Not It.

It was neither his fault or mine that I left Metronome early last night...

I just wasn't feeling it and wasn't in the mood to fake enthusiasm.

The truth is, I've been spoiled. I've become accustomed to - and instinctively demand - something special when I attend a performance. I'd just come off a week that included musicians who put their everything up on stage beneath a spotlight, and each one had It.

That spark that makes you want to sit up a little straighter and lean forward in your seat so you don't miss a phrase. The charisma that makes you sigh a bit, blush a bit if he looks in your direction from his place at the microphone because you half-worry that your enjoyment is too evident. And, most importantly, the fire that transforms words and chord progressions into something that feels completely natural, yet you wouldn't have thought of it on your own.

He seems like a perfectly nice guy, and it was clear that he loves being on stage and performing. But, glorious cover aside*, I wasn't feeling anything that could be considered either new or special. I've seen the looping done much better elsewhere, when it didn't feel quite as forced. I've heard those sentiments, heartfelt as they may have been at the time they were written, phrased and delivered better before. And the possibility that the small audience** affected things?

I've attended embarrassingly tiny shows before. I've attended huge shows before. And when things are working from the stage, I have moments where I completely forget that anyone else is there. So no, that's not an excuse.***

Best of luck, perhaps I'll catch another show somewhere down the road. But I'm not going to go out of my way.

* It's been a good week for Top Ten Favorite Songs. Jeff Buckley's "Lover You Should've Come Over" in Boston, The Postal Service's "The District Sleeps Alone Tonight" in Vermont. Thank you, Cover Gods.
** Five people. Including Will. Who opened. I felt rude as I prepared to duck out early, but then a group came in, so I was able to sneak out without feeling too badly about it.
*** Besides, I'll always take a smaller show over a larger show.

Grrr

OR Living in a Winter Wonderland

There are those who love winter.

Then there are those who complain about winter once the calendar reaches, say, January or the depression that is a gray, snowy February. But when the first snow falls from the sky, they waltz around saying how idyllic it all looks. They make hot chocolate and curl up beneath a blanket watching the white descending onto the cold ground below.

And then there's me.

Upon seeing the snow falling yesterday evening, the only things in my mind were the following:

- There is cold white stuff raining gloom from the dark clouds above.
- There is cold white stuff on my car, requiring me to scrape off said car with a shovel because I'd yet to find my ice scraper.
- Fabulous, I'm going to be walking around with tense shoulders until March or April.
- I could hop on a plane at 6 a.m. Thursday morning and travel from Burlington to San Diego, one way, for $209. (Yes, I did look it up.)

I know the question that comes to mind: Why live in New England if I can't take the cold?

Because I grew up here, my loved ones are here, and, perhaps most importantly, I lived away from New England for a year and the snow followed me. And if you're not in the cold constantly, it only makes you more of a wuss when it arrives.

Fortunately, no snow on the ground in Burlington. Here's to hoping it stays that way, at least until I dig out my long wool peacoat...

A humble request

Are you there, fates? It's me, V.

Listen, I was hoping to ask a favor of you. You see, for some inexplicable reason, I'm going to be going to a football game on Sunday, and I'm really not digging all of this talk of snow coming down this week.

Now, I know, I know, I always wind up sending a plea your way around this time of year. It's well-established that I'm not crazy about the fact that you decide to send cold and the snow and all of that my way each year - and I'm not pleased with the fact that you robbed me of my autumn.

But I'm willing to let that slide - as much as I can - this year if you help me with this football thing. I've never attended an NFL game before and, much as I certainly appreciate Tom Brady, I never exactly thought that I would. I'm more of a soccer football kind of girl.

But my father got tickets for us to take in the game against the Bills and it's going to be an opportunity to do some father-daughter bonding. Which is funny when you think about it, because we'll be bonding by each yelling at the little figures running around way below us at Gillette Stadium. But I won't dabble into details.

Lest we forget about the incident at Camden Yards a couple of years ago, when I spent a chunk of the baseball game huddled into a shivering bundle of person, clutching a cup of coffee...that was April, fates. April. This is going to be football in late October.

So help me out, fates. Get this whole "chance of snow" thing out of your system now and hook me up with a nice weekend. Let me not freeze at the game, let us have a good time.

I'll promise to try to keep my mouth shut this winter. It's the best I can do.

Sound like a plan? Good.

Best,
V

This is going to be a choppy post. Consider yourself warned. Everything wound up blurring together...

Derek worked wonders and has already uploaded to Live Archive the two Nathanson Paradise shows I attended...may I recommend downloading "Detriot Waves" from Friday night and listening to it as you read? Head on over here and go nuts. It's available right here. Consider it a soundtrack to my roundup.

My time away included the musical moments I'd been hoping for and some that managed to surprise me.

- Despite feet that ached from wearing high-heeled boots for the better part of a week, I found myself dancing without a care on Saturday night as the Ryan Montbleau Band launched a full-band rendition of "City," the previously unaccompanied spoken-word-turned-song bit that opens up "Begin." A big, big fan of the track, I never thought I'd ever hear it live, so the jump up from my seat that followed the opening words was completely justified. And not at all dorky.
- Jonah Smith prefaced a cover with the explanation that he was going to attempt a song by a musician whose work he's loved for a long time - Jeff Buckley. As I leaned forward in expectant delight, he began "Lover You Should've Come Over" and my jaw nearly hit the floor. For those familiar with the song, when the instrumentation swells on "Grace" about three-quarters of the way through the song, Smith's band cut out, leaving Jonah to create a music-box take on the melody on the high keys. Brilliant. Gorgeous. Loved it.
- Matt. I don't know how he works it. He manages to make me want to refer to him endearingly as Matty Nay, yet I have to follow up the name with "that crazy motherfucker." Two out of the three shows sold out (the two I attended). "Detroit Waves" made me misty-eyed because he's taking songs I've loved for awhile now and bringing them to a whole new level with the band. He's taken everything he's been dealt professionally over the years and he's doing it on his own, with firey determination and incredible passion whenever he's on stage. And he loves his fans more fiercly than any other performer I've known of. He IS a crazy motherfucker, but he's the first to say thank you to those who support him for making him OUR crazy motherfucker. I just feel such a sense of pride each time I leave one of his shows.
- Speechwriters LLC started off with "Blood on the Frets" and kept on flying from there. I've become absurdedly hooked on the band since the NEMO showcase a few weeks ago, and they're scheduled to be back in Boston sometime in November. And I will, surprise surprise, be there for it. Added bonus? Best merch idea ever: slap bracelets. I'm wearing one now. Ha.
- I like the Chit Chat. I was able to take in sets by both Chad, who I always enjoy being able to see, and Mister Vertigo, who I'd been trying to see for awhile now. I enjoy places where the bartender will laugh with you and people are relaxed as they chat with friends. Considering all of the Paradise "Big Show" hoopla encountered later in the week, it was nice to kick things off with a comfortable show with a small group of people, where I could either listen to the performances on stage or converse. I did both with great relish. And P Squared was in the house!

But then there were the little things that made the time so enjoyable. And that made it so hard to leave yesterday. The conversation and laughter. Running into people I know. Driving to various places and knowing how to get there. Familiarity.

During one of the evenings I found myself conscious and chatting far later than I probably should have, Michelle asked me what I thought of the night that had passed. I tried to downplay it, much to her amusement.

I was doing so for many reasons, but most of all because I didn't want to really let myself process just how much I'd enjoyed myself. Because doing so would bring with it the realization that I currently have to ration these out. It's not my normal, much as it feels more normal than anything else right now. I can't help but feel that, with variations of course, that it is supposed to be my normal.

It's probably a good thing that I was alone in the car for the trip home yesterday afternoon and evening, as I was in a foul, glowering mood that grew all the more so the farther into my journey I traveled.

I'm tired of driving away.

Back.

So. Home again. Worn out, with a head swimming with moments I'm going to try to get written down in various notebooks over the next day or so.

As is the case with most trips people take, I'm sure some of those anecdotes will remain strictly in my brain.

I'll be trying to get some form of roundup written for tomorrow.

Until then, hi. I'm home. And I have uploaded photos. Click on the photos to...aw, you know the deal.

A flight of fancy

It was certainly enough to warrant a second look.

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

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

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

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

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

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

So I did. And he replied.

And then we both waited for our drinks.

Awesome.

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

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

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

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

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

Tour Log - Friday

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

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

Thank goodness for ticket stubs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So I went back to singing Warrant.

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

Aw, shit.

Twas the day of vacation

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

Life Lesson #3450285

Caring about a person. Knowing a person.

Two entirely different things.

I looked at Beth.

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

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

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

"It sucks," she said.

"It's life."

We looked at each other.

Exactly.

We're both right.

Massachusetts, lend me your eyes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well, bring the cans, anyway.

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

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

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

You can't always get what you want

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

Autumn at its finest...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thanks, Waterbury, for a brief but enjoyable time.

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

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

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

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

And then I cried a lot.

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

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

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

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

See? Silver linings all around.



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

Drip dry

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

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

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

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

Your options?

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

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

From 0 to 6 in 90 seconds

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

A hate letter to "Not Yet."

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

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

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

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

A study in contrasts

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I wasn't a fan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then I head home.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unapologetic

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

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

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

I write a monthly check too.

So deal with it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Windows. Soul. Yeah. Yeah.

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

------

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Damn you, woman.

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

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

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

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

Just sayin'

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

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

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

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

Montreal. Oh you.

Mr. Alphabet

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If I get stopped at customs, I blame him.

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

mi casa in el medio de la calle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Confessions of an unsuccessful mindreader

It's a given.

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

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

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

I've no clue.

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

Why do we insist on making this so difficult?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The hardest words for me to say

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

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

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

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

Two, please.

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

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

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

Where is the pause button when I need it?

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

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

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

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

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

Dispatches from various shores

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Howie Day at Fenway. Weird.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No worries. Now you should be at -"

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

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

"I know where I am!"

"Want me to let you get there?"

"NOOOOOO. Sorry. OK. Now what?"

As I turned onto Commonwealth, I cheered.

"I LOVE YOU!"

"Look familiar?"

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

"Sounds good."

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

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

Still in it.

Early mornings are usually pretty quiet in this downtown, and it makes those walking the cobblestones and bricks more inclined to converse with strangers as they walk by. It feels as if autumn proves all the more condusive to conversation. Everyone has the same things on their minds.

Coffee. Something warm. Pretty leaves. Bundle up. Rosy cheeks.

As I made my way up the street for my coffee and conversation, my eyes lit up upon seing Red Sox caps above bleary-eyed faces.

Fourth only to the ALCS comeback, the championship and the victory parade, baseball conversation on Church Street was my favorite part of fall ball last year.

From October 2004:
i immediately walked into a number of walk-bys greetings and smiles from my boston bretheren. it was a huge surprise to me, as i'd just walked the same street minutes before and seen only a smattering of red sox gear. on my post-purchase travels, i've graciously received compliments on the hat and remarks of "can't wait for tonight!" after buying my hot caffeinated bevarage, i had the door to the coffeeshop held open for me by a charming fellow wearing a boston hat of his own. he had held the door for the older woman leaving before me and remained at the doorman perch for longer than most would consider necessary, letting me pass through the doorway unencumbered. he smiled as i said thank you, replying that he wouldn't hold the door for a yankees fan.

I couldn't fall asleep last night, after the jumping, shouting and cheering at the televised game. When I woke, I felt exhausted. Yet jubilant.

We're not dead yet.

We're nearing the post-season, uncertain about whether our name will be inscribed on one of the few invitations to the party. It's back to the Boston-New York rivalry, a little early this year, but just as desperate. A playoff within the regular season, for all intensive purposes - as do or die as the ALCS last year, in many minds.

Boston fans roll their eyes upon seeing the NY cap bobbing down the streets, and we grin at those who wear the same blue and red as we do. "How about that game last night?" "Ortiz is the man!" "Hell of a weekend coming up, huh?" "Hey, good luck this weekend."

We wish each other luck. I've had three people wish me luck for Sunday. I'm sitting in the upper bleachers, near the back of the park. The luck is necessary, but in a spot far away from where I will be sitting. Yet I wish the luck right back. Good luck to you too, man.

As I stood in line, waiting to pay for my latte, I saw the straight brim of the barista's Boston hat. I decided to embrace the time of year.

"What did you think of the game last night?"

"Oh man," he said. "I was ready to give up, but loved the outcome. It was painful, most of it, wasn't it?"

We chatted about how we watched or listened as he rang me up and handed me my change. As I prepared to turn away, I looked back and smiled.

"Good luck this weekend."

He grinned and rolled his eyes up toward the brim. "I'll need it. You too."

Where men are from

If my memory serves me correctly, Mars should be visible about this time of year. Which means I wasn't crazy for being startled at the sight of an incredibly bright, amber pinpoint of light in the sky as I stared up.

Or there's another satellite spying on me. Whatever works.

I decided to borrow and adapt the iPod meme I've seen on several other spaces as of late and see what my song selection has to say to me. Since I am iPod-less, I'm going with my collection of songs on my computer's Media Player - shuffled of course. Let's see what they have to say in response to my inquiries...

1. What do you think of me, Music Player?
The Honorary Title, Dilute
(Distance dilutes and rewrites and rewrites. Hmm. You might be onto something here, MP. That's kind of my cynical credo, isn't it?)

2. Will I have a happy life?
Megan Slankard, Lose Me
(I would certainly consider my pen leaking poetry to be a good thing...although the defective and insomniatic nature of the lyrics make me feel a little too close an inferred kinship to Ms. Plath...)

3. What do my friends really think of me?
Ben Folds, Still Fighting It
(Great. I've grown bitter as I've grown older. Thanks, friends. Love you too.)

4. What does my (V. edit - imaginary) S.O. think of me?
Amos Lee, Keep It Loose, Keep It Tight
(I'm in love with the world. I'm liking this...not to mention the easy, natural flow of the music. This is how love should sound. Warm, smooth, but saucy...)

5. Do people secretly lust after me?
Heather Nova, We Can Work It Out
(Um...life is very short, and there's no time for fussing and fighting over me, my friends.)

6. How can I make myself happy?
Averi, Flutter (live)
(HAHAHA. I need to walk across Storrow to the water and watch Cambridge wipe the sleep from its eyes. This implies living in Boston...Also applicable: I can make myself happy by remembering the words to the things that I write. Or: I need not call phone numbers that I possess.)

7. What should I do with my life?
Tristan Prettyman, Anything At All
(Always be true to myself seems to be the easiest theme to draw from this...although the process of letting go also comes to mind.)

8. Why must life be so full of pain?
Matt Nathanson, What You Need
(BECAUSE THE PURSUIT OF LOVE SUCKS AND RUINS EVERYTHING.)

9. How can I maximize my pleasure during sex?
John Butler Trio, Treat Yo Mama
(It's all in the attitude, baby. Or: do what you can to better mankind and you'll be rewarded? Um...)

10. Can you give me some advice?
Averi, For Better or Worse
(I officially dislike this meme. Heh. OK, here goes. Don't dwell on the past. Remember the difference a few years can make.)

11. What do you think happiness is?
Jason Mraz, Land Down Under
(I knew I needed to go to Australia one of these days.)

12. Do you have any advice to give over the next few hours/days?
Ben Taylor Band, A Good Day to Be Alive
(This must mean the Sox are going to the postseason after this weekend! Thanks, Music Player!)

13. Will I die happy?
Ryan Montbleau Band feat. Julian Velard, Use Me
(Awwwwwww yeah. Well I'm gonna spread the news, that if it feels this good getting used by you, oh you just keep on usin' me until you use me up. And I die. Happy.)

You knew I wouldn't stay away.

About a week ago, I sat at the corner of a long bar in New Hampshire, sipping a pint of beer I'd been led to believe was known as The Fisher Cat. After an attempt at confirming the name from a friend - and the ensuing cat-like gesturing that followed - I was told by the bartender that I had to move my hand like a cat's paw cutting through the air each time I ordered the drink.

Of course I obliged. Several times. It added to the surreal nature of ordering beer at a bar. It was all pretty new to my vodka cran-loving self.

So as I sipped the brew, marveling in my determination to develop a taste for malt and whatever else goes into the mix, a gentleman approached and introduced himself to me.

I spared a scene - and an unpleasent Fisher Cat incident - by not spitting out my beer. I was floored - and delighted - to discover that this was P Squared.

We chatted about the Red Sox, about Vermont and Massachusetts and numerous other things that came to mind, when he remarked on his disappointment about the cessation of this little space. It had become part of his routine, he said, and he'd enjoyed being able to read my little rambles.

I also felt disappointment - in that I had to remark about my move to another space. I suddenly wished I hadn't made the move.

The writer's block, the self-editing, the label I had affixed to the blog - that being "I Can't Write What I Want Here" - it made it feel as if I needed a new space in order to actually write my mind.

Well, screw that.

I should be able to write anywhere, and Revelry is my turf. I'm not giving that up. I like my readers - pretty quiet as you are, I know you're there - I like the URL, and I like having my history here.

So I'm tweaking things a bit, giving myself a new redesign, and then Revelry will be up and back. A little different than before, but in a good way.

But here's the deal. There are some ground rules.

I don't write about work. I don't write about what I do, where I do it and how I do it.

I write about what's on my mind. When it comes to talking about other people, I'll make reference without specificially identifying. First names might be used, or perhaps initials if I deem it appropriate. But if it's a performance I'm referencing, that's a different story.

If you don't like like what I'm writing, it's simple. Don't read it. I'm not going to feel guilty or embarrassed about what I have to say.

If you do like what I'm reading, COMMENT. Leave a note. Let me know who you are. I'd like to be able to start a dialogue at times, and I figure that I'm sharing a great deal with you guys, so I'm not being too out of line by asking for a "Hi" every once in awhile in return. Even better would be an anecodte or observation.

That said, observations and advice are two completely different things. Observations? Good. Advice? Uh-uh.

And, finally, enjoy it. I like writing, and I wound up being able to enjoy Fisher Cat (meow) and conversation with someone who felt like a friend because of it. A completely unexpected twist to a Friday night made my evening and helped me out. I'd like to see more of the same.

And, by the way, it turned out that the beer wasn't called the Fisher Cat afterall. But I'll just prefer to think of it that way.

An Open Letter to the U.S. Senate

Dear Sirs and Madams,

I cannot cook.

Seriously. Despite efforts by friends, family and a flatmate who should be thoroughly exasperated by now, I have not demonstrated an ability to prepare on my own anything other than a small assortment of meals. I cannot even make rice. It turns out soupy.

Therefore, I am left questioning my role in society, particularly as the nominee for Chief Justice of the Supreme Court has stated that woman's primary function in America should be that of the housemaker. The purported "gender gap" has left me, I fear, somewhere in between that which I should be - capable of culinary excellence and an immaculate home for my husband - and that which I have been aspiring - a successful professional with a long-term, out-of-home career.

Adding insult to injury, I don't even have a husband. I am sure John Roberts would be appalled, aghast at the fact that I am an abnormality. I hang my head in shame as I write this.

You are preparing to vote on whether to appoint Judge Roberts to the highest seat in the highest court in the United States. Media reports predict a relatively easy appointment for the nominee.

I wonder what will come of myself - and others in a similar state - after Roberts assumes his position on the Court. Will we be scrutinized, held to a standard separate from our male counterparts, simply because we possess ovaries and, thus, lack the ability and intellect to hold the positions we now hold? Will we be denied our right to decide whether to procreate - despite the possibility that we could bring a lifeform into the world without the proper economic support or, I daresay, emotional capability to raise that child?

Will those who fail to find a compatible mate in college - which will therefore become known as Mating School for the "fairer" gender - be left to languish in apartments? Will our futures dim upon Graduation Day?

Or will Mrs. Supreme Court Justice-To-Be Roberts personally visit my home and teach me to cook so I can land a husband and fulfill my half of the American Dream?

As always, I am looking to you for answers,
Victoria

A bottle of red

Song: Love, Love, Love - Tristan Prettyman

Diner coffee. Quixotically strong and bland at the same time, it's the only kind to prompt me to stir in creamer and sugar. The squat white mug looks just like the one from last week, served to me in another diner, another place, a couple of states away. It's contents serve the same purpose - wake me up, get me moving.

I blow on the steaming surface and grin across the booth's table. "No, no, no. It's Sunday brunch. This is dish time. Spill it."

Michelle nods from her place next to me, eating some of the whipped cream atop her hot chocolate. She also looks expectantly at John, who beams his best Cheshire cat grin. "You're holding out on us."

We're catching up on our weekends before delving into our various adventures over the last several months. I can't recall the last time the three of us have been in the same place, but we've relayed snippets in the duration, whenever two of the three are around, we chat about or ask about the third.

Each of us drank more than we probably should have the evening before; John at a club eager to serve cocktails, Michelle and I as two-thirds of a trifecta that polished off a bottle of red, a bottle of white and a blush. We take turns confessing to being ridiculous, not knowing why we don't have headaches. We're keeping our fingers crossed that the pain stays away - our various selections of eggs, toast or pancakes will hopefully help our causes.

***

I began sipping the wine around 6:30 Saturday evening, as I realized that the wine-ing was as key to the cooking as it was to the dining. I wasn't nearly as worried about screwing up a meal with a glass of wine on a counter across the kitchen.

The blush was sweet and pleasant as pots of water boiled, sauces simmered and bread baked in the oven. I pulled a floret of broccoli from the wok and popped it into my mouth. Hot but still crisp, more lemon than garlic. Perfect. Done.

The pasta would be finished in a moment or two, and the bread was warm and crusty. I poured olive oil onto a plate and added garlic. The spinach and artichoke dip Michelle had made before leaving to pick up KJ was perfect, and the salad only needed my bright pink plastic tongs.

Table set, a vase of bright flowers in the center. Michelle had brought them home from the last-minute grocery run, along with the extra-virgin olive oil and the lemon I decided I needed. For garnish. If I was cooking, I was going all out - and if the meal didn't taste right, at least it would look lovely.

A little more wine. Two of my close friends, women who impress and astound me, were coming over for my house, and I was giving my first dinner party. I was set to photograph the event so we could send images to the fourth, currently missing member of our group.

It appeared that blind confidence had prevented me from screwing up the meal, and I took care of the last minute accents and tasks that needed my attention. I was focusing on the colors, the smells, the texture of the pasta and the giddiness that comes with taking an assortment of items and pulling them together into a single result.

I heard a car pull into the driveway, then footsteps and voices coming up the stairs to the back porch. As the girls walked in, I grinned and walked toward them. "Velcome! Velcome! Vee hope you are prepared for zee dinner, come eeeen, come eeen! Some vine, yezzz?"

***

We laugh as John recounts the end of his night. "And did you have a good night?" he asks.

Indeed, dear friend. A good night was had by all.

As You Are

I'm sitting in a chair at a table among tables, sipping a too-strong vodka and cranberry. It's bringing a grimace to my face each time I take a sip, but I'm not going to waste the alcohol and take a chance with something that will be equally ill-prepared.

A friend sits to my left, taking log drags off a Camel Light as she tries to nurse her own equally toxic vodka cocktail. An acquaintance joined a table behind me a few songs ago, and I've made a mental note to say hello at the next pause in the show.

The rest of the assembly appears divided between those who adore you and others who have never before heard your name. One of the latter came to realize I'm not there for the drinks, as well as the fact that I'm not keen on tuning out the music long enough to hear him discuss the failure of his third, latest and, he says, final marriage.

The former group has also cast glances at my table since we arrived. I'm a stranger among them, not a regular and not recognizable, yet I know the words. I note that they wonder what I say when I lean across the table to talk to my friend, laughing over some perceived private joke as I cast my eyes quickly at the stage. The looks sent our way are laced with curiosity and suspicion; I am rather enjoying the intrigue.

You stand in your place beneath the spotlight, seemingly oblivious to this display of stares, sloshing drinks and cigarette smoke. You have retreated to some place in the recesses of your mind, eyes closed as you strum out serenades to mystery women you've loved and lost. Despite the inherent melancholy in each song, you remain hopeful, with bits of melody that hint at optimism and your endearingly cynicism-tinged earnestness.

We've all been at the places you travel to in the music. You get it. You know. You care. You've been scarred, you know you're flawed, but you're ready to work on them. But you're appropriately frightened at the prospect.

Armed with a microphone and a songbook of revised and polished reflections on life, you and your contemporaries deliver the words we all hope and dream to hear men say. You tell us that you cried when you turned your backs to us and walked away, you explain that you thought things would work out better, too. You confide that your personal demons were responsible for your decision to not call, and you tell us that you love more than you let us know.

We sit at these tables, waiting to hear the particular lines that sums up how we feel about the promise of love. We mouth along bitter cries and laugh when you let down the wall just enough to show that you also possess the sense of humor that only adds to your appeal.

I know you - all of you - worry that people will forget that you're human.

But as you stand before this crowd, of which I happen to be a member on this particular night, I sip my drink, scowl at the straw and realize that I worry that you forget.

Get real.

I like to think you know I'm aware of your human condition. I know only a fraction of your weaknesses, and I, whether fair of me or not, can't help but demand that you work on them as much as anyone else does. You're supposed to learn from the mistakes, not harvest them.

You're a guy. Who happens to perform. I don't believe that everything should be relegated to material for the next broken song.

I take another sip and draw up air and water. I'm out of cocktail. You're not finished with your set.

The waitress comes over to see if I want another. Why not?

It'll be too strong. But, then again, sometimes I think that so am I.

So Long, Skipper

Women talk about just about anything under the sky.

Men. Lack of men. Their bodies. Politics. Dreams. Fears. Food. Whatever can fit into The Three Categories - Past, Present, Future.

But we never talk about playing with dolls as little girls.

So I have no idea of knowing if this is a Me Thing or an Everywoman Thing, but my attempts at creating stories for my Barbies, Skippers and Whitneys always wound up turning into stories about me. Skipper might have walked into the pizza parlor to meet up with Joe McIntyre, but Vickie took over just as Joe Doll started singing "Please Don't Go Girl." And it was always Vickie who wound up in a rigid plastic embrace.

It might have looked like Skipper, but oh no. I knew what was really going on.

I think it's continued over the years. I live my life with what seems to be a completely different take on me than everyone else.

I don't look like the me in my head.

B let me raid her digital camera files today, so I could update the photos on my myspace account. I wanted to do it because I easily fall prey to the narcissistic nature of myspace; but also because The Boy now has a profile. I wanted him to see how dazzling I can be. Wait. Scratch that. How dazzling I am, dammit.

(Hey, I'm going with complete honesty on here. Go with it. This is my logic.)

I hated every image of myself that I found. B's good with a camera, don't get me wrong, but I just didn't look right. Big nose here. Weird smile there. I looked puffy in that one, like a ghost in the next. Strange. Bizarre - UGH! What? That's not me!

"Are you adding them?" B asked as I stared at my computer screen.

"Um, I'll add them later," I replied.

I've got to settle this difference in perceptions - my take and life's take on me. After that is accomplished, I'll turn to being happy with what reality shows me. Flaws and all.

I spend so much time worrying about what others think of me, how they view me, partly becasue I don't want to have to take an actual, honest look in the mirror and take stock in what I am. Who I am. I've let myself cling to the idea of myself as, for all intensive albeit embarrassing purposes, Skipper as a Grown Up.

It's time I started to get to know Victoria.

1991.

According to the blogspot counting gods, this is Post No. 1991.

It's also, at least for awhile, my last post on here. I've set up a new space, blank and waiting to be filled with my rambles and mishaps and whatever comes along.

It'll be nice to be able to really write what I'm thinking for a change. Call me a coward all you want, but I've realized that I've been self-editing and imagining readers looking for me to slip up and speak about things I probably shouldn't address. At least not here. When search engines yield interesting results and people wind up stumbling across things not originally intended.

I've been cryptic or flat out exclusionary in my writing for months now, and it's just gotten too frustrating to continue that way.

I'm a blogger. I write about my life fully aware of the fact that others can read it and infer what they will. It's become more comfortable to me than my notebooks, actually.

But I need a little vacation from it. Or, rather, a vacation from it here.

If you really want to know what goes on through this head of mine, drop me a comment and include an email address. Introduce yourself if you haven't already - and most of you haven't, might I add (haha, luuuuuuurkers). I've been wondering who you are. Introduce yourself and I'll keep you posted on what's up with me.

When I switched over from madder rain to Revelry - almost four and a half years ago, I was psyched to have a blank page awaiting me.

I'm feeling the same way now.

Thanks for reading, hope to chat with you soon.

X's and O's from a V.

I don't have to be happy all the time.

I can sit here in my apartment, listening to my flatmates' shoes crunch through the gravel driveway as they embark on a walk. I did not feel inclined to go; they did not ask me, anyway.

I think I'm going to make some tea and curl up in my favorite blue velvety armchair in the sunroom. I'll write until the light drifts away, then I'll turn on the lamp.

And just write and write and write. Block out everyone else except those whose figures I intend to pull into my writing. It's an invitation-only event to be included in my rambles tonight, you see.

And I'm going to be strict about the guest list.

L quoted a SK song earlier today, and I was intrigued by the snippets of lyrics I heard. I tracked it down on my own and think it fits today. So, with a humble apology from lifting it from her own thoughts:

I could say "fare thee well" and pass it off like I don't care
Or we could meet up in St. Louis,
if both of us should happen to be there
I'm like a clown that isn't funny,
as I dance across your door
You're on the verge of something big,
I'm on the verge of something more.
- "I Know Why"

Dammit.

It's not a guy that is making me want to cry, thank you.

It is the fact that I have nothing I can say to a guy that made me upset - and that I can't write about being upset without sounding like a pathetic girl - that is making my eyes sting a bit.

I sat at the Paradise Lounge last night, surrounded by friends brought unexpectedly together by the small world nature of the scene. I was taking in oustanding performances by Jarrod Gorbel, Josh Radin, Cary Brothers and Tom McRae. I was drinking Red Stripe, for Christ's sake.

And yet a particular song made me start thinking about someone who didn't deem it important to return a phone call I'd left with nervousness in the pit of my stomach.

(I'm not even going to get into the haughty form letter response component of my weekend.)

Thoughts of an idiot managed to invade the Hotel Cafe Tour performance I'd been looking forward to for weeks. Granted, they were fleeting. But they were there.

I'm done.

A riddle, if you will

What do the following musicians have in common?

Alicia Keys, Averi, Barenaked Laides, Black Eyed Peas, Blondie, Ciara, Chingy, Dashboard Confessional, G Love & Special Sauce, Hawthorne Heights, John Mayer, Julie Roberts, Matt Nathanson, Mirah, No Doubt, Phil Collins, Prince and Raffi.

Beyond the fact that they are all under consideration for the concept compilation CD I am going to create for tomorrow's drive to Massachusetts.

If you can figure out the link between now and Monday, I will send you a copy of the mix.

SK & the Sixers/Carbon Leaf tonight. Hotel Cafe tomorrow. A lot of driving. Good times.

Happiness.

I hate to be horribly cliched and quote one of Kerouac's most oft-cited snippets, but sometimes there's nothing else that sums it up quite right.

the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace things, but burn like fabulous roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue center light pop and everybody goes "AWWW!"

I am a contradiction in terms.

My biggest fault is that I possess a ridiculous amount of self-doubt; I often feel that there's little I'm going to be able to bring to a conversation led by someone clearly brilliant/witty/poised. Yet at the same time, they are the people above all others with whom I hope to interact.

My eyes light up during the first interactions with someone who possesses those qualities, because I realize I'm going to have to work my ass off to keep up. To prove myself, if you will.

Biting wit and brilliance do not come naturally to me. I can be dippy, I can possess a glaring lack of common sense. I often think of things after the fact that would have been fantastic to say in a conversation, quips that never see the light of day because my mind sometimes just doesn't work quickly enough to keep up.

But I still think of them and I store them for next time. See, much as I doubt myself, I love a challenge.

It is, in many respects, why I wind up keeping quiet much of the time. The people who know me well love me, regardless of the fact that they all know I'm an idiot. And I'm comfortable with that. So an idiot I am - although I like to think I'm more of an idiot savant.

The brightest (insert "coolest" if you think it applicable) person I've ever met kept me on my toes the entire damn time I was in his presence. It was a fascinating experience to me, and I trilled silently to myself when it appeared that what I had to say about things mattered to him. We were rivals, technically, each vying for the top prize in a competition. But we bypassed the heated competition aspect of things and instead focused on the intellectual stimulation such a competition could provide.

Well, when we weren't playfully bickering like little kids. Heh.

I never really thought of him as a rival until they announced the name of the competition's winner.

(For those inquisitive minds, he won and I was runner-up. Bastard.)

But even when away from the competition itself, I found myself striving to be interesting enough, bright enough, witty enough and knowledgable enough. And each time I did so, I discovered that he could keep up with me. Easily. And I'd like to think that I was able to do the same during his attempts at insight.

We've kept in touch sporadically, and during a instant messaged conversation a few months ago, he mentioned that he thought we should start a blog together, with commentary and observations about news, live, whatever.

We never did it - both of us were too busy and it fell through the cracks.

But I had a huge grin spread across my face for a good solid two days afterwards.

I recently received an e-mail from someone that instantly left me impressed and a little awed.

And I realized that this person was brilliant. That I definitely wanted to find out what makes her tick. I could learn from her.

And that I was going to have to work my ass off to keep up.

Tomorrow is the start to the Fall Concert Season - and I'm in the process of setting up a new space for the a&e/review/music blog I've been threatening to set up for ages now. With at least 12 shows within the next two months coming up, this is the perfect time to get cracking on the reviews and pieces I've been wanting to get back into for ages now.

I'll have more information about the new space shortly, and after it's set up, I would certainly invite/request/beseech you to give it at least a once-over. I'm psyched about it - it should be fun to do and I've missed doing something along these lines.

In other news...is there other news? Not particularly...except that I need a backrub.

That is all.

Updates.

Short sentences from a short temper. But at least it's information.

- I highly recommend checking out Intercept. California band. I like what I hear. Formerly known as Flathead, a band I've been hearing about for eons but hadn't had a chance to actually hear.

- Portions of five Averi songs were featured in the latest "Red Sox Rewind." Talk about a surprise, hearing almost half of "Drawn to Revolving Doors" while catching up on Sox news ("When You Gracefully Creep In," "Attention to Details," "Mouth Full of Sand," "Empty Pages" and "The Way We Go Out Tonight" were played). But I got to watch clips from Millar's two-homer effort (read: the one game I actually missed this season, dammit) and smile again at Sox wins while humming along with the songs. NESN managed to take two things I dig and bring 'em right together. Worked for me.

- The question posed to me numerous times today: "Catch the game last night?" Answer: "Of course I did. I'm surprised you didn't hear me cheering as soon as Ortiz made contact."

- I haven't been able to get "Stitched Up" out of my head the last two days.

- Finally saw the clip of Kanye West's anti-Bush rant. I applaud him for speaking from the heart - it was clear that he wasn't just trying to look cool with it; he was shaken and flying by the seat of his pants. Made Mike Myers look rather foolish and cold when he tried to stick to the script.

- I made banana bread last night. And yes, it is edible, thank you. Very tasty, actually. And I, er, THEY said I couldn't do anything but microwave. HA!

(Admittedly, I did have Beth in stitches as I brought my own special sense of style to it. A comedy of near-errors.)

- I'm just trying to get to Friday.

I'm a bit delayed, but well-intentioned.

I started and stopped posts about Katrina and its aftermath, but everything I wrote seemed terribly cliched. It's easy to write about the horrific devastation and how I hurt for those affected when I'm sitting in northern lands free of floodwater, with all of my friends and loved ones accounted for.

In fact, I'm not even aware of anyone I know having been remotely within harm's way.

So I haven't written, haven't commented beyond the "I'm in a funk because everything in the world looks like it's gone to shit" post from last week.

That said, I've been following the news. I've been figuring out how I am going to help, and I encourage you to do the same.

I've been amazed (albeit at the same time not surprised) to see how Americans have rallied to help those hit hardest. My one hope is that people remember that it's going to be difficult for people a week from now. A month from now. A year from now.

Let's help victims now and continue to help them as they begin the process of recovery.

American Red Cross
America's Second Harvest
North Shore Animal League
Oxfam America
Salvation Army

"It's like riding a bike."

I suddenly became more wary of trying things I hadn't done in a long time.

Perhaps inspired by the bicycle races whipping through the downtown today, perhaps prompted by the ever more absurd cost of gas, or perhaps because I finally realized I'm running out of time available to take advantage of it, I decided to dust off the old bike and take it for a short spin. Fill up the tires with air at the corner shop, cruise around a little bit before turning back in.

Oh my God.

I looked like I was drunk as I began. Swerve here, quick turn there - I suddenly felt too tall for a bicycle I'd purchased only two years ago. The cars passing me must have wondered what the hell my deal was as I kept putting my feet down on the ground and laughing at myself.

I made it to the store, filled up the tires and headed back, only slightly embarrassed that a car traveling behind me had to wait as I moved. I was going quickly enough - it's not my fault we're not allowed to bike on the sidewalks. Deal, brother car driver.

By the time I made it home (after a quick trip around the block to further acclimate myself), my legs were sore, my back felt strange and I remembered my adolescent fear of curbstones.

But it felt marvelous, all at the same time.

But that whole "riding a bike" analogy? Noooo siree. That doesn't work. 'Cause getting right back onto the bike to give it a ride?

It ain't that easy.
-----------
In other news. I had traveled to a store to pick up a lock for my bike (see how it all comes together?) and was listening to the Red Sox game on the radio. As I pulled into the parking lot, I kept the radio on as I rolled up my windows. An older woman, almost certainly a grandmother, was loading purchases into the car next to me.

"Excuse me, what's the score?"

I was surprised. Pleasantly. Grandma follows her baseball! "I had just turned it on, and they hadn't announced the latest score. Last I knew, it was 3-0 Chicago."

She gave a smirk and I laughed. "I know, it's hurting me too."

The smirk got wider. "Oh no, that's not what that's for."

"Excuse me?" She stared to laugh as it dawned on me. "Please tell me you're a Chicago fan."

She let out a gleeful peal of laughter. "YAAAANKEEEES!"

I laughed. "OK, I'm going to walk away now." She grinned. "Good luck with the rest of the season and the playoffs."

"You too, dear."

The home stretch for the baseball season. Everyone hunkering in. The playful jabs among strangers who know only of each other's rival affiliations.

God, I love baseball in September.

Stream of consciousness

I was just planning on updating a random thread on a message board before going to sleep, but I wound up really liking how it came out, so I thought I'd add it here as well.

Thank you, Labor Day - sucks that summer's ending, but yay for a three-day weekend.

And yay for fairs. Yep, I said it. The questionable safety in temporary, spinning and flipping rides, the fried dough and the candy apples, the obnoxious clown you want to send into the dunk tank, the beer tents and karaoke, the promise of a prize with every play of the game.

One of the best places to people watch and see how the various walks of life come together to mingle and collectively vie for the extra ride tickets someone's trying to give away. That is, when you're not standing in line for five-ticket Freak Out ride.

The first glimpses of fall. Love it. And you'll find me welcoming it in from my spot near the maple tent.
------
Today has just provided that picture-perfect day you want to freeze in time and go back to whenever you wish. The weather is warm enough, yet cool enough for comfort; your baseball team wins the afternoon game in style; you go running and feel as if you never want to stop because it feels incredible; you have time to get things accomplished, sit back and read a book on the sunporch, enjoy a homemade dinner with friends and still play around like a child at the fair; and you know you have an additional day to do whatever you want to do, particularly if what you want to do largely amounts to nothing of consequence in the end. Contentment stretches out before you for at least another 24 hours.

In the cards

Perhaps the tarot reader knew what she was talking about. I'll be in Boston on Saturday, taking in the Hotel Cafe Tour show afterall.

As to the rest of what she said, we'll just have to wait and see.

She says
I know your face
But something's strange
In your eyes

Your voice I know so well
Your words I don't
Recognise

And darkness creeps
Borne on cold win
Blows my footprints away

And I see myself
Turn into something else
Turn into someone else
For a while
And I know I'm right
Running into this night
Running another dream to the ground

The girl who falls down stairs
She calls my name
Through the air

She says I loved you once
I'd love you again
If you dare

So wipe the sleep from tiger eyes
And put this moment aside

And I see myself
Turn into something else
Turn into someone else
For a while
And I know I'm right
Running into this night
Running another dream to the ground

Needles buzz like
Neon light and
I am stained by
This town

And all my faith gone
All maps welcome
The stairs have twisted around

And I see myself
Turn into something else
Turn into someone else
For a while
And I know I'm right
Running into this night
Running another dream to the ground

Pull me out
Pull me out
Pull me out
- Tom McRae, "The Girl Who Falls Down Stairs"

...instead of knocking on my door...

I'm going to focus on this for a couple of minutes. Then I am going to resume my pre-game, get gussied up, blare Phil Collins' "Don't Lose My Number" and then hit the town. Yep.

B looked over at me as she read.

My eyebrows were raised.

"You don't think..."

I quickly hushed the thought. "No, I really don't think so."

It isn't, is it?

Can't be. Why would it be?

Nope.

So, if not, why did I feel badly as we walked down the street?

And, likewise, why did I feel a bit of indignation fire up within me? Because if it is...

Nah.

Related: a quote from "Candy Freak," the book Beth is reading. By Steve Almond.

Art is what happens when things don't work out, when you're licking your wounds. Art is, to a larger extent than people would like to think, a productive licking of the wounds.

MDFest 2k5

I'd been living a lie and I didn't even know it.

"Alright, we're going to do this once before we start. Because we've seen some pretty weak attempts over the years. And if you're not doing it right, we're going to stop, right in the middle of the song, point at you and laugh."

Glad they ran us through the steps. Because I'd been doing it wrong for years on end.

The Y was fine. As were the C and the A. But the M? I'd never done it correctly.

My mother burst into laughter as most of the people around her - myself included - adjusted to the new movement.

"So next time you're at your weddings, your bar mitzvahs, you'll do it right," the Contstruction Worker said as he stepped back into line.

Yes, last night I saw The Village People perform. And KC & the Sunshine Band.

Before Monday's Clay Aiken incident, I hadn't attended a concert at the fair since college. Sophomore year, I believe. The Goo Goo Dolls with Tonic opening (great show, for the record). But this year provided the opportunity to attend Laugh Out Loud performances to bring smiles to the faces of people I care about.

Monday. Clay Aiken. The Best Cousin Ever Show.
Friday. TVP and KC. Mother Daughter Fest 2k5. I brought my mom, B brought her mom, G somehow got suckered into attending, and we took in the sights and sounds from spots in the front row. Where the bass pulsed through the speakers so loudly that I felt it vibrating in my throat. Where my ears began to ring so loudly I honestly did have a hard time hearing well upon arriving home.

Good times? Actually, yes.

B and I laughed our way through the (surprisingly raunchy) sets, dancing and shaking the groove thangs our mamas gave us. The mamas, likewise, swayed back and forth, sang along and clapped their hands in time.

My mama does not dance. Seeing her moving about a bit was worth the price of admission. She was having fun, and it made me have that much better of a time.

As KC greeted the crowd, he commented on the fact that he had been peforming for 32 years. "For those who weren't around when we started, we were your mothers' NSYNC," he said. "So this is what Justin Timberlake is going to look like in 32 years."

Haha. Gotta love the fair.

And this is why friends rock

Myspace message. Ooh, goody.

To: V
From: [Friend]
Subject: No Subject

...HOBBES IS A STUPIDFACE THAT IS NOT WORTHY ENOUGH TO STEP ON THE SAME SIDEWALK AS YOU, LET ALONE BE GOOD ENOUGH EVER TO SMOOCH YOU!...

To: [Friend]
From: V
Subject: Re: No Subject

I just totally blogged that shit, yo...

Friends are tops on my list.

But cryptic nicknames come in at a close second.

Thank goodness I was in a church and using my phone would wreak havoc on proper ettiquette.

The reverend was bringing the service to a close, and the sobs that had echoed through the space had just begun to subside. Everyone present knew they'd get louder upon arriving at the cemetery.

It was time for the "love each other" moment and I was ready for it. But what I wasn't prepared for was such an impressive delivery of the message.

As the assembly nodded and hugged each other, I stared in surprise. And my first impulse was to reach for my cell phone and make a call.

It was important! These are things that need to be shared among one another! What if something happened and I didn't get a chance!

Seriously. I was ready to call.

But wait. Location. Church. Service in session.

Not so much.

And then I came to my senses as I walked to my car.

And this, boys and girls, is why we wait when we have impulses to do something foolish. Fortunately, these impulses pass.

And yet I still occasionally drool over the Lacoste display

When did my life become dominated by polo shirts?

I packed a change of clothes into my backpack last night, after tearing myself away from the much-anticipated (seriously) re-reading of my second favorite book of all time.

I flipped through the assortment of brightly colored shirts, the kakhi pants and the black dress pants I'd recently washed, folded and put away.

Every other shirt was a polo shirt. Bright green, short sleeves. Slightly brighter green, three-quarter sleeves. Dark green, long sleeves. Turquoise. Pink. Navy blue. Stripes. Pale pink.

Some work best with a knee-length linen skirt. Others with professional clothing. Still more with jeans (much like the one I'm wearing today). The last with shorts. Each has a distinctive purpose, a different way it fits.

But when the hell did polos take over my life? I wear other things, of course, but most fall into the similar this-works-for-work-and-play category. Which caused just as much alarm.

What happened to the well-worn concert t-shirts? The simple, long-sleeved shirts?

The yuppification of my life flashed before my eyes, and I wanted to rail against the polo-button-sewing machines.

I went to sleep instead. And, upon waking, contemplated what to wear during what would be a very, very long day.

Ah, a polo shirt and jeans would be cute. Let's go with that.

Aurgh.