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I don't like doctors.
Not the people, per se. In fact, the medical experts with whom I have carried conversations not dependent on doctor/patient confidentiality have been pretty cool at times. And I love "Grey's Anatomy."
I don't like doctors when they're within the constraints of that confidentiality. With me. Which is why I don't consult with them as often as perhaps I should.
And then there's today.
TWO appointments. One very, very necessary, as I'm about ready to start reading Braille (who needs new contacts? I'd say me, but I'd have to squint to see the right keys on the keyboard. No, not really. But close). The other a little scarier prior, much less annoying after the fact.
(N directed me to a post on Dooce while she was visiting me this weekend, where Heather describes an episode involving a bump on the arm named Ed. It turned out to be basal cell carcinoma - as she put it, "The Most Common of All Cancers." I have a similar bump on my arm. I proceded to channel the darkest of my dark sense of humor to laugh it off as I frantically scheduled an appointment with a dermatologist to find out what I'm dealing with here.)
I'm getting ready to hopefully see the light of day once again (again, I'm being overly dramatic, but what can you do?), and I'm thrilled to report that I was able to text N today with "I will live to rock out another day."
The doctor didn't seem to get it when I explained the good of the Internet, prompting me to check out something that I'd read about. Just to be informed and on the safe side.
I might as well have told him that I read online that Martians had landed in Helsinki. That old, familiar "ah, she's an Internet hypochonrdiac" eye glaze over.
Harumph.
So yes. I'm well aware of all the good they can do for me and the relief they can provide?
I still don't like doctors.
8.10.2006
8.08.2006
Will you catch me if I'm falling
I know, I know, it's a cliched song to freak out over. Oh well.
I'm standing on the lawn at SPAC, to which thousands of others have flocked to take in the spectacle, and I'm giddy. Beyond giddy. Think of a small child so excited and overjoyed that she can't express it. Instead, she stands still - hushed so as to not ruin the moment.
It's "Round Here." Adam Duritz is so far into his own head (seemingly moreso than usual, if you can believe it) that he's just spouting. He's going off into tangents that have stretched the song out into a glorious improvisation.
The moment is poignant and exhilerating all at once, and I can feel the joys and disappointments that have come over a short period of time fight each other, racing to get to the surface first. There's nowhere I'd rather be at that moment than under a hazy summer sky, standing on the grass with flouresent lights dimly burning off to my side, listening to someone wrench the emotions out of his mind and into the microphone...but at the same point, I can feel my heart breaking bit by bit as he continues on.
Few musicians or bands can tear my heart out. Counting Crows does it every single goddamn time. I just want it to stop...but not really. I just want Adam to keep on going. I want the band to keep him going.
I can feel the energy in the crowd, how they've been taking in the band's performance and are ready to give the proper, sungalong approval. We are all waiting to wail away with "round here we stay up very, very, very, very late."
I'm ready to belt out the words myself. But I don't want this moment to go away.
I mean, uh, yeah. Caught Counting Crows tonight and they, er, were pretty OK.
You know.
Whatever.
Sigh.
I know, I know, it's a cliched song to freak out over. Oh well.I'm standing on the lawn at SPAC, to which thousands of others have flocked to take in the spectacle, and I'm giddy. Beyond giddy. Think of a small child so excited and overjoyed that she can't express it. Instead, she stands still - hushed so as to not ruin the moment.
It's "Round Here." Adam Duritz is so far into his own head (seemingly moreso than usual, if you can believe it) that he's just spouting. He's going off into tangents that have stretched the song out into a glorious improvisation.
The moment is poignant and exhilerating all at once, and I can feel the joys and disappointments that have come over a short period of time fight each other, racing to get to the surface first. There's nowhere I'd rather be at that moment than under a hazy summer sky, standing on the grass with flouresent lights dimly burning off to my side, listening to someone wrench the emotions out of his mind and into the microphone...but at the same point, I can feel my heart breaking bit by bit as he continues on.
Few musicians or bands can tear my heart out. Counting Crows does it every single goddamn time. I just want it to stop...but not really. I just want Adam to keep on going. I want the band to keep him going.
I can feel the energy in the crowd, how they've been taking in the band's performance and are ready to give the proper, sungalong approval. We are all waiting to wail away with "round here we stay up very, very, very, very late."
I'm ready to belt out the words myself. But I don't want this moment to go away.
I mean, uh, yeah. Caught Counting Crows tonight and they, er, were pretty OK.
You know.
Whatever.
Sigh.
8.05.2006
It's like that Mraz line from "Wordplay"...
I built a bridge across the stream of consciousness that always seems to be a flowin' but I don't know which way my brain is goin'...
I'm sitting in my dining room. Which is rather strange.
I don't often sit here - hell, I don't often dine here. And over the last week and a half, it's come to feel as if I don't often live here. A couple of whirlwind trips to Massachusetts and an otherwise hectic schedule has kept me pretty much out of the apartment. Not that I'm complaining. At all. I'm simply remarking on how strange it is to crawl into my bed at night and think, "Oh, so this is what my bed feels like. Huh."
I'm eating a bowl of Special K with Red Berries, which always amuses me because Special K with Strawberries would be a perfectly fitting name for a cereal. That's precisely what the red berry is - the cereal makers wouldn't be blowing any big surprises by being straightforward. I'm also sipping an iced caramel latte. Breakfast foods at non-breakfast hours...just the way I like it. The day's best food is always served at its worst time. I rebel in my own quiet, milk-soaked way.
Matt Nathanson's Providence show from April (the night of the Accidental Bodyguard post) is playing in the kitchen, and he's singing the version of "Car Crash" that left me grinning like mad at the show. He's piped through the speakers in the kitchen because I'd tackled a massive reorganization effort about an hour ago. The task has prompted me to bar my flatmates and I from purchasing any more of the following items: peanut butter, honey mustard, Jello, organic fruit snacks, tea, hot cocoa mix, candy sprinkles and vodka. Oh, and Wheat Thins. Propsective houseguests, rest assured: we will always be able to provide you with peanut butter crackers, and we'll always be capable of getting you drunk. Jello shots, perhaps?
Speaking of guests, I've one on the way. Having grown accustomed to having to hit the highway to see many of my Massachusetts friends (it's simply the way it works out - as I'm busy trying to make my way to Boston as often as possible), I was thrilled to find a friend up for a trip north to me. I happily straightened up the apartment and solicited preferences for snacks. Hosting - hurrah!
The house is completely empty, save I, and I'm enjoying the chance to stretch out and blare music if I see fit. Both of the flatmates are on vacation and the other apartment's tenants are off somewhere. My particular apartment has been deserted for much of the week, and I'm bringing some life back into it by lighting candles, opening the windows and letting sunlight stream in.
My sunporch smells like pink grapefruit; the dining room gardenias, the kitchen apple and the living room...I don't know what the candle is. It isn't marked. But it smells good. I periodically make the rounds to be sure no room is going up in flames.
My writing this last week has been alternately arduous and exciting. In fine tradition, I've been agonizing over some projects lately, convinced that I'm never going to get them to the point I want. And in time tradition, the results end up perfectly fine and enjoyable - I wind up exhausted and headachey. As Michelle remarked today during a phone conversation, such a process is hardly surprising - it's how I roll.
This is my little weekend reprieve, as next week is scheduled to pick up just as fast and furious. A couple of trips - Saratoga Springs for the Counting Crows at the beginning of the week, Boston for the boat cruise and Guster at week's end - and a whole lot of writing crammed into the space between.
In the meantime, I'm just taking a moment to enjoy the sensation of breathing and writing, for once, simply whatever comes to mind.
I built a bridge across the stream of consciousness that always seems to be a flowin' but I don't know which way my brain is goin'...
I'm sitting in my dining room. Which is rather strange.
I don't often sit here - hell, I don't often dine here. And over the last week and a half, it's come to feel as if I don't often live here. A couple of whirlwind trips to Massachusetts and an otherwise hectic schedule has kept me pretty much out of the apartment. Not that I'm complaining. At all. I'm simply remarking on how strange it is to crawl into my bed at night and think, "Oh, so this is what my bed feels like. Huh."
I'm eating a bowl of Special K with Red Berries, which always amuses me because Special K with Strawberries would be a perfectly fitting name for a cereal. That's precisely what the red berry is - the cereal makers wouldn't be blowing any big surprises by being straightforward. I'm also sipping an iced caramel latte. Breakfast foods at non-breakfast hours...just the way I like it. The day's best food is always served at its worst time. I rebel in my own quiet, milk-soaked way.
Matt Nathanson's Providence show from April (the night of the Accidental Bodyguard post) is playing in the kitchen, and he's singing the version of "Car Crash" that left me grinning like mad at the show. He's piped through the speakers in the kitchen because I'd tackled a massive reorganization effort about an hour ago. The task has prompted me to bar my flatmates and I from purchasing any more of the following items: peanut butter, honey mustard, Jello, organic fruit snacks, tea, hot cocoa mix, candy sprinkles and vodka. Oh, and Wheat Thins. Propsective houseguests, rest assured: we will always be able to provide you with peanut butter crackers, and we'll always be capable of getting you drunk. Jello shots, perhaps?
Speaking of guests, I've one on the way. Having grown accustomed to having to hit the highway to see many of my Massachusetts friends (it's simply the way it works out - as I'm busy trying to make my way to Boston as often as possible), I was thrilled to find a friend up for a trip north to me. I happily straightened up the apartment and solicited preferences for snacks. Hosting - hurrah!
The house is completely empty, save I, and I'm enjoying the chance to stretch out and blare music if I see fit. Both of the flatmates are on vacation and the other apartment's tenants are off somewhere. My particular apartment has been deserted for much of the week, and I'm bringing some life back into it by lighting candles, opening the windows and letting sunlight stream in.
My sunporch smells like pink grapefruit; the dining room gardenias, the kitchen apple and the living room...I don't know what the candle is. It isn't marked. But it smells good. I periodically make the rounds to be sure no room is going up in flames.
My writing this last week has been alternately arduous and exciting. In fine tradition, I've been agonizing over some projects lately, convinced that I'm never going to get them to the point I want. And in time tradition, the results end up perfectly fine and enjoyable - I wind up exhausted and headachey. As Michelle remarked today during a phone conversation, such a process is hardly surprising - it's how I roll.
This is my little weekend reprieve, as next week is scheduled to pick up just as fast and furious. A couple of trips - Saratoga Springs for the Counting Crows at the beginning of the week, Boston for the boat cruise and Guster at week's end - and a whole lot of writing crammed into the space between.
In the meantime, I'm just taking a moment to enjoy the sensation of breathing and writing, for once, simply whatever comes to mind.
8.03.2006
8.02.2006
In related news, the blackbird was signed to a two-year contract with the Red Sox, where it will serve as a pinch runner ala Dave Roberts
Last night was weird.
It was hot, and those who filed into the ballpark were sweaty, a little ornery and ready for the home team to justify the trip out into the oppressive heat. I suspect that many of the crowd were in our position - having purchased tickets in a frozen January, not knowing that Game Day would be one of Boston's hottest in a looooong time.
Varitek was out, and as of game time, we weren't sure of his situation. Johnson had been called up from Pawtucket because Snyder had to be pulled into Monday night's game; the Sox had hit at least four home runs the night before. The natural inclination was to worry that weak pitching and an exhausted offense suggested a frustrating kind of game.
So our pitching's shaky, the rock behind the plate is missing in action, the bats were tired and no one would actually be psyched to play baseball in this kind of weather.
Awesome.
But I decided to shake off the sense of foreboding and make the best of it. I was in Boston. Yes, it was broiling hot, but I was going to Fenway with friends, there was ice cold beer on tap and I was going to take in my first personal view of the team in a couple of months.
How bad could it be?
As Gordon Edes' Globe story succinctly sums it up today:
A quick sputter of a rally - thanks to Gonzo for making it interesting - but otherwise, the highlight was realizing that we had a lovely breeze blowing on the upper bleachers, while the box seat occupants were probably sweating themselves silly.
Ha. Take that.
It was just very, very strange. At one point early on, the bleachers were flooded with more beach balls than I've ever seen at the park (accompanied, inexplicably, by an inflatable Tootsie Roll?). I think someone on the third base side caught - or almost caught - a foul ball with a cup of beer, judging from the spray visible from our perch. The blackbird situation - which really did get the entire park chanting "Bird! Bird! Bird!" as loudly as if we were at the Garden in the 80s - and the worry over Lowell's foot...the fact that I wasn't yelling or chanting nearly as much as I typically do...
Weird, weird, weird.
The day itself was, well, hot. Damn hot. Insert-"Good Morning Vietnam"-sound-clip-here hot (ten points if you know what I'm talking about). And of course, it was the day that I wound up running all over Boston. Started in Central, stopped in Chinatown, rested in the Common, headed to Newbury and then, oh wait, went to Fenway.
It was a little spastic - by the end, I was busy apologizing to everyone because I was trying to make sure we could all meet up - and I cursed Mother Nature for being the spiteful bitch that she is, but I had fun. The best was probably being called a brat after casually mentioning that I was in town...
Ha. Good times.
But if it's this hot next time I'm in town (next weekend's CP/deSol boat cruise/Guster doubleheader), I'm going to throw down.
Or just beat someone with a water bottle.
Whatever works.
(more photos, as per usual, are up on the flickr)
Last night was weird.It was hot, and those who filed into the ballpark were sweaty, a little ornery and ready for the home team to justify the trip out into the oppressive heat. I suspect that many of the crowd were in our position - having purchased tickets in a frozen January, not knowing that Game Day would be one of Boston's hottest in a looooong time.
Varitek was out, and as of game time, we weren't sure of his situation. Johnson had been called up from Pawtucket because Snyder had to be pulled into Monday night's game; the Sox had hit at least four home runs the night before. The natural inclination was to worry that weak pitching and an exhausted offense suggested a frustrating kind of game.
So our pitching's shaky, the rock behind the plate is missing in action, the bats were tired and no one would actually be psyched to play baseball in this kind of weather.
Awesome.
But I decided to shake off the sense of foreboding and make the best of it. I was in Boston. Yes, it was broiling hot, but I was going to Fenway with friends, there was ice cold beer on tap and I was going to take in my first personal view of the team in a couple of months.
How bad could it be?
As Gordon Edes' Globe story succinctly sums it up today:
Instead of roaring for another walkoff home run by David Ortiz (bloop double and squibber single), the sellout crowd of 36,328 was reduced to directing its ninth-inning encouragement at the bird, which made it back to second and hopped toward third. In the middle of the ninth, the bird occupied center stage, appearing on the video scoreboard, while the PA system played the Beatles' ``Blackbird," at the behest of Dr. Charles Steinberg, the Sox executive vice president of public affairs.
`On a night like this," Steinberg said, ``this is what people go home and talk about. `Hey, were you at the game with the blackbird?'"
A quick sputter of a rally - thanks to Gonzo for making it interesting - but otherwise, the highlight was realizing that we had a lovely breeze blowing on the upper bleachers, while the box seat occupants were probably sweating themselves silly.
Ha. Take that.
It was just very, very strange. At one point early on, the bleachers were flooded with more beach balls than I've ever seen at the park (accompanied, inexplicably, by an inflatable Tootsie Roll?). I think someone on the third base side caught - or almost caught - a foul ball with a cup of beer, judging from the spray visible from our perch. The blackbird situation - which really did get the entire park chanting "Bird! Bird! Bird!" as loudly as if we were at the Garden in the 80s - and the worry over Lowell's foot...the fact that I wasn't yelling or chanting nearly as much as I typically do...
Weird, weird, weird.
The day itself was, well, hot. Damn hot. Insert-"Good Morning Vietnam"-sound-clip-here hot (ten points if you know what I'm talking about). And of course, it was the day that I wound up running all over Boston. Started in Central, stopped in Chinatown, rested in the Common, headed to Newbury and then, oh wait, went to Fenway.
It was a little spastic - by the end, I was busy apologizing to everyone because I was trying to make sure we could all meet up - and I cursed Mother Nature for being the spiteful bitch that she is, but I had fun. The best was probably being called a brat after casually mentioning that I was in town...
Ha. Good times.
But if it's this hot next time I'm in town (next weekend's CP/deSol boat cruise/Guster doubleheader), I'm going to throw down.
Or just beat someone with a water bottle.
Whatever works.
(more photos, as per usual, are up on the flickr)
7.30.2006
Ben Affleck gets jeered for not breaking up a foul ball catch during tonight's game.
The difference between watching an ESPN Sox broadcast and a NESN broadcast:
ESPN (channel on which the game was broadcast): "Let's comment on this throughout the rest of the game, supplying our television audiences with copious shots of Affleck and Jennifer Garner sitting in their seats right by the dugout. We will show replays and discuss whether Affleck looks dejected or not."
NESN (channel on which the game should have been broadcast): "Aw, man. That Affleck. If Damon was here, he totally would have taken one for the team."
The difference between watching an ESPN Sox broadcast and a NESN broadcast:
ESPN (channel on which the game was broadcast): "Let's comment on this throughout the rest of the game, supplying our television audiences with copious shots of Affleck and Jennifer Garner sitting in their seats right by the dugout. We will show replays and discuss whether Affleck looks dejected or not."
NESN (channel on which the game should have been broadcast): "Aw, man. That Affleck. If Damon was here, he totally would have taken one for the team."
Catching up
When a lot of activity is crushed into a short period of time, it proves tricky to sort it all out in proper chronological order. It winds up getting all mixed up and coming off something like this:
I answered the phone with "I haven't been so happy to see your state in a loooooong time" and then realized we may or may not be in the same bar/restaurant as a couple of Red Sox players. Which is funny, because I was indignantly debating just what losing Mike Lowell would do to wreak havoc on the current Red Sox dynamic. I ordered us another round of the special on tap as I realized that this version of "Stop the Bus" was crazy differnt than the song I'd fallen in love with last year - but this version was still pretty amazing. T accompanied us on our walk to the car, and the show was over just as I finally realized that I'd had more to drink over the course of the night than I'd realized. I smiled as I heard piano playing in the other room, and I was busy packing slices of pineapple and red pepper pizza into a takeaway box as N was informed that she leads a double life as Hazel Mae. As I lay on my temporary bed, I became certain that the fan would cool me as long as I stayed as still as humanly possible. An emergency of some sort forced me to take a detour and get lost before I droped a cool, damp washcloth over my forehead and eyes, dozing for an hour before I headed off to catch my train.
Many thanks to the fabulous individuals who contributed to the jumble - the time there proved to be precisely what I'd been needing.
From about Wednesday on, the days have all proven extraordinarily random, but in a pleasant sort of way. Faced with surprises at seemingly every turn, I've decided to temporarily abandon my perfectionistic ways and just go with it.
So far? It's working out well.
When a lot of activity is crushed into a short period of time, it proves tricky to sort it all out in proper chronological order. It winds up getting all mixed up and coming off something like this:
I answered the phone with "I haven't been so happy to see your state in a loooooong time" and then realized we may or may not be in the same bar/restaurant as a couple of Red Sox players. Which is funny, because I was indignantly debating just what losing Mike Lowell would do to wreak havoc on the current Red Sox dynamic. I ordered us another round of the special on tap as I realized that this version of "Stop the Bus" was crazy differnt than the song I'd fallen in love with last year - but this version was still pretty amazing. T accompanied us on our walk to the car, and the show was over just as I finally realized that I'd had more to drink over the course of the night than I'd realized. I smiled as I heard piano playing in the other room, and I was busy packing slices of pineapple and red pepper pizza into a takeaway box as N was informed that she leads a double life as Hazel Mae. As I lay on my temporary bed, I became certain that the fan would cool me as long as I stayed as still as humanly possible. An emergency of some sort forced me to take a detour and get lost before I droped a cool, damp washcloth over my forehead and eyes, dozing for an hour before I headed off to catch my train.
Many thanks to the fabulous individuals who contributed to the jumble - the time there proved to be precisely what I'd been needing.
From about Wednesday on, the days have all proven extraordinarily random, but in a pleasant sort of way. Faced with surprises at seemingly every turn, I've decided to temporarily abandon my perfectionistic ways and just go with it.
So far? It's working out well.
7.25.2006
7.24.2006
If I'm gonna go down I'm gonna do it with style. You won't hear me surrender, you won't hear me confess cause you've left me with nothing but I have worked with less. - Ani DiFranco
We're taught to open ourselves up to other people. Part of learning and growing is to share yourself with other people, to let them see the good (and the bad, ugly, timid, frightened, zany and adorable) that composes who you are.
I know that there is inherent good to such action, and I'm realizing it again today, if not for a decidedly different reason.
Opening yourself up shows you who you can trust and who you can't. You learn who is worth it and who isn't.
It's one of the most painful lessons to learn. And I can feel the shell around me harden as I experience this rapid-fire education.
Simply put, the people I know are hurting me. They are disappointing me. They are making me realize that I don't register as nearly as important to them as they have to me. And while they can tell me they love me and adore me until they are blue in the face, I've grown tired of nodding my head at empty words. I'm not seeing any form of demonstrative action and
I
am
angry.
But at least I'm learning. I won't repeat these mistakes.
7.23.2006
Reason No. 23520 I'm happy to be single right now:
I enjoy singular pronouns far too much to be in a relationship.
I could sum up the last couple of days in several different ways, but I think right now, I'm just going to quote a song some dude wrote awhile ago.
I learned a year's worth of lessons in a weekend.
I enjoy singular pronouns far too much to be in a relationship.
I could sum up the last couple of days in several different ways, but I think right now, I'm just going to quote a song some dude wrote awhile ago.
I learned a year's worth of lessons in a weekend.
7.19.2006
"Something's coming this way"
Guster's then-unreleased "Empire State" struck me when I first heard it back in November. But my appreciation has grown to infatuation since I (finally stopped slacking and) purchased "Ganging Up On the Sun."
Pretty damn spectacular, if I do say so myself.
Anyway. I'm exhausted today and haven't the energy to post anything other than lyrics (oops, guess I blew the surprise). But know that they seem to fit me today. Somehow. Eh. A post of actual original content should land tomorrow (Thursday). Insight, literary reference and the 70s - oh my!
Til then, be well, enjoy lyrics and buy the album already. If you haven't. And if you have, make sure to get to a tour date this summer. If you haven't.
Um. Mmmmkaybye.
Empire State
Been the crawl of a mountain
Been a link in a chain
Been scolded for stealing
Been told to behave
Been reading the forecast
Something's coming this way
But it's taking forever
I'm too tired to maintain that
I'm slow
Been a scratch on the surface
Been a clog in the drain
Been melodramatic
Been sleeping for days
Been one in a million
Been a million to one
This is taking forever
It always seems to return that
I'm slow
All hands up, salute the Empire State
Faith be true, you know the way
Ten feet tall in this: an empty space
Fallen walls all around
Destroyed again
Destroyed again
Been digging to China
Been a fish in the sea
Been talking to Jesus
He's not talking to me
Been reading the forecast
Something's coming this way
But it's taking forever
I'm too tired to maintain that
I'm slow
All hands up, salute the Empire State
Faith is true, she knows the way
Ten miles tall in this: an empty space
Fallen walls all around
We'll build again
Rebuild again
Been the crawl of a mountain
Been a link in a chain
Been scolded for stealing
Guster's then-unreleased "Empire State" struck me when I first heard it back in November. But my appreciation has grown to infatuation since I (finally stopped slacking and) purchased "Ganging Up On the Sun."
Pretty damn spectacular, if I do say so myself.
Anyway. I'm exhausted today and haven't the energy to post anything other than lyrics (oops, guess I blew the surprise). But know that they seem to fit me today. Somehow. Eh. A post of actual original content should land tomorrow (Thursday). Insight, literary reference and the 70s - oh my!
Til then, be well, enjoy lyrics and buy the album already. If you haven't. And if you have, make sure to get to a tour date this summer. If you haven't.
Um. Mmmmkaybye.
Empire State
Been the crawl of a mountain
Been a link in a chain
Been scolded for stealing
Been told to behave
Been reading the forecast
Something's coming this way
But it's taking forever
I'm too tired to maintain that
I'm slow
Been a scratch on the surface
Been a clog in the drain
Been melodramatic
Been sleeping for days
Been one in a million
Been a million to one
This is taking forever
It always seems to return that
I'm slow
All hands up, salute the Empire State
Faith be true, you know the way
Ten feet tall in this: an empty space
Fallen walls all around
Destroyed again
Destroyed again
Been digging to China
Been a fish in the sea
Been talking to Jesus
He's not talking to me
Been reading the forecast
Something's coming this way
But it's taking forever
I'm too tired to maintain that
I'm slow
All hands up, salute the Empire State
Faith is true, she knows the way
Ten miles tall in this: an empty space
Fallen walls all around
We'll build again
Rebuild again
Been the crawl of a mountain
Been a link in a chain
Been scolded for stealing
7.16.2006
I was a little nervous about the trip to the Northeast Kingdom this weekend.
You see, my last trip to the NEK had been senior year of high school. State soccer semifinal game. We lost the poorly officiated game, 1-0. (While I'm not a fan of criticizing referees, a reverend from my hometown present for the game told the officials they were bad men. When even a man charged with delivering God's message is telling the officials that they blew the game, I feel comfortable criticizing.)
It sucked. And I kind of hated the NEK for it.
But there I was, back in the Kingdom, sitting cross-legged on the floor. My back was very lightly resting against a basket of dog toys. A small fan blew cool air onto my face, relief from the ridiculous heat that had descended upon the state late last week. The dog to whom the toys belonged stretched out across the living room rug, gazing languidly up at Chad and Patrick from their seats near the window.
So this is what that whole house concert thing is like? Cool...
I'd never before attended a house concert. Informal jams? Yep. Extremely intimate gigs? Sure. Performances atop car hoods? You betcha. And a four-person singalong on a college townhouse porch in the early morning hours of, say, my 21st birthday?
Haha. Yeah, that too.
But no house concerts. Which is partly why I was so intrigued by the possibility of taking in the show.
I was able to partake in one of my favorite activities at concerts - studying the hands of the guitarists at work. Having attempted a few (read: many, countless) times to learn to play, I'm well aware of the fact that my fingers aren't strong enough to form the proper chords or to hold down two strings at once. Watching musicians contort so easily never ceases to amaze.
And frustrate, but hey.
I sipped raspberry lemonade from a plastic cup took in new songs, old favorites and covers that surprised and made me grin. The quiet of the audience gave me a chance to be even more touched by the phrases Patrick penned for "Fire Escape," for instance. And Chad's new material continues to reflect his foray into new territory - including one song (don't know the title, sorry) that uses a vocal register lower than I believe I've ever heard him use.
And there was a cover of "Fake Plastic Trees." That was an outstanding, we're-playing-multiple-octaves-of-the-chords-here-at-song's-conclusion performance that left me kind of giddy. Not gonna lie about it.
Got my "Metaphor" fix, and might have finally heard "Like Riding a Bike" live, had I not been completely surprised and confused by a question of "What do you think?"
What do I think? About the weather? The Red Sox? Oh...the next song? Whoops. It's probably for the best, however, as my first inclination would have been to laugh and suggest "Daffodils."
That would have been bad.
At one point, I was trying not to grin as Chad played "Let You Sleep." I focused my attention on my surroundings, noting with delight the framed family photos hanging from some walls, the concert posters affixed to others. A random little eclectic collection of memories on display.
Good times, and I felt pretty happy as I drove back south so I could once again head north.
Turns out that the NEK is much nicer when the playing occurs inside a house instead of on a soccer field.
You see, my last trip to the NEK had been senior year of high school. State soccer semifinal game. We lost the poorly officiated game, 1-0. (While I'm not a fan of criticizing referees, a reverend from my hometown present for the game told the officials they were bad men. When even a man charged with delivering God's message is telling the officials that they blew the game, I feel comfortable criticizing.)
It sucked. And I kind of hated the NEK for it.
But there I was, back in the Kingdom, sitting cross-legged on the floor. My back was very lightly resting against a basket of dog toys. A small fan blew cool air onto my face, relief from the ridiculous heat that had descended upon the state late last week. The dog to whom the toys belonged stretched out across the living room rug, gazing languidly up at Chad and Patrick from their seats near the window.
So this is what that whole house concert thing is like? Cool...
I'd never before attended a house concert. Informal jams? Yep. Extremely intimate gigs? Sure. Performances atop car hoods? You betcha. And a four-person singalong on a college townhouse porch in the early morning hours of, say, my 21st birthday?
Haha. Yeah, that too.
But no house concerts. Which is partly why I was so intrigued by the possibility of taking in the show.
I was able to partake in one of my favorite activities at concerts - studying the hands of the guitarists at work. Having attempted a few (read: many, countless) times to learn to play, I'm well aware of the fact that my fingers aren't strong enough to form the proper chords or to hold down two strings at once. Watching musicians contort so easily never ceases to amaze.
And frustrate, but hey.
I sipped raspberry lemonade from a plastic cup took in new songs, old favorites and covers that surprised and made me grin. The quiet of the audience gave me a chance to be even more touched by the phrases Patrick penned for "Fire Escape," for instance. And Chad's new material continues to reflect his foray into new territory - including one song (don't know the title, sorry) that uses a vocal register lower than I believe I've ever heard him use.
And there was a cover of "Fake Plastic Trees." That was an outstanding, we're-playing-multiple-octaves-of-the-chords-here-at-song's-conclusion performance that left me kind of giddy. Not gonna lie about it.
Got my "Metaphor" fix, and might have finally heard "Like Riding a Bike" live, had I not been completely surprised and confused by a question of "What do you think?"
What do I think? About the weather? The Red Sox? Oh...the next song? Whoops. It's probably for the best, however, as my first inclination would have been to laugh and suggest "Daffodils."
That would have been bad.
At one point, I was trying not to grin as Chad played "Let You Sleep." I focused my attention on my surroundings, noting with delight the framed family photos hanging from some walls, the concert posters affixed to others. A random little eclectic collection of memories on display.
Good times, and I felt pretty happy as I drove back south so I could once again head north.
Turns out that the NEK is much nicer when the playing occurs inside a house instead of on a soccer field.
Well, it makes sense in my head, at least
Clickers and clackers. Both groups of charming people. It's tough to tell into which group a new friend or friendly acquaintance will go.
Take a clicker. You meet a clicker and it's instantaneous. You're there, he or she is there and, most importantly, the comfort is there.
"Hi, friend. Friend? Well, yeah, obviously. I'm me, you're you and we each clearly recognize the other's awesomeness. It's about time you showed up. We're going to be cool, mmmmkay? That's what I thought."
With a clacker, however, the gears seem to grind. With a clacker's clicker counterpart*, you don't even think of second-guessing your thoughts or comments. But the clacker makes you stammer a bit.
"Hi, I'm, uh, me. And you're you. I mean, obviously you're you - who else would you be but you? Sorry. So. Er. We each seem to recognize that the other's pretty awesome - or, at least, I think we each see that - and I know that I'd love for us to be cool. You know, if that's cool with you. Cool?"
You want to feel comfortable with a clacker. The clacker is unquestionably someone intriguing, funny, sweet, whatever. Often, a clacker more closely resembles your personality than a clicker does. And you do fall into a friendship. Of sorts. With a clicker, you'd be a zany wiseass, but with a clacker, you think things through a little more.
There's an X factor, and what's maddening is that you can't put your finger on what it is. In some cases, you and your fellow clacker (because afterall, the other person tends to think of you as a clacker as well, although he or she probably doesn't actually use the term - as I've, uh, made it up) even discuss that twinge of awkwardness that pops up with regularity. "I want things to be cool." "Well, I do, too." "OK." "Cool."
There are moments in which the clack clicks. You might make a quick-witted, snarky comment that would otherwise be reserved for the clickers or the close friends. Or you might have a really amazing conversation. You grin and laugh and think, "Hey, that was fantastic." Because it is. Clicks with a clacker are some of the best clicks around.
But then you start to wonder. Was it really? I mean, I thought it was, but was it? Did I sound like a dumbass? I didn't WANT to sound like a dumbass. The clacker really is cool and matters to me and all - wait a minute. Why on earth is this person still a clacker to me? We should have clicked already!
Fear not, friends. Sometimes it is possible for a clacker to ultimately become a post-clack clicker.
But here's reality: some don't. One must ultimately come to realize that while you click with some, you clack with others. You may have clacked with someone for a long time with the hopes of clicking one day, but it might just never happen. It's how it goes.
Which is when you have to ask yourself how you feel about being in a clack kind of friendship.
If you're lucky - which I've realized today that I am - you realize that you can be cool with clacking.
It's worth it for the moments you click.
*Try saying that five times fast. I did. It did not go well.
Clickers and clackers. Both groups of charming people. It's tough to tell into which group a new friend or friendly acquaintance will go.
Take a clicker. You meet a clicker and it's instantaneous. You're there, he or she is there and, most importantly, the comfort is there.
"Hi, friend. Friend? Well, yeah, obviously. I'm me, you're you and we each clearly recognize the other's awesomeness. It's about time you showed up. We're going to be cool, mmmmkay? That's what I thought."
With a clacker, however, the gears seem to grind. With a clacker's clicker counterpart*, you don't even think of second-guessing your thoughts or comments. But the clacker makes you stammer a bit.
"Hi, I'm, uh, me. And you're you. I mean, obviously you're you - who else would you be but you? Sorry. So. Er. We each seem to recognize that the other's pretty awesome - or, at least, I think we each see that - and I know that I'd love for us to be cool. You know, if that's cool with you. Cool?"
You want to feel comfortable with a clacker. The clacker is unquestionably someone intriguing, funny, sweet, whatever. Often, a clacker more closely resembles your personality than a clicker does. And you do fall into a friendship. Of sorts. With a clicker, you'd be a zany wiseass, but with a clacker, you think things through a little more.
There's an X factor, and what's maddening is that you can't put your finger on what it is. In some cases, you and your fellow clacker (because afterall, the other person tends to think of you as a clacker as well, although he or she probably doesn't actually use the term - as I've, uh, made it up) even discuss that twinge of awkwardness that pops up with regularity. "I want things to be cool." "Well, I do, too." "OK." "Cool."
There are moments in which the clack clicks. You might make a quick-witted, snarky comment that would otherwise be reserved for the clickers or the close friends. Or you might have a really amazing conversation. You grin and laugh and think, "Hey, that was fantastic." Because it is. Clicks with a clacker are some of the best clicks around.
But then you start to wonder. Was it really? I mean, I thought it was, but was it? Did I sound like a dumbass? I didn't WANT to sound like a dumbass. The clacker really is cool and matters to me and all - wait a minute. Why on earth is this person still a clacker to me? We should have clicked already!
Fear not, friends. Sometimes it is possible for a clacker to ultimately become a post-clack clicker.
But here's reality: some don't. One must ultimately come to realize that while you click with some, you clack with others. You may have clacked with someone for a long time with the hopes of clicking one day, but it might just never happen. It's how it goes.
Which is when you have to ask yourself how you feel about being in a clack kind of friendship.
If you're lucky - which I've realized today that I am - you realize that you can be cool with clacking.
It's worth it for the moments you click.
*Try saying that five times fast. I did. It did not go well.
7.13.2006
Childlike wildlife
Seen today: A tiny little sprite of a girl, sporting a honey-colored bob and a frilly princess skirt. She's straying away from the other children in the park, and the camp counselor calls out to her to "stay on the sidewalk. No ifs, ands or buts."
She looks back, looks around, then extends one foot as far out as she can, smacking it onto the dirt and grass. The other foot remains on the sidewalk, connected by a straining tip-toe stance.
She looks back again with a satisfied grin on her face. She's not breaking any rules, but she's making them work for her. Why? Because she can.
I think we grown-ups should remember to do that with more regularity.
***
I've begun working on a little project that's surprisingly more difficult than I would have imagined.
It consists at the moment of sheets of notebook paper loosely gathered into a pile near my bed. I'm hoping today to get a suitable notebook into which I can create an official compilation.
I'm working on writing about concerts. Not like what I've done in the past and posted here - although, come to think of it, I think a couple of early concert recaps here will probably make the cut. Hmm.
Anyway. I've encountered some amusing misadventures through my concertgoing days, and it's about time I stop relying on my memory (faithful as it is) and jot 'em all down. Dorky moments, surreal moments, hi-I-look-like-a-Jackass moments.
It's going to be funny, it's going to be honest and it's going to be really challenging to force myself to think back to those days and how I was feeling at the time. In many cases, things have changed drastically, and I have to try setting aside those alterations...and then see how I do.
It's been fun so far. I'll keep you posted.
***
Red Sox fans (or any sports fans who moan over high ticket prices): really fun story in the Globe today about sneaking into Fenway Park. I recommend you check it out, as I have a feeling a lot of people will reminisce about the thrill of figuring out how on earth they were going to get into some event or another.
***
Finally, a question for you: How've you been? What's been new? What's your thought of the day? Inquiring minds want to know.
Seen today: A tiny little sprite of a girl, sporting a honey-colored bob and a frilly princess skirt. She's straying away from the other children in the park, and the camp counselor calls out to her to "stay on the sidewalk. No ifs, ands or buts."
She looks back, looks around, then extends one foot as far out as she can, smacking it onto the dirt and grass. The other foot remains on the sidewalk, connected by a straining tip-toe stance.
She looks back again with a satisfied grin on her face. She's not breaking any rules, but she's making them work for her. Why? Because she can.
I think we grown-ups should remember to do that with more regularity.
***
I've begun working on a little project that's surprisingly more difficult than I would have imagined.
It consists at the moment of sheets of notebook paper loosely gathered into a pile near my bed. I'm hoping today to get a suitable notebook into which I can create an official compilation.
I'm working on writing about concerts. Not like what I've done in the past and posted here - although, come to think of it, I think a couple of early concert recaps here will probably make the cut. Hmm.
Anyway. I've encountered some amusing misadventures through my concertgoing days, and it's about time I stop relying on my memory (faithful as it is) and jot 'em all down. Dorky moments, surreal moments, hi-I-look-like-a-Jackass moments.
It's going to be funny, it's going to be honest and it's going to be really challenging to force myself to think back to those days and how I was feeling at the time. In many cases, things have changed drastically, and I have to try setting aside those alterations...and then see how I do.
It's been fun so far. I'll keep you posted.
***
Red Sox fans (or any sports fans who moan over high ticket prices): really fun story in the Globe today about sneaking into Fenway Park. I recommend you check it out, as I have a feeling a lot of people will reminisce about the thrill of figuring out how on earth they were going to get into some event or another.
***
Finally, a question for you: How've you been? What's been new? What's your thought of the day? Inquiring minds want to know.
7.11.2006
The news out of Boston that reached me this morning was horrible, but I was dismayed to realize that I wasn't as surprised as I wanted to be.
People had murmured about how the debris and the water might only serve as the first act, as it were. I'd worried that something else would act as Act Two - although I wasn't really expecting a concrete slab - or three.
I don't live in Boston. I can't imagine what Milena Delvalle's family is going through, although I was among the countless others who thought of them today. I don't have first-hand knowledge of how hellish the Tuesday commute was (but believe me when I say that I certainly heard about it). But I drive there regularly enough to know how exasperating it is to have to detour to Congress Street at 1 a.m. because 93S is closed; I've sat in the tunnels in bumper-to-bumper Friday afternoon traffic, and I've checked to see if those water droplets falling onto my windshield are routine or something else.
Driving Storrow Drive is a nightmare, we all know. Weaving through the tunnels shortly before turning onto the roadway? That's supposed to provide the last few moments of relative peace, not a nightmare onto itself.
People had murmured about how the debris and the water might only serve as the first act, as it were. I'd worried that something else would act as Act Two - although I wasn't really expecting a concrete slab - or three.
I don't live in Boston. I can't imagine what Milena Delvalle's family is going through, although I was among the countless others who thought of them today. I don't have first-hand knowledge of how hellish the Tuesday commute was (but believe me when I say that I certainly heard about it). But I drive there regularly enough to know how exasperating it is to have to detour to Congress Street at 1 a.m. because 93S is closed; I've sat in the tunnels in bumper-to-bumper Friday afternoon traffic, and I've checked to see if those water droplets falling onto my windshield are routine or something else.
Driving Storrow Drive is a nightmare, we all know. Weaving through the tunnels shortly before turning onto the roadway? That's supposed to provide the last few moments of relative peace, not a nightmare onto itself.
7.09.2006
Apple pie and flag-wavin'
I put the helmet back onto the shelf, slid the bat back into the tube and headed to the car. Climbed in, rolled down the windows, put on the sunglasses and turned on the ball game.
And hit the speed dial on my phone.
"Hello?"
"Hi. I just went to see 'Superman Returns.' When that was over, I headed to the batting cages. And I realized, as I walked back to my car, wearing my rolled-up jeans, a ponytail and Chuck Taylors, that my day has been so stereotypically All-American that it even makes me a little sick. And how are you?"
I put the helmet back onto the shelf, slid the bat back into the tube and headed to the car. Climbed in, rolled down the windows, put on the sunglasses and turned on the ball game.
And hit the speed dial on my phone.
"Hello?"
"Hi. I just went to see 'Superman Returns.' When that was over, I headed to the batting cages. And I realized, as I walked back to my car, wearing my rolled-up jeans, a ponytail and Chuck Taylors, that my day has been so stereotypically All-American that it even makes me a little sick. And how are you?"
7.07.2006
Clickedy-clack
I gasped as I saw image after image of a round-cheeked baby girl. I minimized the window and returned to the chat program.
"Oh my God, she's absolutely adorable," I typed quickly. "How old is she now?"
Other baby-related questions flew out onto the screen from fingers that wouldn't allow the brain to fully register the words.
How were the first few months? Did she sleep throught the night? What are her little quirks? How are the Mommy and Daddy doing? What's it like to be a parent?
After about five minutes of back and forth with the proud parent on the other end of the connection, I paused and read back over our exchange.
This was beyond bizarre. I'm talking babies. With a peer.
Don't get me wrong: it's not as if I still view myself as a 21-year-old college kid most concerned about an indepth research paper. I'm fully aware of my 25-year-old-ness and the fact that when my mother was my age, she was a married woman with me around (joyously, of course, as I was the perfect child. If you ignore the rambunctious, possessive, self-centric character traits.) And each time my parents playfully remark on how they'd like to wind up with six grandchildren someday, to be split up between myself and my brother however we deem fit, any bit of me that tries to ignore my age is thoroughly trounced.
I suppose it was simply that I've been so busy dealing with rent, traveling (as relative as that is) and what I'd like to do with my life, surrounded predominantly with friends who are likewise doing the same, that I didn't fully recognize that friends from days gone by had taken on decidedly different projects.
The permanent kind - houses, spouses and babies. It's one thing to hear that So And So got married and is pregnant - it's another thing to catch up with an old friend and see their bubbly bundles of joy.
When did they make up their minds about things? How is it that they're ready to take care of new lives and I'm busy thinking about tackling the arduous process that would be balancing my checkbook?
And how is it that I can so quickly fall into the conversations that I remember hearing as a youngster, asking about things of which I have little or absolutely no knowledge whatsoever?
I gasped as I saw image after image of a round-cheeked baby girl. I minimized the window and returned to the chat program.
"Oh my God, she's absolutely adorable," I typed quickly. "How old is she now?"
Other baby-related questions flew out onto the screen from fingers that wouldn't allow the brain to fully register the words.
How were the first few months? Did she sleep throught the night? What are her little quirks? How are the Mommy and Daddy doing? What's it like to be a parent?
After about five minutes of back and forth with the proud parent on the other end of the connection, I paused and read back over our exchange.
This was beyond bizarre. I'm talking babies. With a peer.
Don't get me wrong: it's not as if I still view myself as a 21-year-old college kid most concerned about an indepth research paper. I'm fully aware of my 25-year-old-ness and the fact that when my mother was my age, she was a married woman with me around (joyously, of course, as I was the perfect child. If you ignore the rambunctious, possessive, self-centric character traits.) And each time my parents playfully remark on how they'd like to wind up with six grandchildren someday, to be split up between myself and my brother however we deem fit, any bit of me that tries to ignore my age is thoroughly trounced.
I suppose it was simply that I've been so busy dealing with rent, traveling (as relative as that is) and what I'd like to do with my life, surrounded predominantly with friends who are likewise doing the same, that I didn't fully recognize that friends from days gone by had taken on decidedly different projects.
The permanent kind - houses, spouses and babies. It's one thing to hear that So And So got married and is pregnant - it's another thing to catch up with an old friend and see their bubbly bundles of joy.
When did they make up their minds about things? How is it that they're ready to take care of new lives and I'm busy thinking about tackling the arduous process that would be balancing my checkbook?
And how is it that I can so quickly fall into the conversations that I remember hearing as a youngster, asking about things of which I have little or absolutely no knowledge whatsoever?
7.05.2006
"I just never felt so fantastically rocky in my entire life."
A point comes when you simply have to stop.
I walked from the driveway into my apartment, spoke briefly with my flatmates.
"You look pale," they remarked, adding "and wait, as if you're about to burst into tears. Are you okay?"
I shook my head and walked quickly into my bedroom, where I lay down and started to cry.
B had followed me, and she knelt down to look at me. "What's wrong?"
"I'm just...tired."
I didn't want to talk about it. I'd spent days wanting to talk about it, but it didn't make sense and it was the first time anyone had actually asked of their own volition. The time window had closed, and I simply wanted to channel the anger and disappointment, to convert it to fuel and use it for something.
I was tired of caring, of feeling alone, of hearing "Well, I thought you'd say something" when all I wanted was to be asked. I was tired of trying to trust people, to open up and eliminate the shyness. I was tired of driving. I was thoroughly sick of the seemingly inevitable disappointment that would settle over me, despite my attempts to brush it off with a casual, "Oh well, it happens and what can you do?" I was tired of being laidback and easygoing, I was tired of not doing what I wanted to do, of playing hostess and director and happy-go-lucky friend/daughter/acquaintance.
I was tired of smiling, and I was tired of waiting for someone to notice and ask about the fact that my eyes weren't shining they way they normally do when I grin and mean it.
I just wanted to cry and hate everyone for a few moments.
After I cried myself exhausted, I dozed before I rose, washed my face, got dressed and headed out for the afternoon's events.
Later in the evening, I began to read the copy of "Franny and Zooey" I'd been given as a gift earlier in the day.
A point comes when you simply have to stop.
I walked from the driveway into my apartment, spoke briefly with my flatmates.
"You look pale," they remarked, adding "and wait, as if you're about to burst into tears. Are you okay?"
I shook my head and walked quickly into my bedroom, where I lay down and started to cry.
B had followed me, and she knelt down to look at me. "What's wrong?"
"I'm just...tired."
I didn't want to talk about it. I'd spent days wanting to talk about it, but it didn't make sense and it was the first time anyone had actually asked of their own volition. The time window had closed, and I simply wanted to channel the anger and disappointment, to convert it to fuel and use it for something.
I was tired of caring, of feeling alone, of hearing "Well, I thought you'd say something" when all I wanted was to be asked. I was tired of trying to trust people, to open up and eliminate the shyness. I was tired of driving. I was thoroughly sick of the seemingly inevitable disappointment that would settle over me, despite my attempts to brush it off with a casual, "Oh well, it happens and what can you do?" I was tired of being laidback and easygoing, I was tired of not doing what I wanted to do, of playing hostess and director and happy-go-lucky friend/daughter/acquaintance.
I was tired of smiling, and I was tired of waiting for someone to notice and ask about the fact that my eyes weren't shining they way they normally do when I grin and mean it.
I just wanted to cry and hate everyone for a few moments.
After I cried myself exhausted, I dozed before I rose, washed my face, got dressed and headed out for the afternoon's events.
Later in the evening, I began to read the copy of "Franny and Zooey" I'd been given as a gift earlier in the day.
She held that tense, almost fetal position for a suspensory moment - then broke down. She cried for fully five minutes. She cried without trying to suppress any of the noisier manifestations of grief and confusion, with all the convulsive throat sounds that a hysterical child makes when the breath is trying to get up through a partly closed epiglottis. And yet, when finally she stopped, she merely stopped, without the painful, knifelike intakes of breath that usually follow a voilent outburst-inburst. When it stopped, it was as though some momentous change of polarity had taken place inside her mind, one that had an immediate, pacifying effect on her body. Her face tear-streaked but quiet expressionless, almost vacuous, she picked up her handbag from the floor, opened it, and took out the small pea-green clothbound book. She put it on her lap - on her knees, rather - and looked down at it, gazed down at it, as if that were the best of all places for a small pea-green clothbound book to be. After a moment, she picked up th ebook, raised it chest-high, and pressed it to her - firmly, and quite briefly. Then she put it back intot he handbag, stood up, and came out of the enclosure. She washed her face with cold water, dried it with a towel from an overhead rack, applied fresh lipstick, combed her hair, and left the room. - J.D. Salinger
7.02.2006
A best friend
It was dark, but enough lights had been turned on to make out the shape of the skyline. I studied them as we glided back to the shore.
I felt a playful nudge against my left side. "Who here is going to know who you are?"
I pointed to a clump of three buildings. "Everyone who would fit in those. That many. They'll know."
She smiled at me, knowing how much I wanted it. These buildings, this ocean, these sounds, this place and everything that comes wrapped up with it. "Yes, they will."
Later, as I navigated the uneven sidewalk with my high-heeled shoes, she took my arm and pointed off to the side. "Those are the buildings you chose."
I took a quick count. Top floor, 12 rooms - and only perhaps a quarter of one row on one side of one building.
Gulp.
"You know, I meant those other buildings. You know, the smaller ones. Baby steps."
We laughed, she shook her head.
"No, I think you were right the first time."
It was dark, but enough lights had been turned on to make out the shape of the skyline. I studied them as we glided back to the shore.
I felt a playful nudge against my left side. "Who here is going to know who you are?"
I pointed to a clump of three buildings. "Everyone who would fit in those. That many. They'll know."
She smiled at me, knowing how much I wanted it. These buildings, this ocean, these sounds, this place and everything that comes wrapped up with it. "Yes, they will."
Later, as I navigated the uneven sidewalk with my high-heeled shoes, she took my arm and pointed off to the side. "Those are the buildings you chose."
I took a quick count. Top floor, 12 rooms - and only perhaps a quarter of one row on one side of one building.
Gulp.
"You know, I meant those other buildings. You know, the smaller ones. Baby steps."
We laughed, she shook her head.
"No, I think you were right the first time."
Dispatches
We leaned our backs against the ship's stern railing, looking over the top deck at the skyline as it peeked over at us. The band began to kick into "The Boat Song" just as we felt the gentle thrust of the engines kick in.
I had to chuckle along with the rest. Odds were good that at least three-quarters of those both onboard and on myspace had set that song as their default for the day. Hell, I'd done it, too. How could you not?
What if we were in the same boat
Rolling on a green sea
Listening to the water
No ordered future, no sorted old, wet memories?
The setup wasn't what I'd expected. I'd envisioned the band on the top deck, playing for the crowds assembled on three levels. But placing the band inside the main room made sense upon factoring in that not every boat cruise benefited from the gorgeous sunset beginning to glow in the distance. After a 45-second foray into the sauna-like crush inside, I settled into our friendly cluster of birthday revelers at the back, where we could lean, dance, sing or converse as we deemed fit.
We snapped photos, laughed and swooned over the skyline as the ship cut through the water - I realized that it finally felt like summer as I sipped a pineapple martini and pushed the hair back from my face. I don't find myself on the water often, but I love it each time I do. It was my first harbor cruise, and I was often found staring at the skyline, seeing it for the first time from a two-lantern point of view.
The band was on, as is seemingly always the case, with a vibe that seemed to compliment the crowd. Ready for a good time, but a little more laid-back than normal, just letting the music go where it wanted and smiling along the way. Or, at least, I have to imagine the guys were smiling. I felt as if I could hear Ryan's smile through the speakers.
It was odd, though, chatting my way through a Montbleau show. The music was what had brought everyone together, but it was background music, something I'd never found the music to be before. I guess it's because I'd never listened to it on a boat before. We sang along with some of the music, of course, and there was a crazy corner dance elicited by "You Crazy You," but there was a definite disconnect. Not in a bad way, either, although I'd always prefer to see them in a traditional club setting.
This was just different. And nice. More than a little surreal, particularly as the ship pulled back into the docks after our three-hour tour and several hundred voices could be heard singing along with "Stretch"'s chorus.
You just don't come across that too often, and I was glad to be there.
***
Yeah, I'm pretty much burning in hell.
This is nothing new, of course. My highway to hell was paved a long time ago, and the proper signage was put in place the moment I accidentally took my First Communion during a Sunday evening service early into my college career.
(True story, swear to God. Wait. I shouldn't be swearing to God - see? I'm doing it again!)
But I couldn't help it. I really and truly couldn't resist the opportunity that presented itself to B and I.
See, a morning in Beverly had turned into a meandering walking tour of Salem. There were five of us, and L served as our designated North Shore tourgide, pointing out spots and sights and whatnot.
It was rather odd for me. Having spent so much of my time only a town or two away, there were spots that jumped out at me, and I could explain how they'd popped into my life at various points.
("Ah, the Hawthorne Hotel was fun" sounds particularly eyebrow-raising until I add that "I was 9," "it was a wedding reception" and "get your head out of the gutter.")
But I'd never actually explored Salem. I'd enjoyed Salem Willows flavored popcorn, but I'd never been there myself. I knew of specific witch-related points, but I didn't know where they were. The House of Seven Gables could be on Plymouth Rock, for all I knew of how to find it.
After walking about, our group briefly broke up. Three went off to have their cards read (fitting, no?), and B and I decided to keep on exploring. As we sat in a juice bar, rehydrating, the idea struck.
We headed to the car, grabbed my iPod and headed back to the Old Burying Point.
Now, keep in mind that I do not disrespect the dead. At all. But I'm wandering around Witch Town, USA, in the baking sunshine, at a cemetery that has become a tourist attraction, right down the street from a wax museum and signs offering vampire tours.
This isn't exactly the most somber place.
And we followed every rule. Stay on the trails. Keep quiet.
I saw absolutely nothing that forbid cuing up "Thriller" on the iPod and sharing the earbuds. And there was no signage that prohibited a quick bustout of a music video dance move or two - out of view of everyone else.
C'mon, I think the ye olde folke of Salem would have totally dug it. I mean, Witchstock was supposedly going on right down the street.
But, that said, I suppose the whole thing came up because witches were supposedly going to go to hell anyway.
Hmm.
Oh well. Hell it is.
(more photos on flickr)
We leaned our backs against the ship's stern railing, looking over the top deck at the skyline as it peeked over at us. The band began to kick into "The Boat Song" just as we felt the gentle thrust of the engines kick in.
I had to chuckle along with the rest. Odds were good that at least three-quarters of those both onboard and on myspace had set that song as their default for the day. Hell, I'd done it, too. How could you not?
What if we were in the same boat
Rolling on a green sea
Listening to the water
No ordered future, no sorted old, wet memories?
The setup wasn't what I'd expected. I'd envisioned the band on the top deck, playing for the crowds assembled on three levels. But placing the band inside the main room made sense upon factoring in that not every boat cruise benefited from the gorgeous sunset beginning to glow in the distance. After a 45-second foray into the sauna-like crush inside, I settled into our friendly cluster of birthday revelers at the back, where we could lean, dance, sing or converse as we deemed fit.
We snapped photos, laughed and swooned over the skyline as the ship cut through the water - I realized that it finally felt like summer as I sipped a pineapple martini and pushed the hair back from my face. I don't find myself on the water often, but I love it each time I do. It was my first harbor cruise, and I was often found staring at the skyline, seeing it for the first time from a two-lantern point of view.The band was on, as is seemingly always the case, with a vibe that seemed to compliment the crowd. Ready for a good time, but a little more laid-back than normal, just letting the music go where it wanted and smiling along the way. Or, at least, I have to imagine the guys were smiling. I felt as if I could hear Ryan's smile through the speakers.
It was odd, though, chatting my way through a Montbleau show. The music was what had brought everyone together, but it was background music, something I'd never found the music to be before. I guess it's because I'd never listened to it on a boat before. We sang along with some of the music, of course, and there was a crazy corner dance elicited by "You Crazy You," but there was a definite disconnect. Not in a bad way, either, although I'd always prefer to see them in a traditional club setting.
This was just different. And nice. More than a little surreal, particularly as the ship pulled back into the docks after our three-hour tour and several hundred voices could be heard singing along with "Stretch"'s chorus.
You just don't come across that too often, and I was glad to be there.
***
Yeah, I'm pretty much burning in hell.
This is nothing new, of course. My highway to hell was paved a long time ago, and the proper signage was put in place the moment I accidentally took my First Communion during a Sunday evening service early into my college career.
(True story, swear to God. Wait. I shouldn't be swearing to God - see? I'm doing it again!)
But I couldn't help it. I really and truly couldn't resist the opportunity that presented itself to B and I.
See, a morning in Beverly had turned into a meandering walking tour of Salem. There were five of us, and L served as our designated North Shore tourgide, pointing out spots and sights and whatnot.
It was rather odd for me. Having spent so much of my time only a town or two away, there were spots that jumped out at me, and I could explain how they'd popped into my life at various points.
("Ah, the Hawthorne Hotel was fun" sounds particularly eyebrow-raising until I add that "I was 9," "it was a wedding reception" and "get your head out of the gutter.")
But I'd never actually explored Salem. I'd enjoyed Salem Willows flavored popcorn, but I'd never been there myself. I knew of specific witch-related points, but I didn't know where they were. The House of Seven Gables could be on Plymouth Rock, for all I knew of how to find it.
After walking about, our group briefly broke up. Three went off to have their cards read (fitting, no?), and B and I decided to keep on exploring. As we sat in a juice bar, rehydrating, the idea struck.
We headed to the car, grabbed my iPod and headed back to the Old Burying Point.
Now, keep in mind that I do not disrespect the dead. At all. But I'm wandering around Witch Town, USA, in the baking sunshine, at a cemetery that has become a tourist attraction, right down the street from a wax museum and signs offering vampire tours.This isn't exactly the most somber place.
And we followed every rule. Stay on the trails. Keep quiet.
I saw absolutely nothing that forbid cuing up "Thriller" on the iPod and sharing the earbuds. And there was no signage that prohibited a quick bustout of a music video dance move or two - out of view of everyone else.
C'mon, I think the ye olde folke of Salem would have totally dug it. I mean, Witchstock was supposedly going on right down the street.
But, that said, I suppose the whole thing came up because witches were supposedly going to go to hell anyway.
Hmm.
Oh well. Hell it is.
(more photos on flickr)
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