A flight of fancy

It was certainly enough to warrant a second look.

Tall, with almost foppish, almost hipster bedhead hair. Brown leather blazer, worn in just right. A quirky yet charming face, unassumingly handsome.

My coffee stop was looking good. I happily took that second glance.

But, in the classic girl-is-such-a-sucker kind of way, it was the accent that forced me to sneak another look out of the corner of my eye.

"Yes, a grande house, please. Black." British. Warm. Let's face it, it was intoxicating. "And could you please direct me to Newbury Street? Is it near here?"

Game. Set. Match. I was ready to swoon.

I kept quiet, the nondescript eavesdropper, taking in the melodious cadence to his voice. Until, as I waited for my maple latte to be prepared and he stood by me, we exchanged glances and smiles. I had to say hello.

So I did. And he replied.

And then we both waited for our drinks.

Awesome.

I had to wonder if this was actually how some soulmates meet - a chance encounter at a coffeeshop on a city corner.

I wondered what he thought of me as I stood there.

Unfortunately, he was in a hurry and I lacked the clumsiness to create some form of scenario. There would be no spilled coffee, no gallant attempt to help me clean up. No laughing introduction. As I settled into my window seat, he strolled out the door.

Of course the walk sign lit up as he left, so he crossed the street immediately. I fancifully imagined that the world often stopped so he could pass through it unfettered. I smiled to myself as he walked behind the T stop and out of sight.

That was a lovely. A nice, easy, five-minute could-have-been love affair.

Tour Log - Friday

The Fall Concert Season, as its participants (i.e. a number of my group of friends) refer to it, has started to blur together.

The shows stand out, of course - moments, songs, banter, misadventures and the like - but it's the places that start to morph into each other. It feels like we're on tour. Is this Montreal or Boston? Did that happen in Manchester or Worcester?

Thank goodness for ticket stubs.

Thursday was marked by driving, getting lost, directing others who have gotten lost somewhere else and a whole lot of conversation. As everyone blinked at the sudden illumination in the bar as they prepared to close down, and as I realized Michelle and I needed to get back to Beverly before the other part of our "Crash at Casa de Grandma" group, I felt disappointed because I didn't want to leave yet. I was having an amazing time AND I'd heard a cover of "Miss Misery." Hello. Glorious...

(Side note: My grandmother owns. And Richardson's mini golf course is open through October. Just sayin.)

Michelle and I bypassed the floor at the Paradise last night and went directly for the first-tier balcony area. And, as it turned out, so did everyone else in the FCS gang. A laughing series of meetups followed as we each took our places on cushioned benches and patted ourselves on the back for all seeking out the best spot from which to take in the show. I jokingly thought of it as our own sort of VIP (V's Important People) section - only no one else in the crowd would know the cast of characters it occupied. We resolved to meet up, same time, same place for the remainder of the shows we're attending.

I love Boston and I love the musicians and concertgoing friends I've come to include among my favorites. I can walk into a venue with one friend and run into two others standing near the line. Another already greeted us from her place several spots ahead of us. Two others walked in and grinned upon seeing me leaning over to them from the balcony, and one I hadn't seen in at least a year returned from the bar to take a spot right by me that she had independently sought out.

My parents (most often my father) often roll their eyes or sigh when they hear I'm going to another show. "You've already seen him a lot, why go see him again? You're going to hear the same things you've already heard."

As our group sang along and waved our arms (eliciting a grin from the stage) to an impromptu Warrant cover, I looked to either side of me at the grinning, laughing faces of people I've come to meet through this mutual love of music. Ryan Montbleau lyrics came to mind.

"What is it about this way that's ordinary / Is it the stretch of time that passes or the way my friends all glow with light? / Open like a church on Sunday / The day's arms stretched out open wide."

This was precisely why I make the effort. But it's next to impossible to put that scene, that feeling of happiness and friendship into a phrase with which I'll be satisfied.

So I went back to singing Warrant.

"Heaven isn't too far away...closer to it every day..."

Aw, shit.

Twas the day of vacation

In classic form, I sit here, already antsy and ready to make a break for the car and head to the highway...

Life Lesson #3450285

Caring about a person. Knowing a person.

Two entirely different things.

I looked at Beth.

"I just have to remember," I said. "You can want someone to get to know you. You can do everything you can to make it so someone can get to know you. You can feel like someone SHOULD know you. But sometimes, someone's just not going to get to know you. And that's just how it is."

She gave me one of her sympathetic smiles. I've seen a lot of them. As I've trudged through the kitchen door after particularly long days. As she's brought cups of coffee to my door because I can't get away just when I need a maple latte the most. When I've been sick. As she's listened to me complain and rubbed my back.

And now. As she knew that with one suggestion, I would have happily changed things around. Because SHE knows me. And she knows I wanted to be known.

"It sucks," she said.

"It's life."

We looked at each other.

Exactly.

We're both right.

Massachusetts, lend me your eyes

So. Matt Nathanson. Three shows. Wednesday. Thursday. Friday.

You have your tickets. Or you're realizing you need to get tickets.

(If so, you're out of luck on Thursday. Sold out, baby.)

I'll be at the shows Thursday and Friday. Hurrah!

Regardless, get yourself to a grocery store before you get yourself to the Paradise.

Rock for a Remedy (RFAR) is teaming up with Matt for two food drives. Thursday and Friday.

I'm a big proponent for the coupling of music and food drives. With the amount of money we spend on concert tickets, driving, food, merch and, yes, a drink or two at the bar, it's entirely appropriate - far too appropriate, actually - to bring at least a canned food item to help others. When food drives come to town (or, as is most often the case, when I come to a town with a food drive), I'm happy to bring a bag of items to donate. A few cans of tuna fish, a can of tomato soup, perhaps some Ramen or peanut butter - all inexpensive items that can do an incredible amount of good.

Somehow, it makes the show I'm attending feel all the more special. People outside the venue realize something good went on within the walls.

So, that said, I'll step off my soapbox. But not before I ask that, if you're going to make it to the show, please, please bring something to leave in the RFAR boxes.

And after you help a neighbor, take care of a few other things that will make the world a better place. You know, call your mother and tell her you love her. Send the emails to those people you'd been meaning to reply to. Compliment a stranger and tell a friend how special they are.

Well, bring the cans, anyway.

And then say hi to me and get ready to rock.

We're going to have fun, you know.
-----
And, while I have your attention, I'm going to have some free time and a camera while I'm in the Boston area...and I'm looking for interesting vantage points from which to view and shoot things in the city.

Suggestions? Neat spots? Quirky things I might not know of? Please feel free to leave a comment with a suggestion. I'd really appreciate it!

You can't always get what you want

We'd been planning a venture to Cold Hollow all week. I would (shockingly) be in Vermont. The leaves were turning color. The cider press would be in full operation.

Autumn at its finest...

...until it started raining mid-week. And failed to let up. A Sunday lounging around at home, cursing the water still coming down.

Finally, around 2, we decided to make the best of it. Rain? We'd be inside.

So we hopped into the car and set off for Waterbury.

So the leaves are being beaten off the trees by the rain and the wind. The cider press wasn't operating.

Screw it. We still wound up with paper cups warm with spiced cider. The cider doughnuts were still as warm and soft as I remembered and we still played around, dodging the raindrops and taking photographs of the soggy autumn scene.

You can't always get what you want, but you can revise things so you still leave feeling as if you got something out of the deal.

Thanks, Waterbury, for a brief but enjoyable time.

I've decided that I'm going to have to be Domino Harvey for Halloween. Due, in part, to the utter screwup conducted by the woman in whom I put faith in cutting my hair yesterday.

She, um, didn't do what I wanted. At all. I had my eyes closed for most of the session, because I was going short and was more than a little on the apprehensive side.

And then? Well, then I opened my eyes and shut them again real quick.

I'm proud to report that I didn't cry until I was out of the salon and in a store at the mall, trying to find headbands and hair clips to improve on the situation at hand.

And then I cried a lot.

But hey. It happens. And I adapt. It's what I do. How I roll. And as long as I own and embrace the unexpected style, it's all good. This is giving me the chance to take the bold, dramatic woman I've had hiding in myself and put it on display. I'm playing it up.

And now I've got a Halloween costume mostly pulled together.

Anyone know where I can get a good, fake shotgun and a spare bullet belt I can use as a sash?

Because now I hunt bounty. And I'll be able to get away with speaking in a clipped British accent. And my newest ringtone on my phone is Van Morrison's "Domino."

See? Silver linings all around.



(Click on the photo to go to the rest...)

Drip dry

An indecisive rain frustrates. Rain streaks on windows one moment, muffled sunshine the next. You don't know whether to bring the umbrella with you or trade leather coat for raincoat.

You long for enough of a break in the mist to go outside. Do something. Anything. You don't care. You start to resent the rain for striking each item off the huge list of "could dos" you've cultivated.

A rain set in its ways does not give you the chance to hate it. It comes down steady, constant and without question of its intent. Your feet will be damp. The bottoms of your pant legs will be soaked. If you choose to forgo the unbrella, you will be dripping by the time you're halfway through your walk to wherever you need go.

Oddly enough, you don't despise it. That list, all of the things you would be doing or could be doing, disappears without regard. The skies are dark, the leaves in the puddles on the ground are slicker shades of red and orange.

Your options?

Drive over to visit with friends.
Movie.
Mugs of hot cider.
Lamplight, blankets and books.
Keep dry, keep warm.

Which, coincidentally enough, lines up perfectly with everything I plan to do.

From 0 to 6 in 90 seconds

Telephone ringing
V: Hey, it's me.
Mom: Hi!
V: I was just telling Beth about how Nina (V note: pregnant cousin) is going to name the baby Isabella...
M: Well, she doesn't know now.
V: What?
M: Apparently that wasn't set in stone.
(conversation follows, during which I say she HAS to name the baby Isabella because I want a Second Cousin Izzy.)
V: Well, she's got to keep Eliza or Liza or Molly off the list.
M: Why?
V: Because I like them. You know, just in case.
M: But you're not having kids.
V: Well, I'm not saying that I AM, I'm just saying in case - wait! Why am I not having kids?
M: You always said you weren't.
V: And this is the one time you decide to listen to me?
M: You can't say I never do.
V: So you're that set to not be a grandmother?
M: Well, Tom might -
V: HEY!
M: Well, I WANT grandchildren. I'm already collecting those quarter sets for them. I'm keeping six sets.
V: Six? SIX?!?!
M: I don't want to leave any of the grandkids out, just in case.
V: YOU THINK TOM AND I WILL COMBINE TO GIVE YOU SIX GRANDKIDS?!?!?
M: Well, you might marry someone with kids already. These things get dicey. You never know.
V: SIX KIDS?!?
M: But get a puppy or a cat first.
V: What?
M: You know. Trial run.
V: ARE YOU CALLING ME A BAD MOTHER?
M: Goodnight, dear.
V: A BAD MOTHER OF SIX CHILDREN?!?!?
M: Puppy. Or a kitten.
V: I'll name it Riley.
M: Why don't you name it Molly and get that name out of your system?
V: Goodnight, Mom.

A hate letter to "Not Yet."

I've been running on a parallel track, with the ingrained thoughts that by doing so, by keeping my head focused and doing what I'm supposed to, I'd wind up finding a place where the tracks come together close enough for me to hop onto another one, the one that will branch off and lead me closer to what I want and what I've been striving for.

Funny, how it feels that's been working out. Or not, I should say.

I'm frustrated. Tired. In need of inspiration or communication. Whatever at this point. It doesn't feel as if a supply of either is at all available.

But how do you know when you've reached a breaking point with something that, from all outward appearances, doesn't seem to be broken at all?

A study in contrasts

Exhibit A. Lead Guitar.
The gum is being snapped and chomped at the same time; a physical feat I can't quite wrap my brain around. My eyes are riveted, watching the jaw that doesn't quite move up and down or side to side. I realize with shock and a little disgust that this must be what watching a cow chew cud must look like.

His left arm flies up and down the neck of a gleaming, candy apple red electric guitar. In truth, it doesn't take much to navigate the series of frets. It's too small. Miniature, almost. It rests against his broad-shouldered, muscular chest and stomach, looking a bit like what the instrument his preteen self must have hunched over for hours at a time in a closed-door bedroom of rockstar fantasies.

The fantasy carries over to the end of songs. Or solos, even. He raises a closed fist and bobs his head as the audience members on his side of the stage howl their approval. It was acceptable the first time. But not the second, third, fourth, fifth...

His shredded, angular hairstyle rests in spikey layers around his face, hinting at long nights rocking and rolling without the benefit of showering. The gray t-shirt and well-worn jeans complete the messy chic attempt. But the highlights and the hair gel gives him away.

A dagger of styled hair begins to bob up and down as he bends back over the guitar for another solo, the gum chomping all the while...

Exhibit B. Bassist.
Flannel shirt. Untucked. Spikey hair and scruffy beard, positioned below striking eyes focusing almost non-stop on the beautiful, six-string electric bass he plays. His fingers fly over the strings during a fierce solo that leaves even my tired, achey head bobbing back and forth. His focus and intensity builds to such a point that it seems he NEEDS to jump up and down a couple of times in order to let some of it out. He's quiet. He smiles occasionally at the crowd, but otherwise lets his instrument, his sound do the talking. And, when you're not trying to analyze the gum chewing on the other side of the stage, he's the one your eyes are drawn to. 'Cause you can tell that he's the closest thing to badass this band has got.

*****
At 24 and nearly 49/52 years old, I realized that I felt old. Fucking old. What-the-hell-happened kind of old.

I wasn't a fan.

I stood in Higher Ground, waiting for Blues Traveler or the opening band to take the stage. Doors at 7, show to start at 8 and we got there at about 8:15. It was 9:02 and the house lights had yet to dim for anything.

If there's one thing that irks me about live performance, it's starting late. Or, I should say, excessively late. We've been standing around. We're excited, but we want to save our energy for the dancing, Dear Band. A few minutes is one thing. An hour is absurd.

But it turns out there is no opener - Popper and the rest of the guys take the stage, smile and make reference back to the early 90s - which is, I believe, the last time they were in our part of the world. They launch into the sound and I try to dance and get excited about it...

...and I realize that I'm not digging it. The college kids behind me, the ones who made me burst into laughter as they discussed "The Last Dispatch" being the greatest musical event they'd ever attended, are flailing around. The older people in front of me keep backing into me. A man with a beard and backwards black felt newsboy cap has pushed up through our part of the crowd and appears to be having a seizure. Which would fit, considering that the harmonica notes are so high that they feel as if they're piercing my eardrums and every one of Popper's solos sounds exactly like the solo from "Runaround." Out of place compared to the rest of the loud (loud LOUD) sounds coming from the rest of the band.

It's too much, and I'm having a hard time finding any thread of consistency. I want to be able to find a rhythm, a melody to follow. It's not happening.

I wind up leaving early - about halfway through the set. I'm glad that I saw the band, that I can cross it off my "List of Bands I Should Have Seen Before But For Whatever Reason Didn't." And I think that maybe, given different circumstances, I'd check them out again (read: outdoor performance). But I'm not feeling enough of a pull toward the stage to keep me here.

I tell Beth that I'm going to get some air and that, if she doesn't find me after the show, I'll just meet her and Chuck (who had driven in and met us) at home.

After a few gulps of air, I give it about another twenty minutes.

Then I head home.

*****
Speaking of less than ideal shows...I'm amazed by the number of glowing reviews I've seen in regards to the Mraz show at the Orpheum.

It wasn't that it was a BAD show. By any means. A "Mr. A-Z" heavy show does not necessarily a bad show make - after all, I did enjoy myself in Montreal on Thursday (I had a blast in Montreal, actually).

On Sunday, he and Toca teamed up for "After An Afternoon" (read: sigh. Love that song). "I'm Yours" was featured with the trio-turned-quartet. "Mr. Curiosity" and "Plane" remain the two songs on the new album I really enjoy.

But here's the catch. I don't enjoy phoned-in performances. By anyone. Let alone someone whose past shows have grabbed my attention and left me riveted throughout the sets. Not to mention someone I described the night before, explaining that seeing him live was what really proved how dynamic he is.

The band? I enjoy 'em. Seems like a collection of good and great guys.

But they've been positioned on stage around and behind the title musician. And if the spotlight's on the guy in the center, who's so big on conveying that he's a Real Kind of Guy, he's got to be up for the challenge.

Unapologetic

I'm not sorry that I embrace things. That I'm idealistic. That I have a fanciful imagination and I'm prone to daydreams. That I wrap a subject, the idea of a person, or a hope around me and let it affect my day to day life. That I burst into laughter. That I bristle up when you interrupt me. That I play music on my computer. That I have to Tivo a lot of television and catch up with it when I have time. That I cringe when I hear you whispering without consideration that I'm in the room. That I can curse like a sailor or burst into song at a moment's notice. That I twitter about full of stories after I've been away, and that I'm always talking about the next big show I can't wait to go to.

I'm young. I'm only 24. I have no desire to act as if I'm going on 45. I have neither the benefits nor constraints of a relationship with a signficant other. I flirt. I have crushes. I overanalyze flirtation with crushes. And yes, sometimes I giggle. Other times I seem pathetic. Sometimes bold. I know you've heard names a thousand times. I know you've heard snippets of stories on countless occasions. I know you roll your eyes.

But I'm not going to feel the giddiness drain out of me as I'm trying to share my excitement. I'm not curling up in the far corner to just write into my notebook. I'm tired of feeling as if I'm the reckless, exasperating one.

I write a monthly check too.

So deal with it.

I honestly think I could come up with some quality writing, were I to have an opportunity to wake up, sip some orange juice and settle down for a good, multi-hour chunk of Writing Time.

Which is why I'm already looking forward to the weekend.

I'm not going anywhere (at least, nowhere requiring a turn onto 93) this weekend. Next week? Well, yes. The "Matt Nathanson and the Sexiness" food drive extravaganza. Otherwise known as Would The Paradise Mistake Me For a Paid Employee extravaganza.

But this weekend? If anything random is going to happen, by God, it's coming TO ME. Otherwise, you'll catch me writing, taking foliage photographs and maybe, if I'm feeling truly badass, treking over to Waterbury for some Cold Hollow action.

My favorite place in the autumn, although I haven't been there in a couple of years. You step out of your car and immediately smell the apples and cinammon. Purr-worthy.

I've had a number of various little bits of stories - a random line here, a general thought there - running through my head the last couple of days, but I'm still trying to get back to a normal sleep schedule, let alone come up with something coherent. I dozed for a couple of hours early Monday morning before climbing back into the car for the trip home. I curled up under covers at quarter to ten last night and didn't wake up until nine.

I've about a week before any extra road trips, and only one concert between now and then (Blues Traveler tomorrow).

And I realized, just now, that this post makes absolutely no sense. So I'll just end it now.

Windows. Soul. Yeah. Yeah.

Hi.
Happy Monday.
How are you?
I'm working on a piece about music. I know, big surprise.
But I want to know what you think.
So here goes.
What is your favorite song?
Why is that your favorite and how does it make you feel when you listen to it?
I'll be collecting responses today, with the piece likely to come tomorrow.
So help a girl out.
Get your comments on.
Merci.

------

It's a sign of the friendship we've formed: I pride myself on keeping something under wraps, Michelle calls me on it.

There were four of us sipping cocktails out of martini glasses in a restaurant across the street from the Common. We'd finished our shared appetizer and were awaiting our meals, having already decided to bypass the first opening act and take time with our dinners.

The conversation had briefly broken into two sets - K and L, M and I. She smiled as she looked at me from across the table.

"You have a hard time with that, maintaining eye contact."

Of course, I quickly looked away. Go me. I own.

"I don't know why," I began, forcing myself to look directly into her eyes. "I suppose it's partly because I'm always looking down at a notebook or something when I talk -"

"You've ALWAYS had a hard time with it."

Damn you, woman.

As the topic of eye contact connections spread to the rest of the table, I goodnaturedly cursed myself. It is one of my weaknesses, this is very true. And, just as she said, it's been that way for a long time.

I tend to keep pretty guarded, particularly when in the company of someone whose opinion matters to me. I keep quiet, I keep things in. I'm getting better at it - or, at least, I'm trying to be. I realize it's a sort of warped reverse psychology - I don't share as much with the people with whom I want to share something, but have no problem communicating with people who at that point don't matter.

But my eyes don't lie. I have no poker face. If someone looks me in the eye and I maintain that gaze, I worry that they will see everything, right there within the blue.

And what if I don't want to give that much away? Or, more accurately, what if I'm worried that I'll wind up revealing something during the stare and I don't see anything in the eyes looking back?

Just sayin'

This might be one to go down as one of the worst pickup lines in history.

"So the two men over there? They are, how do you say it? They are gay. I needed someone to talk to. So how are you?"

Oh, Montreal. Crazy, quirky Montreal. You and your shows and your characters and your U-turns and your blocked off roads. You try to outwit me each time, fair Montreal. And you almost got me this time.

And thus one of the most bizarre days shifted into one wacky kind of evening.

Montreal. Oh you.

Mr. Alphabet

I'm stepping between cracks on the sidewalk, not giving black cats opportunity to cross my path and fully intend to cross the street entirely should I see a ladder propped against a wall ahead of me.

I'm supposed to see Jason Mraz and his band of merry musical troubadors this evening, and I'm not taking any chances. The Streak will not be reinstanted. Nosiree.

Having seen Jason or Jason/Band three times - well, more like two and a quarter* - I feel pretty confident that I won't stumble into some form of obstacle that will stop me from attending the show in Montreal. But relaxing too much, it feels, would serve as a preventative measure.

I went through what could have been 10-12 shows during early, mid and late 2003 without actually hearing Jason perform live. There was illness. There were a couple of ticket snafus. There was the annoying realization that I was in one place, and Jason was performing precisely where I had just been. And, later, vice versa.

The night before I finally caught my first show (Calvin Theatre, Northampton, 10.9.03, for those curious or otherwise remember dates to silly things like I do), I fell on a wet floor and was scared to try standing up, for fear that I had hurt myself.

Was I worried about the possibility of a cast or crutch? No. I was pissed off because I could be missing a show. Again.

This time, I lack the giddiness about going. I'm not sure if it's that I haven't fully realized I'll be attending a show or the fear that he'll just continue playing tracks off "Mr. A-Z." I know I'll have a good time once I get there...I'm just not quite at the excited stage yet.

I know. Uncharacteristic of me. C'est la vie.

So. Late this afternoon, I pick up my concert-going cronies (including B, who has never before seen The Jason live) and head to the border.

If I get stopped at customs, I blame him.

*The Today Show can't fully count as a performance. Hence the quarter.

mi casa in el medio de la calle

Houses flanked the road. Giant, architect portfolio kinds of houses - composed of large picture windows, brick facades and carefully designed gables.

I couldn't help but take my eyes off the road as I drove past. They were impressive, I'd give them that. I imagined picture perfect living rooms painted a dark forest green with cherry wood accents. Kitchens with the marble islands in place, white-framed windows that provided views of the mountainscape as Mrs. Joe Public squeezed fresh orange juice into a pitcher ordered from Williams-Sonoma.

I realized that these are houses that friends of mine, people my age, are aspiring to. And then I realized that I wasn't a house kind of girl. At least, not like this.

Frankly, these houses intimidate me. I'm sure that they are much-loved, that they radiate warmth and comfort to the guests who step across the welcome mat. But they just seem so final, so set. So This Is Your Life.

I'd rather have a little nook to fill than an ought-to-be mansion.

The sun is dazzling, and you can clearly see people gravitating toward windows and open doors. There are a number of "quick, five-minute breaks" being taken in offices around the downtown. Stepping-out suits mix with skipping-class jeans to form a throng of people on the pedestrian streets.

How do I know? I, um, just needed to step out for a moment or two.

We all know that this is the last gasp of an Indian summer. The leaves are getting too ripe, the sunsets are coming too early for this to last.

We love the autumn. It's one of the main reasons we haven't upped and gone to California. We adore the apple cider, the haunted forests, the sound of feet SWOOSHing through the piles of leaves and the way the sky looks that much bluer.

It's a setup. A brilliant, gasp-inducing setup. And much as we fall in love with autumn each year, we know what follows close on the season's heels.

And we know that we don't like it one bit.

Confessions of an unsuccessful mindreader

It's a given.

It's a Tuesday afternoon. Somewhere there are people who like me. There are people who are angry with me. Intrigued, disappointed, amused, frustrated and, if things are seriously wacky, who knows? Maybe there's a someone or two who is a little bit enchanted by me.

It's the same on any given day, due to any number of varying circumstances. The way things work.

Normally, I have at least an inkling as to which categories people fall under. Yet it feels today as if all bets are off.

I've no clue.

I'm of course sure that this works both ways, and that there are people who scratch their heads on different days, trying to figure me out, what goes on inside my mind when their names come up in my everyday thoughts.

Why do we insist on making this so difficult?

Various thoughts came to mind this weekend, few of which actually came out of my mouth. You're disappointing me...I like you...This is what I want to do...You make me smile...I'm tired...I think I'll just wait outside instead...I want to know what you're thinking.

I kept the thoughts to myself. In some cases, it was because of cowardice; in others, I didn't want to cause a scene or tarnish any of the experiences my friends were having. In almost every instance, I kept my mouth shut to make things better.

But sometimes that inadvertently makes things worse. Unnecessary complication instigated by an attempt to keep it simple.

And, likewise, I realized how much others were doing the same. What their reasons were remains unknown.

So have I learned a lesson? Will I endeavor to be upfront and clear? Will I tell people what I'm thinking of them when I'm thinking it?

If you give it a shot, I'll do the same.

Let's rework the way things work.
-----
In other news. Flickr. Photos. Fenway. Funny faces.

The alliteration slays me. Feel free to check out the adventures. Click on the photo below to go to the rest of the set.

The hardest words for me to say

You're standing to my right. Our arms - your left, my right - periodically brush each other as we carry on conversations with others. We're standing closer to each other than we really need to.

Yes, it's crowded, but either of could create a bit of breathing room if we wanted.

We each hold a bottle of Red Stripe. We've had them since I asked if you'd like a drink and you said yes with a smile. What did you want? Whatever I was having. Yes, Red Stripe sounded great.

You missed the huge grin I had to repress before placing the order at the bar.

Two, please.

I'm sipping, staring at the band performing ahead while taking quick glances at you from the corner of my eye. You have a focused smile on your face, and you're ever-so-slightly nodding your head in time to the percussion beat. We've been alternating between the performance on stage before us and the baseball game broadcast on the television behind.

When I switch from one to the other, you've followed shortly thereafter. And vice versa. And so it is this time.

You place your hand on my back to get my attention and keep it there as you lean over to speak into my ear. I tuck a strand of hair behind the other ear and smile as you mention your goodnatured frustration with the home team. We enjoy a shared commiseration that has been established long before, but it leads into laughter and witty exchange. And then we switch back to watch the stage.

Where is the pause button when I need it?

I want to stay here like this. I want to keep you to my right, wearing the green and orange track jacket that compliments the brown in your eyes. I want to continute to feel your elbow brush against my arm, and I want to maintain the playful banter that brings with it the pokes and the hands on backs and the titled head looks.

But I want to fill the gaps in the story with our subtexts. I want to tell you how happy I am to be standing by your side, drinking Jamacian beer and leaning over to speak to you in a loud room. I want to tell you that I like you.

I like you. Simple enough expression. Three of the hardest words for me to say.

Instead, I'm focusing on the moment. The arm brushes. The fact that you're standing here, with me, and not with whoever else you know in this room.

I raise my arm to take another sip. You do the same. We jostle elbows and we both smile.

Dispatches from various shores

Oh, come on. It's a matter of maintaining a promise made months ago. And I for one am not keen on being known as a promise-breaker.

Which is why I've unexpectedly extended my latest foray to Massachusetts. The Red Sox rally is being held at Fenway in the morning, and I am fulfilling the vow I made after Boston won last year's World Series.

I was there for the first rally and they won. If there was cause for a second rally come fall 2005, I would be back in the ballpark, among the crazies willing to sit in a park with no players, no game to be played.

Just at Fenway because you have a chance to sit in seats you'd never normally be able to occupy, celebrating the completion of one part of a championship quest.

We're a superstitious bunch, Sox fans (for an example see: my mother's refusal to attend Friday night's Sox-Yankees game - which turned out to be incredible - because she can't even watch the matchup for fear of jinxing it). And if I didn't go to the rally and the Sox lost?

I'd expect to see a couple of fingers pointing in my direction.
----
You almost want to hug the people who are making the space so loud that you need to lean in to hear the other half of the conversation you're trying to carry on.

A casually turned head, ear waiting to take in the sound of the voice and the amusing banter you're exchanging. It looks completely normal, nothing out of the ordinary. You do this all the time.

But inside? You're listening, you're communicating, but you're also trilling at the close proximity.

If I just turned, I could...no, stop thinking that! You're talking here! Oh, sound witty. Don't make an ass of yourself. Be cool...So close...I wonder what's going through that mind...good God I'm a dork...But I wonder...oh, this is fun. I hate this. Oh, no I don't.
---
October air is supposed to be cool. Crisp. Ripe for sweaters or sweatshirts, or at least a long-sleeved shirt.

I leaned against the wall, painted the fabled faded green I'd learned to love. Activity bustled on the street just over the other side of the thick partition, and Johnny Damon stood directly ahead of me - save the 28 rows of seats between us. The view was incredible, the championship banner billowed in the breeze from its place to my right...

And I was broiling. A let's-get-that-soft-serve-now-and-pick-up-a-bottled-water-for-later kind of heat that seemed more fitting for the July game against Toronto than this regular season finale against New York.

Not that I was going to complain. The view was incredible, a group of Yankees and Red Sox fans were giving each other a hard time a few rows ahead of me, and Beth had recently recorded potentially incriminating video footage of me singing along to the recording of "Perfect Time of Day" as it was piped in through the speakers.

Howie Day at Fenway. Weird.

I'd never attended a Yankees-Sox game before, and I found myself oddly quiet for much of it - largely due to the fact that my usual cursing might be frowned upon, given the presence of Charles' little (read: young) brother. But the boos received by Jeter, A-Rod and Matsui were as loud as I'd (admittedly) hoped they would be and the bleachers ticketholders were as lively a crowd as I'd remembered them from games of my youth.

I could feel the sunburn developing and my water bottle's liquid level was lowering rapidly. I was taking calls with the update from the Pats game while relaying the Sox score, and the relief of hearing about Cleveland's defeat let us sit back and relax as the score climbed higher. Surreal? You bet.
---
Let's say you hear a band that intrigues you. Good sound, catchy lyrics, impressive production. It's a promising start, I might think to myself. But I always have to hold off judgment until I see the band live.

Sometimes it doesn't live up to what you'd hoped. You walk away realizing you'll just have to listen to the album and leave it at that.

But when it clicks? Standing in a club, listening to the sound and moving your head back and forth, a giddy little flutter starts in your stomach and moves out from there.

There's a reason why people say they fall in love with a band. In many cases, there's no rhyme or reason to it - and two people can walk away with two very different takes on the band they just saw. It moves one, it leaves the other cold.

But I've been playing Speechwriters LLC on repeat since Friday night's venture to the Paradise Lounge. And feeling that giddy flutter continue to spread. They'll be back at the Lounge in October, during the weekend of Matty and Ryan - which means I'll be ready to submit a timesheet to the club management. Matt on Wednesday and Thursday. SLLC on Friday. Ryan Saturday.

And me? I'll know whether there can be too much of a good thing.
---
Well, it's 4 a.m., the paper boy's at it again...

We're singing along to the familiar song, rounding the corner of 93 that reveals the Boston skyline. We know the little vocal flourishes, and we add them accordingly, reveling in the fact that this is the first time we've heard the song played on the radio.

There's always that doubletake that comes somewhere right before the chorus. Wait. I KNOW this. Sure, my friends know this, but other people do? Enough to play it on the radio? When did this happen?

Trizzy P on the radio. Well done. We clapped and cheered as the final "love, love, love" trailed off into the next song. So proud.
---
"I know where I am, I just don't know how to get to where I want to be!"

Tom's laughing into the phone. I just dropped a friend off at Northeastern, and I'm trying to make my way to Commonwealth. I know Mass Ave. is a couple of turns on a seemingly one-way road behind me. I know exactly where I am.

I just can't get there from here. And it's pissing me off.

I've pretty good navigational skills. For the most part - once I've been somewhere, once I've driven the route, I've got it down. But add a new location or an unexpected turn and I'm a lost cause.

My familiarity with Boston grows in leaps each time I visit, and I take pride in my ability to get around.

But somehow, that turn off 93 onto Storrow that should have gotten me to Mass Ave. landed me on Cambridge, driving past City Hall. And I had no clue of how the hell to get anywhere.

"OK. I'm just going to keep you on the line, if that's cool." I'd already called Tom three times. He was laughing at me. Bastard.

"No worries. Now you should be at -"

"No. I'm not. Red light. So, um, how are you?"

He led me on a route by parks and bridges, past buildings I remembered walking by during the April trip back from Fenway. Each new turn left me more frustrated.

"I know where I am!"

"Want me to let you get there?"

"NOOOOOO. Sorry. OK. Now what?"

As I turned onto Commonwealth, I cheered.

"I LOVE YOU!"

"Look familiar?"

"If this doesn't, I've got huge problems. I know exactly where I am. I'm buying you lunch or something."

"Sounds good."

As I pulled into the parking lot, my phone rang. Michelle. I laughed over the misadventures as she launched into the game play-by-play until I reached the projected screen visible through the windows at T's...
---
Weekend synopsis, as it stands: Random. Random. Random. But in a good way, for the most part. With visits to the North Shore, the South Shore and the city in between, it's been fun, alternately exhilerating and languid. There are photographs to be posted, stories to laugh over when I've the time and just a few wrinkles in the plans.

Here's to extending it all by one more day.