As has been the case for the past day and a half, I've volumes to tell you, mere moments to type.
Damn not having instantaneous typing skills!
But, for the moment (I hope to post later on today), please know the following:
- I am in Austin.
- It's hot as hell here. I believe hell may actually have cooler breezes.
- My Flickr account is going to be The Shit when I get home (photo pass = me right up by the stage for artists - thus far: Guster, Matt Nathanson, John Mayer)
- I'm having fun, despite the quirks and goofs that have come up along the way (there have been many).
- It's hot as hell here.
Kisses, darlings. Keep cool, I'll bask in air conditioning vicariously through you.
9.16.2006
9.14.2006
Red, blue, green, orange
Are there rules? Of course there are rules. You're talking to the person who set up rules for the Vice Favorite Red Sox Player position. Hello.
The rules for seeing a much-loved former Red Sox player battle against his old team are pretty simple, though. Easy to understand and to follow.
Overall Objective: To see Player do well. NOT to see Player win.
Offense: Player is encouraged to hit the ball well and get on base. A strong offensive effort is supported by Fan, assuming, of course, that this offensive effort does nothing to score Player's Current Team any runs. Home runs are hereby forbidden. Player is not allowed to cross home plate or pick up any RBI's. Stolen bases, if applicable, are encouraged.
Defense: Player is encouraged to demonstrate precisely why he earned Favorite Red Sox Player status during Boston seasons, but only if Current Red Sox team is enjoying a lead. Diving catches are always cool.
Outcome: Player makes Fan proud. Rightful Team (Red Sox) win game. No Fan loyalties tested.
Kevin Millar followed most of the rules on Tuesday night. He did cross home plate, but such an oversight was far more Timlin's fault than Millar's. With a good lead racked up midway through the game, I was free to enjoy Millar's turns as Baltimore's DH, cheering him while hollering for the Boston boys to bring home the win (I did in fact proudly wear my No. 15 Boston shirt to the game, one of only two that I saw at Camden Yards that night).
Everything was glorious, if you ignore the near disaster that was the bottom of the ninth. We won. Let's focus on that.
For those who haven't made the trip to Baltimore, you should. Particularly if you're a Red Sox fan. With a team that hasn't done much of note since that World Series in 1966, Baltimore has become a haven for opposing teams' fans looking for a good ballpark and easy ticket acquisition. The city is laidback and accomodating, the fans are game for seeing superstars roll into town and Orioles Park is breathtaking. Tuesday marked my third trip to the park (first since moving back to Vermont after the District City days) and the third time my jaw dropped at the beauty of it all -- the factory stretching the length of Eutaw Street, the markers for home run balls, the brick and green steel color palate...
We were seated in Section 262, halfway between third base and the foul pole and, unbeknownst to us, a swanky area of seating. A private entrance, Hall of Fame Lounge directly behind us and waitresses ready to take whatever orders we wanted so we didn't have to miss a moment of the game. I left my seat once.
Oh, and the beer is better than it is at Fenway. And cheaper.
Trying to compare Fenway and Camden is akin to a showdown between (Granny Smith) apples and oranges, I know. Old/new. Tradition/innovation. Obstructed view risks/no bad seats in the house. Sellout crowds/bargain night specials.
It's really no contest anyway -- I'm a girl in love with her Yawkey Way. But were Fenway not around? Camden would have my heart, no question.
What makes it even easier is that the place might as well be Fenway South. Different color scheme, fancier scoreboard, no "Sweet Caroline," but the place still echoes with cheers for the Sox when they're scoring, boos when Timlin's walking off the mound after nearly tying the game in the ninth. You see more red and blue than orange -- a fact that I'd almost feel badly about, were the Orioles fans not so excited to see the Red Sox themselves.
Millar. Millahhhhhh. Couldn't we bring him home with us? I don't think it would have required much arm-twisting. Pre-game, I raced to the Os dugout to find Millar laughing with his old teammates; hearing that cackle made my face instantly break into a grin. I've missed him. Sure, the fielding was spotty. Yes, I know the hitting was streaky. But I loved the X factor he brought to the team -- slow baserunning, frosted tips and all. Millar is, in my mind, still a Red Sox player displaced.
He was why we were there. After the move, seeing him once more at Fenway was out of the question. We opted for Baltimore instead. And after the chaos and tension of the Red Sox Virtual Waiting Rooms, the ticketbuying process had been glorious. Might as well have come with a backrub and a Pina Colada, pink umbrella included.
The ultimate stress-free baseball experience.
Baltmore itself was surprisingly new, not at all what I'd expected. We spent the entire day in the Inner Harbor, which I admit lends itself to overall city juding much in the way Back Bay belies Boston, Adams Morgan falsely represents DC. But I was expecting to see a city with a little more historical meat on its bones, presented instead with modern structures of turquoise windows and brick, with a huge Hard Rock Cafe guitar serving as the cherry atop the former Power Plant building.
I'd gone looking for Edgar Allen Poe and found space more befitting Nicole Ritchie instead.
That said, not at all bad. Far from it -- actually quite enjoyable and lovely (guitar aside). As we walked the quiet city streets, we encountered Sox fan after Sox fan, making me wonder if the city residents proper had decided to take a few days off and head to the hills once they learned Boston was coming into town.
(Also, several things should be quickly noted:
- Ellipsies in text messages = rather bizarre. Doesn't that go against the very nature of the quick communication process? That said, thank you, cell phones, for letting me laugh from my bleacher seats at a Monster Seat friend during Sunday's home game.
- Hector on Stilts. Band out of Western Massachusetts that I caught at Bill's Bar on Friday night. OUTSTANDING. A friend described the band earlier in the day as "really smart, just really good indie pop." He was right. Go catch 'em live. The lead singer reminds me of Scott Weiland crossed with Gene Wilder, circa Willy Wonka. In a good way.
- Read Bill Simmons' "Now I Can Die in Peace" cover to cover during the trip from Baltimore to Boston yesterday. I highly recommend.)
Now, back from this set of adventure, I prepare for tomorrow's -- Austin and all that comes with it. Bags are packed (I think), itineraries set (as much as they can be) and the promise I made to myself to get to sleep early tonight.
I have a hunch that that will be easier said than done.
The rules for seeing a much-loved former Red Sox player battle against his old team are pretty simple, though. Easy to understand and to follow.
Overall Objective: To see Player do well. NOT to see Player win.
Offense: Player is encouraged to hit the ball well and get on base. A strong offensive effort is supported by Fan, assuming, of course, that this offensive effort does nothing to score Player's Current Team any runs. Home runs are hereby forbidden. Player is not allowed to cross home plate or pick up any RBI's. Stolen bases, if applicable, are encouraged.
Defense: Player is encouraged to demonstrate precisely why he earned Favorite Red Sox Player status during Boston seasons, but only if Current Red Sox team is enjoying a lead. Diving catches are always cool.
Outcome: Player makes Fan proud. Rightful Team (Red Sox) win game. No Fan loyalties tested.
Kevin Millar followed most of the rules on Tuesday night. He did cross home plate, but such an oversight was far more Timlin's fault than Millar's. With a good lead racked up midway through the game, I was free to enjoy Millar's turns as Baltimore's DH, cheering him while hollering for the Boston boys to bring home the win (I did in fact proudly wear my No. 15 Boston shirt to the game, one of only two that I saw at Camden Yards that night).
Everything was glorious, if you ignore the near disaster that was the bottom of the ninth. We won. Let's focus on that.
For those who haven't made the trip to Baltimore, you should. Particularly if you're a Red Sox fan. With a team that hasn't done much of note since that World Series in 1966, Baltimore has become a haven for opposing teams' fans looking for a good ballpark and easy ticket acquisition. The city is laidback and accomodating, the fans are game for seeing superstars roll into town and Orioles Park is breathtaking. Tuesday marked my third trip to the park (first since moving back to Vermont after the District City days) and the third time my jaw dropped at the beauty of it all -- the factory stretching the length of Eutaw Street, the markers for home run balls, the brick and green steel color palate...
We were seated in Section 262, halfway between third base and the foul pole and, unbeknownst to us, a swanky area of seating. A private entrance, Hall of Fame Lounge directly behind us and waitresses ready to take whatever orders we wanted so we didn't have to miss a moment of the game. I left my seat once.
Oh, and the beer is better than it is at Fenway. And cheaper.
Trying to compare Fenway and Camden is akin to a showdown between (Granny Smith) apples and oranges, I know. Old/new. Tradition/innovation. Obstructed view risks/no bad seats in the house. Sellout crowds/bargain night specials.
It's really no contest anyway -- I'm a girl in love with her Yawkey Way. But were Fenway not around? Camden would have my heart, no question.
What makes it even easier is that the place might as well be Fenway South. Different color scheme, fancier scoreboard, no "Sweet Caroline," but the place still echoes with cheers for the Sox when they're scoring, boos when Timlin's walking off the mound after nearly tying the game in the ninth. You see more red and blue than orange -- a fact that I'd almost feel badly about, were the Orioles fans not so excited to see the Red Sox themselves.
Millar. Millahhhhhh. Couldn't we bring him home with us? I don't think it would have required much arm-twisting. Pre-game, I raced to the Os dugout to find Millar laughing with his old teammates; hearing that cackle made my face instantly break into a grin. I've missed him. Sure, the fielding was spotty. Yes, I know the hitting was streaky. But I loved the X factor he brought to the team -- slow baserunning, frosted tips and all. Millar is, in my mind, still a Red Sox player displaced.
He was why we were there. After the move, seeing him once more at Fenway was out of the question. We opted for Baltimore instead. And after the chaos and tension of the Red Sox Virtual Waiting Rooms, the ticketbuying process had been glorious. Might as well have come with a backrub and a Pina Colada, pink umbrella included.
The ultimate stress-free baseball experience.
Baltmore itself was surprisingly new, not at all what I'd expected. We spent the entire day in the Inner Harbor, which I admit lends itself to overall city juding much in the way Back Bay belies Boston, Adams Morgan falsely represents DC. But I was expecting to see a city with a little more historical meat on its bones, presented instead with modern structures of turquoise windows and brick, with a huge Hard Rock Cafe guitar serving as the cherry atop the former Power Plant building.
I'd gone looking for Edgar Allen Poe and found space more befitting Nicole Ritchie instead.
That said, not at all bad. Far from it -- actually quite enjoyable and lovely (guitar aside). As we walked the quiet city streets, we encountered Sox fan after Sox fan, making me wonder if the city residents proper had decided to take a few days off and head to the hills once they learned Boston was coming into town.
(Also, several things should be quickly noted:
- Ellipsies in text messages = rather bizarre. Doesn't that go against the very nature of the quick communication process? That said, thank you, cell phones, for letting me laugh from my bleacher seats at a Monster Seat friend during Sunday's home game.
- Hector on Stilts. Band out of Western Massachusetts that I caught at Bill's Bar on Friday night. OUTSTANDING. A friend described the band earlier in the day as "really smart, just really good indie pop." He was right. Go catch 'em live. The lead singer reminds me of Scott Weiland crossed with Gene Wilder, circa Willy Wonka. In a good way.
- Read Bill Simmons' "Now I Can Die in Peace" cover to cover during the trip from Baltimore to Boston yesterday. I highly recommend.)
Now, back from this set of adventure, I prepare for tomorrow's -- Austin and all that comes with it. Bags are packed (I think), itineraries set (as much as they can be) and the promise I made to myself to get to sleep early tonight.
I have a hunch that that will be easier said than done.
9.08.2006
Ahh, hello big world
"Goodbye Little World" closes out the brilliance that is Remy Zero's "Villa Ellaine." After the exhilerating musical rollercoaster of the previous ten tracks, the closer is a charming little ditty that leaves one bobbing one's head with a smile on one's face.
Well, in our little house
There's always room
For all the friends
That help us through
These struggling days
It was in my head last night, shortly before The Damnwells took the stage at TT the Bear's in Cambridge.
I'd moved to the bar to order a beer when I cast a glance back, to the spot to which I'd soon return. Five people were gathered into a loose clump, some standing, others leaning against the partition that separated bar from performance/dancefloor space.
They composed my group for the night. Familiar and friendly faces that have played roles in shaping my experiences in this area over the years - in one case, well before even that. Demonstrating the deceptively tiny nature of that which is the music scene I delve into, all had traveled to Cambridge for the night, arriving in pairs or solo, gradually meshing together with smiles and hugs of greeting.
Others that I knew were interspersed throughout the crowd. It was difficult to scan the audience without letting my gaze fall on a recognizable face.
A random, whirlwind impulse had prompted me to throw clothing into two bags and head to Massachusetts a night earlier than originally planned. It was the prospect of seeing one of my closest friends, bolstered by the promise of a good show by one of my favorite bands.
But as I returned to my spot and shared a smile or two, it felt most as if I had simply come home.
And we got heavy traffic on the stairs
With darlin' Sherrie over there and Sarah's back in town
Kim and Kay sit on the floor
While Zelda hides the closet doors,
Never to be found
See John smile and Mia sigh
Katie cries
Mia plays the violin.
This little world is all I need
And hey, this little world needs
Not much more to be a
Completely perfect world
We will be leaving soon
And we might never get back to you
But before we do
Goodbye and fare thee well
Well, in our little house
There's always room
For all the friends
That help us through
These struggling days
It was in my head last night, shortly before The Damnwells took the stage at TT the Bear's in Cambridge.
I'd moved to the bar to order a beer when I cast a glance back, to the spot to which I'd soon return. Five people were gathered into a loose clump, some standing, others leaning against the partition that separated bar from performance/dancefloor space.
They composed my group for the night. Familiar and friendly faces that have played roles in shaping my experiences in this area over the years - in one case, well before even that. Demonstrating the deceptively tiny nature of that which is the music scene I delve into, all had traveled to Cambridge for the night, arriving in pairs or solo, gradually meshing together with smiles and hugs of greeting.
Others that I knew were interspersed throughout the crowd. It was difficult to scan the audience without letting my gaze fall on a recognizable face.
A random, whirlwind impulse had prompted me to throw clothing into two bags and head to Massachusetts a night earlier than originally planned. It was the prospect of seeing one of my closest friends, bolstered by the promise of a good show by one of my favorite bands.
But as I returned to my spot and shared a smile or two, it felt most as if I had simply come home.
And we got heavy traffic on the stairs
With darlin' Sherrie over there and Sarah's back in town
Kim and Kay sit on the floor
While Zelda hides the closet doors,
Never to be found
See John smile and Mia sigh
Katie cries
Mia plays the violin.
This little world is all I need
And hey, this little world needs
Not much more to be a
Completely perfect world
We will be leaving soon
And we might never get back to you
But before we do
Goodbye and fare thee well
9.07.2006
I'd been wondering when the mental Plinko game would come to an end and next week's events would actually register with me.
As it turned out, it was while writing a brief bio about myself, attaching a digital photograph and sending off the email.
Hey. I'm going to Austin. Texas.
I've held off saying anything, as I was waiting to be sure that everything is in place and good to go. As I write this now, I believe it all is. If not, well...I'll take my chances.
The quick story: after the adventures in DC (hello, old brief stomping grounds) and Baltimore (otherwise known as Victoria sees Kevin Millar At Least One More Time), I return to Boston briefly (overnight) and then head off to Austin for the Austin City Limits Festival. As it is being touted, "8 stages, 3 days, 130 bands."
It's my first largescale festival in some time. Since Woodstock '99, actually. I also like to think of it as "Van Morrison, Willie Nelson, Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers and Countless Others." Including, amusingly enough, Matt Nathanson, Guster, Tristan and a slew of other people that tickle my fancy.
I'll attempt to refrain from seeking out John Mayer and slapping him upside the head for the Jessica Simpson debacle.
So yes, a pretty outstanding lineup. But why would I make the trip to Texas, you ask?
Because I'm going to be writing about it. The contest I to which I made brief reference in June proved to surprise the hell out of me. By which I mean that I won it. I'll be an official field blogger for the festival and Project DU.
(Insert adoring, thank you so much sentiments here. Kisses to those hooking me up for this adventure - I'm most appreciative.)
Texas, baby. Texas.
As it turned out, it was while writing a brief bio about myself, attaching a digital photograph and sending off the email.
Hey. I'm going to Austin. Texas.
I've held off saying anything, as I was waiting to be sure that everything is in place and good to go. As I write this now, I believe it all is. If not, well...I'll take my chances.
The quick story: after the adventures in DC (hello, old brief stomping grounds) and Baltimore (otherwise known as Victoria sees Kevin Millar At Least One More Time), I return to Boston briefly (overnight) and then head off to Austin for the Austin City Limits Festival. As it is being touted, "8 stages, 3 days, 130 bands."
It's my first largescale festival in some time. Since Woodstock '99, actually. I also like to think of it as "Van Morrison, Willie Nelson, Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers and Countless Others." Including, amusingly enough, Matt Nathanson, Guster, Tristan and a slew of other people that tickle my fancy.
I'll attempt to refrain from seeking out John Mayer and slapping him upside the head for the Jessica Simpson debacle.
So yes, a pretty outstanding lineup. But why would I make the trip to Texas, you ask?
Because I'm going to be writing about it. The contest I to which I made brief reference in June proved to surprise the hell out of me. By which I mean that I won it. I'll be an official field blogger for the festival and Project DU.
(Insert adoring, thank you so much sentiments here. Kisses to those hooking me up for this adventure - I'm most appreciative.)
Texas, baby. Texas.
9.05.2006
I know I'll make the slightest of efforts - no more going out of my way - to see how it works out. Once. If it's convenient to me. - 11.30.2005
It has become convenient.
Averi is slated to perform at Nectar's on the 28th - which is, I believe,the night of the day after the Boston Music Awards (have I mentioned that congratulations are in order, by the way? Kudos to a bunch of folks whose music I enjoy, but particular congratulations to Ryan Montbleau, Matt Nathanson and the thrice-nominated Chad). I will be back from my travels come the end of the month, and will take in that which is the shell of the band I followed for a few years.
It is going to be...well, it is going to be something, I'm sure. The cackle with which I responded to the news hints that perhaps I'll wind up getting my snark on.
In other, less eyebrow-raising news, it seemed as if everyone was just trying to reach the finish line last night. The last of four late nights at Nectar's, the Montbleau Monday series came to a close with strong, albeit seemingly sleep-deprived performances. There were bleary eyes on stage, yawns from spots in the audience.
It's not that people were bored, but even dancing was difficult last night. When you have to work the next day, shows that kick off at 11 just aren't particularly condusive...even just an hour would make a huge difference. 10 is managable. 11 has you trying to keep your eyes open, even when you're leaving at the set break.
That said, it was glorious to be able to fit such an incredible band into the schedule on a weekly basis - particuarly knowing that the guys are slated to be back in Vermont in about a month (thank you, Higher Ground...). Made it easier to say "screw this, I have to go home" at 12:30...
P.S. Guys? You know that line? The "Excuse me, I just got this new cell phone, could I get your number to put in it" bit? The one we laugh about because it's supposed to be a joke line?
Do not attempt to actually use it. At least not on me. Because I will look you in the eye, hope to God you're joking about it and then reply.
"No."
Then I'll walk away.
It has become convenient.
Averi is slated to perform at Nectar's on the 28th - which is, I believe,
It is going to be...well, it is going to be something, I'm sure. The cackle with which I responded to the news hints that perhaps I'll wind up getting my snark on.
In other, less eyebrow-raising news, it seemed as if everyone was just trying to reach the finish line last night. The last of four late nights at Nectar's, the Montbleau Monday series came to a close with strong, albeit seemingly sleep-deprived performances. There were bleary eyes on stage, yawns from spots in the audience.
It's not that people were bored, but even dancing was difficult last night. When you have to work the next day, shows that kick off at 11 just aren't particularly condusive...even just an hour would make a huge difference. 10 is managable. 11 has you trying to keep your eyes open, even when you're leaving at the set break.
That said, it was glorious to be able to fit such an incredible band into the schedule on a weekly basis - particuarly knowing that the guys are slated to be back in Vermont in about a month (thank you, Higher Ground...). Made it easier to say "screw this, I have to go home" at 12:30...
P.S. Guys? You know that line? The "Excuse me, I just got this new cell phone, could I get your number to put in it" bit? The one we laugh about because it's supposed to be a joke line?
Do not attempt to actually use it. At least not on me. Because I will look you in the eye, hope to God you're joking about it and then reply.
"No."
Then I'll walk away.
9.04.2006
Unsurprisingly, Sunday's Grace Potter and the Nocturnals show in Shelburne proved to be perhaps The social event of the summer.
It's always rather odd, concert run-ins. I can think nothing of traveling three and a half hours from "home" and waving at familiar faces; I find it crazy to see their Vermont counterparts when I'm a short drive from my house.
The logic? Well, it often seems as if I hit up more Boston shows than Vermont -- and the Boston scene circles tend to run smaller than one might think.
Anyway. Back to the sloping greens of Shelburne. It seemed as if everyone in the surrounding communities packed up and moved over to the stage-adorned hill for the night. I found myself busy offering greetings and offering commentary on who was who.
Hi! Helloooooo! Oh, hi there. Yo! Hey, you!
It was nice for a girl accustomed to knowing of people who don't know her to receive many a greeting. Refreshing. A change of pace.
It should have been expected, though, as people had been waiting for this show for at least several months. The homestate boys and girl GPatN have been off traveling the country, bringing the blues/rock/soul sound from Vermont to new ears and seemingly enthusiastic crowds. The buzz has been growing, the label is getting ready to bring the band in for new recording sessions, and the Green Mountain folk have patiently counted down the days until we got another dose of the music.
The rains that had threatened all weekend held off just long enough for a long, tight, energetic set. New material indicated the band's foray into more of a rock sound, but with the storytelling lyrics for which Potter has grown renowned. Some of the older tunes are being reworked -- my personal favorite, "Stop the Bus," continues to take an electric slant and gets better each time I hear it.
(Which is why a bystander looking into the third row during that song's performance would have seen me, huge grin on my face, joyously singing along.)
The rules for the concert series specifically limit dancing to the sides of the stage, and the band held off provoking the crowd as long as they could. But as the skies deepened in hue, Potter told the crowd that she thought it was time they stood and danced -- which meant that a few thousand people sighed of relief, jumped up and boogied away. An older (and by that I mean Old) man a row ahead did all but flash the band the devil horns.
It was pretty goddamn glorious.
Apparently, the band will be back for a few Higher Ground shows leading up to New Year's Eve -- I'm playing around with that idea, as well as the Paradise gigs lined up for (I believe) at the end of this month. My favorite Vermont band at my favorite Boston venue?
I know. How could I resist that?
In other news, sorry for my absense. Unintentional, and I'm returning with some anecdotes and ramblings in the next couple of days. Some news, too, but I can't really share that yet.
In the meantime, how are you guys doing?
(in the fine tradition that is photo posts in blog entries, click above to go to the rest of the set.)
It's always rather odd, concert run-ins. I can think nothing of traveling three and a half hours from "home" and waving at familiar faces; I find it crazy to see their Vermont counterparts when I'm a short drive from my house.
The logic? Well, it often seems as if I hit up more Boston shows than Vermont -- and the Boston scene circles tend to run smaller than one might think.
Anyway. Back to the sloping greens of Shelburne. It seemed as if everyone in the surrounding communities packed up and moved over to the stage-adorned hill for the night. I found myself busy offering greetings and offering commentary on who was who.
Hi! Helloooooo! Oh, hi there. Yo! Hey, you!
It was nice for a girl accustomed to knowing of people who don't know her to receive many a greeting. Refreshing. A change of pace.
It should have been expected, though, as people had been waiting for this show for at least several months. The homestate boys and girl GPatN have been off traveling the country, bringing the blues/rock/soul sound from Vermont to new ears and seemingly enthusiastic crowds. The buzz has been growing, the label is getting ready to bring the band in for new recording sessions, and the Green Mountain folk have patiently counted down the days until we got another dose of the music.
The rains that had threatened all weekend held off just long enough for a long, tight, energetic set. New material indicated the band's foray into more of a rock sound, but with the storytelling lyrics for which Potter has grown renowned. Some of the older tunes are being reworked -- my personal favorite, "Stop the Bus," continues to take an electric slant and gets better each time I hear it.
(Which is why a bystander looking into the third row during that song's performance would have seen me, huge grin on my face, joyously singing along.)
The rules for the concert series specifically limit dancing to the sides of the stage, and the band held off provoking the crowd as long as they could. But as the skies deepened in hue, Potter told the crowd that she thought it was time they stood and danced -- which meant that a few thousand people sighed of relief, jumped up and boogied away. An older (and by that I mean Old) man a row ahead did all but flash the band the devil horns.
It was pretty goddamn glorious.
Apparently, the band will be back for a few Higher Ground shows leading up to New Year's Eve -- I'm playing around with that idea, as well as the Paradise gigs lined up for (I believe) at the end of this month. My favorite Vermont band at my favorite Boston venue?
I know. How could I resist that?
In other news, sorry for my absense. Unintentional, and I'm returning with some anecdotes and ramblings in the next couple of days. Some news, too, but I can't really share that yet.
In the meantime, how are you guys doing?
(in the fine tradition that is photo posts in blog entries, click above to go to the rest of the set.)
8.30.2006
I want a moment to breathe.
When you have time, the minutes stretch out before you. No one is calling, demanding, hoping, expecting. When you have time, you wind up with seemingly infinite time.
And you're bored. Of course.
But when you're pressed for time -- that's when walls you didn't know existed start to crowd in on you. Everyone wants something. Everyone expects you to spend borrowed time with them. People are left disappointed, angry, frustrated.
And it falls on you. Why are you bailing? Why are you not around? Why are you running late? Why can't you just be there and do this and be the way you are supposed to be -- the way you always are?
I've grown tired of saying "I'm sorry, I don't have time." Or, moreso, using it as a form of apology.
I'm tense. I'm prone to snap today. I know that another day, a few more hours' sleep and I'd be looking at everything in a different manner.
But it's today, and I didn't get that sleep.
All I see is red. And it's so bright that I want to cry.
When you have time, the minutes stretch out before you. No one is calling, demanding, hoping, expecting. When you have time, you wind up with seemingly infinite time.
And you're bored. Of course.
But when you're pressed for time -- that's when walls you didn't know existed start to crowd in on you. Everyone wants something. Everyone expects you to spend borrowed time with them. People are left disappointed, angry, frustrated.
And it falls on you. Why are you bailing? Why are you not around? Why are you running late? Why can't you just be there and do this and be the way you are supposed to be -- the way you always are?
I've grown tired of saying "I'm sorry, I don't have time." Or, moreso, using it as a form of apology.
I'm tense. I'm prone to snap today. I know that another day, a few more hours' sleep and I'd be looking at everything in a different manner.
But it's today, and I didn't get that sleep.
All I see is red. And it's so bright that I want to cry.
8.28.2006
My eyes are vague blue, like the sky, and change all the time;
they are indiscriminate but fleeting, entirely specific and
disloyal, so that no one trusts me. I am always looking away.
Or again at something after it has given me up. It makes me
restless and that makes me unhappy, but I cannot keep them
still. If only i had grey, green, black, brown, yellow eyes; I
would stay at home and do something. It's not that I'm
curious. On the contrary, I am bored but it's my duty to be
attentive, I am needed by things as the sky must be above the
earth. And lately, so great has their anxiety become, I can
spare myself little sleep.
- Frank O'Hara
they are indiscriminate but fleeting, entirely specific and
disloyal, so that no one trusts me. I am always looking away.
Or again at something after it has given me up. It makes me
restless and that makes me unhappy, but I cannot keep them
still. If only i had grey, green, black, brown, yellow eyes; I
would stay at home and do something. It's not that I'm
curious. On the contrary, I am bored but it's my duty to be
attentive, I am needed by things as the sky must be above the
earth. And lately, so great has their anxiety become, I can
spare myself little sleep.
- Frank O'Hara
Pitcher woes
It was either my sophomore of junior year of high school. Game day, and I was scheduled to take the mound that afternoon.
It was a big game for my little team. We were playing one of our rivals -- not The Rivals, but a team with which we had a decidedly competitive history. I was fired up and ready to go.
In science (it was either chem or bio, can't recall which), we were working on display boards outlining the projects on which we'd been laboring for the previous week and a half. I knelt on the ground, cutting cardboard with an Exactoknife, when the blade slipped.
I sliced my right middle finger. And while it hurt, and while I bled, my anger had nothing to do with the pain.
There was no way I could take the mound. Just like that. One quick little cut, and I wasn't getting the start.
According to reports, Josh Beckett is facing the same situation right now. Not that he had a mishap with a science project -- but there's a cut on his middle finger.
We hear about a lot of questionable injuries that land baseball players on the bench. So and So sprained his toe after running into a doorframe (oh wait. I've done that too). Another has a bruised muscle. Another hit his wrist against a kitchen counter and is out for eight days.
For many, a cut on a finger registers as just as silly. Wait. You got a papercut, and now you can't start a game. What the hell is that, Beckett? Wuss.
All I know is that when that afternoon arrived and I took my place at first base, whenever the opposing team reached base, the girls looked at me between pitches.
"I thought you were supposed to pitch today."
I'd extend my right hand, showing the bandage on my finger that rendered it impossible to grip the ball for a fastball, let alone a changeup or curve.
"Cut my finger today. Can't pitch for a few days."
Lame? Yes.
But much more valid than, say, a possible, sure-if-you-squint-your-eyes-and-turn-your-head hamstring injury...
It was a big game for my little team. We were playing one of our rivals -- not The Rivals, but a team with which we had a decidedly competitive history. I was fired up and ready to go.
In science (it was either chem or bio, can't recall which), we were working on display boards outlining the projects on which we'd been laboring for the previous week and a half. I knelt on the ground, cutting cardboard with an Exactoknife, when the blade slipped.
I sliced my right middle finger. And while it hurt, and while I bled, my anger had nothing to do with the pain.
There was no way I could take the mound. Just like that. One quick little cut, and I wasn't getting the start.
According to reports, Josh Beckett is facing the same situation right now. Not that he had a mishap with a science project -- but there's a cut on his middle finger.
We hear about a lot of questionable injuries that land baseball players on the bench. So and So sprained his toe after running into a doorframe (oh wait. I've done that too). Another has a bruised muscle. Another hit his wrist against a kitchen counter and is out for eight days.
For many, a cut on a finger registers as just as silly. Wait. You got a papercut, and now you can't start a game. What the hell is that, Beckett? Wuss.
All I know is that when that afternoon arrived and I took my place at first base, whenever the opposing team reached base, the girls looked at me between pitches.
"I thought you were supposed to pitch today."
I'd extend my right hand, showing the bandage on my finger that rendered it impossible to grip the ball for a fastball, let alone a changeup or curve.
"Cut my finger today. Can't pitch for a few days."
Lame? Yes.
But much more valid than, say, a possible, sure-if-you-squint-your-eyes-and-turn-your-head hamstring injury...
8.26.2006
Whee!
Dear Blogger:
Thanks for heeding the call, my darling dears.
Love & stuff,
Vix
As you can see, Revelry has joined the Blogger Beta ranks...still playing around with things and will be adding the homey touches.
But in the meantime, hi. I'm baaaaack...
Thanks for heeding the call, my darling dears.
Love & stuff,
Vix
As you can see, Revelry has joined the Blogger Beta ranks...still playing around with things and will be adding the homey touches.
But in the meantime, hi. I'm baaaaack...
8.23.2006
A technical, about-the-blog sort of post
There are some neat things abrewin' on the Blogger front - which means I'm agettin' antsy.
Recently, I flirted with the idea of moving Reverly over to TypePad. Well, "flirted" isn't really accurate. I went over, signed up, began to play with the interface and prepared to export the content here, import it over there.
In real-life terms, think of it as flirting, exchanging phone numbers, getting a call, agreeing to meet up for dinner, going on the date and leaning in for the kiss at the end of the night.
In the end, I couldn't quite lock lips, as it were.
Not that I felt guilty -- I've had every intention of getting my own domain and buying myself MoveableType for quite some time now -- but Blogger begged me to come back home and offered up promises of some sweet lovin'.
Blogger Beta, baby. Doesn't it just purr?
If you're not a blogger (or at all into webby design stuff), most of the new features that will be offered with the Beta won't make sense -- ease of template modification, labels, the speed and ease (for us, anyway) of dynamic publishing. But it's pretty good news. My big thing is the label addition -- I'll be able to file posts under categories, which means you and I will be able to click and peruse all of the posts similarly labeled. This is a very good thing. I can, for instance, write about something that happened a long time ago, post it with a label of "past" and you'll know that it happened a long time ago. Not, say, two days ago.
That was one of the biggest things that TypePad offered me over Blogger. If Blogger was going to offer it, problem solved. I cancelled the free trial and came back home.
There is one problem, though. "Gradual launch." Boo. I have no idea of when these magical features will become available to me -- and now that I know they're out there, I want them now.
The kicker? If you set up a NEW blog, you can hop right into Beta. If you happen to have, say, more than FIVE YEARS OF POSTS on one blog (an even earlier seven months of posts on another, by the way), you have to wait.
Dear Blogger: You and I have come a long way, baby. And I'm here for the long haul.
So how about you, uh, show me a lil' love? Eh?
By the way, if you could take care of that whole, nasty, "Hey, Vix, you have to fill out the word verification in order to post" thing, that would be lovely. I assure you - only a real, live human would come up with these rambles.
XOXO,
There are some neat things abrewin' on the Blogger front - which means I'm agettin' antsy.
Recently, I flirted with the idea of moving Reverly over to TypePad. Well, "flirted" isn't really accurate. I went over, signed up, began to play with the interface and prepared to export the content here, import it over there.
In real-life terms, think of it as flirting, exchanging phone numbers, getting a call, agreeing to meet up for dinner, going on the date and leaning in for the kiss at the end of the night.
In the end, I couldn't quite lock lips, as it were.
Not that I felt guilty -- I've had every intention of getting my own domain and buying myself MoveableType for quite some time now -- but Blogger begged me to come back home and offered up promises of some sweet lovin'.
Blogger Beta, baby. Doesn't it just purr?
If you're not a blogger (or at all into webby design stuff), most of the new features that will be offered with the Beta won't make sense -- ease of template modification, labels, the speed and ease (for us, anyway) of dynamic publishing. But it's pretty good news. My big thing is the label addition -- I'll be able to file posts under categories, which means you and I will be able to click and peruse all of the posts similarly labeled. This is a very good thing. I can, for instance, write about something that happened a long time ago, post it with a label of "past" and you'll know that it happened a long time ago. Not, say, two days ago.
That was one of the biggest things that TypePad offered me over Blogger. If Blogger was going to offer it, problem solved. I cancelled the free trial and came back home.
There is one problem, though. "Gradual launch." Boo. I have no idea of when these magical features will become available to me -- and now that I know they're out there, I want them now.
The kicker? If you set up a NEW blog, you can hop right into Beta. If you happen to have, say, more than FIVE YEARS OF POSTS on one blog (an even earlier seven months of posts on another, by the way), you have to wait.
Dear Blogger: You and I have come a long way, baby. And I'm here for the long haul.
So how about you, uh, show me a lil' love? Eh?
By the way, if you could take care of that whole, nasty, "Hey, Vix, you have to fill out the word verification in order to post" thing, that would be lovely. I assure you - only a real, live human would come up with these rambles.
XOXO,
Always look on the bright side of life
"Hey, let's look at the silver lining here." I leaned back, resting the back of my neck against the back of my chair. "Now we have, what, six weeks of enjoying baseball for the sheer love of the game."
Laughter and commiseration mingled in response. I spun the chair around.
"I mean, no need to worry about completely unnecessary things. Like, say, winning or even playing well. Who needs a high-fallutin' POSTSEASON, anyway? Ball going to get away from you? Dive! Somersault! Do a split! You've got nothin' to lose! There really is no tomorrow! You're gonna have months to recuperate!"
It hurts. The dull ache of the olden (read: pre-2004) days, mixed with a new fresh agony.
See, back then, we knew to expect something like this. It didn't matter how well the team was playing. They'd do something, and they'd make the breakdown something spectacular. One could make predictions during spring training as to what it was going to be. Offense? Defense? Bullpen? A complicated cocktail of all of the above?
But this team...as N and I lamented this weekend, this team was a well-oiled machine. Purring. And then? Implosion.
Now don't go saying it. I'm not one of those who got greedy after one little (glorious) victory parade. My hopes this season, same as any season, were simple. Postseason.
The shortlist. The invitation to keep on playing as the leaves fall and hats are pulled on above scarves. I often say my favorite season is autumn, but it's not entirely accurate: my favorite season is the Red Sox postseason.
Have I yet joined to Wilburs and Ryans and others who are saying that there is No Way In Hell that the Red Sox will make the postseason? It's the big question, the one everyone who wears a red B on their head has been asking themselves.
Not quite. I'm close, but still fighting it.
It's part of following the Red Sox to complain. You cry out and think occasionally of actually crying (and ometimes you can't help it. Yeah, that's right. I've cried over dem Sox and I ain't ashamed to admit it). You curse and then carry on insightful, informed, surprisingly statistics-driven conversations about the team, it's history and the decisions made over the course of the last season/decade/century.
(Sometimes, because you're a girl, your opinion is ignored and you're left with no choice but to school the people with whom you are speaking. AHEM.)
Even as I find myself accepting the fact that the season will most likely end on Oct. 1, I'm going to keep on watching, keep on cheering/yelling/sighing and see what happens. I have tickets to two more games this season. I might wind up with at least one more.
I intend to enjoy them.
Everyone knows that the Red Sox have a habit of surprising people. So if 99.99 percent of the fanbase expects the continuation of a meltdown...
Hey. Crazier things have happened.
That said, I found myself watching this on repeat a couple of times today. Memories...
"Hey, let's look at the silver lining here." I leaned back, resting the back of my neck against the back of my chair. "Now we have, what, six weeks of enjoying baseball for the sheer love of the game."
Laughter and commiseration mingled in response. I spun the chair around.
"I mean, no need to worry about completely unnecessary things. Like, say, winning or even playing well. Who needs a high-fallutin' POSTSEASON, anyway? Ball going to get away from you? Dive! Somersault! Do a split! You've got nothin' to lose! There really is no tomorrow! You're gonna have months to recuperate!"
It hurts. The dull ache of the olden (read: pre-2004) days, mixed with a new fresh agony.
See, back then, we knew to expect something like this. It didn't matter how well the team was playing. They'd do something, and they'd make the breakdown something spectacular. One could make predictions during spring training as to what it was going to be. Offense? Defense? Bullpen? A complicated cocktail of all of the above?
But this team...as N and I lamented this weekend, this team was a well-oiled machine. Purring. And then? Implosion.
Now don't go saying it. I'm not one of those who got greedy after one little (glorious) victory parade. My hopes this season, same as any season, were simple. Postseason.
The shortlist. The invitation to keep on playing as the leaves fall and hats are pulled on above scarves. I often say my favorite season is autumn, but it's not entirely accurate: my favorite season is the Red Sox postseason.
Have I yet joined to Wilburs and Ryans and others who are saying that there is No Way In Hell that the Red Sox will make the postseason? It's the big question, the one everyone who wears a red B on their head has been asking themselves.
Not quite. I'm close, but still fighting it.
It's part of following the Red Sox to complain. You cry out and think occasionally of actually crying (and ometimes you can't help it. Yeah, that's right. I've cried over dem Sox and I ain't ashamed to admit it). You curse and then carry on insightful, informed, surprisingly statistics-driven conversations about the team, it's history and the decisions made over the course of the last season/decade/century.
(Sometimes, because you're a girl, your opinion is ignored and you're left with no choice but to school the people with whom you are speaking. AHEM.)
Even as I find myself accepting the fact that the season will most likely end on Oct. 1, I'm going to keep on watching, keep on cheering/yelling/sighing and see what happens. I have tickets to two more games this season. I might wind up with at least one more.
I intend to enjoy them.
Everyone knows that the Red Sox have a habit of surprising people. So if 99.99 percent of the fanbase expects the continuation of a meltdown...
Hey. Crazier things have happened.
That said, I found myself watching this on repeat a couple of times today. Memories...
8.22.2006
But as of today, I'm around...
I don't know precisely when I decided that it was my goal to document all four weeks of the Ryan Montbleau Band residency (with slight blur, due to refusal to blind the band with flashes), but nevertheless, here I am, with another set of photographs.
Click on the mosaic to go the rest of the set. And know that I was pummeled in the stomach, left dazed and grinning, during my first listen to "Love and Love Lost." One of those songs that you listen to and instantly know that it's going to be appreciated en masse.
(Much like how I felt the first time I heard "Collide" live - back in the pre-Ohmigodit'sHowieDay days.)
I don't know precisely when I decided that it was my goal to document all four weeks of the Ryan Montbleau Band residency (with slight blur, due to refusal to blind the band with flashes), but nevertheless, here I am, with another set of photographs.
Click on the mosaic to go the rest of the set. And know that I was pummeled in the stomach, left dazed and grinning, during my first listen to "Love and Love Lost." One of those songs that you listen to and instantly know that it's going to be appreciated en masse.
(Much like how I felt the first time I heard "Collide" live - back in the pre-Ohmigodit'sHowieDay days.)
8.21.2006
So good, so good, so good
I've mentioned the "Sweet Caroline" thing, I'm sure. My brother or I, upon attending a Sox game, call my mother during the middle of eight for the singalong? Or the rare occasion that my mother attends a Sox game without me, during which she makes sure to return the favor? And the two occasions during which flatmates (therefore, live-in family) called to pipe some Diamond into my cell phone?
I have a number of friends who are Sox fans. I have a number of friends who attend games at Fenway.
I've never had a friend call in "Sweet Caroline" until tonight. During a YANKEES GAME, no less!
Which is why, after I laughingly sang my "Bah, bah, bah"s into the phone as the television showed commercials, I officially welcomed Nicole into the family.
I've mentioned the "Sweet Caroline" thing, I'm sure. My brother or I, upon attending a Sox game, call my mother during the middle of eight for the singalong? Or the rare occasion that my mother attends a Sox game without me, during which she makes sure to return the favor? And the two occasions during which flatmates (therefore, live-in family) called to pipe some Diamond into my cell phone?
I have a number of friends who are Sox fans. I have a number of friends who attend games at Fenway.
I've never had a friend call in "Sweet Caroline" until tonight. During a YANKEES GAME, no less!
Which is why, after I laughingly sang my "Bah, bah, bah"s into the phone as the television showed commercials, I officially welcomed Nicole into the family.
8.18.2006
Shit.
It's 2 a.m. and I can't even begin to fathom the concept of sleep. My mind is wired and my body is following suit, ready to bounce.
Quietly. The flatmates are asleep, as are most rational people at this hour.
One afternoon in college, I returned to my room to find an email from my favorite radio station back home waiting for me in my inbox. In it, I learned that I had won tickets to see (then pretty freshly removed from the Five) Ben Folds in nearby New York state.
I was elated. Until two hours later, when I received a follow-up email from the station manager, informing me that there had been some electronic snafu and I was once again Ben Folds ticket-less.
For the time being, I'll simply say that I'm half-holding my breath, waiting for another follow-up to arrive.
It's 2 a.m. and I can't even begin to fathom the concept of sleep. My mind is wired and my body is following suit, ready to bounce.
Quietly. The flatmates are asleep, as are most rational people at this hour.
One afternoon in college, I returned to my room to find an email from my favorite radio station back home waiting for me in my inbox. In it, I learned that I had won tickets to see (then pretty freshly removed from the Five) Ben Folds in nearby New York state.
I was elated. Until two hours later, when I received a follow-up email from the station manager, informing me that there had been some electronic snafu and I was once again Ben Folds ticket-less.
For the time being, I'll simply say that I'm half-holding my breath, waiting for another follow-up to arrive.
8.17.2006
Dear Mr. Sandman
Last night, I dreamt of good news.
I had settled into my desk chair to check in on my team. A quick jaunt to Boston.com to get the latest -- particualrly to see whether Eric Wilbur had yet to retract his Send In the Clowns column. A click on Sports, another on Red Sox.
The face jumped out at me, surrounded by the blonde curls. The headline was magic.
"Arroyo back home."
Bronson was back. A series of quick trades (I don't recall the other players or teams involved) that planted Arroyo back in the Boston lineup, just in time for the Nomar-spark Wilbur had written would never come this season.
Things were suddenly better. The Sox had defeated Detroit (my mother, father and uncle happily took in the game with the tickets I'd had to give up), Arroyo was to be back on the mound and the team was going to give it another shot.
I cheered out loud. Hallelujah. The fates have smiled again.
When I awoke, I settled into my desk chair to check in on my team. Boston.com. Click on Sports, click on Red Sox.
No Bronson. Instead, a photo of a monkey perched on Craig Hansen's shoulder.
I thought briefly of calling in Red Sox and returning to my dreams.
Last night, I dreamt of good news.
I had settled into my desk chair to check in on my team. A quick jaunt to Boston.com to get the latest -- particualrly to see whether Eric Wilbur had yet to retract his Send In the Clowns column. A click on Sports, another on Red Sox.
The face jumped out at me, surrounded by the blonde curls. The headline was magic.
"Arroyo back home."
Bronson was back. A series of quick trades (I don't recall the other players or teams involved) that planted Arroyo back in the Boston lineup, just in time for the Nomar-spark Wilbur had written would never come this season.
Things were suddenly better. The Sox had defeated Detroit (my mother, father and uncle happily took in the game with the tickets I'd had to give up), Arroyo was to be back on the mound and the team was going to give it another shot.
I cheered out loud. Hallelujah. The fates have smiled again.
When I awoke, I settled into my desk chair to check in on my team. Boston.com. Click on Sports, click on Red Sox.
No Bronson. Instead, a photo of a monkey perched on Craig Hansen's shoulder.
I thought briefly of calling in Red Sox and returning to my dreams.
Jesus on the radio
It's not that I'm worried about looking like a moron in front of bold-faced names; I'm worried about looking like a moron in front of just about anyone, bold-faced name or not. I've met famous people and I've met complete strangers - I consider each equal opportunity to wind up coming off as an ass.
Which is why I found it so funny to have the question thrown my way. Or, frankly, more of a request to confirm than anything else.
"You've MET THEM?"
I laughed. I couldn't help it. "Yes, I've met them."
The girl dropped the corner of the six-foot wide sign she was helping to carry. Her jaw dropped in time.
There's something to be said about the sheer joy (and wonder, terror and everything else) that comes across some people's faces when they realize that one or some of their idols are actually meetable. That people do in fact have the opportunity to say hello, shake a hand, exchange names and chat about the weather or whatever the hell they would like to discuss.
You can do that???? Yes. You can. And kudos to you for having good taste; these idols are worthy of your star-struck eyes.
The trio (two girls and a guy) had pieced together multiple sheets of posterboard -- neon orange, of course -- to request a song. The six-foot-by-four-foot sign requested "Jesus on the Radio," complete with an image of Christ hovering above, well, a radio. A boombox, really. On the back of the sign, they'd added a second option. "Or...Two Points."
Contingency plan. I liked it.
When I told them about how everything worked with the raffle, they descended upon the table. As much money as they could. They singlehandedly contributed to about a quarter of the proceeds. Which meant that none of us were surprised when one of their names was drawn.
Turns out, they kind of won twice. As they had tried to wrap their brains around the idea of meeting the band, Adam had walked right behind them, smiling at the huge sign on the ground. They'd been completely unaware of this, of course.
And at show's end, when the band returned for their second encore, Ryan made reference to the "huge sign" shortly before the band launched into "Jesus on the Radio." The girls screeched and ran to grab the sign, pulling it back into the center of the crowd as they pumped their fists in the air and clutched at each other.
Had anything happened to them at that moment, they truly would have died utterly happy. One tried not to cry, the other stared raptly at the stage. The token male of the group hugged each, a huge, beaming smile threatening to crack his face.
It was a great rendition of the song, but I kept my eyes on this little group of Canadian fans that, while a bit louder than I tend to be, managed to strike a chord. People so wrapped up in a song or a band, alternating between disbelief and joy that That Band was playing That Song and mentioned Their Sign.
And that they were actually going to MEET THEM in just a few minutes' time.
It's not that I'm worried about looking like a moron in front of bold-faced names; I'm worried about looking like a moron in front of just about anyone, bold-faced name or not. I've met famous people and I've met complete strangers - I consider each equal opportunity to wind up coming off as an ass.
Which is why I found it so funny to have the question thrown my way. Or, frankly, more of a request to confirm than anything else.
"You've MET THEM?"
I laughed. I couldn't help it. "Yes, I've met them."
The girl dropped the corner of the six-foot wide sign she was helping to carry. Her jaw dropped in time.
There's something to be said about the sheer joy (and wonder, terror and everything else) that comes across some people's faces when they realize that one or some of their idols are actually meetable. That people do in fact have the opportunity to say hello, shake a hand, exchange names and chat about the weather or whatever the hell they would like to discuss.
You can do that???? Yes. You can. And kudos to you for having good taste; these idols are worthy of your star-struck eyes.
The trio (two girls and a guy) had pieced together multiple sheets of posterboard -- neon orange, of course -- to request a song. The six-foot-by-four-foot sign requested "Jesus on the Radio," complete with an image of Christ hovering above, well, a radio. A boombox, really. On the back of the sign, they'd added a second option. "Or...Two Points."
Contingency plan. I liked it.
When I told them about how everything worked with the raffle, they descended upon the table. As much money as they could. They singlehandedly contributed to about a quarter of the proceeds. Which meant that none of us were surprised when one of their names was drawn.
Turns out, they kind of won twice. As they had tried to wrap their brains around the idea of meeting the band, Adam had walked right behind them, smiling at the huge sign on the ground. They'd been completely unaware of this, of course.
And at show's end, when the band returned for their second encore, Ryan made reference to the "huge sign" shortly before the band launched into "Jesus on the Radio." The girls screeched and ran to grab the sign, pulling it back into the center of the crowd as they pumped their fists in the air and clutched at each other.
Had anything happened to them at that moment, they truly would have died utterly happy. One tried not to cry, the other stared raptly at the stage. The token male of the group hugged each, a huge, beaming smile threatening to crack his face.
It was a great rendition of the song, but I kept my eyes on this little group of Canadian fans that, while a bit louder than I tend to be, managed to strike a chord. People so wrapped up in a song or a band, alternating between disbelief and joy that That Band was playing That Song and mentioned Their Sign.
And that they were actually going to MEET THEM in just a few minutes' time.
8.15.2006
Ruh roh
The next month of Tuesdays are going to be painfully difficult. In a good, set-up-the-coffee-IV sort of way.
Bleary eyes are the order of the day. Bleary eyes and multiple lattes (I'm on my second already, with at least one more to come). True to form, the evening's performance did not wrap up until the morning, with a 2 am. sendoff of "See you next week!"
Oh God. Next week. This happens again. And again. And then once more, for good measure.
I'm not complaining. It's the lack of sleep that's talking, and even that is with a dopey grin that can't quite translate onto the page.
Music and friends have seemed to be everywhere I turn. "Glorious" does not even begin to describe.
Truth is, there's been so much fun crammed into the last few days that my brain is reeling. And my body isn't overly pleased with me.
Memo
To: V
From: Your Body
Subject: What the hell?
You're not in college anymore, dipshit. You need to give yourself some rest. Seriously. Hello. Do you copy?
To: My Body
From: V
Subject: Re: What the hell?
Oh, shut up, you wuss. You can take it. You're the first to complain about being bored when there isn't enough to do.
One more show tomorrow, then a few days of relaxation. During those days, I sleep. And work on other projects.
In the meantime, keeping conscious is my chief objective.
And continuing to dance.
The next month of Tuesdays are going to be painfully difficult. In a good, set-up-the-coffee-IV sort of way.
Bleary eyes are the order of the day. Bleary eyes and multiple lattes (I'm on my second already, with at least one more to come). True to form, the evening's performance did not wrap up until the morning, with a 2 am. sendoff of "See you next week!"
Oh God. Next week. This happens again. And again. And then once more, for good measure.
I'm not complaining. It's the lack of sleep that's talking, and even that is with a dopey grin that can't quite translate onto the page.
Music and friends have seemed to be everywhere I turn. "Glorious" does not even begin to describe.
Truth is, there's been so much fun crammed into the last few days that my brain is reeling. And my body isn't overly pleased with me.
Memo
To: V
From: Your Body
Subject: What the hell?
You're not in college anymore, dipshit. You need to give yourself some rest. Seriously. Hello. Do you copy?
To: My Body
From: V
Subject: Re: What the hell?
Oh, shut up, you wuss. You can take it. You're the first to complain about being bored when there isn't enough to do.
One more show tomorrow, then a few days of relaxation. During those days, I sleep. And work on other projects.
In the meantime, keeping conscious is my chief objective.
And continuing to dance.
8.14.2006
Chronicles of a Go-Go Dancer
There are no bad seats in the Corporate Mad Libs Pavilion, but I've actually grown rather fond of the space behind all of the crowds.
See, when you're dealing with seats and seatmates, there's an issue of common courtesy. You have to worry about your personal space, others' personal space...let's face it, there's nothing worse -- for both parties involved -- than an unexpected run-in between an elbow and a solar plexus. Painful, awkward, bad, bad, bad.
But beyond the seats? That, dear friends, is the land of dancing magic, in which energetic music enthusiasts can get their goofy rockout going on.
It had already been a great evening. I was working the RFAR table with three of my favorite women in the world, and concertgoers strongly supported our Greater Boston Food Band fundraising endeavors. $2 for a chance to meet Guster and help out a good cause? Yes, please. Can I get two? Rogue Wave and the Yonder Mountain String Band had set the happy mood, and I'd spent my time collecting tickets and chatting with the (surprising, delightful) multitude of familiar faces that I'd seen.
By the time the house lights dimmed and the audience began to roar, all but a few stragglers had made their way to their seats. We stood on chairs to look out at the stage to witness the first Guster Takes on Boston entrance I'd ever actually seen.
Lights out, sound cued. "Born to Be Wild" pulsed through the speakers as four blinking red lights emerged on the house right aisle.
The most dorky, glorious quartet of Segway riders ever made its way up the side, around the back and down the center right aisle, slapping hands with the screaming audience members before moving up a ramp and onto stage. Helmets and all. Brian kept his on. We went wild.
As the band kicked off "Barrel of a Gun," my friends and I were so excited -- about being together, about being on the water, about being at this show, hell, about being alive -- that we did what anyone else would do, given the space and carefree attitudes.
We began to jump around, dance, sing at the top of our lungs and otherwise just completely let loose. At one point, a friend from college M and I had seen earlier came over and joined our little line of dancing fools. As he left, he informed M that "you girls look like go-go dancers. I dig it."
Guster's Go-Go Girls. Rolls off the tongue, doesn't it?
We continued for two hours. We probably would have tired at some point, had Guster lowered the energy for a song or two, but the band instead decided to unleash the best set I've ever seen them perform -- and complete the single most enjoyable concert experience I've had. Impeccable energy, musicianship and fun. The crowd loved it, and joyously booed the band back onstage for its encore (band's idea: Let's do an anti-encore. If you like us and want us to come back, boo us. Turn your backs to us and flip us off. The audience added to it by breaking into a chant of "Guster Sucks." Lovely. Charming. Awesome.)
Barrel of a Gun
The Captain
Backyard
Satellite
Amsterdam
I Spy
Manifest Destiny
C'mon
Airport Song (now less Vincent Price, more straight up Satan)
Careful
The Beginning of the End
Ruby Falls
(Nothing But) Flowers (featuring former Guster drum tech and Lowell, Mass., native Sean Lynde on drums)
Demons
Center of Attention
Come Downstairs & Say Hello
------
e:
So Long (the evening's "one time this tour" treat)
The New Underground
Happier
Keep It Together
By the end of the regular set, we were busy dancing our way through breakdown, folding tables, packing boxes, cleaning up. L and I, both thrilled to hear the "Flowers" surprise, danced in time to the beat as we rolled up banners.
Roll it roll it roll it up, "now it's all covered with daisies" -- roll it, roll it.
By the walk back to the cars at the end of the night, after gathering, chatting and saying hellos, I was still bobbing my heads and laughing over the sheer joy of the night. I don't like to say that nights or events -- anything, really -- are perfect.
But this came awfully close.
There are no bad seats in the Corporate Mad Libs Pavilion, but I've actually grown rather fond of the space behind all of the crowds.
See, when you're dealing with seats and seatmates, there's an issue of common courtesy. You have to worry about your personal space, others' personal space...let's face it, there's nothing worse -- for both parties involved -- than an unexpected run-in between an elbow and a solar plexus. Painful, awkward, bad, bad, bad.
But beyond the seats? That, dear friends, is the land of dancing magic, in which energetic music enthusiasts can get their goofy rockout going on.
It had already been a great evening. I was working the RFAR table with three of my favorite women in the world, and concertgoers strongly supported our Greater Boston Food Band fundraising endeavors. $2 for a chance to meet Guster and help out a good cause? Yes, please. Can I get two? Rogue Wave and the Yonder Mountain String Band had set the happy mood, and I'd spent my time collecting tickets and chatting with the (surprising, delightful) multitude of familiar faces that I'd seen.
By the time the house lights dimmed and the audience began to roar, all but a few stragglers had made their way to their seats. We stood on chairs to look out at the stage to witness the first Guster Takes on Boston entrance I'd ever actually seen.
Lights out, sound cued. "Born to Be Wild" pulsed through the speakers as four blinking red lights emerged on the house right aisle.
The most dorky, glorious quartet of Segway riders ever made its way up the side, around the back and down the center right aisle, slapping hands with the screaming audience members before moving up a ramp and onto stage. Helmets and all. Brian kept his on. We went wild.
As the band kicked off "Barrel of a Gun," my friends and I were so excited -- about being together, about being on the water, about being at this show, hell, about being alive -- that we did what anyone else would do, given the space and carefree attitudes.
We began to jump around, dance, sing at the top of our lungs and otherwise just completely let loose. At one point, a friend from college M and I had seen earlier came over and joined our little line of dancing fools. As he left, he informed M that "you girls look like go-go dancers. I dig it."
Guster's Go-Go Girls. Rolls off the tongue, doesn't it?
We continued for two hours. We probably would have tired at some point, had Guster lowered the energy for a song or two, but the band instead decided to unleash the best set I've ever seen them perform -- and complete the single most enjoyable concert experience I've had. Impeccable energy, musicianship and fun. The crowd loved it, and joyously booed the band back onstage for its encore (band's idea: Let's do an anti-encore. If you like us and want us to come back, boo us. Turn your backs to us and flip us off. The audience added to it by breaking into a chant of "Guster Sucks." Lovely. Charming. Awesome.)
Barrel of a Gun
The Captain
Backyard
Satellite
Amsterdam
I Spy
Manifest Destiny
C'mon
Airport Song (now less Vincent Price, more straight up Satan)
Careful
The Beginning of the End
Ruby Falls
(Nothing But) Flowers (featuring former Guster drum tech and Lowell, Mass., native Sean Lynde on drums)
Demons
Center of Attention
Come Downstairs & Say Hello
------
e:
So Long (the evening's "one time this tour" treat)
The New Underground
Happier
Keep It Together
By the end of the regular set, we were busy dancing our way through breakdown, folding tables, packing boxes, cleaning up. L and I, both thrilled to hear the "Flowers" surprise, danced in time to the beat as we rolled up banners.
Roll it roll it roll it up, "now it's all covered with daisies" -- roll it, roll it.
By the walk back to the cars at the end of the night, after gathering, chatting and saying hellos, I was still bobbing my heads and laughing over the sheer joy of the night. I don't like to say that nights or events -- anything, really -- are perfect.
But this came awfully close.
Stop the boat
Another thing I can check off the list of Things I Never Particularly Wanted To Do But Should Probably Have the Experience of Doing for Life Lessons' Sake:
Sprint down a pier, in heels, trying to catch a boat (ship? dinghy?) before it departs for locations unknown (i.e. Boston Harbor). In this challenge, the pier pathway, of course, is alternately cobblestone and sand - you are, of course, wearing a wrap dress and occasionally showing a bit too much leg for anyone who might be observing the debacle from either of the cruises preparing to set off.
Nicole and I were late. Showed up just barely on time at the wrong pier kind of late. What are we going to do with our evening kind of late. And yet we still put in the effort, jumping out of the car in the parking lot, running in our heels down stairs, out a door, across a couple of streets, down a pier, across the aforementioned cobblestone and sand, to the gate and onto the boat.
It pulled away from shore about 30 seconds later. Hell of an entrance? You bet. Particularly as we breathlessly boarded, laughed, hugged each other to champion our success and then leaned against the railing, the very picture of nonchalance.
Another day, another crazy adventure.
We were rewarded with an amazing set. Truly. As we stood inside the main room, drinks in hand, I realized that I felt so proud of the band that has taken shape over time. Chad, Dennis, Steve and now drummer Max are locked into the same mode. The energy's there, the focus -- the addition of the drums takes already impressive tunes to the next level. During a performance of "Somewhere Beside Me," it seemed everyone -- onstage, in the audience -- couldn't help but bob their heads in time. It was electrifyingly good.
The boat itself was also a good time. Less sunset this time around (August, you kill me with your early to bed crap), but good conversation, good times. Good bad Chinese food, even -- bonus. A lot of faces I knew of (thanks, myspace, you evil thing you), some faces I definitely knew, and then a few that made my night (Hi, G!). And with the exceptions of 1) being hit by an obnoxiously drunk girl's purse -- twice -- and 2) reeling in disbelief at some Jekyll/Hyde behavior, it was a gorgeously friendly, funny sort of occasion.
Worth the wincing that occurred the next morning, when I awoke and instantly realized that my de-heeled feet were going to be angry with me for a long, long time.
Another thing I can check off the list of Things I Never Particularly Wanted To Do But Should Probably Have the Experience of Doing for Life Lessons' Sake:
Sprint down a pier, in heels, trying to catch a boat (ship? dinghy?) before it departs for locations unknown (i.e. Boston Harbor). In this challenge, the pier pathway, of course, is alternately cobblestone and sand - you are, of course, wearing a wrap dress and occasionally showing a bit too much leg for anyone who might be observing the debacle from either of the cruises preparing to set off.
Nicole and I were late. Showed up just barely on time at the wrong pier kind of late. What are we going to do with our evening kind of late. And yet we still put in the effort, jumping out of the car in the parking lot, running in our heels down stairs, out a door, across a couple of streets, down a pier, across the aforementioned cobblestone and sand, to the gate and onto the boat.
It pulled away from shore about 30 seconds later. Hell of an entrance? You bet. Particularly as we breathlessly boarded, laughed, hugged each other to champion our success and then leaned against the railing, the very picture of nonchalance.
Another day, another crazy adventure.
We were rewarded with an amazing set. Truly. As we stood inside the main room, drinks in hand, I realized that I felt so proud of the band that has taken shape over time. Chad, Dennis, Steve and now drummer Max are locked into the same mode. The energy's there, the focus -- the addition of the drums takes already impressive tunes to the next level. During a performance of "Somewhere Beside Me," it seemed everyone -- onstage, in the audience -- couldn't help but bob their heads in time. It was electrifyingly good.
The boat itself was also a good time. Less sunset this time around (August, you kill me with your early to bed crap), but good conversation, good times. Good bad Chinese food, even -- bonus. A lot of faces I knew of (thanks, myspace, you evil thing you), some faces I definitely knew, and then a few that made my night (Hi, G!). And with the exceptions of 1) being hit by an obnoxiously drunk girl's purse -- twice -- and 2) reeling in disbelief at some Jekyll/Hyde behavior, it was a gorgeously friendly, funny sort of occasion.
Worth the wincing that occurred the next morning, when I awoke and instantly realized that my de-heeled feet were going to be angry with me for a long, long time.
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