasing frequency the last week or so.
As he walked away, I turned back to the tasks. Humming, then singing ever so quietly.
Sometimes I swear it feels like this worry is my only friend...
8.11.2005
The realities.
People will not call you back; but when you call them a second time and casually mention you've been trying to reach them all day, they'll provide more information than you've time to work with. The information relayed will never be simple; "I need more time, it's gotten far more interesting" will never sound like a feasible excuse, honest as it may be. The cold will never free you of coughs, fine as you feel; you will tweak a muscle on the top of your foot just as you start developing the emotional need to run. Checking your email will not make you feel better; people won't write you when you are desperate for something, anything, interesting to read. You will not get the praise you deserve when you deserve it; you might get praise for something foolish far after the fact. You will not have time to work on the letter you want to send out; you're too busy waiting for the phone to ring to draft the letter that demands your entire focus and concentration.
I don't care if it's dark or raining kittens. I'm going running today, even if that run takes place upon arriving home from an unexpectedly extra-long day. The foot muscle (honestly, how can one complain about such a stupid discomfort) must be worked a bit so it doesn't tighten up and render moot the running progress made.
Notes to self: Buy new running shoes. Buy iPod (or at least dream of buying iPod). WRITE LETTER. And breathe.
I don't care if it's dark or raining kittens. I'm going running today, even if that run takes place upon arriving home from an unexpectedly extra-long day. The foot muscle (honestly, how can one complain about such a stupid discomfort) must be worked a bit so it doesn't tighten up and render moot the running progress made.
Notes to self: Buy new running shoes. Buy iPod (or at least dream of buying iPod). WRITE LETTER. And breathe.
I should stick with "The Bachelor"
I missed "Grey's Anatomy" during the regular television season, but have grown quite fond of it in its rerun form. It's become a fixture on the "To Be Tivo'ed" list, and I caught up with the latest last night, once it became clear that Boston was going to crush Texas at Fenway.
(Truth be told, I admit that last night, I simply wasn't in the mood to see whether my Sox were going to find a whole new creative way of blowing a lead.)
So I'm watching the episode with Beth, laughing at the quips and jabs as I usually do, and cooing appropriately at a cute little girl with long blonde curls and a history of seizures. I'm looking forward to Dr. McDreamy saving the day by operating on half of her brain.
Pretty standard stuff.
But then there is The Scene. One of the young interns has been booted from the OR because he dared to ask the anesthesiologist if he had been drinking. The "Sideways" woman was brought in to assist on the procedure, and Patrick Dempsey was operating brilliantly (as always). All of a sudden, McDreamy looks down at the little girl's face and realizes she's waking up while the procedure is underway.
I don't realize what I'm doing. I start saying, "No, oh no, no!" and jump up from my cozy corner place on the loveseat. As Beth looks at me in surprise, I bolt into the kitchen.
"What's going on?" she says.
"I CAN'T WATCH THIS!" My heart is in my throat, and I'm waiting to hear the faded sound of a little girl screaming as consciousness sets in. I don't want to hear it, I don't want to see it, I want the anesthesiologist (who has fallen asleep/passed out in the corner of the room, for those still curious) to put her back under. Now.
Beth walks out into the kitchen. "It's on commercial. It's OK."
She laughs at the horrified expression on my face.
"What was that all about?"
I'm still trying to figure it out. "Um, I think I just had my first real maternal instinct."
We burst into laughter. Me - the person who has said many, many times that I'm going to make the best damn aunt EVER - was just ready to kill a fictional character for potentially harming a fictional little girl on a fictional television show.
Ack.
(Truth be told, I admit that last night, I simply wasn't in the mood to see whether my Sox were going to find a whole new creative way of blowing a lead.)
So I'm watching the episode with Beth, laughing at the quips and jabs as I usually do, and cooing appropriately at a cute little girl with long blonde curls and a history of seizures. I'm looking forward to Dr. McDreamy saving the day by operating on half of her brain.
Pretty standard stuff.
But then there is The Scene. One of the young interns has been booted from the OR because he dared to ask the anesthesiologist if he had been drinking. The "Sideways" woman was brought in to assist on the procedure, and Patrick Dempsey was operating brilliantly (as always). All of a sudden, McDreamy looks down at the little girl's face and realizes she's waking up while the procedure is underway.
I don't realize what I'm doing. I start saying, "No, oh no, no!" and jump up from my cozy corner place on the loveseat. As Beth looks at me in surprise, I bolt into the kitchen.
"What's going on?" she says.
"I CAN'T WATCH THIS!" My heart is in my throat, and I'm waiting to hear the faded sound of a little girl screaming as consciousness sets in. I don't want to hear it, I don't want to see it, I want the anesthesiologist (who has fallen asleep/passed out in the corner of the room, for those still curious) to put her back under. Now.
Beth walks out into the kitchen. "It's on commercial. It's OK."
She laughs at the horrified expression on my face.
"What was that all about?"
I'm still trying to figure it out. "Um, I think I just had my first real maternal instinct."
We burst into laughter. Me - the person who has said many, many times that I'm going to make the best damn aunt EVER - was just ready to kill a fictional character for potentially harming a fictional little girl on a fictional television show.
Ack.
8.10.2005
Le suck.
What's the best way for a writerly type to piss herself off?
Right smack on the tip of my middle finger. A piece of glass as I cleaned my room. Slice! Ow! Dammit!
Aurgh.
Right smack on the tip of my middle finger. A piece of glass as I cleaned my room. Slice! Ow! Dammit!
Aurgh.
The Name Game
I didn't expect to get a new nickname at at nearly the quarter-century mark.
I've always been pretty traditional, where the nickname is concerned. When I was younger, the formal first name was put on the shelf, brought out and dusted off only for report cards, graduation and those times I got caught by my parents doing something I shouldn't have. The formal name was pretty, to be sure, but certainly more appropriate for a dead queen across the ocean than the young, spunky girl who preferred the nickname her mother gave her as a baby.
As I grew older, I started practicing with the full name. Seeing how it felt, how to balance the regal sound of it with the fact that I was still pretty young, certainly still spunky. I had to grow into the name, and as I molded to it, I alternated between it and the nickname. It almost felt as accepting the name meant I had to become - gasp! - mature.
Now I have no problem being known as the formal name and, to be honest, really enjoy it. People stop for a moment after introductions and comment on the fact that it's old-fashioned, but lovely. I chuckle as people let the name roll off their tongues with an extra flourish on the end. It prompts people to speak in a British accent - and I'm always a fan of that. And I've only met a handful of people who share the name with me - so I still feel that it's distinctive. There aren't too many me's running around.
I've often thanked my parents for going with this name, instead of Jennifer (as they'd originally planned to do).
But over the last couple of weeks, the new nickname has been popping up with increasing frequency. Nothing too outlandish, but a long name reduced to three letters. A nickname used sporadically by Beth over the past year and a half, but never before embraced by a group of people and never used on a regular basis.
It fits me now. It's a little bolder, a little sharper, a little more to the point. Someone who rocks the teal (although technically, it's considered ivy) eyeliner with only one second thought. I've never had a monosyllabic nickname before, and as I see references to it, I almost have to pause for a second and realize, "Hey, that's me!"
But I'm getting my kicks out of it. And there's always something pleasing when other people come up with a nickname for you. Because they've taken the time to come up with something that suits who you are - that being someone they care enough about to bestow upon you a name.
[/dork]
I've always been pretty traditional, where the nickname is concerned. When I was younger, the formal first name was put on the shelf, brought out and dusted off only for report cards, graduation and those times I got caught by my parents doing something I shouldn't have. The formal name was pretty, to be sure, but certainly more appropriate for a dead queen across the ocean than the young, spunky girl who preferred the nickname her mother gave her as a baby.
As I grew older, I started practicing with the full name. Seeing how it felt, how to balance the regal sound of it with the fact that I was still pretty young, certainly still spunky. I had to grow into the name, and as I molded to it, I alternated between it and the nickname. It almost felt as accepting the name meant I had to become - gasp! - mature.
Now I have no problem being known as the formal name and, to be honest, really enjoy it. People stop for a moment after introductions and comment on the fact that it's old-fashioned, but lovely. I chuckle as people let the name roll off their tongues with an extra flourish on the end. It prompts people to speak in a British accent - and I'm always a fan of that. And I've only met a handful of people who share the name with me - so I still feel that it's distinctive. There aren't too many me's running around.
I've often thanked my parents for going with this name, instead of Jennifer (as they'd originally planned to do).
But over the last couple of weeks, the new nickname has been popping up with increasing frequency. Nothing too outlandish, but a long name reduced to three letters. A nickname used sporadically by Beth over the past year and a half, but never before embraced by a group of people and never used on a regular basis.
It fits me now. It's a little bolder, a little sharper, a little more to the point. Someone who rocks the teal (although technically, it's considered ivy) eyeliner with only one second thought. I've never had a monosyllabic nickname before, and as I see references to it, I almost have to pause for a second and realize, "Hey, that's me!"
But I'm getting my kicks out of it. And there's always something pleasing when other people come up with a nickname for you. Because they've taken the time to come up with something that suits who you are - that being someone they care enough about to bestow upon you a name.
[/dork]
8.09.2005
This just in...
October is going to be ridiculous. There's already Ryan Montbleau goodness, rumors of Matty Nay enjoyment, and then Jason goes and announces his fall tour...
10/06 Spectrum, Montreal, Quebec with Carbon Leaf and Raul Midon On Sale August 20th
10/09 Orpheum Theatre, Boston, MA with Carbon Leaf and Raul Midon On Sale August 20th
10/11 University of New Hampshire, Durham, NH with Carbon Leaf and Raul Midon On Sale September 12th
(Side note: Have you listened to Raul Midon? I hope you have. He is amazing. Ridiculously so. Please check him out.)
Hmm. And those are the ones not involving a crazy roadtrip. There are also two NYC shows.
Hmm...
10/06 Spectrum, Montreal, Quebec with Carbon Leaf and Raul Midon On Sale August 20th
10/09 Orpheum Theatre, Boston, MA with Carbon Leaf and Raul Midon On Sale August 20th
10/11 University of New Hampshire, Durham, NH with Carbon Leaf and Raul Midon On Sale September 12th
(Side note: Have you listened to Raul Midon? I hope you have. He is amazing. Ridiculously so. Please check him out.)
Hmm. And those are the ones not involving a crazy roadtrip. There are also two NYC shows.
Hmm...
Mind the lessons in your dreams.
Beth took in the sight of my flushed cheeks and irrepressible grin and shook her head with a laugh.
"You're always so optimistic, idealistic," she said as she sipped from her iced espresso-based beverage. "You're like the little kid specifically told not to touch the stove. You just have to reach over and try anyway."
I snickered, but had to give her credit. There's a reason why she's a best friend - she knows me better than I know myself.
I'd rather get burned than wonder; I'd rather know than not know.
Not knowing sucks.
--------------
I hadn't expected last night's trip through photographic memory lane to carry over into sleep. Yet I found myself back at college, walking through the warm, early May night.
The field was taken over by revelers moving from party to party.
As groups stopped to catch up or say goodbye, it seemed the rest of the partygoers realized the best way to see everyone was to move the party outside. The grassy space separating houses from the rest of campus was quickly teeming with people hugging and sipping from beer bottles. Light spilled out onto the grass from open townhouse doors; music from various parties mixed together in the night air to form a indistinguishable soundtrack for goodbyes.
I'd found him while I said goodbye to other friends, and we began to walk to his house so he could mix me a drink. As we walked, chatted and tried to ignore the fact that it was likely the last time I'd see him, he draped an arm over my shoulders and leaned his head on top of mine.
"You know, we should have gone out." I forced myself to keep walking without hesitation.
"What?"
"We should have gone out." He said it simply, as if it was as commonly known as the fact that he was graduating in a week. Granted, I knew it to be the case, but I'd never had any idea that he'd thought so as well.
I tried to play it off casually. He had a girlfriend; I was among the first groups to congratulate him after learning that she'd accepted his proposal.
"Yeah, I know." He gave my shoulder a squeeze.
I'd never even hinted at the fact that I'd had a crush on him - I knew his girlfriend; I liked his girlfriend. Besides, he had taken me under his wing during my first weeks of college as his little sister; and that he was one who preferred to tell you you were cool than that he cared about you made it easy to avoid any potential awkwardness.
We should have gone out. Who knows if we would have, had either of us opened our mouths to say something.
We each thought about the statement for a second, chuckled and carried on the conversation it interrupted. Nothing to be done about it now.
As the night drew to a close, I hugged him and forced myself not to cry. I promised to make the trip back to campus for graduation and really say goodbye then. I didn't know if I'd see him in the crush after graduation, but it seemed easier for us both to at least feign that we'd see each other.
He hugged me tight and quickly kissed the top of my head. "See you next week. Be safe," he said. And I smiled, turned and walked away as quickly as I could while still looking casual.
Cursing myself the entire walk home.
"You're always so optimistic, idealistic," she said as she sipped from her iced espresso-based beverage. "You're like the little kid specifically told not to touch the stove. You just have to reach over and try anyway."
I snickered, but had to give her credit. There's a reason why she's a best friend - she knows me better than I know myself.
I'd rather get burned than wonder; I'd rather know than not know.
Not knowing sucks.
--------------
I hadn't expected last night's trip through photographic memory lane to carry over into sleep. Yet I found myself back at college, walking through the warm, early May night.
The field was taken over by revelers moving from party to party.
As groups stopped to catch up or say goodbye, it seemed the rest of the partygoers realized the best way to see everyone was to move the party outside. The grassy space separating houses from the rest of campus was quickly teeming with people hugging and sipping from beer bottles. Light spilled out onto the grass from open townhouse doors; music from various parties mixed together in the night air to form a indistinguishable soundtrack for goodbyes.
I'd found him while I said goodbye to other friends, and we began to walk to his house so he could mix me a drink. As we walked, chatted and tried to ignore the fact that it was likely the last time I'd see him, he draped an arm over my shoulders and leaned his head on top of mine.
"You know, we should have gone out." I forced myself to keep walking without hesitation.
"What?"
"We should have gone out." He said it simply, as if it was as commonly known as the fact that he was graduating in a week. Granted, I knew it to be the case, but I'd never had any idea that he'd thought so as well.
I tried to play it off casually. He had a girlfriend; I was among the first groups to congratulate him after learning that she'd accepted his proposal.
"Yeah, I know." He gave my shoulder a squeeze.
I'd never even hinted at the fact that I'd had a crush on him - I knew his girlfriend; I liked his girlfriend. Besides, he had taken me under his wing during my first weeks of college as his little sister; and that he was one who preferred to tell you you were cool than that he cared about you made it easy to avoid any potential awkwardness.
We should have gone out. Who knows if we would have, had either of us opened our mouths to say something.
We each thought about the statement for a second, chuckled and carried on the conversation it interrupted. Nothing to be done about it now.
As the night drew to a close, I hugged him and forced myself not to cry. I promised to make the trip back to campus for graduation and really say goodbye then. I didn't know if I'd see him in the crush after graduation, but it seemed easier for us both to at least feign that we'd see each other.
He hugged me tight and quickly kissed the top of my head. "See you next week. Be safe," he said. And I smiled, turned and walked away as quickly as I could while still looking casual.
Cursing myself the entire walk home.
8.08.2005
P.S.
The nominees for the San Diego Music Awards have been announced and, if things are at all like they were last year, online voting will be held before the awards ceremony (scheduled for September 12).
Why should one care about a scene thousands of miles away from oneself? Among the nominees:
- Best Pop: Steve Poltz & the Rugburns
- Best Pop Record: Grevory Page, "Sleeping Dogs"
- Best Acoustic: Tristan Prettyman, Saba and Pete Thurston*
And Jason is nominated for Album of the Year and Song of the Year.
Check it. When voting starts, vote. Get your parents to vote. Get your siblings to vote. Get that next door neighbor who always smiles at you but has never said more than "hello" to vote.
SDMA's bring people together.
* Beth laughed at me as I scanned the nominee list last night.
B: What are you looking for?
V: Nothing...HE'S NOMINATED! YEAH!
B: Who?
V: Pete! That's WONDERFUL!
Congratulations to all the nominees, but particular, special Gold Star congratulations to Mr. Thurston, one of the nicest and most deserving people ever.
Why should one care about a scene thousands of miles away from oneself? Among the nominees:
- Best Pop: Steve Poltz & the Rugburns
- Best Pop Record: Grevory Page, "Sleeping Dogs"
- Best Acoustic: Tristan Prettyman, Saba and Pete Thurston*
And Jason is nominated for Album of the Year and Song of the Year.
Check it. When voting starts, vote. Get your parents to vote. Get your siblings to vote. Get that next door neighbor who always smiles at you but has never said more than "hello" to vote.
SDMA's bring people together.
* Beth laughed at me as I scanned the nominee list last night.
B: What are you looking for?
V: Nothing...HE'S NOMINATED! YEAH!
B: Who?
V: Pete! That's WONDERFUL!
Congratulations to all the nominees, but particular, special Gold Star congratulations to Mr. Thurston, one of the nicest and most deserving people ever.
A Complimentary Weekend
At a certain point, one must accept that one is in the midst of a comedy of errors. The only question appropriate at such a time is, "OK, what next?"
After the debacle that was The Ticket Incident (which ended - for now - with assurances that compensation would be involved), our three main characters decided to climb out from beneath the boulders from which we were living and join the masses who have seen "Batman Begins." And we were going to do it in style. IMAX, baby.
Now, keep in mind that prior to this excursion, I'd never seen an IMAX film (with the exception of the IMAX-like experience at the Omni Theater at the MoS, but "The Great Barrier Reef" doesn't exactly pack the same wallop as a Hollywood film, now does it?). I have had plenty of chances to do so, but I intentionally held off. I live in IMAX-free lands, and I feared that the cinema-going experience after IMAX would pale in comparison.
But the thought of soaking in the sight of Christian Bale on an even bigger screen? I couldn't say no.
So we trapse off to Jordan's in Framingham. We get our ridiculously huge 3D glasses (might I recommend that you check out the Flickr) and settle into our luxurious seats. 3D previews come and go. Off with the glasses. Back into Gotham.
About an hour and twenty minutes into the film, as Christian is crouched in the rain -
White. Silence. House lights up.
All of Route 9 was hit by a power outage. We walk out the exit and wait to get back in. Yellow glasses piled into armchairs and couches serve as the moder, movie-going version of Hansel and Gretel's trail. Follow the glasses back to the flick, friends.
After waiting, returning and jostling for the seats everyone had prior to our unexpected intermission (and the fight that nearly broke out), we're told that they can't reboot the system. Comps or refunds available as you leave.
DID BATMAN TRIUMPH OVER EVIL?!?!?!
(And moreso, any more shirtless shots of Christian Bale?)
IMAX, shimax.*
So I was treated to a complimentary hour and a half of IMAX. After a complimentary concert of sorts.
Then my cell phone battery runs low, so I can't make any calls and, subsequently, can't retrieve my address book and call L. Thanks, technology, for making me look like a schmuck. I can do it well enough on my own...
And THEN, to top it all off, B and I find ourselves on the side of 89 in Vermont (thankfully, with cell phone reception), trying to figure out what the vibrant orange "Check Engine" light might be indicating. How many women does it take to inspect a car?
Two. Both on their phones with their fathers.
Of course. Figures.
"OK, what next?"
* I've got to admit, the experience prior to the outage? Awesome. I am now an IMAX fan.
After the debacle that was The Ticket Incident (which ended - for now - with assurances that compensation would be involved), our three main characters decided to climb out from beneath the boulders from which we were living and join the masses who have seen "Batman Begins." And we were going to do it in style. IMAX, baby.
Now, keep in mind that prior to this excursion, I'd never seen an IMAX film (with the exception of the IMAX-like experience at the Omni Theater at the MoS, but "The Great Barrier Reef" doesn't exactly pack the same wallop as a Hollywood film, now does it?). I have had plenty of chances to do so, but I intentionally held off. I live in IMAX-free lands, and I feared that the cinema-going experience after IMAX would pale in comparison.
But the thought of soaking in the sight of Christian Bale on an even bigger screen? I couldn't say no.
So we trapse off to Jordan's in Framingham. We get our ridiculously huge 3D glasses (might I recommend that you check out the Flickr) and settle into our luxurious seats. 3D previews come and go. Off with the glasses. Back into Gotham.
About an hour and twenty minutes into the film, as Christian is crouched in the rain -
White. Silence. House lights up.
All of Route 9 was hit by a power outage. We walk out the exit and wait to get back in. Yellow glasses piled into armchairs and couches serve as the moder, movie-going version of Hansel and Gretel's trail. Follow the glasses back to the flick, friends.
After waiting, returning and jostling for the seats everyone had prior to our unexpected intermission (and the fight that nearly broke out), we're told that they can't reboot the system. Comps or refunds available as you leave.
DID BATMAN TRIUMPH OVER EVIL?!?!?!
(And moreso, any more shirtless shots of Christian Bale?)
IMAX, shimax.*
So I was treated to a complimentary hour and a half of IMAX. After a complimentary concert of sorts.
Then my cell phone battery runs low, so I can't make any calls and, subsequently, can't retrieve my address book and call L. Thanks, technology, for making me look like a schmuck. I can do it well enough on my own...
And THEN, to top it all off, B and I find ourselves on the side of 89 in Vermont (thankfully, with cell phone reception), trying to figure out what the vibrant orange "Check Engine" light might be indicating. How many women does it take to inspect a car?
Two. Both on their phones with their fathers.
Of course. Figures.
"OK, what next?"
* I've got to admit, the experience prior to the outage? Awesome. I am now an IMAX fan.
Goodnight, Peter
He was my favorite of The Big Three and made me want to be better at what I wanted to do/do.
8.06.2005
More than a note, less than a love letter
To the powers that be at MusicToday and the Corporate Mad Libs Pavilion:
Great concert Friday night, ladies and gentlemen.
Against a dazzling harbor sunset, a sold-out crowd assembled for the musical wizardry of Ben Lee, Ben Folds and Rufus Wainwright. I was among the masses, having rearranged my schedule, battled a cold and otherwise prepared to take in the sound of three of my favorite performers with two good friends.
Ben Lee kicked things off right, following up on his promise to provide "the best music you could ever file in to." The set was peppered with selections from "Awake Is the New Sleep," "Hey You. Yes You" and even older albums. There was even a Jonathan Richman mention prior to Ben jumping off the stage into the audience for "We're All In This Together."
(Jonathan Richman. Yes. Have you heard of him? No? Well, check him out. Venerable musician of whom Boston should be proud. Doesn't tend to play the Pavilion, however. Hmm. Perhaps you should work on that.)
Ben Folds sauntered onto the stage to a full-blown dorkfest musical vamp, using two bandmates to kick things up a notch. New songs and much-loved classics were presented to the adoring, standing and dancing crowd, and he attacked the piano with his customary blur of fingers and aggressive style, more crouching above the piano seat than ever really sitting on it. He took a pause to break things down a little with a little ditty he'd collaborated with Dre and Snoop Dogg on - only without Dre's knowledge. He brought enthusiastic, somewhat disbelieving screams from the audience as he kicked into "Bitches Ain't Shit," creating glorious melodic melancholy to lines such as "It's a real conversation for your ass." We helped out, too, singing "Bitches can't hang with the streets," when prompted. Over and over, as Ben looked out to us with a mock-melancholic gaze, singing softly, "All the children sing." "Bitches can't hang with the streets..." And he, of course, brought us to our school-choir bests with "Not the Same," finishing the song standing on his piano, leading us in a singalong that included two counterharmonies and a round. He's been making things trickier for his adoring audiences, and we were ready to rise to the challenge as he tapped his knee against the piano for a percussion beat and led both sides of the audience.
Rufus Wainwright had a tough act to follow up, but he strolled onto stage with his usual arrogant gusto and brought a dreamy smile to my face the moment his 40s-remiciscent voice soared through the Pavilion. With a band this time, he was able to bring a live sparkle to his complex album songs and was much more extroverted than his previous Pavilion appearance. Tossing his hair about like the diva he is, Rufus did not provide as all-out insane a followup to Folds as many would perhaps think necessary (and even I agree that Folds should have closed the show), but for those in the audience who love his music, it was heavenly.
How could it not be? He played "Hometown Waltz," "The Art Teacher," "Little Sister," "Vibrate," and "Hallelujah" PRECEDED BY "MEMPHIS SKYLINE."
But here, dear ladies and gentlemen, is the problem. My ticket was purchased within five minutes of the opening of the presale for this show. When the ticket order was processed, the seat numbers included 19, 20 and 42. Same row, same section, screwy numbers. We immediately called the Pavilion and spoke with a representative who assured me that it was the way the seats were ordered and that my friends and I would all be sitting together to enjoy the show.
ASSURED ME.
So why is it that, upon entering the Pavilion last night, my friends had to go sit on one side of the soundboards and I had to sit - by myself - on the other? Why is is that when I complained (politely) to the Pavilion ticket staff, I was told to complain to Ticketmaster? Why is it that when I called MusicToday to (not as politely) complain, I was told to talk to the Pavilion?
After a passionate call worthy of an Oscar (I wasn't furious, but they certainly thought I was), I was told that some form of compensation would be possible.
You think? Because I didn't travel from Vermont for a show - therefore missing another show I would have happily attended - to sit through Ben Lee by myself.
(I convinced the couple next to me to switch with my friends during the first set change, but frankly, I shouldn't have had to go through all of that.)
Great show, yes. But both groups of you, dear Ticket People and Pavilion People, aren't off the hook.
Most cordially,
V
Great concert Friday night, ladies and gentlemen.
Against a dazzling harbor sunset, a sold-out crowd assembled for the musical wizardry of Ben Lee, Ben Folds and Rufus Wainwright. I was among the masses, having rearranged my schedule, battled a cold and otherwise prepared to take in the sound of three of my favorite performers with two good friends.
Ben Lee kicked things off right, following up on his promise to provide "the best music you could ever file in to." The set was peppered with selections from "Awake Is the New Sleep," "Hey You. Yes You" and even older albums. There was even a Jonathan Richman mention prior to Ben jumping off the stage into the audience for "We're All In This Together."
(Jonathan Richman. Yes. Have you heard of him? No? Well, check him out. Venerable musician of whom Boston should be proud. Doesn't tend to play the Pavilion, however. Hmm. Perhaps you should work on that.)
Ben Folds sauntered onto the stage to a full-blown dorkfest musical vamp, using two bandmates to kick things up a notch. New songs and much-loved classics were presented to the adoring, standing and dancing crowd, and he attacked the piano with his customary blur of fingers and aggressive style, more crouching above the piano seat than ever really sitting on it. He took a pause to break things down a little with a little ditty he'd collaborated with Dre and Snoop Dogg on - only without Dre's knowledge. He brought enthusiastic, somewhat disbelieving screams from the audience as he kicked into "Bitches Ain't Shit," creating glorious melodic melancholy to lines such as "It's a real conversation for your ass." We helped out, too, singing "Bitches can't hang with the streets," when prompted. Over and over, as Ben looked out to us with a mock-melancholic gaze, singing softly, "All the children sing." "Bitches can't hang with the streets..." And he, of course, brought us to our school-choir bests with "Not the Same," finishing the song standing on his piano, leading us in a singalong that included two counterharmonies and a round. He's been making things trickier for his adoring audiences, and we were ready to rise to the challenge as he tapped his knee against the piano for a percussion beat and led both sides of the audience.
Rufus Wainwright had a tough act to follow up, but he strolled onto stage with his usual arrogant gusto and brought a dreamy smile to my face the moment his 40s-remiciscent voice soared through the Pavilion. With a band this time, he was able to bring a live sparkle to his complex album songs and was much more extroverted than his previous Pavilion appearance. Tossing his hair about like the diva he is, Rufus did not provide as all-out insane a followup to Folds as many would perhaps think necessary (and even I agree that Folds should have closed the show), but for those in the audience who love his music, it was heavenly.
How could it not be? He played "Hometown Waltz," "The Art Teacher," "Little Sister," "Vibrate," and "Hallelujah" PRECEDED BY "MEMPHIS SKYLINE."
But here, dear ladies and gentlemen, is the problem. My ticket was purchased within five minutes of the opening of the presale for this show. When the ticket order was processed, the seat numbers included 19, 20 and 42. Same row, same section, screwy numbers. We immediately called the Pavilion and spoke with a representative who assured me that it was the way the seats were ordered and that my friends and I would all be sitting together to enjoy the show.
ASSURED ME.
So why is it that, upon entering the Pavilion last night, my friends had to go sit on one side of the soundboards and I had to sit - by myself - on the other? Why is is that when I complained (politely) to the Pavilion ticket staff, I was told to complain to Ticketmaster? Why is it that when I called MusicToday to (not as politely) complain, I was told to talk to the Pavilion?
After a passionate call worthy of an Oscar (I wasn't furious, but they certainly thought I was), I was told that some form of compensation would be possible.
You think? Because I didn't travel from Vermont for a show - therefore missing another show I would have happily attended - to sit through Ben Lee by myself.
(I convinced the couple next to me to switch with my friends during the first set change, but frankly, I shouldn't have had to go through all of that.)
Great show, yes. But both groups of you, dear Ticket People and Pavilion People, aren't off the hook.
Most cordially,
V
8.05.2005
Encore.
Colleague: Hey, how was the big concert?
V: Which one?
I just detailed the V North America Concert Tour, and was met with an expression alternating between being impressed and shocked that I'm still conscious.
Yep, that about sums it up.
The cold has been battled with medicine and cough drops (Insert product placement pitch for the wonder that is Robitussin's Sunny Raspberry Vitamin C Supplement Drops - LOVE THEM), and I'm giddy about hopping into the car and heading to Massachusetts for Ben Lee, Ben Folds and Rufus Wainwright.
I have no idea of what the weekend holds, but I'm looking forward to whatever comes my way.
Have a good weekend, dear readers.
V: Which one?
I just detailed the V North America Concert Tour, and was met with an expression alternating between being impressed and shocked that I'm still conscious.
Yep, that about sums it up.
The cold has been battled with medicine and cough drops (Insert product placement pitch for the wonder that is Robitussin's Sunny Raspberry Vitamin C Supplement Drops - LOVE THEM), and I'm giddy about hopping into the car and heading to Massachusetts for Ben Lee, Ben Folds and Rufus Wainwright.
I have no idea of what the weekend holds, but I'm looking forward to whatever comes my way.
Have a good weekend, dear readers.
8.04.2005
Lovely love
I do it too, you know.
I have my various blogs that I love to read - and when I happen to miss out on checking the sites for a few days, I happily trapse back over to see what I've missed, how everyone's doing.
It's the nature of the blog - you at least feel as if you know someone that you really don't know at all.
Two of my favorites bloggers as of late have been the fabulous New York couple of Krissa and Stuart. Both brilliant writers, both hopelessly in love. And married to one another, so I suppose I ought to strike the hopeless. 'Cause there ain't nothin hopeless about loving someone who loves you back, right?
Anyway, I came across Krissa's latest and had to encourage you to check it. This, dear readers, is what I hope love does for me.
Whenever it happens to find me.
It's hard to be cynical and jaded when you read something like this. Which is why I am particularly grateful to find it today.
Safe travels to the lovebirds!
--------
In other, independent woman news, I am proving to be quite amusing with this cold. When I'm not busy dazing off into space, that is. My eyes are all bright and shiny (thanks, watery eyes), my cheeks are nice and rosy (thanks, feeling flushed!) and my lips more times than not appear pursed into a glossy little bow (thanks constant feeling that I'm about to sneeze!).
Who knew it would take a cold to make me look like a freakin' china doll! What fun!
The added bonus is that I also have a husky little voice going on. So consider me a phone sex hotline-voiced china doll.
I don't think it gets any hotter than this, friends. If you've got the number, you'd have a riot calling my digits tonight.
Who knows? I might be so loopy on my medicine (need more...) that you might just convince me to talk dirty. Ha. The fun never stops on Medication Lane.
I have my various blogs that I love to read - and when I happen to miss out on checking the sites for a few days, I happily trapse back over to see what I've missed, how everyone's doing.
It's the nature of the blog - you at least feel as if you know someone that you really don't know at all.
Two of my favorites bloggers as of late have been the fabulous New York couple of Krissa and Stuart. Both brilliant writers, both hopelessly in love. And married to one another, so I suppose I ought to strike the hopeless. 'Cause there ain't nothin hopeless about loving someone who loves you back, right?
Anyway, I came across Krissa's latest and had to encourage you to check it. This, dear readers, is what I hope love does for me.
Whenever it happens to find me.
It's hard to be cynical and jaded when you read something like this. Which is why I am particularly grateful to find it today.
Safe travels to the lovebirds!
--------
In other, independent woman news, I am proving to be quite amusing with this cold. When I'm not busy dazing off into space, that is. My eyes are all bright and shiny (thanks, watery eyes), my cheeks are nice and rosy (thanks, feeling flushed!) and my lips more times than not appear pursed into a glossy little bow (thanks constant feeling that I'm about to sneeze!).
Who knew it would take a cold to make me look like a freakin' china doll! What fun!
The added bonus is that I also have a husky little voice going on. So consider me a phone sex hotline-voiced china doll.
I don't think it gets any hotter than this, friends. If you've got the number, you'd have a riot calling my digits tonight.
Who knows? I might be so loopy on my medicine (need more...) that you might just convince me to talk dirty. Ha. The fun never stops on Medication Lane.
O Canada
(per usual, click on the photos to go to the rest)
We sat in a coffeeshop, sipping caramel caffe lattes. I'd been humbled by the barista who prepared our drinks - her ability to slip from English to French and back again made my high school German seem pretty damn inadequate in life.
A sex shop was across the street, next to a seemingly high-class clothing store. People walked by in Burlington-appropriate garb, followed closely by designer-clad women and Euro-chic (ahem) men. There seemed no rhyme or reason to who wore what, who spoke which language, who stopped in to pick up a coffee or not.
It felt as if home was a lot farther away than the car ride (less than two hours - hurrah!) indicated. It felt as if I hadn't already worked that day, it felt as if I wasn't seeing Coldplay that evening, and it felt as if we weren't due back to our normal lives the next day.
And the caramel caffe latte was pretty damn good.
I don't do big shows. I'm more of a club and bar venue kind of girl. The Orpheum is a large show for me; FleetBoston/Bank of America Pavilion is really big for me.* I'm used to and gravitate toward the shows where one could be spotted dancing or singing along. I'm a big proponent for immediately feeling the connection between those at an event.
I like to know that the person performing before me could, in theory, be acutely aware of the fact that I'm there.
So you take a girl with that kind of mentality and place her on the floor of the Centre Bell in Montreal last night. For not a large show, not a really big show, but One of the Most Highly Anticipated Epic-Proportioned Rock Shows of the Summer. Coldplay's Twisted Logic Tour. Surrounded by probably 18,000 screaming fans.
Hmm.
Added to this is the fact that the heroine of the tale still somehow regards Coldplay as the little British quartet that put out the sensitive little album that connected with her early in her college career. Sure, she knows they're popular; she thinks "A Rush of Blood To the Head" is one of the best albums put out by anyone in recent memory. But they don't strike her as the Aspiring Greatest Rock Band Around. I think of "Yellow" Coldplay - Chris walking on the beach. I don't think of "Clocks" Coldplay - Chris looking like a rock god in front of blue shards of light.
But then the opening act (finally, mercifully) leaves the stage, the crowd starts grooving to piped-in Beck and old Britpop tunes, the lights dim and the countdown comes up on the screen behind the stage. And I realize I'm holding my breath, watching the numbers count down to zero, the band is taking the stage and holy shit this is a rock show and I'm so glad we made the trip to Montreal for this.
And then I take a breath as the percussion tears through the stadium and the screen creates the sense of watching an iPod commercial come to life.
We lucked out, I know. Thanks to the fact that Coldplay's lottery system is actually fair and fan-friendly, it was surprisingly easy to get what turned out to be incredible seats. The crowd gathered for the show was cooperative, energetic and so damn happy to be there. The band visibly soaked in that energy and threw it back at us tenfold.
But it was just so much fun to be able to jump up and down, clap, scream, sing along and dance to a crazy huge rock show. No need to worry about anything other than the way the music hits you, the dazzling lights, and keeping in time with the beat as the audience clapped to an ever-faster outro to "Clocks" that left hands stinging, arms tired. To know you look like a dork because you squeal as the band starts playing "Yellow," but it's one of those songs that became overplayed for a reason, dammit, and you've just loved those opening chords for so damn long and you're going to sing along.
Square One
Politik
Yellow ("Fuck it, arret, arret!" "Let's rewind the last five minutes. This is a song called "Yellow.")
God Put a Smile Upon Your Face
Speed of Sound
Low
Hardest Part
Everything's Not Lost ("If you've fucked up "Yellow" and the audience isn't cross, everything's not lost")
White Shadows
The Scientist
Til Kingdom Come
Don't Panic
Clocks
Talk
----
Swallowed In The Sea
In My Place (Chris appears in the empty upper seats near the stage, lounging in the seat, wearing a Canadians jersey, to wrap up the song)
Fix You
It required a sense of giving something up, leaving something behind at the Centre Bell as we left. Much as I walked out with ringing ears, a hoarse voice and exclamations of "That was fucking incredible," I had to realize that it's not quite the same band who penned the song Patterson sang to me on my 21st birthday as we all sat on the front porch (I told you I've loved "Yellow" for eons). It's certainly not the band that played River Rave in 2001**.
It's one of those Epicly Huge Rock Bands.
And know what? That's cool with me.
But finally, I ask this: do customs agents think you're being cheeky when you reply to a question of "Did you purchase anything while in Canada" with, "Well, I bought a coffee, actually." I was just being honest...
--------
In other news. My head feels as if it is filled with cotton balls. The rest of me? Completely fine. But this is an epic head cold and it's pissing me off.
But it didn't stop me from going to Montreal and it sure as hell will not stop me from Boston tomorrow.
* That said, I do acknowledge that I have attended/are attending a rash of large/big/epic shows. Looking at tickets with Dave Matthews Band, Coldplay, Ben/Ben/Rufus, Tori and the mother of all, U2, written on them has messed with my head. This is not normal V activity.
** I was head over heels for "Parachutes" pretty early on, and I was beside myself with giddiness at the 2001 River Rave because Coldplay was performing:
5.28.01
...
- coldplay: i had been waiting, WAITING to see coldplay forever. unfortunately, there were three factors playing against coldplay. 1) outdoor venue 2) large crowd 3) no one knew who the hell they were. i need to see coldplay at a small venue such as paradise. i walked out of their set after i heard "yellow". i never thought that would be possible.
Coldplay was followed up at that show by Dropkick Murphys. You do the math.
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