OK, so perhaps standing out in the snowy cold of this weekend's Mardi Gras wasn't such a good idea. Particulary as I was just, you know, sick and all.
Ah, hindsight.
Yes, friends, I have managed to fall ill again this winter - another rip-roaringly good bout of general malaise and agitation. Whee! What fun!
I now alternate between sounding normal and sounding like Joan Rivers. I can't go running, which is probably the single most obnoxious part of all because I worry I'll lose all the progress I've made in that regard. I'm tired, I'm cranky, I'm a little feverish and I've been hopped up on DayQuil and NyQuil for the past several days.
Good times. Indeed.
Fortunately, between the bouts of illness that have struck me (which occurred on the weekends of both the Olympics' opening and closing ceremonies. Coincidence or Olympic allergy? You be the judge), there've been some good things packed in. My whirlwind jaunt to Boston was strange. Mostly fun...but strange, nonetheless. Unexpectedly running into friends, catching up with loved ones, then seeing friends new and old share a stage for an evening was more than a little surreal...It was a good evening, though. Glad Tides was able to join in on the fun with Bushwalla and Todd...
Grace Potter & the Nocturnals are amazing live, so you should trust me and go see them...
I miss being able to use my digital camera to a ridiculous degree...
...and I'm just really tired...
2.28.2006
2.24.2006
2.21.2006
God, I've been lax as of late. My apologies.
Sooooooookay. When last we chatted, I left you with a promise to talk Montbleau. Well, really? I've sung his praises before - certainly sung the band's praises before, and I find that I've been parroting myself when talking about this most recent show. The words "consistency," "spark," and "jaw-droppingly goddamn good" have been popping up with not-so-surprising frequency.
So here is the thing about seeing RMB live: I don't have to wonder if I'm going to bear witness to an off night. The band actually seems incapable of having an off night. After seeing second-tier performances by almost all of my favorites over the years, I've grown accustomed to - and pretty accepting of - the occasional off night. It happens. It has to. It's unrealistic to think it doesn't.
But then there's the exception to the rule, and it doesn't make sense to me. The night after the biggest show the band has performed yet - the CD release at the Somerville Theater that I chose not to attend so I could instead drool over Ben Taylor (which, I assure you, I did) - and there's still more than three and a half hours of crazy intense music that packed the house and left my group of four dancing like mad right in front of the stage. Still incredible, still energetic, still focused...
...which is why there are two groups in my mind, when it comes to regional music: Ryan Montbleau Band and Everyone Else.
In other news. Shocking culinary turn of events to report here. Perhaps no more need for me to ever attempt the DIY Chipotle experience (although, let's face it, I will do on occasion because I'm good at it).
Why? Has Chipotle finally arrived? No. But Moe's has. And as I savored the close approximation to a beloved Chipotle CFB I loved so dearly during my DC days, I realized that this may just be enough to keep my Chipotle addiction satisfied until the real thing comes north.
At this time tomorrow, I'll be in Massachusetts. Which is great and weird at the same time. Weird that it feels weird, actually. I'll be ending my longest span of time without a Massachusetts fix in years - and I've been so busy here that the time passed surprisingly easily.
And, interestingly enough, I'll be back at a venue that occupied some of my hours last time I was in town. Another Thursday night at Felt...this time with some of my new favorite folks - Bushwalla and Todd Carey - teaming up with the Tides fellows.
I know. I'm greatly looking forward to it as well.
And the energy buzz that comes with impending journeys has come right back to me.
Or perhaps that's the homemade caramel Beth made for dessert this evening.
Hmm.
Sooooooookay. When last we chatted, I left you with a promise to talk Montbleau. Well, really? I've sung his praises before - certainly sung the band's praises before, and I find that I've been parroting myself when talking about this most recent show. The words "consistency," "spark," and "jaw-droppingly goddamn good" have been popping up with not-so-surprising frequency.
So here is the thing about seeing RMB live: I don't have to wonder if I'm going to bear witness to an off night. The band actually seems incapable of having an off night. After seeing second-tier performances by almost all of my favorites over the years, I've grown accustomed to - and pretty accepting of - the occasional off night. It happens. It has to. It's unrealistic to think it doesn't.
But then there's the exception to the rule, and it doesn't make sense to me. The night after the biggest show the band has performed yet - the CD release at the Somerville Theater that I chose not to attend so I could instead drool over Ben Taylor (which, I assure you, I did) - and there's still more than three and a half hours of crazy intense music that packed the house and left my group of four dancing like mad right in front of the stage. Still incredible, still energetic, still focused...
...which is why there are two groups in my mind, when it comes to regional music: Ryan Montbleau Band and Everyone Else.
In other news. Shocking culinary turn of events to report here. Perhaps no more need for me to ever attempt the DIY Chipotle experience (although, let's face it, I will do on occasion because I'm good at it).
Why? Has Chipotle finally arrived? No. But Moe's has. And as I savored the close approximation to a beloved Chipotle CFB I loved so dearly during my DC days, I realized that this may just be enough to keep my Chipotle addiction satisfied until the real thing comes north.
At this time tomorrow, I'll be in Massachusetts. Which is great and weird at the same time. Weird that it feels weird, actually. I'll be ending my longest span of time without a Massachusetts fix in years - and I've been so busy here that the time passed surprisingly easily.
And, interestingly enough, I'll be back at a venue that occupied some of my hours last time I was in town. Another Thursday night at Felt...this time with some of my new favorite folks - Bushwalla and Todd Carey - teaming up with the Tides fellows.
I know. I'm greatly looking forward to it as well.
And the energy buzz that comes with impending journeys has come right back to me.
Or perhaps that's the homemade caramel Beth made for dessert this evening.
Hmm.
2.19.2006
See? It's not entirely my fault. I'll only take as much of the blame as I deserve.
Here's the deal: I know that I may not be the most, say, realistic person some - fine, much - of the time when it comes to relationships. I know my expectations are exceedingly high, and I know I maintain illusions of grandeur that, well, let's face it, haven't exactly left me with a string of successful relationships.
(I know, I know. How can a string of relationships ever be considered successful, anyway? Neither the time nor place for such a philosophical debate. Let's file that away for some other time, shall we?)
But I ask you one thing: how can any woman be realistic, and I mean truly realistic, when one weekend includes the absolute aesthetic beauty of Ben Taylor, the musical decadence that is Ryan Montbleau and his band of musical merrymakers and, if those weren't enough, the speech delivered at the end of "Grey's Anatomy" by the single most endearing, adorable, lovable character on television?
Yes, of course I'm talking about George.
Can anyone honestly try to tell me that I'm not supposed to take all this in and hope for a little bit of something spectacular for myself?
I didn't think so.
A more comprehensive weekend roundup to follow, including an explanation as to why anyone hoping to succeed in the music business should begin to learn, adhere to and follow the work of the Montbleau band.
Here's the deal: I know that I may not be the most, say, realistic person some - fine, much - of the time when it comes to relationships. I know my expectations are exceedingly high, and I know I maintain illusions of grandeur that, well, let's face it, haven't exactly left me with a string of successful relationships.
(I know, I know. How can a string of relationships ever be considered successful, anyway? Neither the time nor place for such a philosophical debate. Let's file that away for some other time, shall we?)
But I ask you one thing: how can any woman be realistic, and I mean truly realistic, when one weekend includes the absolute aesthetic beauty of Ben Taylor, the musical decadence that is Ryan Montbleau and his band of musical merrymakers and, if those weren't enough, the speech delivered at the end of "Grey's Anatomy" by the single most endearing, adorable, lovable character on television?
Yes, of course I'm talking about George.
Can anyone honestly try to tell me that I'm not supposed to take all this in and hope for a little bit of something spectacular for myself?
I didn't think so.
A more comprehensive weekend roundup to follow, including an explanation as to why anyone hoping to succeed in the music business should begin to learn, adhere to and follow the work of the Montbleau band.
2.15.2006
I sat on the middle cushion of a couch, my left arm draped over the back of the empty seat next to me. I didn't usually sit in such a manner - my arms are generally kept in my lap or holding a drink - but for some reason, it felt particularly comfortable that night.
The empty space was temporarily filled, then vacated, throughout the minutes I sat there. A revolving door of characters, each of whom sunk down into the plush cushion, rested their head back against the couch and my arm, and looked over at me with a smile.
It was comfortable. Easy. A group of people conveniently in the same general vacinity come together to laugh and celebrate the fact that they're all present, accounted for, and willing to spend some time.
Laugh. Dance. Sing. Discuss. Break down the walls that instinctively crop up, despite polite introductions. Laugh more.
It's what you always think of when you imagine this type of a situation. It was how it is supposed to be. Not like how it's been with others in the past.
But time and expereince has taught you to realize that this is the exception to the rule. This was a sublime combination of factors that worked out just right. Just good people.
This was the feeling of comfortable contentment that I'd come to give up on as I learned better.
Which was, at least partially, why my grin was so bright.
The empty space was temporarily filled, then vacated, throughout the minutes I sat there. A revolving door of characters, each of whom sunk down into the plush cushion, rested their head back against the couch and my arm, and looked over at me with a smile.
It was comfortable. Easy. A group of people conveniently in the same general vacinity come together to laugh and celebrate the fact that they're all present, accounted for, and willing to spend some time.
Laugh. Dance. Sing. Discuss. Break down the walls that instinctively crop up, despite polite introductions. Laugh more.
It's what you always think of when you imagine this type of a situation. It was how it is supposed to be. Not like how it's been with others in the past.
But time and expereince has taught you to realize that this is the exception to the rule. This was a sublime combination of factors that worked out just right. Just good people.
This was the feeling of comfortable contentment that I'd come to give up on as I learned better.
Which was, at least partially, why my grin was so bright.
2.14.2006
When the time comes to actually jump into the lake, you don't really have the spare seconds that might make you want to back out. I think they plan it that way.
Of course, there's a moment or two as you're approaching the waterfront, bundled in a heavy sweatshirt and the warmest coat you own, when you start to think yourself mad. After all, you're warm. The air around you is cold. You're holding a self-heating latte (thanks, Mom and Dad) to keep you warm until that last possible moment.
But when you sign up and get your number written on your hand, you sign away any time to second-guess. It's WHOOOSH - off to the changing room, where people around you are screaming and cheering and shouting with glee about what you're about to do. Then there are a few moments to laugh with your friends about the fact that you're actually about to do this when it's WHOOSH - off to the staging area, where you realize you're about to run into the water.
People are crazy. You're getting pats on the back from people you've never met before and will likewise never see again. You're laughing at people in Speedos or bikinis, and you're dancing around to the Beach Boys and any other song the organizers thought might somehow tie into a summer theme. It's almost like that traditional last weekend of college before finals, when everyone is such acting ridiculous because they can and they won't get in trouble for it.
And that's when it gets really weird. All of a sudden, surrounded by all these people who are doing the same thing you're about to do - and all in varying stages of inhebriation, might I add - it sounds great to run into icy cold water. Why wouldn't you want to do it? The people standing outside in the cold, without the luxury of a heated tend - those are the crazy people. They're missing out. You're about to do something that has your energy at its peak, your adrenaline racing through you and a serious case of the laughs running wild. You're dancing and you're jumping and you're cheering on a group of guys running around barechested.
And then WHOOSH - you're running. Out past people you may or, more likely, may not know, but it doesn't matter because you're going past them too quickly to identify any of them. The asphalt path moves straight forward, veers to one side or another a couple of times, and then it just dips down.
The water is right in front of you, and you just gun for it. In in in in SPLASH.
It's cold. Really, really, bone-jarringly cold. But when it hits you, your whole body suddenly heats up. Much like the days during late soccer season, when you'd run for the ball as your chest just burned from the cold air moving into and out of your lungs.
When I hit the water, I ran in a few steps and just let my body fall, so I could let as much of the water cover me as I could. Got up to just around my ears. The fact that it was cold went away, replaced instead by the fact that I was suddenly more awake than I've been in months.
The bottom of the lake was slippery, and my sneakers had difficulty gripping the rocks enough to pull me up. I don't remember feeling cold again until I stepped out of the water, reached for a towel and realized that my shirt and shorts were freezing cold, dripping freezing cold water against a freezing cold me. I, and everyone else in my group, awkwardly ran back up the path, past the mayor (who, frankly, should have been busy jumping into the water, instead of congratulating everyone as they jumped out) and back to the heating tent.
And that's it, really. That was the experience. You're prepped, you're sent, you're in the water and you're scrambling back for warm, dry gear. And you realize you're game with going through the whole thing the next time February rolls around.
Oh, and you get a hat. Which is nice.
My parents found us quickly, part of the parental cluster that somehow managed to form shortly after the jump. There were hugs when we emerged, bright-cheeked and laughing, from the dressing tent, and there were group photographs taken with the team members and the various visiting troubadors who had braved the cold to cheer us on. Which was really nice.
The group broke up, with promises to meet up later that evening, and I walked home with my parents, stopping - of course - for the required maple latte (which, P Squared, was much enjoyed) along the way.
What's funny is that I'm not at all a winter person. I keep bundled up whenever possible. But as we walked up the street in the direction of my apartment, it felt as if I might as well walk around without a jacket.
Don't get me wrong. I kept that sucker on.
But I think it was the warmest I've felt all season.
Of course, there's a moment or two as you're approaching the waterfront, bundled in a heavy sweatshirt and the warmest coat you own, when you start to think yourself mad. After all, you're warm. The air around you is cold. You're holding a self-heating latte (thanks, Mom and Dad) to keep you warm until that last possible moment.
But when you sign up and get your number written on your hand, you sign away any time to second-guess. It's WHOOOSH - off to the changing room, where people around you are screaming and cheering and shouting with glee about what you're about to do. Then there are a few moments to laugh with your friends about the fact that you're actually about to do this when it's WHOOSH - off to the staging area, where you realize you're about to run into the water.
People are crazy. You're getting pats on the back from people you've never met before and will likewise never see again. You're laughing at people in Speedos or bikinis, and you're dancing around to the Beach Boys and any other song the organizers thought might somehow tie into a summer theme. It's almost like that traditional last weekend of college before finals, when everyone is such acting ridiculous because they can and they won't get in trouble for it.
And that's when it gets really weird. All of a sudden, surrounded by all these people who are doing the same thing you're about to do - and all in varying stages of inhebriation, might I add - it sounds great to run into icy cold water. Why wouldn't you want to do it? The people standing outside in the cold, without the luxury of a heated tend - those are the crazy people. They're missing out. You're about to do something that has your energy at its peak, your adrenaline racing through you and a serious case of the laughs running wild. You're dancing and you're jumping and you're cheering on a group of guys running around barechested.
And then WHOOSH - you're running. Out past people you may or, more likely, may not know, but it doesn't matter because you're going past them too quickly to identify any of them. The asphalt path moves straight forward, veers to one side or another a couple of times, and then it just dips down.
The water is right in front of you, and you just gun for it. In in in in SPLASH.
It's cold. Really, really, bone-jarringly cold. But when it hits you, your whole body suddenly heats up. Much like the days during late soccer season, when you'd run for the ball as your chest just burned from the cold air moving into and out of your lungs.
When I hit the water, I ran in a few steps and just let my body fall, so I could let as much of the water cover me as I could. Got up to just around my ears. The fact that it was cold went away, replaced instead by the fact that I was suddenly more awake than I've been in months.
The bottom of the lake was slippery, and my sneakers had difficulty gripping the rocks enough to pull me up. I don't remember feeling cold again until I stepped out of the water, reached for a towel and realized that my shirt and shorts were freezing cold, dripping freezing cold water against a freezing cold me. I, and everyone else in my group, awkwardly ran back up the path, past the mayor (who, frankly, should have been busy jumping into the water, instead of congratulating everyone as they jumped out) and back to the heating tent.
And that's it, really. That was the experience. You're prepped, you're sent, you're in the water and you're scrambling back for warm, dry gear. And you realize you're game with going through the whole thing the next time February rolls around.
Oh, and you get a hat. Which is nice.
My parents found us quickly, part of the parental cluster that somehow managed to form shortly after the jump. There were hugs when we emerged, bright-cheeked and laughing, from the dressing tent, and there were group photographs taken with the team members and the various visiting troubadors who had braved the cold to cheer us on. Which was really nice.
The group broke up, with promises to meet up later that evening, and I walked home with my parents, stopping - of course - for the required maple latte (which, P Squared, was much enjoyed) along the way.
What's funny is that I'm not at all a winter person. I keep bundled up whenever possible. But as we walked up the street in the direction of my apartment, it felt as if I might as well walk around without a jacket.
Don't get me wrong. I kept that sucker on.
But I think it was the warmest I've felt all season.
Let me get it out of the way right now: Happy Valentine's Day.
I'm not going to go into my annual discussion of February 14, mainly because it doesn't feel as if it's the actual holiday. I'm not with it enough to comment on it, I'm not energetic enough to be sarcastic about it, and I lack the stomach at the moment to consume chocolates, were I to receive any today.
I'm just sick. Recovering, but still sick. So it's not Valentine's Day, it's not Tuesday, it's not whatever. It's just T-minus approximately seven hours until I can climb back into bed and go to sleep.
See, here's how it worked out: For the past couple of weeks, I've been telling my body to push through and keep on moving. My body replied that perhaps I should think about taking it a little easier. I snarkily laughed, told my body to shut up and kept on moving. My body said it wasn't feeling so great. I called it names and kept going.
So late Saturday night, my body decided that it didn't need to deal with my shit anymore. It was taking a vacation.
Which is why I ended up in bed for two days.
I'm actually moving about today, and I was thrilled to discover that I was able to eat a whole bagel and a half of a hot apple cider this afternoon. But other than that, I'm feeling pretty vapid.
I feel pale, actually. If one can feel pale.
The good news is that I expect to tell you all about the Penguin Plunge tomorrow. Odds are good I'll also have photographs to share. I assure you that the venture was absolutely fantastic.
In the meantime, forgive me if I resume my process of counting down the minutes to a much-anticipated reunion with my bed.
But have a very happy Valentine's Day.
I'm not going to go into my annual discussion of February 14, mainly because it doesn't feel as if it's the actual holiday. I'm not with it enough to comment on it, I'm not energetic enough to be sarcastic about it, and I lack the stomach at the moment to consume chocolates, were I to receive any today.
I'm just sick. Recovering, but still sick. So it's not Valentine's Day, it's not Tuesday, it's not whatever. It's just T-minus approximately seven hours until I can climb back into bed and go to sleep.
See, here's how it worked out: For the past couple of weeks, I've been telling my body to push through and keep on moving. My body replied that perhaps I should think about taking it a little easier. I snarkily laughed, told my body to shut up and kept on moving. My body said it wasn't feeling so great. I called it names and kept going.
So late Saturday night, my body decided that it didn't need to deal with my shit anymore. It was taking a vacation.
Which is why I ended up in bed for two days.
I'm actually moving about today, and I was thrilled to discover that I was able to eat a whole bagel and a half of a hot apple cider this afternoon. But other than that, I'm feeling pretty vapid.
I feel pale, actually. If one can feel pale.
The good news is that I expect to tell you all about the Penguin Plunge tomorrow. Odds are good I'll also have photographs to share. I assure you that the venture was absolutely fantastic.
In the meantime, forgive me if I resume my process of counting down the minutes to a much-anticipated reunion with my bed.
But have a very happy Valentine's Day.
2.11.2006
2.10.2006
I have the faint outline of an old school boombox imprinted on the back of my left hand. I tried to wash the stamp ink away this morning, and actually smiled when I realized that the thing just wasn't going to come off in its intirety.
I've been marked. Ghetto blasted, if you will.
Yesterday gave me delicious night of live music. And I needed it - I've felt stressed, frustrated and disheartened the last couple of weeks. I've been slowly becoming a bottle rocket of pressure was bound to spark and explode.
Yes, that's still there. But at least I was given a reprieve - in the form of dance, laughter, collaboration, tongue-twisting singalong and positive energy. I haven't laughed that much in ages. I haven't felt the urge to dance like nobody's watching in even longer.
I just haven't had that much fun at a show in a long time.
(And I haven't been called up on stage with friends to help rock the mic in, well, ever.)
In other, equally crazy news: I jump into the lake tomorrow. Beth and I realized earlier this week that neither of us have ever gone swimming in Lake Champlain before.
We will both take our first lake dips in February. Weather check? Today's current temperature: 9 degrees. Tomorrow's high: 25 degrees.
And the big one. Tomorrow's expected water temperature: 35 degrees.
I've been marked. Ghetto blasted, if you will.
Yesterday gave me delicious night of live music. And I needed it - I've felt stressed, frustrated and disheartened the last couple of weeks. I've been slowly becoming a bottle rocket of pressure was bound to spark and explode.
Yes, that's still there. But at least I was given a reprieve - in the form of dance, laughter, collaboration, tongue-twisting singalong and positive energy. I haven't laughed that much in ages. I haven't felt the urge to dance like nobody's watching in even longer.
I just haven't had that much fun at a show in a long time.
(And I haven't been called up on stage with friends to help rock the mic in, well, ever.)
In other, equally crazy news: I jump into the lake tomorrow. Beth and I realized earlier this week that neither of us have ever gone swimming in Lake Champlain before.
We will both take our first lake dips in February. Weather check? Today's current temperature: 9 degrees. Tomorrow's high: 25 degrees.
And the big one. Tomorrow's expected water temperature: 35 degrees.
2.09.2006
2.08.2006
2.06.2006
I'm going to blink and realize that I'm on the other side of the next two weeks.
- My digital camera's battery charger is in Maine. My digital camera's battery is dead. In order to buy a new charger, I would need to contact the camera manufacturer. Boo. I am relying on others for photos of Saturday. Fear not. There will be countless cameras on hand.
- The stars have aligned in such a manner that this weekend is The Weekend To Be In My Town. To those who won't be? My sympathies, because they're going to be missing out...
- I'm determined to focus on laughing as I maneuver my way through the coming days. I started off the morning dancing around to LCS Soundsystem's "Disco Infiltrator," a song I'm mildly addicted to at the moment.
- Bushwalla, Todd Carey and Will at Metronome on Thursday night. The Plunge on Saturday. And who knows what between now and Sunday...
- My digital camera's battery charger is in Maine. My digital camera's battery is dead. In order to buy a new charger, I would need to contact the camera manufacturer. Boo. I am relying on others for photos of Saturday. Fear not. There will be countless cameras on hand.
- The stars have aligned in such a manner that this weekend is The Weekend To Be In My Town. To those who won't be? My sympathies, because they're going to be missing out...
- I'm determined to focus on laughing as I maneuver my way through the coming days. I started off the morning dancing around to LCS Soundsystem's "Disco Infiltrator," a song I'm mildly addicted to at the moment.
- Bushwalla, Todd Carey and Will at Metronome on Thursday night. The Plunge on Saturday. And who knows what between now and Sunday...
2.03.2006
Let's learn from the error of my ways, ok? I'm officially stating my two newest rules:
- No one who is single should ever, under ANY circumstances, watch "The Notebook." Because if you do, you wind up tapping into bitterness you never knew you were capable of.
- No one, single or not, should ever, EVER watch "The Notebook" when settling in for a much-needed, sought-out evening of solitude. EVER. We won't get into what happens when one does not heed this advice.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a date with Jimmy Fallon and the Red Sox.
It's recovery time.
- No one who is single should ever, under ANY circumstances, watch "The Notebook." Because if you do, you wind up tapping into bitterness you never knew you were capable of.
- No one, single or not, should ever, EVER watch "The Notebook" when settling in for a much-needed, sought-out evening of solitude. EVER. We won't get into what happens when one does not heed this advice.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a date with Jimmy Fallon and the Red Sox.
It's recovery time.
Earlier today:
V: Stephen Kellogg & the Sixers are playing here tonight, but I'm not going. I can't bear to cough up more money to see a band opening for OAR. I can't again justify attenting an opening set and then leaving the moment OAR takes the stage. No, I don't like OAR. I used to think OAR was pretty OK in college...yeah. But the only reason I went to that Boston show was because Matt and Howie were opening. So tonight's a no go. Which rather sucks, because I'd really dig the chance to see SK again. But I'm just going to hope that they get into town sometime soon. They'd do great here on their own. And hey, everyone else is playing here, why not them?
Later today:
V: That was weird. Seriously. Did you visit HG's site? Newly announced. Stephen Kellogg & the Sixers and the Pat McGee Band! I know! In April! How crazy is that? I haven't seen PMB in years. Yeah, since the Avalon show! And SK! Everyone really is playing here!
V: Stephen Kellogg & the Sixers are playing here tonight, but I'm not going. I can't bear to cough up more money to see a band opening for OAR. I can't again justify attenting an opening set and then leaving the moment OAR takes the stage. No, I don't like OAR. I used to think OAR was pretty OK in college...yeah. But the only reason I went to that Boston show was because Matt and Howie were opening. So tonight's a no go. Which rather sucks, because I'd really dig the chance to see SK again. But I'm just going to hope that they get into town sometime soon. They'd do great here on their own. And hey, everyone else is playing here, why not them?
Later today:
V: That was weird. Seriously. Did you visit HG's site? Newly announced. Stephen Kellogg & the Sixers and the Pat McGee Band! I know! In April! How crazy is that? I haven't seen PMB in years. Yeah, since the Avalon show! And SK! Everyone really is playing here!
2.02.2006
When I care about something - or, more appropriately these days, when I believe in something - I just find myself incapable of giving up on it.
It's maddening sometimes, and there are the countless instances in which I walk away shaking my head in confusion or outright disbelief. And it's tiring, frustrating on other occasions, when it's neither possible nor reasonable to do what I want to do, which is grab someone by the shoulders and give a shake to try rattling in some sense.
But I see something good there, something that could make others smile. Something that makes me smile despite my wish that someone would be able to grab my shoulders and shake some sense into me.
Which is why I find myself continuously setting aside the voice in my head, the one that's telling me that I'm an absolute idiot who should know better, and putting myself in the position I incessently find myself in.
The one that invariably ends with me saying to myself, "Stupid, stupid, STUPID!"
In other news, it's been six years since I saw a guy with funny hair and a funnier British accent playing guitar as I walked into my college's student center and eventually asked said funny-coiffed individual if I'd heard that last song on the radio, as it sounded pleasantly familiar to me and I'd really enjoyed it...
I need to find whatever journal I was writing in at that point to see what I wrote about that performance. I think it would be amusing to read now that I know I have heard it on the radio, time and time again...
It's maddening sometimes, and there are the countless instances in which I walk away shaking my head in confusion or outright disbelief. And it's tiring, frustrating on other occasions, when it's neither possible nor reasonable to do what I want to do, which is grab someone by the shoulders and give a shake to try rattling in some sense.
But I see something good there, something that could make others smile. Something that makes me smile despite my wish that someone would be able to grab my shoulders and shake some sense into me.
Which is why I find myself continuously setting aside the voice in my head, the one that's telling me that I'm an absolute idiot who should know better, and putting myself in the position I incessently find myself in.
The one that invariably ends with me saying to myself, "Stupid, stupid, STUPID!"
In other news, it's been six years since I saw a guy with funny hair and a funnier British accent playing guitar as I walked into my college's student center and eventually asked said funny-coiffed individual if I'd heard that last song on the radio, as it sounded pleasantly familiar to me and I'd really enjoyed it...
I need to find whatever journal I was writing in at that point to see what I wrote about that performance. I think it would be amusing to read now that I know I have heard it on the radio, time and time again...
I've settled into a practice of actually living in the city where I sleep.
I know.
It's a rather strange experience for me too.
I wish there was some uniquely V way of describing the way things have been going - the laughter shared during weekly jaunts to pub trivia, the jump-kick combo I executed several times earlier this week, each time I scored a strike with a hot pink bowling ball at a surprisingly hopping bowling alley. The feeling of fatigue laced with equal parts accomplishment and frustration that comes over me most nights as I prepare to go to sleep and the realization that it's been a month since I've been to Massachusetts.
That's got to be a recent record for me - and it appears that I'll be stretching that record a few weeks longer.
There's simply been a great deal happening here, and I've beeb having a lot of fun with it. And there's more coming up. Bushwalla, Todd Carey and Will a week from today. The Plunge in nine days. A trifecta of shows the week following.
And then, the week after that, I make a brief Massachusetts appearance for the Bushwalla/Todd Carey show at Felt - which I'm now pleased to say will feature Tides as an opening act on the bill. I've been looking forward to the show for some time now, and the addition of Tides makes the trip all the more worthwhile...
I know.
It's a rather strange experience for me too.
I wish there was some uniquely V way of describing the way things have been going - the laughter shared during weekly jaunts to pub trivia, the jump-kick combo I executed several times earlier this week, each time I scored a strike with a hot pink bowling ball at a surprisingly hopping bowling alley. The feeling of fatigue laced with equal parts accomplishment and frustration that comes over me most nights as I prepare to go to sleep and the realization that it's been a month since I've been to Massachusetts.
That's got to be a recent record for me - and it appears that I'll be stretching that record a few weeks longer.
There's simply been a great deal happening here, and I've beeb having a lot of fun with it. And there's more coming up. Bushwalla, Todd Carey and Will a week from today. The Plunge in nine days. A trifecta of shows the week following.
And then, the week after that, I make a brief Massachusetts appearance for the Bushwalla/Todd Carey show at Felt - which I'm now pleased to say will feature Tides as an opening act on the bill. I've been looking forward to the show for some time now, and the addition of Tides makes the trip all the more worthwhile...
1.30.2006
I'm not one to strictly quote song lyrics, but I heard this on "Grey's Anatomy" last night and was just stunned by it. With that, the episode's storylines and the fact that I've developed an absurd television character crush on George (then again, who hasn't?) I was done for the moment the episode started. This was the final kick in the ribs, if you will, at episode's end.
Kendall Payne
"Scratch"
It's a big girl world now
Full of big girl things
And everyday I wish I was small
I've been counting on nothing
But he keeps giving me his word
And I am tired of hearing myself speak
Do you ever get weary?
Do you ever get weak?
How do you dream
When you can't fall asleep?
I've been wondering what you're thinking
And if you like my dress tonight?
Would you still say you love me
Under this ordinary moonlight?
I'm so afraid of what you'll say.
I'd like to know if you'd be open
To starting over from scratch
I'd like to know if you'd be open
To giving me a second chance
I used to think I was special
And only I have proved me wrong
I thought I could change
The world with a song
But I have ended up in India
With no lamp to guide me home.
The strangest place I think
I have ever been
And all this time
I thought that we were friends
My stubborn will is learning to bend.
I'd like to know if you'd be open
To starting over from scratch
I'd like to know if you'd be open
To giving me a second chance
I'd like to know if you'd be open
To starting over from scratch
I'd like to know if you'd be open
To giving me a second chance
It's a big girl world now
Full of big girl things
Kendall Payne
"Scratch"
It's a big girl world now
Full of big girl things
And everyday I wish I was small
I've been counting on nothing
But he keeps giving me his word
And I am tired of hearing myself speak
Do you ever get weary?
Do you ever get weak?
How do you dream
When you can't fall asleep?
I've been wondering what you're thinking
And if you like my dress tonight?
Would you still say you love me
Under this ordinary moonlight?
I'm so afraid of what you'll say.
I'd like to know if you'd be open
To starting over from scratch
I'd like to know if you'd be open
To giving me a second chance
I used to think I was special
And only I have proved me wrong
I thought I could change
The world with a song
But I have ended up in India
With no lamp to guide me home.
The strangest place I think
I have ever been
And all this time
I thought that we were friends
My stubborn will is learning to bend.
I'd like to know if you'd be open
To starting over from scratch
I'd like to know if you'd be open
To giving me a second chance
I'd like to know if you'd be open
To starting over from scratch
I'd like to know if you'd be open
To giving me a second chance
It's a big girl world now
Full of big girl things
1.29.2006
Let's do the math, shall we?
3: Number of Red Sox Fenway Park games (at this moment) I will be attending this season, barring the opportunity to purchase Green Monster/Yankees tickets.
10: About how many hours my computer was logged into the Red Sox Virtual Waiting Room.
30: Number of seconds that passes before the Red Sox Virtual Waiting Room refreshes.
1200: Number of times, using the previous two numbers, my spot in the Red Sox Virtual Waiting Room refreshed.
36,298: Number of people who can fit into Fenway Park (circa 2004).
And the kicker:
0: Number of ticket purchase opportunities provided to me for any of the Baltimore Orioles games at Fenway.
So, looking at the math, some loved ones and I decided to throw an X factor in. We created our own math, if you will.
1: Number of games at Baltimore's Camden Yards I will attend this season.
3: Number of days spent on late summer/early autumn baseball-prompted trip to Baltimore/D.C.
If Boston won't let me join the party when Millar rolls back into town, I'm going to be part of the Baltimore party when the Red Sox roll into town.
I'll update this with more explanation after my brunch and mimosas...
3: Number of Red Sox Fenway Park games (at this moment) I will be attending this season, barring the opportunity to purchase Green Monster/Yankees tickets.
10: About how many hours my computer was logged into the Red Sox Virtual Waiting Room.
30: Number of seconds that passes before the Red Sox Virtual Waiting Room refreshes.
1200: Number of times, using the previous two numbers, my spot in the Red Sox Virtual Waiting Room refreshed.
36,298: Number of people who can fit into Fenway Park (circa 2004).
And the kicker:
0: Number of ticket purchase opportunities provided to me for any of the Baltimore Orioles games at Fenway.
So, looking at the math, some loved ones and I decided to throw an X factor in. We created our own math, if you will.
1: Number of games at Baltimore's Camden Yards I will attend this season.
3: Number of days spent on late summer/early autumn baseball-prompted trip to Baltimore/D.C.
If Boston won't let me join the party when Millar rolls back into town, I'm going to be part of the Baltimore party when the Red Sox roll into town.
I'll update this with more explanation after my brunch and mimosas...
1.27.2006
When you follow a baseball team - or any professional team, really - and you buy a specific player jersey or t-shirt, who you pick says a great deal about who you are.
Since I follow the Red Sox, I inevitably spend time at Fenway games examining the sociological nature of that particular team and its fans.
Tek, Trot or - tear - Mueller: you appreciate the hard-working, silent types. You're a fan of the ones who do their jobs and don't necessarily shy away from the spotlight when it's thrust upon them, but are most content focusing on the task at hand. You admire players who eat dirt on a daily basis, take the extra swings or fielding practice when it's available and grit their teeth when they're training on their own time. You know that hard work speaks for itself. You like your beer, you know your stats and you're the one likely to be calling out, "Tek. Buddy. I fuckin' love you, man!"
Schilling: you are the optimists. During the first half of the 2004 season, you were looking for something on which to focus your prayers, and you found it in the one man who promised you a miracle when he rolled into town. When the 2004 postseason rolled around, you were the ones crying happy tears into your beers (you like it, too) as you saw the bloody sock because you KNEW that there was no way this kind of sacrifice would go unrewarded. You also doubled in population after the World Series, but I hardly fault you for that. You may or may not be Republican. Just saying.
Ortiz: you note the importance and joy of a single swing, therefore you cherish the little moments in life. You cherish strength, and you adore it most when it's coupled with a face-breaking smile and what would certainly be bone-crushing hugs. You also, coincidentally, enjoy jumping up and down when you celebrate. Odds are good that you probably have a passion for spices, particularly when found in salsa.
Manny: you just want to win. You also can show passive-aggressive tendancies. You rail and complain with the rest when your player seems to shirk his duties, but you're the first to say "I told you so" when he steps back up to the plate, figuratively speaking. You tend to point a lot.
He-Who-Used-To-Be-Johnny-Damon/Bronson Arroyo: You are most likely female. You may, in fact, support your player with a shirt that features "Mrs." before his surname. You like pink, it seems, and may be most likely to sport the pale pink Red Sox hats that make me cringe every time I see them on your heads (sorry. True. Team colors are, if anything, red and blue. Accept it. Wear it. Move on). But most importantly, you enjoy the sparkle factor that baseball can provide. It's not all about winning to you - it's about being in the park or watching the game and focusing on the fun involved. Of course you want the team to win, but how can you keep your mind strictly on that when you have a slow motion shot of Damon's hair swaying as he runs, or that delicious ass so cruely kept from all but the bleacher or Monster Seat fans for so much of the game...yeah, you know what I mean. Haha. Yeah you do.
I mention this - in a mostly tongue in cheek manner - because tickets for most of Boston's season are going on sale tomorrow. And while I'd of course be overjoyed at the prospect of attending any game, I'm going to be waiting in the virtual waiting rooms of gloom at 9 a.m. tomorrow morning with one particular game in mind, and a backup plan of two particular series.
Because, as I believe I've stated here before (only a million times or so), when I invested in my first (and thus far only) Red Sox player t-shirt, I went for the one who made me laugh. I cheered most loudly for the one who wasn't perfect, but who made his team stronger with his imperfections. Who played wherever Terry told him to play because he just wanted to be out there. The one who was on the proverbial chopping block for a huge portion of the season but still managed to pull out a two-home run evening because he cared so much. And who, until the very end, hoped with every bone in his body that he would be able to stay in the city - and with the team - he loved.
I bought a Millar shirt. And tickets for two out of the three Baltimore series go on sale tomorrow. I want to go to the first Baltimore game for which tickets are available (first series sold out before Millar was signed to the Orioles), and I want to wear my Millar jersey to Fenway one more time.
(And, for those who might be curious: Who will my favorite Red Sox player be this season? If I buy another player shirt, whose name will be on the back? I'll gladly toast a beer with the members of the first group I psychoanalyzed. O captain, my captain.)
Since I follow the Red Sox, I inevitably spend time at Fenway games examining the sociological nature of that particular team and its fans.
Tek, Trot or - tear - Mueller: you appreciate the hard-working, silent types. You're a fan of the ones who do their jobs and don't necessarily shy away from the spotlight when it's thrust upon them, but are most content focusing on the task at hand. You admire players who eat dirt on a daily basis, take the extra swings or fielding practice when it's available and grit their teeth when they're training on their own time. You know that hard work speaks for itself. You like your beer, you know your stats and you're the one likely to be calling out, "Tek. Buddy. I fuckin' love you, man!"
Schilling: you are the optimists. During the first half of the 2004 season, you were looking for something on which to focus your prayers, and you found it in the one man who promised you a miracle when he rolled into town. When the 2004 postseason rolled around, you were the ones crying happy tears into your beers (you like it, too) as you saw the bloody sock because you KNEW that there was no way this kind of sacrifice would go unrewarded. You also doubled in population after the World Series, but I hardly fault you for that. You may or may not be Republican. Just saying.
Ortiz: you note the importance and joy of a single swing, therefore you cherish the little moments in life. You cherish strength, and you adore it most when it's coupled with a face-breaking smile and what would certainly be bone-crushing hugs. You also, coincidentally, enjoy jumping up and down when you celebrate. Odds are good that you probably have a passion for spices, particularly when found in salsa.
Manny: you just want to win. You also can show passive-aggressive tendancies. You rail and complain with the rest when your player seems to shirk his duties, but you're the first to say "I told you so" when he steps back up to the plate, figuratively speaking. You tend to point a lot.
He-Who-Used-To-Be-Johnny-Damon/Bronson Arroyo: You are most likely female. You may, in fact, support your player with a shirt that features "Mrs." before his surname. You like pink, it seems, and may be most likely to sport the pale pink Red Sox hats that make me cringe every time I see them on your heads (sorry. True. Team colors are, if anything, red and blue. Accept it. Wear it. Move on). But most importantly, you enjoy the sparkle factor that baseball can provide. It's not all about winning to you - it's about being in the park or watching the game and focusing on the fun involved. Of course you want the team to win, but how can you keep your mind strictly on that when you have a slow motion shot of Damon's hair swaying as he runs, or that delicious ass so cruely kept from all but the bleacher or Monster Seat fans for so much of the game...yeah, you know what I mean. Haha. Yeah you do.
I mention this - in a mostly tongue in cheek manner - because tickets for most of Boston's season are going on sale tomorrow. And while I'd of course be overjoyed at the prospect of attending any game, I'm going to be waiting in the virtual waiting rooms of gloom at 9 a.m. tomorrow morning with one particular game in mind, and a backup plan of two particular series.
Because, as I believe I've stated here before (only a million times or so), when I invested in my first (and thus far only) Red Sox player t-shirt, I went for the one who made me laugh. I cheered most loudly for the one who wasn't perfect, but who made his team stronger with his imperfections. Who played wherever Terry told him to play because he just wanted to be out there. The one who was on the proverbial chopping block for a huge portion of the season but still managed to pull out a two-home run evening because he cared so much. And who, until the very end, hoped with every bone in his body that he would be able to stay in the city - and with the team - he loved.
I bought a Millar shirt. And tickets for two out of the three Baltimore series go on sale tomorrow. I want to go to the first Baltimore game for which tickets are available (first series sold out before Millar was signed to the Orioles), and I want to wear my Millar jersey to Fenway one more time.
(And, for those who might be curious: Who will my favorite Red Sox player be this season? If I buy another player shirt, whose name will be on the back? I'll gladly toast a beer with the members of the first group I psychoanalyzed. O captain, my captain.)
We interrupt your Friday afternoon for an announcement of extraordinary importance:
I'm going to see Jenny Lewwwwwwwwwwiiiiiiiisssss, Jenny Lllllleeeeewwwwwwwiiiiiissssss, the indie priiiiiiiiincesssssss, Jenny Lllllleeeewwwwwwwwwiiiiiiiiiiisssssssss.
Longtime readers know of my longtime appreciation for Ms. Lewis and her little band that done blew up and got big, Rilo Kiley. And astute readers who took note of my emphatic recommendations (or, actually, anyone who reads magazines or music websites) will probably know that Lewis released a solo album this week with the Watson Twins, titled "Rabbit Fur Coat."
Admittedly, I've been somewhat lax and have yet to pick up the album, but am planning on doing so soon.
And, thanks to Massachusetts operatives (who shall remain nameless despite the fact that any astute reader would know precisely to whom I refer), I have a ticket with my name on it (figuratively speaking) for the March 17 show at The Somerville Theatre.
Which, the most astute of astute readers might realize, is the location at which I attended my first Rilo Kiley performance.
This, really, is worthy of a "Yay" and perhaps a quick clap of the hands. But since I've done a somewhat lousy job of updating this space over the last couple of weeks, I decided to provide a little more content.
Besides, Jenny's great. She's worth a little extra space.
I'm going to see Jenny Lewwwwwwwwwwiiiiiiiisssss, Jenny Lllllleeeeewwwwwwwiiiiiissssss, the indie priiiiiiiiincesssssss, Jenny Lllllleeeewwwwwwwwwiiiiiiiiiiisssssssss.
Longtime readers know of my longtime appreciation for Ms. Lewis and her little band that done blew up and got big, Rilo Kiley. And astute readers who took note of my emphatic recommendations (or, actually, anyone who reads magazines or music websites) will probably know that Lewis released a solo album this week with the Watson Twins, titled "Rabbit Fur Coat."
Admittedly, I've been somewhat lax and have yet to pick up the album, but am planning on doing so soon.
And, thanks to Massachusetts operatives (who shall remain nameless despite the fact that any astute reader would know precisely to whom I refer), I have a ticket with my name on it (figuratively speaking) for the March 17 show at The Somerville Theatre.
Which, the most astute of astute readers might realize, is the location at which I attended my first Rilo Kiley performance.
This, really, is worthy of a "Yay" and perhaps a quick clap of the hands. But since I've done a somewhat lousy job of updating this space over the last couple of weeks, I decided to provide a little more content.
Besides, Jenny's great. She's worth a little extra space.
1.25.2006
There is a lattice of sorts near the back door of my apartment, one I don't pay much attention to in winter.
In summer, even early autumn, that's a different story. The flower box on the ground in front of this partial wall blooms with a number of different kinds of greenery, depending on the month. First, tall shoots of green. Yellow flowers almost reminiscent of daffodils - but not quite - that appear in June and continue through early July, replaced at that point by orange flowers, for which I've substituted knowledge of their name with multiple photographs of their color.
When autumn arrives, however, I lose patience. Just gray lattice-work, without anything particularly stunning - gravel - to see through the carefully orchestrated holes in the wood.
Tonight, the snowfall and the wind have teamed up to create a perfect little pattern on the lattice. Each diamond of open space filled with just the right amount of snow, creating a gray and white pattern against the dark sky that makes me think, for just a moment, that the winter scene is fully intended to be seen strictly in monochromatic shades.
Peaceful. Quiet. Nice.
In summer, even early autumn, that's a different story. The flower box on the ground in front of this partial wall blooms with a number of different kinds of greenery, depending on the month. First, tall shoots of green. Yellow flowers almost reminiscent of daffodils - but not quite - that appear in June and continue through early July, replaced at that point by orange flowers, for which I've substituted knowledge of their name with multiple photographs of their color.
When autumn arrives, however, I lose patience. Just gray lattice-work, without anything particularly stunning - gravel - to see through the carefully orchestrated holes in the wood.
Tonight, the snowfall and the wind have teamed up to create a perfect little pattern on the lattice. Each diamond of open space filled with just the right amount of snow, creating a gray and white pattern against the dark sky that makes me think, for just a moment, that the winter scene is fully intended to be seen strictly in monochromatic shades.
Peaceful. Quiet. Nice.
1.22.2006
This is a problem.
I'm sitting in the third row of foldout chairs within UVM's Ira Allen Chapel on Friday night, savoring every agonizing instant of the most heart-wrenching rendition of "I Saw" I've ever heard. Matt Nathanson is standing before me, cast in blue and pink sidelighting, speak-singing the words with helpless shrugs and a broken voice that adds even more devastation to the song - something I didn't think was possible, considering some of the previous versions I've heard. From the sounds of things, I'm witnessing Matt's soul shattering right in front of me.
And I am crying. Not the all-out Cliched Girl Sobbing At the Rock Show kind of heaving sobs; I am happy to report that I have never been, nor would ever be, That Girl.
(My musical history has proven that in most cases, I'm a sigher. Not a crier.)
But there are a pair of embarrassingly bright eyes attached to my face, and they're full of all the tears except one, which has slipped out and fallen down my right cheek. I'm absurdedly aware of its presence, and I'm blinking like mad to prevent any other stray tears from giving me away.
What do I do? I can't reach up and wipe the tear away, because I don't want my friends to see that I'm a sap (despite the fact that they know it to be the case). And Matt can see me from this spot, and I certainly don't want him to catch me crying, because I don't want him to believe That Girl is in the third row of his show. But I can't let it stay there, burning a trail down my face because it's presence is all I can think about as he sings the song. It's distracting me and bothering me at the worst possible moment.
Left with no other possible courses of action, I lean down to move the purse that rests at my feet. As I do so, I take a quick swipe at my face. But Beth catches the maneuver, and I catch her catching me. I look up quickly, eyes just as obnoxiously watery.
Damn him and the decision to avoid the usual ironic musical composition. He's normally the master of coupling despondent lyrics with upbeat instrumentation and, likewise, drenching optimistic lyrics with melancholy chords. I often laugh about how he does so because he realizes the brutal intensity of his talent.
But here he is, with "Sad Songs," perpetuating the emotion with a straightforward and beautiful approach, making me cry and, likewise, making me realize that I love attending his shows. I adore knowing that I'm going to ruin any little videos or concert calls I make with the sound of my laughter coming through on the audio track. I enjoy the opportunity to be encouraged - nay, commanded - to belt out Journey songs at the top of my lungs. I look forward to the opportunities to hear entirely new songs, slightly older songs revised since last time or the familiar material of which my friends and I know nearly every nuance.
But I also have to realize that I have been waiting for weeks for the opportunity to have spent money for a few moments of feeling absolutely, brilliantly miserable. And that I'm loving each moment of it because it's the closest thing to a singer-songwriter completely reliving a moment or sharing an experience with an audience found playing in venues today. Agony, compassion, disbelief and all.
That and, well, that he'll start talking about MTV's new Ashley Parker Angel show and get me laughing all over again.
I'm sitting in the third row of foldout chairs within UVM's Ira Allen Chapel on Friday night, savoring every agonizing instant of the most heart-wrenching rendition of "I Saw" I've ever heard. Matt Nathanson is standing before me, cast in blue and pink sidelighting, speak-singing the words with helpless shrugs and a broken voice that adds even more devastation to the song - something I didn't think was possible, considering some of the previous versions I've heard. From the sounds of things, I'm witnessing Matt's soul shattering right in front of me.
And I am crying. Not the all-out Cliched Girl Sobbing At the Rock Show kind of heaving sobs; I am happy to report that I have never been, nor would ever be, That Girl.
(My musical history has proven that in most cases, I'm a sigher. Not a crier.)
But there are a pair of embarrassingly bright eyes attached to my face, and they're full of all the tears except one, which has slipped out and fallen down my right cheek. I'm absurdedly aware of its presence, and I'm blinking like mad to prevent any other stray tears from giving me away.
What do I do? I can't reach up and wipe the tear away, because I don't want my friends to see that I'm a sap (despite the fact that they know it to be the case). And Matt can see me from this spot, and I certainly don't want him to catch me crying, because I don't want him to believe That Girl is in the third row of his show. But I can't let it stay there, burning a trail down my face because it's presence is all I can think about as he sings the song. It's distracting me and bothering me at the worst possible moment.
Left with no other possible courses of action, I lean down to move the purse that rests at my feet. As I do so, I take a quick swipe at my face. But Beth catches the maneuver, and I catch her catching me. I look up quickly, eyes just as obnoxiously watery.
Damn him and the decision to avoid the usual ironic musical composition. He's normally the master of coupling despondent lyrics with upbeat instrumentation and, likewise, drenching optimistic lyrics with melancholy chords. I often laugh about how he does so because he realizes the brutal intensity of his talent.
But here he is, with "Sad Songs," perpetuating the emotion with a straightforward and beautiful approach, making me cry and, likewise, making me realize that I love attending his shows. I adore knowing that I'm going to ruin any little videos or concert calls I make with the sound of my laughter coming through on the audio track. I enjoy the opportunity to be encouraged - nay, commanded - to belt out Journey songs at the top of my lungs. I look forward to the opportunities to hear entirely new songs, slightly older songs revised since last time or the familiar material of which my friends and I know nearly every nuance.
But I also have to realize that I have been waiting for weeks for the opportunity to have spent money for a few moments of feeling absolutely, brilliantly miserable. And that I'm loving each moment of it because it's the closest thing to a singer-songwriter completely reliving a moment or sharing an experience with an audience found playing in venues today. Agony, compassion, disbelief and all.
That and, well, that he'll start talking about MTV's new Ashley Parker Angel show and get me laughing all over again.
1.20.2006
Burlington: The New Boston? You be the judge.
Matt Nathanson, Melissa Ferrick, Syd, Tristan Prettyman, Ben Taylor Band and, the most delightful of all proverbial icings on the cake, Ryan Montbleau Band. All before this point next month. Most within a short walking distance of my home.
It's not that I haven't wanted to get down to Massachusetts; it's just that there's so damn much going on up here that I can't help but stick around and revel in it.
I feel good. Grand, even. There are good shows and good friends with which to partake in the musical goodness. A number of local fitness centers are offering free use of their facilities for a week, starting today, so I'll be able to cue up the iPod in a different environment to get my regular endorphin rush (a change of scenery from that usually provided by the trusty treadmill will be nice). While I know winter will come back with a vengeance, it's warm and relaxing outside. There are things to do, people to see and plans to put into motion.
Cue up some James Brown, friends. 'Cause that's how good I feel.
***
The excitement is flooding into my friends' and my inboxes. We're all pretty giddy.
"it's MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATTTTTTTYYYYYYYY DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYY!"
After the brief concert haitus that began after The Mister Vertigo/Tides/Chad show in Boston last month, I'm ready to rejoin the audiences and file into venues.
And what a way to start. Nathanson. My favorite of the singer-songwriters to see live.
(A bold statement, I know, but I believe it to be quite accurrate, when I consider the available pool of songsters.)
I've been listening to live Matt all morning, singing along to the songs and wondering what the hell he's going to pull upon taking the stage tonight.
And I've been counting down the hours.
Matt Nathanson, Melissa Ferrick, Syd, Tristan Prettyman, Ben Taylor Band and, the most delightful of all proverbial icings on the cake, Ryan Montbleau Band. All before this point next month. Most within a short walking distance of my home.
It's not that I haven't wanted to get down to Massachusetts; it's just that there's so damn much going on up here that I can't help but stick around and revel in it.
I feel good. Grand, even. There are good shows and good friends with which to partake in the musical goodness. A number of local fitness centers are offering free use of their facilities for a week, starting today, so I'll be able to cue up the iPod in a different environment to get my regular endorphin rush (a change of scenery from that usually provided by the trusty treadmill will be nice). While I know winter will come back with a vengeance, it's warm and relaxing outside. There are things to do, people to see and plans to put into motion.
Cue up some James Brown, friends. 'Cause that's how good I feel.
***
The excitement is flooding into my friends' and my inboxes. We're all pretty giddy.
"it's MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATTTTTTTYYYYYYYY DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYY!"
After the brief concert haitus that began after The Mister Vertigo/Tides/Chad show in Boston last month, I'm ready to rejoin the audiences and file into venues.
And what a way to start. Nathanson. My favorite of the singer-songwriters to see live.
(A bold statement, I know, but I believe it to be quite accurrate, when I consider the available pool of songsters.)
I've been listening to live Matt all morning, singing along to the songs and wondering what the hell he's going to pull upon taking the stage tonight.
And I've been counting down the hours.
1.19.2006
V: Know what's sad?
B: What's sad?
V: So last night, I'm getting ready to go to sleep, but I realize I kind of want to talk to him. And say, "How am I? Funny, that you ask, really. Desired, apparently. Yes, someone thinks I'm fabulous and told me so. And he isn't you. Even thought I've wanted you to tell me that for how long now??? The answer, if you're too stupid to pick up on it, is: longer than I care to admit. Is there anything you'd like to tell me?" But what I'd really say is something more along the lines of "Um, hi. Just wanted to say hi because I was, uh, thinking of you just now, how you doing?"
B: [laughing] Oh...that's harsh.
V: No. Harsh is reminding myself that I'd just get voicemail. "Hi, you're an idiot, why do you suck? Mmmkay, call me back. Bye."
B: What's sad?
V: So last night, I'm getting ready to go to sleep, but I realize I kind of want to talk to him. And say, "How am I? Funny, that you ask, really. Desired, apparently. Yes, someone thinks I'm fabulous and told me so. And he isn't you. Even thought I've wanted you to tell me that for how long now??? The answer, if you're too stupid to pick up on it, is: longer than I care to admit. Is there anything you'd like to tell me?" But what I'd really say is something more along the lines of "Um, hi. Just wanted to say hi because I was, uh, thinking of you just now, how you doing?"
B: [laughing] Oh...that's harsh.
V: No. Harsh is reminding myself that I'd just get voicemail. "Hi, you're an idiot, why do you suck? Mmmkay, call me back. Bye."
1.17.2006
I can't help but laugh. This date, a year ago:
Odd that I'm thinking of tomorrows today, during a day in which I've had yesterdays consistently thrown my way...
...But that's the point, isn't it? To have and remember moments - with the whole idea of learning and growing and, I daresay, maturing from them. That's why you keep on waking up and it's why I keep on writing after I open my eyes.
Oh, V. You foolish girl. Funny, how things can look so different in the context a year provides.
But, I'm pleased to report, the learning/growing/maturing aspect? Apparently I knew what I was talking about...
In other news. Golden Globes last night. Charlize Theron and Ellen Pompeo, fire your stylists. Immediately. Start asking around about who Keira Knightley has working for her.
Trust me on this one, mmmkay?
Odd that I'm thinking of tomorrows today, during a day in which I've had yesterdays consistently thrown my way...
...But that's the point, isn't it? To have and remember moments - with the whole idea of learning and growing and, I daresay, maturing from them. That's why you keep on waking up and it's why I keep on writing after I open my eyes.
Oh, V. You foolish girl. Funny, how things can look so different in the context a year provides.
But, I'm pleased to report, the learning/growing/maturing aspect? Apparently I knew what I was talking about...
In other news. Golden Globes last night. Charlize Theron and Ellen Pompeo, fire your stylists. Immediately. Start asking around about who Keira Knightley has working for her.
Trust me on this one, mmmkay?
1.16.2006
When the weekend rolls around and Mother Nature decides to throw a 50-degree-variable curveball your way (that is, balmy turns to freezing right before it's time to solidify nightlife plans), there comes the need for a little soul-searching.
Do you brave it, with the hopes of huddling among others in a drafty bar and striking up conversation with an intriguing stranger? Do you brave the roads to attend that out-of-town party to which you were invited? Or do you bunker in, curled up with blankets and snacks?
I opted for a run to the grocery store, multiple DVD rentals and a maple latte. Any stranger with whom I might like to chat would likewise stay home, if he had any sort of common sense. And I didn't feel like challenging the fates with another party venture on the icy highways.
Which means my hot dates for the weekend were Brad Pitt, Adam Brody, Sean William Scott, Johnny Knoxville and John Cusack. Rawr.
What can I say? A girl's got to keep warm.
Sometimes it feels good to just let myself recharge - to lounge around on floor or on couches with the flatmates, watch dumb movies and see C smirk as B and I aw or laugh in unison precisely when the Hollywood head honchos hoped we would (because we are Those Girls). Stay up until I'm tired and sleep until I'm refreshed. With a break early Saturday to help move a couch (a test of female independence that left me feeling victorious Saturday, sore as hell Sunday), and another early yesterday afternoon to get my running-prompted endorphin fix, relaxation was the word.
And it felt pretty damn glorious.
So take that, Mother Nature. Go ahead. Throw what you will at me whenever you want to. I'll still make the most of it.
Actually, as it's 9 degrees outside right now, let me rephrase. Mother Nature, gently toss in my direction whatever you want to.
Yeah, that's right.
Do you brave it, with the hopes of huddling among others in a drafty bar and striking up conversation with an intriguing stranger? Do you brave the roads to attend that out-of-town party to which you were invited? Or do you bunker in, curled up with blankets and snacks?
I opted for a run to the grocery store, multiple DVD rentals and a maple latte. Any stranger with whom I might like to chat would likewise stay home, if he had any sort of common sense. And I didn't feel like challenging the fates with another party venture on the icy highways.
Which means my hot dates for the weekend were Brad Pitt, Adam Brody, Sean William Scott, Johnny Knoxville and John Cusack. Rawr.
What can I say? A girl's got to keep warm.
Sometimes it feels good to just let myself recharge - to lounge around on floor or on couches with the flatmates, watch dumb movies and see C smirk as B and I aw or laugh in unison precisely when the Hollywood head honchos hoped we would (because we are Those Girls). Stay up until I'm tired and sleep until I'm refreshed. With a break early Saturday to help move a couch (a test of female independence that left me feeling victorious Saturday, sore as hell Sunday), and another early yesterday afternoon to get my running-prompted endorphin fix, relaxation was the word.
And it felt pretty damn glorious.
So take that, Mother Nature. Go ahead. Throw what you will at me whenever you want to. I'll still make the most of it.
Actually, as it's 9 degrees outside right now, let me rephrase. Mother Nature, gently toss in my direction whatever you want to.
Yeah, that's right.
1.15.2006
File under "Inspiration ala Sylvia."
I need Plot: people growing: banging into each other and into circumstances; stewpot citizens: growing and hurting and loving and making the best of various bad jobs.
I have never found anyone who could stand to accept the daily demonstrative love I feel in me, and give back as good as I gave.
Life has been some combination of fairy-tale coincidence and joie de vivre and shocks of beauty together with some hurtful self-questioning.
I retreat and revel in poetry and literature where the reward value is tangible and accepted. I really do not think deeply, really deeply. I want a romantic nonexistent hero.
Let me live, love and say it well in good sentences.
Would it be too childish of me to say: I want? But I do want: theater, light, color, paintings, wine and wonder.
Can a selfish egocentric jealous and unimaginative female write a damn thing worthwhile?
It is sad to be able only to mouth other poets. I want someone to mouth me.
I need Plot: people growing: banging into each other and into circumstances; stewpot citizens: growing and hurting and loving and making the best of various bad jobs.
I have never found anyone who could stand to accept the daily demonstrative love I feel in me, and give back as good as I gave.
Life has been some combination of fairy-tale coincidence and joie de vivre and shocks of beauty together with some hurtful self-questioning.
I retreat and revel in poetry and literature where the reward value is tangible and accepted. I really do not think deeply, really deeply. I want a romantic nonexistent hero.
Let me live, love and say it well in good sentences.
Would it be too childish of me to say: I want? But I do want: theater, light, color, paintings, wine and wonder.
Can a selfish egocentric jealous and unimaginative female write a damn thing worthwhile?
It is sad to be able only to mouth other poets. I want someone to mouth me.
1.13.2006
There are obvious advantages to the January thaw. As a reformed skiier (that is, I don't) and a could-be boarder (that is, I've never had much desire to brave the cold to try), and a strong proponent for winter hibernation (that is, everything I need to do, including exercise, can be done inside until the temperature rises), I love seeing the green grass and walking outside with scarves serving only as fashion acessories. Being able to stand outside a nightspot destination without losing feeling in my fingers or toes makes me happy - choosing a hot caffeinated beverage for its aromatic appeal more than the need to warm up is a perk.
On a quick walk downtown early this afternoon, I added another item to my mental list of things I like about unexpected winter warmth.
A busker. A BUSKER! Perched on a small staircase on College Street, a fedora on his head, a turquoise electric guitar strapped to his chest. A small amplifier on the sidewalk, piping out blues riffs and jazzy licks.
I don't usually see electric buskers around these parts, even during the summer months. It all tends to be acoustic on Church Street, and no one seems to dare attempt to take over the pan flute man's territory on the waterfront. So Burlington blues are rare outside the occasional club gigs.
But it was perfect for the feel of the day. The drip-drop melt of what little snow remained, gray skies and bare trees. Yet the pedestrian desire to be outside, to establish contact with the world during what normally would be a day of hiding from others inside. The blues - melancholy yet vivid as they bounce and echo off the gray and brick building walls. And the splash of color provided by a old-school turquoise and white color-schemed guitar.
I hope he picked up the huge smile that was sent his way from beyond the cars and across the street.
On a quick walk downtown early this afternoon, I added another item to my mental list of things I like about unexpected winter warmth.
A busker. A BUSKER! Perched on a small staircase on College Street, a fedora on his head, a turquoise electric guitar strapped to his chest. A small amplifier on the sidewalk, piping out blues riffs and jazzy licks.
I don't usually see electric buskers around these parts, even during the summer months. It all tends to be acoustic on Church Street, and no one seems to dare attempt to take over the pan flute man's territory on the waterfront. So Burlington blues are rare outside the occasional club gigs.
But it was perfect for the feel of the day. The drip-drop melt of what little snow remained, gray skies and bare trees. Yet the pedestrian desire to be outside, to establish contact with the world during what normally would be a day of hiding from others inside. The blues - melancholy yet vivid as they bounce and echo off the gray and brick building walls. And the splash of color provided by a old-school turquoise and white color-schemed guitar.
I hope he picked up the huge smile that was sent his way from beyond the cars and across the street.
1.12.2006
OK. Question for the night (or day, for Friday readers):
Does Mighty Mouse count as a superhero in your books? I mean, maybe if you're talking Danger Mouse, because that little mouse was badass. And British.
I strongly maintain that there have never been enough British superheroes. Which is why I believe I give him the superhero greenlight over his American counterpart. Counter-rodent?
In other, in less head-scratching news, or rather, a shoutout: a big thank you from T Squared (that is, Team Trouble) to one P Squared, who provided the delightful, unexpected (but ever so appreciated!) surprise of the day. Thank you so much!
Yes. One really large maple latte. OK, fine. Maybe five. And, considering the feat of plunging into the lake, something will probably wind up being added into the latte(s) post-order. If I remember correctly, butterscotch schnappes works like a charm in hot espresso beverages...
Does Mighty Mouse count as a superhero in your books? I mean, maybe if you're talking Danger Mouse, because that little mouse was badass. And British.
I strongly maintain that there have never been enough British superheroes. Which is why I believe I give him the superhero greenlight over his American counterpart. Counter-rodent?
In other, in less head-scratching news, or rather, a shoutout: a big thank you from T Squared (that is, Team Trouble) to one P Squared, who provided the delightful, unexpected (but ever so appreciated!) surprise of the day. Thank you so much!
Yes. One really large maple latte. OK, fine. Maybe five. And, considering the feat of plunging into the lake, something will probably wind up being added into the latte(s) post-order. If I remember correctly, butterscotch schnappes works like a charm in hot espresso beverages...
1.10.2006
Please note the link! CLICK ON ME!
In a month and a day, this relatively sane, rational woman will be jumping - well, running, really - into Lake Champlain.
A very, very cold Lake Champlain.
See, one of the things we Vermonters do up here during the winter - you know, besides ice fishing and hockey and most of the wintery things that I generally skip in favor of hot chocolate or lattes - is raise money for Special Olympics Vermont with the Penguin Plunge.
Basic premise: you get people to donate money for you to run into a cold lake after the powers that be actually clear through the ice to give you a place to plunge. It's cold, it's wacky and it's always something that I've laughed and shaken my head about.
Until this year, because I'm, well, doing it. A group of us are going to embrace the event with the mentality that "it's something you need to be able to say you did at least once in your life." And since I'm 25, it's not going to be enough of a shock to kill me.
In theory.
The other bonus is that it's for a good cause. The Special Olympics Vermont does, of course, a ridiculous number of amazing things each year; that I have a cousin who could come to benefit from everything the organization does makes it particularly personal.
My teammates and I have set up a donation page, where you can easily support our crazy venture from the comfort of your own home/office/coffeeshop. Please help out if you can - we'd greatly appreciate the help! As you can see on the page, we need to raise at least a total of $900 in order to take plugne.
You'll be rewarded with a standing invitation to watch the festivities, stories here about the experience, photographic evidence (there's no way I'm doing this and not getting it on film) and, most importantly, my thanks.
In a month and a day, this relatively sane, rational woman will be jumping - well, running, really - into Lake Champlain.
A very, very cold Lake Champlain.
See, one of the things we Vermonters do up here during the winter - you know, besides ice fishing and hockey and most of the wintery things that I generally skip in favor of hot chocolate or lattes - is raise money for Special Olympics Vermont with the Penguin Plunge.
Basic premise: you get people to donate money for you to run into a cold lake after the powers that be actually clear through the ice to give you a place to plunge. It's cold, it's wacky and it's always something that I've laughed and shaken my head about.
Until this year, because I'm, well, doing it. A group of us are going to embrace the event with the mentality that "it's something you need to be able to say you did at least once in your life." And since I'm 25, it's not going to be enough of a shock to kill me.
In theory.
The other bonus is that it's for a good cause. The Special Olympics Vermont does, of course, a ridiculous number of amazing things each year; that I have a cousin who could come to benefit from everything the organization does makes it particularly personal.
My teammates and I have set up a donation page, where you can easily support our crazy venture from the comfort of your own home/office/coffeeshop. Please help out if you can - we'd greatly appreciate the help! As you can see on the page, we need to raise at least a total of $900 in order to take plugne.
You'll be rewarded with a standing invitation to watch the festivities, stories here about the experience, photographic evidence (there's no way I'm doing this and not getting it on film) and, most importantly, my thanks.
1.09.2006
Years from now, I'll look back on these days wondering why I made such a big deal over such minor details.
Why things that will look frivilous in the subjective light of passed time matter now to the extent that they do; why I couldn't see that those who demand of me garish, bold-faced 82-point font would come to filter off to faded strokes of a long-whittled-away pencil on the margins of the page; that everything would work out the way it was supposed to.
That the main characters compiled in this living autobiography, those most vivid and grounded in non-fiction, are those that will come to dominate the chapters. They're simply there - imperfect, honest and fascinating as a result. These are the "I just called you to say hi"s and, "You. Me. Coffee"s and the "Hi. Get this"es.
That they're the ones I'll keep around; likewise they're the ones who'll keep me around. If they only for the sake of comedic relief. Heh.
Those that make absurd twist and turn cameos? They're the ones who will make exists just as hasty as their entrances.
I know this and I conveniently forget this from time to time so I can continue to learn and realize that, in the long run, I am learning from them and benefiting from the space that they dominated for a time.
And although I'm a cynic and although I've developed into a more wary version of the naive girl I once was, I know I'll have a happy ending.
Not because I necessarily believe in any fate or any destiny that takes the control from me and passes it off to some unseen beings or entities. But because the sensible (if fanciful, frazzled and a bit prone to overly-romantic flights of whimsy) head on my shoulders would make the decisions that came to matter when the time called for them.
And that I'll learn, in time, not to beat a metaphor to death. Or examine a metaphor when I should have just abandoned writing for the night and gone to sleep...
Why things that will look frivilous in the subjective light of passed time matter now to the extent that they do; why I couldn't see that those who demand of me garish, bold-faced 82-point font would come to filter off to faded strokes of a long-whittled-away pencil on the margins of the page; that everything would work out the way it was supposed to.
That the main characters compiled in this living autobiography, those most vivid and grounded in non-fiction, are those that will come to dominate the chapters. They're simply there - imperfect, honest and fascinating as a result. These are the "I just called you to say hi"s and, "You. Me. Coffee"s and the "Hi. Get this"es.
That they're the ones I'll keep around; likewise they're the ones who'll keep me around. If they only for the sake of comedic relief. Heh.
Those that make absurd twist and turn cameos? They're the ones who will make exists just as hasty as their entrances.
I know this and I conveniently forget this from time to time so I can continue to learn and realize that, in the long run, I am learning from them and benefiting from the space that they dominated for a time.
And although I'm a cynic and although I've developed into a more wary version of the naive girl I once was, I know I'll have a happy ending.
Not because I necessarily believe in any fate or any destiny that takes the control from me and passes it off to some unseen beings or entities. But because the sensible (if fanciful, frazzled and a bit prone to overly-romantic flights of whimsy) head on my shoulders would make the decisions that came to matter when the time called for them.
And that I'll learn, in time, not to beat a metaphor to death. Or examine a metaphor when I should have just abandoned writing for the night and gone to sleep...
1.08.2006
It always makes for an amusing conversation.
Some individuals - who happen to go by the monkiers of Mom and Dad - have a difficult time sometimes, understanding why precisely their eldest is so often found trapsing off to concerts by people I've seen before.
V? Where are you now? Boston? Montreal? New York? Some place somewhere in between? Who's playing this time?
With the discussions about this disconnect - when either of them decides to give the discussion another try - comes laughter about how I've "just seen" whoever I'm going to see.
One show is the same as any other, after all. Right?
Nathanson's in town in a little less than two weeks, his first show in the area since headlining the old Higher Ground in April '04, which was the first in the area since the Coffeehouse show in 2001.
Of course, the parentals would point out if they could keep track of the shows I've attended over the last several years (a task even I find daunting, and I'm the one who went to them), I've seen him numerous times between these Vermont stops. Endicott College (otherwise known as The Night of No PA), Corporate Mad Lib Pavillion (The Night We Skipped OAR and Left After Matt and Howie To Go See Tides), the Orpheum (The Night Before the Earliest Trip Home Ever) and the stint at Paradise (The Nights That Led To What I Did On My Music-Prompted Vacation).
So what's the big deal about seeing him again? What's the big deal about seeing anyone numerous times? Why do you do it, why do you put miles on your car and why do you look so damn forward to yet another show, V? Why?
This evening, during the Load Up the iPod process, I finally made my way over to archive.org to get some more live material. I started downloading one of the Matt Does Paradise shows, periodically pausing to listen to tracks and songs I'm looking forward to hearing again, in person, shortly.
Mom, Dad, other people scratching their heads: this is why.
One of these days, I'm going to burn a copy of a Matt show and just leave it for the folks so they can take a listen, with the hopes that they get it.
This absolutely gorgeous evening of music? I was there for it. I stood in the balcony with my friends and I witnessed this in person. Each little variable, each joke?
There are no exact replicas of shows.
OK, maybe if you're going to see Gavin DeGraw. In that case, I concede.
And the possibility of what every evening could bring, what songs could be dusted off the shelf and, likewise, what songs could make brand-new-to-me appearances?
This is why I go. And, in this case, why I'm going to be so pleased to be standing in the crowd in a couple of weeks.
In other news, I made my first homemade soup this evening. I am pleased to report that it is exceedingly delicious. So exceedingly delicious that I almost don't mind that the recipe said it would yield four servings, when in actuality, it yielded something more like 12.
Beth at one point asked me what I was doing, as I clanged around pots and pans.
"I'M CULINARYING, DAMMIT!"
I've been informed that I have a truly original cooking technique. I think that was Beth's way of saying I cook like an idiot.
But I say if I'm cooking in any manner, that's progress. And if the kitchen has yet to burn down or otherwise be destoryed in the process?
All the better.
Some individuals - who happen to go by the monkiers of Mom and Dad - have a difficult time sometimes, understanding why precisely their eldest is so often found trapsing off to concerts by people I've seen before.
V? Where are you now? Boston? Montreal? New York? Some place somewhere in between? Who's playing this time?
With the discussions about this disconnect - when either of them decides to give the discussion another try - comes laughter about how I've "just seen" whoever I'm going to see.
One show is the same as any other, after all. Right?
Nathanson's in town in a little less than two weeks, his first show in the area since headlining the old Higher Ground in April '04, which was the first in the area since the Coffeehouse show in 2001.
Of course, the parentals would point out if they could keep track of the shows I've attended over the last several years (a task even I find daunting, and I'm the one who went to them), I've seen him numerous times between these Vermont stops. Endicott College (otherwise known as The Night of No PA), Corporate Mad Lib Pavillion (The Night We Skipped OAR and Left After Matt and Howie To Go See Tides), the Orpheum (The Night Before the Earliest Trip Home Ever) and the stint at Paradise (The Nights That Led To What I Did On My Music-Prompted Vacation).
So what's the big deal about seeing him again? What's the big deal about seeing anyone numerous times? Why do you do it, why do you put miles on your car and why do you look so damn forward to yet another show, V? Why?
This evening, during the Load Up the iPod process, I finally made my way over to archive.org to get some more live material. I started downloading one of the Matt Does Paradise shows, periodically pausing to listen to tracks and songs I'm looking forward to hearing again, in person, shortly.
Mom, Dad, other people scratching their heads: this is why.
One of these days, I'm going to burn a copy of a Matt show and just leave it for the folks so they can take a listen, with the hopes that they get it.
This absolutely gorgeous evening of music? I was there for it. I stood in the balcony with my friends and I witnessed this in person. Each little variable, each joke?
There are no exact replicas of shows.
OK, maybe if you're going to see Gavin DeGraw. In that case, I concede.
And the possibility of what every evening could bring, what songs could be dusted off the shelf and, likewise, what songs could make brand-new-to-me appearances?
This is why I go. And, in this case, why I'm going to be so pleased to be standing in the crowd in a couple of weeks.
In other news, I made my first homemade soup this evening. I am pleased to report that it is exceedingly delicious. So exceedingly delicious that I almost don't mind that the recipe said it would yield four servings, when in actuality, it yielded something more like 12.
Beth at one point asked me what I was doing, as I clanged around pots and pans.
"I'M CULINARYING, DAMMIT!"
I've been informed that I have a truly original cooking technique. I think that was Beth's way of saying I cook like an idiot.
But I say if I'm cooking in any manner, that's progress. And if the kitchen has yet to burn down or otherwise be destoryed in the process?
All the better.
"Look! It's so easy!" My friends laughed as my face grew red and I attempted to cover it with my hands. I'd become an impromptu game, nice and easy to play with.
Look, see what V does! All we have to do is say a name and she starts to blush and grin like a fool!
Apparently, I have a crush smile. A crush giggle. A crush all-out laugh. And a crush expression when I'm doing everything in my power - unsuccessfully, might I add - to repress any of the above. There's even a crush wrinkle of the nose when I'm trying to keep from smiling.
DAMMIT! I'M NOT SUPPOSED TO HAVE TO PUT UP WITH THIS!
Crushes. The classic love-'em-and-hate-'em. You don't want to have a crush. You hate having a crush. Think about it. It's called a crush because it winds up kicking the crap out of your heart. It's not a good thing. It's BAD.
So why is it, when you're doing all you can to forget that you have a crush that you don't want, when someone says the name OF your crush, you grin like an idiot?
That's right. It's because you are an idiot.
I mean, it should be the opposite way around. There should be a crush scowl. A crush grimace.
The smiles should be reserved for a boyfriend. A relationship. Something in which you are actually benefitting from the situation.
So why do I, despite knowing that this is a bad thing, knowing that it's just going to continue to frustrate me until this process of elimination I have begun is successfully completed, still wind up SMILING?!?!??!?!
I DO NOT HAVE A CRUSH, OK? I had a crush and I'm getting rid of it. Purging, if you will. Saying, "Dude, you're such an idiot, so stupid that I won't waste my time thinking about you."
Except for the random girls' night out when he comes up in conversation and I wind up hiding my face in my hands and giggling through my fingers.
I'm very much looking forward to the time when the mention of him doesn't ellict this kind of response. In the meantime, I can at least I know that I'm getting there.
Look, see what V does! All we have to do is say a name and she starts to blush and grin like a fool!
Apparently, I have a crush smile. A crush giggle. A crush all-out laugh. And a crush expression when I'm doing everything in my power - unsuccessfully, might I add - to repress any of the above. There's even a crush wrinkle of the nose when I'm trying to keep from smiling.
DAMMIT! I'M NOT SUPPOSED TO HAVE TO PUT UP WITH THIS!
Crushes. The classic love-'em-and-hate-'em. You don't want to have a crush. You hate having a crush. Think about it. It's called a crush because it winds up kicking the crap out of your heart. It's not a good thing. It's BAD.
So why is it, when you're doing all you can to forget that you have a crush that you don't want, when someone says the name OF your crush, you grin like an idiot?
That's right. It's because you are an idiot.
I mean, it should be the opposite way around. There should be a crush scowl. A crush grimace.
The smiles should be reserved for a boyfriend. A relationship. Something in which you are actually benefitting from the situation.
So why do I, despite knowing that this is a bad thing, knowing that it's just going to continue to frustrate me until this process of elimination I have begun is successfully completed, still wind up SMILING?!?!??!?!
I DO NOT HAVE A CRUSH, OK? I had a crush and I'm getting rid of it. Purging, if you will. Saying, "Dude, you're such an idiot, so stupid that I won't waste my time thinking about you."
Except for the random girls' night out when he comes up in conversation and I wind up hiding my face in my hands and giggling through my fingers.
I'm very much looking forward to the time when the mention of him doesn't ellict this kind of response. In the meantime, I can at least I know that I'm getting there.
1.04.2006
I don't tend to make resolutions, and I refrained from proclaiming that I was turning over any kinds of leaves - new or old - as the minutes crept closer to midnight.
Instead, I focused on the things that were important - debating the acceptable spin techniques used in the foosball game I was playing, making sure the glass of champagne waiting for the new year did not take a late 2005 tumble off the foosball table and onto the floor, and the rounds of hugs and kisses that waited for the ball drop.
So I feel okay, saying that the plans I've decided to put into motion aren't the stereotypical, quickly-broken, much-loathed New Year's Resolutions.
They're largely little things. More I Think I Shoulds than It's A New Year So I Wills.
- Wake up earlier in the morning and allow self time to dance around to the "Start the Day Early" Mix (10 points if you get the reference) that pipes through my iPod speakers around 7:45 a.m. (Status check: Handled the early morning relatively well today. Thank you, Black Crowes, for "Hard to Handle.")
- Retreat to bedroom early enough to allow guilt-free reading time each evening - and to actually get through the pile of books amassed over the last month or so. (Status check: Chuckled my way through Havel's take on "The Beggar's Opera" last night. Now I tackle an already-started Meg Cabot chicklit, "The Dante Club" and finish my re-readings of "East of Eden" and "Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs.")
- Wear more of the jewlery made this fall. Make more. And mix it up. (Status check: Rocking two necklaces today, just because I can.)
- This ties into the previous one: look spunky, feel spunky, be spunky. (Status check: Just knowing that there's a Doors t-shirt on your body as you're being professional? How can you not feel good when you can pull that off?)
- Write something completely honest - for my eyes only - each day. (Status check: So far, so good.)
- Get back into the running I've been missing - and make my schedule work around it, not the other way around. (Status check: So far, so good.)
- Don't keep things to myself as much. Open up. Be more honest. (Status check: Working on it, although I admit that this one's going to take a bit more effort than wearing two necklaces.)
And, thanks to New Year's:
- Play more foosball. (Status check: Who's got a table?)
Instead, I focused on the things that were important - debating the acceptable spin techniques used in the foosball game I was playing, making sure the glass of champagne waiting for the new year did not take a late 2005 tumble off the foosball table and onto the floor, and the rounds of hugs and kisses that waited for the ball drop.
So I feel okay, saying that the plans I've decided to put into motion aren't the stereotypical, quickly-broken, much-loathed New Year's Resolutions.
They're largely little things. More I Think I Shoulds than It's A New Year So I Wills.
- Wake up earlier in the morning and allow self time to dance around to the "Start the Day Early" Mix (10 points if you get the reference) that pipes through my iPod speakers around 7:45 a.m. (Status check: Handled the early morning relatively well today. Thank you, Black Crowes, for "Hard to Handle.")
- Retreat to bedroom early enough to allow guilt-free reading time each evening - and to actually get through the pile of books amassed over the last month or so. (Status check: Chuckled my way through Havel's take on "The Beggar's Opera" last night. Now I tackle an already-started Meg Cabot chicklit, "The Dante Club" and finish my re-readings of "East of Eden" and "Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs.")
- Wear more of the jewlery made this fall. Make more. And mix it up. (Status check: Rocking two necklaces today, just because I can.)
- This ties into the previous one: look spunky, feel spunky, be spunky. (Status check: Just knowing that there's a Doors t-shirt on your body as you're being professional? How can you not feel good when you can pull that off?)
- Write something completely honest - for my eyes only - each day. (Status check: So far, so good.)
- Get back into the running I've been missing - and make my schedule work around it, not the other way around. (Status check: So far, so good.)
- Don't keep things to myself as much. Open up. Be more honest. (Status check: Working on it, although I admit that this one's going to take a bit more effort than wearing two necklaces.)
And, thanks to New Year's:
- Play more foosball. (Status check: Who's got a table?)
1.03.2006
When you're young, your whole life is about the pursuit of fun, then you grow up and learn to be cautious; you could break a bone, or a heart. You look before you leap and sometimes you don't leap at all because there's not always someone there to catch you. And in life, there is no safety net. When did it stop being fun and start being scary?
You have to know when to quote, how and why. The situation, of course, dictates the genre, the show, even the character.
When savvy women of a certain disposition realize one of their inner circle of female friends is experiencing man trouble, it's clear. "Sex and the City."
STAT.
Now, given the proper circumstances and proximity, the course of action is obvious and executed quickly. Brunch. Mimosas or Bloody Marys, depending on the particular taste of those involved. A small group of women - ideally four or five - sitting together to eat a little, talk a lot and basically commiserate and remind the woman of the unfortunate hour that she is incredible/a goddess/better than the guy/going to wind up stronger in the end.
Also applicable: apartment convention with pizza or ice cream or alcohol (always sipped, never greedily consumed. More of an accessory than anything else).
It all winds up feeling very much like the show. Because dammit, you are among a group of independent, talented, vivacious women who deserve to be dazzled and loved. And because all the women involved can quote episodes effortlessly.
(Besides, if lovable, yet kind of crazy characters such as Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda, even Samantha can wind up happy in the end, you know your odds in real life are awfully good.)
Sometimes, however, the situation arises in which proximity works against the group of goddesses. That is, close proximity isn't an option. And because a bruised ego or broken heart still warrants remedy when it's miles away, plan C comes into effect.
I started out a day hoping to be able to relay to friends that "I believe him to be very cute." I ended that day thinking to myself about how this perpetual Big-like-character (because let's face it, every woman has one) "wasn't a crush. He was a crash."
I didn't feel I had any particular right to be upset about it, as it was just a screwy kind of crush that had finally reached a turning point. Unfortunately, a turn away kind of point, but a point nonetheless. And, as I'd managed to narrowly escape making a jackass of myself in front of The Personal Big, I'd been quite fortunate. Nothing was given away. Ego still intact.
Right?
So there was no real need to walk down to the corner store to buy Ben & Jerry's, the course of action I was contemplating before I channeled my focus into cleaning - nay, significantly redecorating - my bedroom, writing, singing at the top of my lungs to music and otherwise trying to forget TPB entirely.
This is where the power of female friendship comes into play.
Realizing that the fact that not feeling as if I deserved to be upset sure as hell didn't change the fact that I was - I just wasn't owning up to the fact that I was - the e-comments came quickly. And branched off, so that we all ended up reminding each other of our general awesomeness.
"Later that day I got to thinking about relationships. There are those that open you up to something new and exotic, those that are old and familiar, those that bring up lots of questions, those that bring you somewhere unexpected, those that bring you far from where you started, and those that bring you back. But the most exciting, challenging and significant relationship of all is the one you have with yourself. And if you can find someone to love the you you love, well, that's just fabulous."
"What if Prince Charming had never shown up? Would Snow White have laid in that glass box forever? Or would she have gotten up, spit out the apple, gotten a job and a health care plan and moved on with her life?"
"i will not be the first one to speak. And if he never calls me again, i'll always think of him fondly. as an asshole."
"you have to figure ... if the world's fattest twins can find love, there's hope for all of us. somewhere out there is another little freak who will love us, understand us, and kiss our 3 heads and make it all better."
So. That said. Imagine that you're preparing to leave your laptop for a bit, having thought about it and determining that you're fine. You're imagining yourself seen in a slow-motion shot as you narrate over your movements, and you're laughing and alternately cursing Sarah Jessica Parker. You have to smile.
Because "you girls are the loves of her life, a guy is lucky to come in fourth."
Absurdity of a silent, now broken crush be damned. Because you knew this was coming and you know you've friends who get it. Friends who love you and a friend waiting in the kitchen, purse in hand, to head down to the corner store.
Because, while you don't realize it right at that moment, there's a pint of Chubby Hubby waiting to be picked up, laughed over, and brought home.
You have to know when to quote, how and why. The situation, of course, dictates the genre, the show, even the character.
When savvy women of a certain disposition realize one of their inner circle of female friends is experiencing man trouble, it's clear. "Sex and the City."
STAT.
Now, given the proper circumstances and proximity, the course of action is obvious and executed quickly. Brunch. Mimosas or Bloody Marys, depending on the particular taste of those involved. A small group of women - ideally four or five - sitting together to eat a little, talk a lot and basically commiserate and remind the woman of the unfortunate hour that she is incredible/a goddess/better than the guy/going to wind up stronger in the end.
Also applicable: apartment convention with pizza or ice cream or alcohol (always sipped, never greedily consumed. More of an accessory than anything else).
It all winds up feeling very much like the show. Because dammit, you are among a group of independent, talented, vivacious women who deserve to be dazzled and loved. And because all the women involved can quote episodes effortlessly.
(Besides, if lovable, yet kind of crazy characters such as Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda, even Samantha can wind up happy in the end, you know your odds in real life are awfully good.)
Sometimes, however, the situation arises in which proximity works against the group of goddesses. That is, close proximity isn't an option. And because a bruised ego or broken heart still warrants remedy when it's miles away, plan C comes into effect.
I started out a day hoping to be able to relay to friends that "I believe him to be very cute." I ended that day thinking to myself about how this perpetual Big-like-character (because let's face it, every woman has one) "wasn't a crush. He was a crash."
I didn't feel I had any particular right to be upset about it, as it was just a screwy kind of crush that had finally reached a turning point. Unfortunately, a turn away kind of point, but a point nonetheless. And, as I'd managed to narrowly escape making a jackass of myself in front of The Personal Big, I'd been quite fortunate. Nothing was given away. Ego still intact.
Right?
So there was no real need to walk down to the corner store to buy Ben & Jerry's, the course of action I was contemplating before I channeled my focus into cleaning - nay, significantly redecorating - my bedroom, writing, singing at the top of my lungs to music and otherwise trying to forget TPB entirely.
This is where the power of female friendship comes into play.
Realizing that the fact that not feeling as if I deserved to be upset sure as hell didn't change the fact that I was - I just wasn't owning up to the fact that I was - the e-comments came quickly. And branched off, so that we all ended up reminding each other of our general awesomeness.
"Later that day I got to thinking about relationships. There are those that open you up to something new and exotic, those that are old and familiar, those that bring up lots of questions, those that bring you somewhere unexpected, those that bring you far from where you started, and those that bring you back. But the most exciting, challenging and significant relationship of all is the one you have with yourself. And if you can find someone to love the you you love, well, that's just fabulous."
"What if Prince Charming had never shown up? Would Snow White have laid in that glass box forever? Or would she have gotten up, spit out the apple, gotten a job and a health care plan and moved on with her life?"
"i will not be the first one to speak. And if he never calls me again, i'll always think of him fondly. as an asshole."
"you have to figure ... if the world's fattest twins can find love, there's hope for all of us. somewhere out there is another little freak who will love us, understand us, and kiss our 3 heads and make it all better."
So. That said. Imagine that you're preparing to leave your laptop for a bit, having thought about it and determining that you're fine. You're imagining yourself seen in a slow-motion shot as you narrate over your movements, and you're laughing and alternately cursing Sarah Jessica Parker. You have to smile.
Because "you girls are the loves of her life, a guy is lucky to come in fourth."
Absurdity of a silent, now broken crush be damned. Because you knew this was coming and you know you've friends who get it. Friends who love you and a friend waiting in the kitchen, purse in hand, to head down to the corner store.
Because, while you don't realize it right at that moment, there's a pint of Chubby Hubby waiting to be picked up, laughed over, and brought home.
1.02.2006
The devil's in the details.
It was all about the details during this venture to Massachusetts.
The turned shoulder in a social setting.
The last letter in a word that made me look up quickly from my phone.
The fact that M and I were fine after the accident - that the cars' occupants were much better than the sight of the cars would have indicated.
The angle in which our car slid off the icy road and down the embankment.
The perspective that angle gave us to watch the other car roll down the hill.
The hugs of relief that met us as we walked through the door into the New Year's Eve celebration several hours after we'd intended.
The fact that the hosts made sure everyone had a cup of champagne ten minutes before midnight.
The faces on those serenading my friends and I as we laughed ourselves to tears on the couch.
The smell of the caramel latte as T and I chatted in the coffee shop in Harvard Square.
That Elliott Smith was playing over the sound system.
And, yes, a detail that rendered details I'd thought of mentioning absolutely moot.
It just feels good to be home, to know that I'm going to be able to curl up beneath blankets in my bed and sleep.
It was all about the details during this venture to Massachusetts.
The turned shoulder in a social setting.
The last letter in a word that made me look up quickly from my phone.
The fact that M and I were fine after the accident - that the cars' occupants were much better than the sight of the cars would have indicated.
The angle in which our car slid off the icy road and down the embankment.
The perspective that angle gave us to watch the other car roll down the hill.
The hugs of relief that met us as we walked through the door into the New Year's Eve celebration several hours after we'd intended.
The fact that the hosts made sure everyone had a cup of champagne ten minutes before midnight.
The faces on those serenading my friends and I as we laughed ourselves to tears on the couch.
The smell of the caramel latte as T and I chatted in the coffee shop in Harvard Square.
That Elliott Smith was playing over the sound system.
And, yes, a detail that rendered details I'd thought of mentioning absolutely moot.
It just feels good to be home, to know that I'm going to be able to curl up beneath blankets in my bed and sleep.
12.27.2005
In the off-chance that a civil war or other form of skirmish erupts in the middle of the night all around me, I can say with certainty that I will not be wise and duck my head, hoping against hopes that it all goes away shortly. Nor will I be brave and attempt to creep away undetected.
I will sit up suddenly, eyes wide and try to seek out the source of the noise. I know this because I awoke Monday morning to the sound of machine gun fire and occasional mortar explosion and reacted in just the manner I've described.
Thank you to my father, uncle and the creative team behind "The Great Raid," the DVD both were watching Monday with the volume seemingly cranked to 11. And thank you to my mother, who seemed shocked that my ability to sleep deeply kept me blissfully unconscious through several cinematic skirmishes and remarked that she "was sure you'd wake up during that first big explosion."
I'd fallen asleep on the couch late Christmas night, watching "Wag the Dog" to cap a relatively blissful, peaceful holiday. "White Christmas" viewing (for the first time no less - and I call myself a Bing Crosby fan?), laughter, a couple of travels and all. Peaceful.
As I sleepily (and angrily) huffed my way into the kitchen for coffee, I realized the holiday was decidedly over. Damn war movies.
But it was time. My brother remarked that the holiday weekend was the best ever, and I'd be inclined to agree with him. While holiday relaxation is never truly relaxed*, it was nice - a balance between running around to see loved ones not within the walls of Casa de Grandma and chill time.
At one point, my brother and I lounged alone in the living room, he working out lines on his electric bass, I sprawled on the floor, half-dozing, half-listening to the iPod sounds coming through the new speakers my parents gifted to me. I skipped ahead to "Thunder Road," and we both mouthed along the words, smiling as Springsteen belted out the chorus.
Then we went back into the other room and resumed catapulting** Swedish fish at people. Heh.
* Beth and I were discussing the nature of the holiday weekend last night, as we sprawled on couches, utterly exhausted. We decided that, while it's always nice to be able to sit and relax with family and friends, it's not your turf and it's really not your time. You've bequeathed yourself to family for several days and you wind up, of course, wrapping the guys' presents because they plead inability and making sure the older women in your family aren't going completely mad with the preparation of holiday meals and looking out for everyone else. Is it fun? At the end of the day, you realize it certainly is. But it can never truly be relaxing.
** I sincerely hope you've all seen "Monty Python and the Holy Grail." If you haven't, stop reading and go watch it now because you should have seen it years - nay, decades - ago. And if you have (thank goodness), think French castle. THAT catapult. My brother's favorite gift this year, hands down. Some may say small things for small minds, but I maintain that our fascination with the small piece demonstrates a creative, hands on focus on physics. Or something.
I will sit up suddenly, eyes wide and try to seek out the source of the noise. I know this because I awoke Monday morning to the sound of machine gun fire and occasional mortar explosion and reacted in just the manner I've described.
Thank you to my father, uncle and the creative team behind "The Great Raid," the DVD both were watching Monday with the volume seemingly cranked to 11. And thank you to my mother, who seemed shocked that my ability to sleep deeply kept me blissfully unconscious through several cinematic skirmishes and remarked that she "was sure you'd wake up during that first big explosion."
I'd fallen asleep on the couch late Christmas night, watching "Wag the Dog" to cap a relatively blissful, peaceful holiday. "White Christmas" viewing (for the first time no less - and I call myself a Bing Crosby fan?), laughter, a couple of travels and all. Peaceful.
As I sleepily (and angrily) huffed my way into the kitchen for coffee, I realized the holiday was decidedly over. Damn war movies.
But it was time. My brother remarked that the holiday weekend was the best ever, and I'd be inclined to agree with him. While holiday relaxation is never truly relaxed*, it was nice - a balance between running around to see loved ones not within the walls of Casa de Grandma and chill time.
At one point, my brother and I lounged alone in the living room, he working out lines on his electric bass, I sprawled on the floor, half-dozing, half-listening to the iPod sounds coming through the new speakers my parents gifted to me. I skipped ahead to "Thunder Road," and we both mouthed along the words, smiling as Springsteen belted out the chorus.
Then we went back into the other room and resumed catapulting** Swedish fish at people. Heh.
* Beth and I were discussing the nature of the holiday weekend last night, as we sprawled on couches, utterly exhausted. We decided that, while it's always nice to be able to sit and relax with family and friends, it's not your turf and it's really not your time. You've bequeathed yourself to family for several days and you wind up, of course, wrapping the guys' presents because they plead inability and making sure the older women in your family aren't going completely mad with the preparation of holiday meals and looking out for everyone else. Is it fun? At the end of the day, you realize it certainly is. But it can never truly be relaxing.
** I sincerely hope you've all seen "Monty Python and the Holy Grail." If you haven't, stop reading and go watch it now because you should have seen it years - nay, decades - ago. And if you have (thank goodness), think French castle. THAT catapult. My brother's favorite gift this year, hands down. Some may say small things for small minds, but I maintain that our fascination with the small piece demonstrates a creative, hands on focus on physics. Or something.
12.23.2005
Somewhere in New York's subway system (where I inexplicably found myself with cell phone service), I receieved a phone call from a friend in which he relayed a phone number I was meant to call. A 217 number.
"It'll explain everything," he said as I expressed my utter confusion. Whether the confusion was over the number, the phone call or the fact that my phone was working will remain a question for the ages. "I'm super stoked for you to call it."
I hung up and began to dial, curious about what kind of "everything" this call was going to address. And, just as I dialed the final number...
I woke up. Still dark outside. I nestled back into my pillow and closed my eyes. I was just about to fall back asleep.
Which is, of course, the precise moment when my alarm went off.
So I'm left tired, curious and disgruntled. Because I was given a phone number that promised to explain everything, and I didn't get to find out what everything meant.
And, as Internet research reveals, the phone number that might explain the meaning to life is a number out of Illinois.
Apparently life is much easier to comprehend when you're coming at it with a Decatur point of view.
------
As today launches my weekend of holiday travel - and the fact that it is, after all, Christmas Eve Eve, I wanted to take a moment to wish you and yours happy holidays, whatever holidays those might happen to be. Or even if you don't celebrate holidays. Hey. You're cool. Thanks for reading.
Travel safe if you're traveling, have fun and, for those in snowy regions similiar to my own, keep warm.
And to those in warm climates?
I'm jealous.
Be well and take care.
"It'll explain everything," he said as I expressed my utter confusion. Whether the confusion was over the number, the phone call or the fact that my phone was working will remain a question for the ages. "I'm super stoked for you to call it."
I hung up and began to dial, curious about what kind of "everything" this call was going to address. And, just as I dialed the final number...
I woke up. Still dark outside. I nestled back into my pillow and closed my eyes. I was just about to fall back asleep.
Which is, of course, the precise moment when my alarm went off.
So I'm left tired, curious and disgruntled. Because I was given a phone number that promised to explain everything, and I didn't get to find out what everything meant.
And, as Internet research reveals, the phone number that might explain the meaning to life is a number out of Illinois.
Apparently life is much easier to comprehend when you're coming at it with a Decatur point of view.
------
As today launches my weekend of holiday travel - and the fact that it is, after all, Christmas Eve Eve, I wanted to take a moment to wish you and yours happy holidays, whatever holidays those might happen to be. Or even if you don't celebrate holidays. Hey. You're cool. Thanks for reading.
Travel safe if you're traveling, have fun and, for those in snowy regions similiar to my own, keep warm.
And to those in warm climates?
I'm jealous.
Be well and take care.
12.22.2005
Christmas came early!
Matt Nathanson
01-20-06
Burlington, VT
Matt is bringing New Year love to Vermont with a solo acoustic show at the Ira Allen Chapel...
There are the You Should Really Go shows. There are the Not To Be Missed shows. And then there's the I Can't Wait To See What the Hell Nathanson Is Going To Say In a Chapel kind of show.
I'll leave you to figure out into which category this will fall. In the meantime, I'll be brushing up on my Warrant and Twisted Sister.
Matt Nathanson
01-20-06
Burlington, VT
Matt is bringing New Year love to Vermont with a solo acoustic show at the Ira Allen Chapel...
There are the You Should Really Go shows. There are the Not To Be Missed shows. And then there's the I Can't Wait To See What the Hell Nathanson Is Going To Say In a Chapel kind of show.
I'll leave you to figure out into which category this will fall. In the meantime, I'll be brushing up on my Warrant and Twisted Sister.
12.21.2005
There are some things that you just don't do.
You don't drag old ladies out of cabs just so you can get a ride that little bit faster.
You don't walk around in the snow barefoot.
You don't walk away from the Red Sox to sign a contract with the Yankees.
It's simply not DONE.
Say what you will, but I am fully aware of the fact that I'm not a grown-up Red Sox fan. When it comes to that team, I am still the embodiment of childlike enthusiasm.
Knowing that I'm going to go to Fenway on a game day makes me wake up with a grin on my face that morning. I've been known to yell at the television when I watch games. I follow the stats during the season; I follow the hot stove discussions during the winter.
And I stop rooting for any player when they walk away from Boston and sign with New York. Example? December. 1992. Wade Boggs is my favorite baseball player (he plays third base, at that point I play third base. A natural favorite player selection.) He signs with the Yankees. In my mind, he stops being Wade Boggs, ultimate Hall of Famer. He just becomes another Yankee.
Boggs? Oh yeah. Him. Yeah, he used to be good.
So here we are. December. 2005. Johnny Damon is not my favorite player - not even close - but I've been enjoying his role as a Red Sox leader. I view him as an essential component of the ever-dwindling Boston team.
He signs with the Yankees.
It's not as quick a switch this time, admittedly, as I've developed stronger language than when I was, you know, 12. So there's a lot of cursing involved today.
But ultimately? He'll cut off the hair, he'll don the pinstripes and, in time, he'll become just another Yankee.
But until that happens, I'll curse a lot. And not just at him. Or at the Sox front office, who continue to convey the sense of utter chaos that's ruining any prospects we have left for next season. Because they should have signed him sooner (sound familiar? Oh wait. We've learned nothing since Theo left. Go us.) and should have swallowed their pride in order to make it happen.
At the general absurdity of it all. To say no to $40 million over four years, for the sake of sticking with the team that made you a baseball icon. $10 MILLION A YEAR.
Loyalty is a big thing with me. I'm a fan of the lifers - the players who stick with their teams throughout their careers, the ones in which there's no question what hat you'll wear when you're immortalized in the Hall of Fame.
I know that there's a big gap between $40 million and $52 million. But at that point, does it really matter? Why face the wrath of the fans who fell in love with you just so you can make some more money that you'll never be able to spend?
Of course we're pissed off. And while I have to laugh as I commiserate with fans who are calling Damon "The Devil" today, I get why they're also swearing him off, just as we've sworn off everyone else who has made the choice to switch over to the arch rivals.
It's juvenile, of course. But this is baseball. Juvenile behavior is inherent and, therefore, justified. Because if you stop to think about it and be mature about what you're discussing, you take the wonder of the game right out of the equation.
You realize that you're talking about love for a group of guys for whom you scrimp and save so you can buy overpriced tickets and marked-up beer and watch them try to hit or field really little white balls.
So screw maturity. I embrace my immature, baseball-loving side.
And I'll continue to wind up pissed off when a player does one of the things that everyone knows you just don't do.
You don't drag old ladies out of cabs just so you can get a ride that little bit faster.
You don't walk around in the snow barefoot.
You don't walk away from the Red Sox to sign a contract with the Yankees.
It's simply not DONE.
Say what you will, but I am fully aware of the fact that I'm not a grown-up Red Sox fan. When it comes to that team, I am still the embodiment of childlike enthusiasm.
Knowing that I'm going to go to Fenway on a game day makes me wake up with a grin on my face that morning. I've been known to yell at the television when I watch games. I follow the stats during the season; I follow the hot stove discussions during the winter.
And I stop rooting for any player when they walk away from Boston and sign with New York. Example? December. 1992. Wade Boggs is my favorite baseball player (he plays third base, at that point I play third base. A natural favorite player selection.) He signs with the Yankees. In my mind, he stops being Wade Boggs, ultimate Hall of Famer. He just becomes another Yankee.
Boggs? Oh yeah. Him. Yeah, he used to be good.
So here we are. December. 2005. Johnny Damon is not my favorite player - not even close - but I've been enjoying his role as a Red Sox leader. I view him as an essential component of the ever-dwindling Boston team.
He signs with the Yankees.
It's not as quick a switch this time, admittedly, as I've developed stronger language than when I was, you know, 12. So there's a lot of cursing involved today.
But ultimately? He'll cut off the hair, he'll don the pinstripes and, in time, he'll become just another Yankee.
But until that happens, I'll curse a lot. And not just at him. Or at the Sox front office, who continue to convey the sense of utter chaos that's ruining any prospects we have left for next season. Because they should have signed him sooner (sound familiar? Oh wait. We've learned nothing since Theo left. Go us.) and should have swallowed their pride in order to make it happen.
At the general absurdity of it all. To say no to $40 million over four years, for the sake of sticking with the team that made you a baseball icon. $10 MILLION A YEAR.
Loyalty is a big thing with me. I'm a fan of the lifers - the players who stick with their teams throughout their careers, the ones in which there's no question what hat you'll wear when you're immortalized in the Hall of Fame.
I know that there's a big gap between $40 million and $52 million. But at that point, does it really matter? Why face the wrath of the fans who fell in love with you just so you can make some more money that you'll never be able to spend?
Of course we're pissed off. And while I have to laugh as I commiserate with fans who are calling Damon "The Devil" today, I get why they're also swearing him off, just as we've sworn off everyone else who has made the choice to switch over to the arch rivals.
It's juvenile, of course. But this is baseball. Juvenile behavior is inherent and, therefore, justified. Because if you stop to think about it and be mature about what you're discussing, you take the wonder of the game right out of the equation.
You realize that you're talking about love for a group of guys for whom you scrimp and save so you can buy overpriced tickets and marked-up beer and watch them try to hit or field really little white balls.
So screw maturity. I embrace my immature, baseball-loving side.
And I'll continue to wind up pissed off when a player does one of the things that everyone knows you just don't do.
12.20.2005
Mark the calendars, particularly if you live in Massachusetts (or, as is my case, are traveling to the area for holidays):
Those interested in either extending their Christmas-y celebrations or, in my case, preparing to kick off the new year early should make a trip over to Boston on the evening of December 29 (that would be a week from Thursday, for my calendar-challenged friends).
Chad Perrone & Friends, including Tides and Mister Vertigo.
Dec. 29, 9 p.m.
Felt
Washington Street, Boston
www.livemusicboston.com
Have you heard Chad's solo material yet? If not, go here, take a listen and be impressed. And with the addition of Tides (one of the area's top, in my opinion, up-and-coming bands) and Mister Vertigo (very fun, very talented), this makes for a not-to-be-missed evening.
Which means, of course, that you shouldn't miss it. Tell all your friends, acquaintances, even that next-door neighbor you've never properly introduced yourself to. Round up a crew of concertgoers. Make the trip. Swing on by. Say hi to me. Enjoy the music.
And then make note of what a good time you had, so you make the trip again come February. As a certain gypsy MC funk troubador, known and loved by many as Bushwalla, will be rocking the joint with the one and only Todd Carey on February 23.
Plug, plug? You bet. And you'll thank me after the fact.
Those interested in either extending their Christmas-y celebrations or, in my case, preparing to kick off the new year early should make a trip over to Boston on the evening of December 29 (that would be a week from Thursday, for my calendar-challenged friends).
Chad Perrone & Friends, including Tides and Mister Vertigo.
Dec. 29, 9 p.m.
Felt
Washington Street, Boston
www.livemusicboston.com
Have you heard Chad's solo material yet? If not, go here, take a listen and be impressed. And with the addition of Tides (one of the area's top, in my opinion, up-and-coming bands) and Mister Vertigo (very fun, very talented), this makes for a not-to-be-missed evening.
Which means, of course, that you shouldn't miss it. Tell all your friends, acquaintances, even that next-door neighbor you've never properly introduced yourself to. Round up a crew of concertgoers. Make the trip. Swing on by. Say hi to me. Enjoy the music.
And then make note of what a good time you had, so you make the trip again come February. As a certain gypsy MC funk troubador, known and loved by many as Bushwalla, will be rocking the joint with the one and only Todd Carey on February 23.
Plug, plug? You bet. And you'll thank me after the fact.
The disbelief and snickers grew to tear-inducing, sides-aching laughter as the phone was passed around the room. As each of us spoke into the phone, the tinny sounds coming from the earpiece grew louder and more distinct for those listening in. It was starting to dawn on her, but she wasn't going to give in without a hilarious fight.
She thought we were all in on a joke of epic proportions. We'd gotten together for a party and hadn't invited her. Something, anything other than the reality that she had forgotten to come back to campus.
Absolutely forgotten.
After speaking to each of us and letting us tease her for a few moments - frankly, we each felt we'd earned the right to do so - she got off the phone so she could throw together some items for the first week of classes and get someone to drive her back. Immediately.
She'd just been relaxing at home and watching some Martha Stewart.
That was how Lexi was. She found misadventures - and if she didn't, they found her. Which gave her the opportunity to laugh with a booming voice that turned into a cackle when you really got her going.
For a few years, I had a hard time thinking of the memories, just because they made me fast-forward to this date.
It's been five years.
Today, I realize that I don't hurt when I think of her anymore. I'm back to being able to think of her life without those memories being laced so tightly to her death. I'm not sure when the process adapted to allow that, but I'm thankful that it did. I miss her, of course, but it's different now.
I just wish more of you could have been able to know her and be in on the stories.
Because the day she forgot to come back to school? That was pretty damn hilarious.
She thought we were all in on a joke of epic proportions. We'd gotten together for a party and hadn't invited her. Something, anything other than the reality that she had forgotten to come back to campus.
Absolutely forgotten.
After speaking to each of us and letting us tease her for a few moments - frankly, we each felt we'd earned the right to do so - she got off the phone so she could throw together some items for the first week of classes and get someone to drive her back. Immediately.
She'd just been relaxing at home and watching some Martha Stewart.
That was how Lexi was. She found misadventures - and if she didn't, they found her. Which gave her the opportunity to laugh with a booming voice that turned into a cackle when you really got her going.
For a few years, I had a hard time thinking of the memories, just because they made me fast-forward to this date.
It's been five years.
Today, I realize that I don't hurt when I think of her anymore. I'm back to being able to think of her life without those memories being laced so tightly to her death. I'm not sure when the process adapted to allow that, but I'm thankful that it did. I miss her, of course, but it's different now.
I just wish more of you could have been able to know her and be in on the stories.
Because the day she forgot to come back to school? That was pretty damn hilarious.
12.19.2005
I just want it to get here already. The holiday. Relaxation time.
Ha. So I'd said.
Less than a week until Christmas and I realize I'm facing:
- Baking, Round Two (after a shockingly successful trial run that leaves me questioning key character traits as a result)
- Birthday celebrations
- Holiday celebrations
- The last of the gift purchases
- Wrapping
- The Label Game-ing*
- Packing
- Traveling
The holiday can take its sweet time. Really. Don't rush on my account. Please.
An extra day or two? No problem. My pleasure.
*The Label Game was born in the late 90s, after my mother decided that there still needed to be a sense of wonderment involved with the post-S.C.-era gift distribution process:
To: The Recipient
From: Someone Who Somehow Ties In To the Nature of the Gift, So Recipient Can Try To Guess Gift Prior To Unwrapping
An easy example:
To: V
From: Lloyd Dobbler
Gift: A DVD of "Say Anything."
Each member of the family works hard to come up with something that balances obscure references with the desire to give the recipient a fighting chance at guessing what's inside. You really have to know your audience in order to make the game work. I could, for instance, make reference to Kurosawa in a gift for my film school student brother, but go more in a John Wayne direction for my father. Perhaps a "How I Met Your Mother" reference for Mom that would make my brother scratch his head.
Everyone loves to struggle with it. Often, one member of the family will call another, asking, "Does this make sense to you?" We brainstorm together and laugh at the befuddled expressions on our loved ones' faces come Christmas Day.
It makes for a fun time. And the tradition has begun to spill over into other family circles. Beth informed me that her family has adopted the tradition and is likewise agonizing/cackling over the possibilities.
Heheheheheheh.
Ha. So I'd said.
Less than a week until Christmas and I realize I'm facing:
- Baking, Round Two (after a shockingly successful trial run that leaves me questioning key character traits as a result)
- Birthday celebrations
- Holiday celebrations
- The last of the gift purchases
- Wrapping
- The Label Game-ing*
- Packing
- Traveling
The holiday can take its sweet time. Really. Don't rush on my account. Please.
An extra day or two? No problem. My pleasure.
*The Label Game was born in the late 90s, after my mother decided that there still needed to be a sense of wonderment involved with the post-S.C.-era gift distribution process:
To: The Recipient
From: Someone Who Somehow Ties In To the Nature of the Gift, So Recipient Can Try To Guess Gift Prior To Unwrapping
An easy example:
To: V
From: Lloyd Dobbler
Gift: A DVD of "Say Anything."
Each member of the family works hard to come up with something that balances obscure references with the desire to give the recipient a fighting chance at guessing what's inside. You really have to know your audience in order to make the game work. I could, for instance, make reference to Kurosawa in a gift for my film school student brother, but go more in a John Wayne direction for my father. Perhaps a "How I Met Your Mother" reference for Mom that would make my brother scratch his head.
Everyone loves to struggle with it. Often, one member of the family will call another, asking, "Does this make sense to you?" We brainstorm together and laugh at the befuddled expressions on our loved ones' faces come Christmas Day.
It makes for a fun time. And the tradition has begun to spill over into other family circles. Beth informed me that her family has adopted the tradition and is likewise agonizing/cackling over the possibilities.
Heheheheheheh.
12.18.2005
The holidays make you do crazy, uncharacteristic things.
Such as braving the crowded parking lots and even more crowded stores in order to get that one last thing you need to make someone you care about realize just how much you really love them. Somehow, that box set of music* will do the trick, whereas a simple, "Hey, I think you're the bees' knees" won't.
Such as baking, which any longtime reader will know is about as uncharacteristic for yours truly as it gets.
And, of course, including a photo of yourself from when you were a wee lass, so as to segue into the annual trimming of the tree process.
I traveled to my parents' house yesterday, where I conducted some of those necessary last-minute holiday tasks. Upon learning that I would be in town, my parents asked me to help them trim the tree. They hadn't done so yet, and, as my mother said to me, it wasn't quite the same if one of The Kids wasn't around to help out and laugh over the annual ornamental unveiling.
As the residents of my flat are restricted from ornaments on The Disco Christmas Tree (see Flickr for the groovy, hilarious image), I was pleased to be able to deck the halls and all of that good stuff.
There are two types of tree decorators, I've found. Those with the matching set trees and those with the mix-n-match designs. My family is a posse of mix-n-matchers. Each year, my parents get an ornament representing the year for them, and my brother and I each get one for us, similarly sentimental. The tree, therefore, is more a collection of memories than a clear and consise set of bulbs and lights.
We have four ornaments that my grandmother (paternal) put on her tree each year. The "First Christmas Together" ornament, circa late 70s, then the Baby's First Christmas ornaments (my parents got a little carried away with mine - I think we counted three from 1980 as my mother and I went through the boxes) and then the various and sundry guessing game pieces. A whale watch when Tom went on a field trip in thrid grade. A country store from the year my parents made the move to Vermont. A girl ready to swing a baseball bat the year I received my first all-league honors. A tie-dyed Santa the year Tom and I went to Woodstock. A turtle representing my role in "Arcadia," a hockey player the year Tom saw his first Bruins game.
It was a good thing I was around this time, as my mother would pull a piece out of the box, look it over and try to guess the memory.
"Who made this one?"
I looked over at the gold bulb with paint rings. "Tom."
"And this one?"
"Tom."
"And how about this?"
"Oooh! Me. That was the year we made them at Girl Scouts."
And so on.
As the Christmas music played, my mother and I sang along (I refrained - mostly - from dancing) and, just as the holiday CD ended, placed the last ornament on the final branch.
We sank into the couches and curled up with blankets as the lights flickered and caught the metallic sheen of a random piece.
"Looks good."
Mom smiled. "This looks great."
A happy marriage and a family's worth of memories on display. How could it not look lovely?
*Item detail changed to protect the gift recipients.
Such as braving the crowded parking lots and even more crowded stores in order to get that one last thing you need to make someone you care about realize just how much you really love them. Somehow, that box set of music* will do the trick, whereas a simple, "Hey, I think you're the bees' knees" won't.
Such as baking, which any longtime reader will know is about as uncharacteristic for yours truly as it gets.
And, of course, including a photo of yourself from when you were a wee lass, so as to segue into the annual trimming of the tree process.
I traveled to my parents' house yesterday, where I conducted some of those necessary last-minute holiday tasks. Upon learning that I would be in town, my parents asked me to help them trim the tree. They hadn't done so yet, and, as my mother said to me, it wasn't quite the same if one of The Kids wasn't around to help out and laugh over the annual ornamental unveiling.As the residents of my flat are restricted from ornaments on The Disco Christmas Tree (see Flickr for the groovy, hilarious image), I was pleased to be able to deck the halls and all of that good stuff.
There are two types of tree decorators, I've found. Those with the matching set trees and those with the mix-n-match designs. My family is a posse of mix-n-matchers. Each year, my parents get an ornament representing the year for them, and my brother and I each get one for us, similarly sentimental. The tree, therefore, is more a collection of memories than a clear and consise set of bulbs and lights.
We have four ornaments that my grandmother (paternal) put on her tree each year. The "First Christmas Together" ornament, circa late 70s, then the Baby's First Christmas ornaments (my parents got a little carried away with mine - I think we counted three from 1980 as my mother and I went through the boxes) and then the various and sundry guessing game pieces. A whale watch when Tom went on a field trip in thrid grade. A country store from the year my parents made the move to Vermont. A girl ready to swing a baseball bat the year I received my first all-league honors. A tie-dyed Santa the year Tom and I went to Woodstock. A turtle representing my role in "Arcadia," a hockey player the year Tom saw his first Bruins game.
It was a good thing I was around this time, as my mother would pull a piece out of the box, look it over and try to guess the memory.
"Who made this one?"
I looked over at the gold bulb with paint rings. "Tom."
"And this one?"
"Tom."
"And how about this?"
"Oooh! Me. That was the year we made them at Girl Scouts."
And so on.
As the Christmas music played, my mother and I sang along (I refrained - mostly - from dancing) and, just as the holiday CD ended, placed the last ornament on the final branch.
We sank into the couches and curled up with blankets as the lights flickered and caught the metallic sheen of a random piece.
"Looks good."
Mom smiled. "This looks great."
A happy marriage and a family's worth of memories on display. How could it not look lovely?
*Item detail changed to protect the gift recipients.
12.15.2005
"That was, by far, the single most random night of 2005," I said, leaning back into an overstuffed armchair covered with crimson velvet. Beth laughed and sipper her coffee as we pieced back together that night and others that would make the list for Top Moments of the Year.
Oddly enough, I realized that most of the memories involved getting lost in some manner. Um. Yes. Anyway, that said:
A side street bar with side street conversation to match - a Hall & Oates video marathon on the television elicited memories and anecdotes from our unexpectedly created group. A French Canadian man attempted to join the conversation with inquiries about Vermont and the offer for substances that we declined with polite straight faces that later melted into laughter. Drinks and conversation seemed to come naturally, although my Driver status relegated me to water. I didn't mind, as I was too busy laughing and chatting.
Montreal streets later formed a maze of one-way roads and impossible turns, which left me near tears asking for directions "back to the States" from seemingly anyone who didn't speak English. Canadian candy was purchased by my commiserating friend as a kindly soul's eyes twinkled with amusement when he pointed me in the right direction - which required me to perform nearly every illegal driving device one could imagine at 2 a.m.
As the utter absurdity of the evening spiraled into surreal lunacy, I laughingly yelled into a phone held up in the backseat. The person on the other end was of absolutely no use to me, and I was as ready to heckle absolutely anyone who wasn't going to get me out of the city. I squealed with delight as I pulled the U-turn needed to get me onto the street on which I could hightail it back to my native land.
Chivalry was dead - I would receive no navigational assistance from the individuals on the other end of the phone receiving a play-by-play of our misadventures - but I didn't need it, dammit. I was one member of a group of independent women who just happened to have extraordinarily questionable navigational skills.
Blame Montreal. That's what I did.
October
I couldn't get from Storrow to Mass Ave. My brother was on the phone, guiding me down a series of streets that also led me toward the blimp that hovered over Fenway.
I knew precisely where I needed to go. I knew right about where I was. But getting from point A to point B was impossible and I was officially pissed off. When he led me onto Commonwealth, I thanked him profusely and bid him goodnight.
Later, I was feeling badly. Kind of. I was spending as much time watching the Red Sox battle the Yankees on television as I watched the bands performing on stage in the crowded lounge. I'd traveled to hear the music, but this distraction couldn't be helped - it was the final regular season weekend in Boston. Yes, life continued outside the green walls of Fenway, but everyone outside seemed intrinsically drawn to the events transpiring within.
Over the din of optimistically cynical baseball voices, I saw the band I'd most looked forward to seeing. When the game had ended with a win, I was able to focus - at least somewhat - on the clever, happy-go-lucky California vibes coming from the stage. I bought two albums for two reasons - the first that I wanted to finally have a collection of their songs on acetate, the second that I felt half-guilty for paying attention to everything around me other than the music.
But I'd known, walking in, that it was to be a night prone for distraction. I'd known as soon as I greeted my friends watching the game through the windows of the pub next door.
October
I wasn't supposed to be able to see Manny's back. The field wasn't supposed to be visible from this screwy angle. The wind wasn't supposed to whip into my face as fiercly as it was, and hot dogs were not supposed to be so incredibly gigantic.
Tom leaned against the railing next to the foul pole along the third base line. He was grinning, seemingly as confounded by the experience as I. For all the times we'd imagined what the view was like up here, as often as we'd stared above the green wall as youngsters and imagined home runs coming straight at us, I don't think either of us actually thought we'd get to see what the angle was like. He was cold. I was cold. But the cold didn't matter. Early season baseball, and the white uniforms of our team glowed beneath the blinding lights. The grass was an eerie green and the sky was just shifting from indigo to black.
He laughed as I pointed toward the scoreboard, where his name was listed among other happy birthday wishes.
He told me this was a great start to his twenty-second year.
April
He was quiet, but witty. If you leaned over to talk to your friend, you might miss the next quick turn of phrase. So we all kept as silent as could be.
When he sang, the voice filled the void where background chatter would typically be. A little husky, the voice complimented the raw lyrics and sound that had pushed $12 ticket prices up to $100 on the street. From my space by the side of the stage, I saw dropped jaws and dazed smiles in the first few rows. One girl, about my age, leaned back against the boyfriend who stood behind her, eyes closed in utter contentment.
The silent electricity in the room built throughout the set, despite the temporary releases of applause after each song. As he finished his set and prepared to say goodnight, Ray Lamontagne bowed. The water he held in a bottle against his chest spilled onto the floor, and he closed his eyes. Seemingly embarrassed, as if that little slipup would turn the crowd against him.
As his bassist patted his back and led him offstage, Ray didn't seem to realize that that humility made the crowd love him all the more.
January
I jumped up from my seat.
"WHAT GAME ARE YOU WATCHING?!? GOD!" I joined a chorus of thousands screaming at black and white-striped dots on the field seemingly miles below.
Dad looked up from the small hand-held television on which he was watching the instant replays. He laughed.
And he thought I'd be bored at a football game.
October
When the alarm goes off at 5 a.m., there's a second in which you want to rethink your plans.
Forget that you'd driven down to New York for this early morning wakeup. Forget that you'd laughed and joked about it with the friends who had come together from here and there.
The one thing that comes to your mind is that which we all say in unison.
"Damn you, Jason."
The July humidity is laced with an early morning city chill, and the sky has not brightened enough to cast the streets with the normal sunlight. The flourescent tinge remains, making concrete glow orange and the bright lights from the plaza look all the more bizarre.
L walks down the walkway by the stage first, then myself, then K. Each feeling intirely conspicuous, aware of the fact that the stage and the cameras are all right there. I realize that I'm trying not to look over at that which I've gone out of my way to be there to see.
Absurd. I turned and grin at the stage, laughing that I'm hearing "Wordplay" live, I'm up before dawn, I'm in New York and this is The Today Show.
July
The phone rang as I prepared to leave.
"What are you doing?"
Nothing in particular. Odd, as it was the one day of the year that historically proved bizarre, random and entertaining.
"Well, I was thinking."
Okay...
"Averi's playing on Killington tonight."
Uh huh...
"And I kind of want to go. I'll drive. You game?"
Pick me up in front of the building.
An hour and a half of laughing and traveling through the darkness. He and I never wind up crossing paths enough, so there's always plenty to catch up on. How we're doing, what we want to do, how life's treating us...
And then we're there, at the small club I swore after last time I wouldn't go back to. But it feels different this time. I'm just there with a friend for a random show I would normally never attend.
It was just the day. Anything and everything happens on the second. Don't question. Just smile, sing along, and above all else, do not think about how tired you'll be the next morning.
February
I walked back into the club, having left a voicemail for Beth to listen to after she left the Montbleau show in Vermont. I walked up a short set of stairs, then walked along the bar to the small collection of chairs and tables against the wall.
The star of the evening sat on a tabletop, positioned directly below a wall light that seemed to almost resemble a headpiece. It would have been fitting, as he looked the part of a master storyteller, a group of smiling listeners forming a ring around him.
He was smiling. He smiled a lot. Everything was new and exciting, it seemed. The focus on positivity was strong, and it carried over to everyone else. They smiled back, they chatted, they welcomed the tales.
As I returned to the group, I paused. A single figure stood between me and the rest of the assemblage, and he was dancing, seemingly oblivious to everything else. Just moving, grooving, doing his thing undisturbed.
I had to stand there for a moment and take in this comfortable rag-tag group. I smiled. This moment just summed the whole evening up just right.
May
Oddly enough, I realized that most of the memories involved getting lost in some manner. Um. Yes. Anyway, that said:
A side street bar with side street conversation to match - a Hall & Oates video marathon on the television elicited memories and anecdotes from our unexpectedly created group. A French Canadian man attempted to join the conversation with inquiries about Vermont and the offer for substances that we declined with polite straight faces that later melted into laughter. Drinks and conversation seemed to come naturally, although my Driver status relegated me to water. I didn't mind, as I was too busy laughing and chatting.
Montreal streets later formed a maze of one-way roads and impossible turns, which left me near tears asking for directions "back to the States" from seemingly anyone who didn't speak English. Canadian candy was purchased by my commiserating friend as a kindly soul's eyes twinkled with amusement when he pointed me in the right direction - which required me to perform nearly every illegal driving device one could imagine at 2 a.m.
As the utter absurdity of the evening spiraled into surreal lunacy, I laughingly yelled into a phone held up in the backseat. The person on the other end was of absolutely no use to me, and I was as ready to heckle absolutely anyone who wasn't going to get me out of the city. I squealed with delight as I pulled the U-turn needed to get me onto the street on which I could hightail it back to my native land.
Chivalry was dead - I would receive no navigational assistance from the individuals on the other end of the phone receiving a play-by-play of our misadventures - but I didn't need it, dammit. I was one member of a group of independent women who just happened to have extraordinarily questionable navigational skills.
Blame Montreal. That's what I did.
October
I couldn't get from Storrow to Mass Ave. My brother was on the phone, guiding me down a series of streets that also led me toward the blimp that hovered over Fenway.
I knew precisely where I needed to go. I knew right about where I was. But getting from point A to point B was impossible and I was officially pissed off. When he led me onto Commonwealth, I thanked him profusely and bid him goodnight.
Later, I was feeling badly. Kind of. I was spending as much time watching the Red Sox battle the Yankees on television as I watched the bands performing on stage in the crowded lounge. I'd traveled to hear the music, but this distraction couldn't be helped - it was the final regular season weekend in Boston. Yes, life continued outside the green walls of Fenway, but everyone outside seemed intrinsically drawn to the events transpiring within.
Over the din of optimistically cynical baseball voices, I saw the band I'd most looked forward to seeing. When the game had ended with a win, I was able to focus - at least somewhat - on the clever, happy-go-lucky California vibes coming from the stage. I bought two albums for two reasons - the first that I wanted to finally have a collection of their songs on acetate, the second that I felt half-guilty for paying attention to everything around me other than the music.
But I'd known, walking in, that it was to be a night prone for distraction. I'd known as soon as I greeted my friends watching the game through the windows of the pub next door.
October
I wasn't supposed to be able to see Manny's back. The field wasn't supposed to be visible from this screwy angle. The wind wasn't supposed to whip into my face as fiercly as it was, and hot dogs were not supposed to be so incredibly gigantic.
Tom leaned against the railing next to the foul pole along the third base line. He was grinning, seemingly as confounded by the experience as I. For all the times we'd imagined what the view was like up here, as often as we'd stared above the green wall as youngsters and imagined home runs coming straight at us, I don't think either of us actually thought we'd get to see what the angle was like. He was cold. I was cold. But the cold didn't matter. Early season baseball, and the white uniforms of our team glowed beneath the blinding lights. The grass was an eerie green and the sky was just shifting from indigo to black.
He laughed as I pointed toward the scoreboard, where his name was listed among other happy birthday wishes.
He told me this was a great start to his twenty-second year.
April
He was quiet, but witty. If you leaned over to talk to your friend, you might miss the next quick turn of phrase. So we all kept as silent as could be.
When he sang, the voice filled the void where background chatter would typically be. A little husky, the voice complimented the raw lyrics and sound that had pushed $12 ticket prices up to $100 on the street. From my space by the side of the stage, I saw dropped jaws and dazed smiles in the first few rows. One girl, about my age, leaned back against the boyfriend who stood behind her, eyes closed in utter contentment.
The silent electricity in the room built throughout the set, despite the temporary releases of applause after each song. As he finished his set and prepared to say goodnight, Ray Lamontagne bowed. The water he held in a bottle against his chest spilled onto the floor, and he closed his eyes. Seemingly embarrassed, as if that little slipup would turn the crowd against him.
As his bassist patted his back and led him offstage, Ray didn't seem to realize that that humility made the crowd love him all the more.
January
I jumped up from my seat.
"WHAT GAME ARE YOU WATCHING?!? GOD!" I joined a chorus of thousands screaming at black and white-striped dots on the field seemingly miles below.
Dad looked up from the small hand-held television on which he was watching the instant replays. He laughed.
And he thought I'd be bored at a football game.
October
When the alarm goes off at 5 a.m., there's a second in which you want to rethink your plans.
Forget that you'd driven down to New York for this early morning wakeup. Forget that you'd laughed and joked about it with the friends who had come together from here and there.
The one thing that comes to your mind is that which we all say in unison.
"Damn you, Jason."
The July humidity is laced with an early morning city chill, and the sky has not brightened enough to cast the streets with the normal sunlight. The flourescent tinge remains, making concrete glow orange and the bright lights from the plaza look all the more bizarre.
L walks down the walkway by the stage first, then myself, then K. Each feeling intirely conspicuous, aware of the fact that the stage and the cameras are all right there. I realize that I'm trying not to look over at that which I've gone out of my way to be there to see.
Absurd. I turned and grin at the stage, laughing that I'm hearing "Wordplay" live, I'm up before dawn, I'm in New York and this is The Today Show.
July
The phone rang as I prepared to leave.
"What are you doing?"
Nothing in particular. Odd, as it was the one day of the year that historically proved bizarre, random and entertaining.
"Well, I was thinking."
Okay...
"Averi's playing on Killington tonight."
Uh huh...
"And I kind of want to go. I'll drive. You game?"
Pick me up in front of the building.
An hour and a half of laughing and traveling through the darkness. He and I never wind up crossing paths enough, so there's always plenty to catch up on. How we're doing, what we want to do, how life's treating us...
And then we're there, at the small club I swore after last time I wouldn't go back to. But it feels different this time. I'm just there with a friend for a random show I would normally never attend.
It was just the day. Anything and everything happens on the second. Don't question. Just smile, sing along, and above all else, do not think about how tired you'll be the next morning.
February
I walked back into the club, having left a voicemail for Beth to listen to after she left the Montbleau show in Vermont. I walked up a short set of stairs, then walked along the bar to the small collection of chairs and tables against the wall.
The star of the evening sat on a tabletop, positioned directly below a wall light that seemed to almost resemble a headpiece. It would have been fitting, as he looked the part of a master storyteller, a group of smiling listeners forming a ring around him.
He was smiling. He smiled a lot. Everything was new and exciting, it seemed. The focus on positivity was strong, and it carried over to everyone else. They smiled back, they chatted, they welcomed the tales.
As I returned to the group, I paused. A single figure stood between me and the rest of the assemblage, and he was dancing, seemingly oblivious to everything else. Just moving, grooving, doing his thing undisturbed.
I had to stand there for a moment and take in this comfortable rag-tag group. I smiled. This moment just summed the whole evening up just right.
May
12.14.2005
I'm about to brush my teeth as Beth walks through the door and asks me how I'm doing.
"Weird dream," I reply.
"Weird dream? How so?"
The rest of it comes out in garbled bits of toothbrush-speak.
"I was at this show. In a church."
Brush, brush.
"Sometime before or after I worked with Ben Kweller at a record shop. Where we flirted a lot - I know, I don't get it either - and spoke of this rocket ship we were set to travel on with a bunch of other people."
Brush, brush.
"Which was a really cool ship because as you took off, you stood on this balcony-like thing, waving to everyone as you shot into space. Slowly shot into space. And mashed potatoes were somehow involved."
Brush, brush.
"So anyway, we're all at this show. In the church. We were there, sitting on a mattress that had been placed on the floor, resting our chins against the railing of the balcony. Because we were on the balcony. And Mraz was performing. With quite the hideous hairdo. Somehow, at some point, he decided to let the band play, and next thing I know, he's sitting by us on the mattress, watching the show. He gave me a hug. A really good one, actually."
Brush, brush.
"So the show's fun. Chill. We leave, but I have to run back into church after the show. I'd lost my shoes. And I run into Jason, and this time I mean I really run right into him, inside the church, because I'm looking for my shoes. I'd been wearing my running shoes. Don't know why. Don't ask."
Brush, brush.
"I'd asked if he'd seen my sneakers, and he said no. Why? Was I looking for some shoes?"
Brush, brush.
"And I stuck out my foot, showed him my sock, and then he said 'Oh.' He'd ask around."
Brush, brush.
"And then I woke up."
Brush, brush.
"Oh, and we were somewhere in Quebec at the time. The subway signs and everything else was all in French."
I swished, spit, and washed off my toothbrush before looking up at the perfectly perplexed look on Beth's face.
She tried to come up with a thought. I spared her.
"Exactly."
"Weird dream," I reply.
"Weird dream? How so?"
The rest of it comes out in garbled bits of toothbrush-speak.
"I was at this show. In a church."
Brush, brush.
"Sometime before or after I worked with Ben Kweller at a record shop. Where we flirted a lot - I know, I don't get it either - and spoke of this rocket ship we were set to travel on with a bunch of other people."
Brush, brush.
"Which was a really cool ship because as you took off, you stood on this balcony-like thing, waving to everyone as you shot into space. Slowly shot into space. And mashed potatoes were somehow involved."
Brush, brush.
"So anyway, we're all at this show. In the church. We were there, sitting on a mattress that had been placed on the floor, resting our chins against the railing of the balcony. Because we were on the balcony. And Mraz was performing. With quite the hideous hairdo. Somehow, at some point, he decided to let the band play, and next thing I know, he's sitting by us on the mattress, watching the show. He gave me a hug. A really good one, actually."
Brush, brush.
"So the show's fun. Chill. We leave, but I have to run back into church after the show. I'd lost my shoes. And I run into Jason, and this time I mean I really run right into him, inside the church, because I'm looking for my shoes. I'd been wearing my running shoes. Don't know why. Don't ask."
Brush, brush.
"I'd asked if he'd seen my sneakers, and he said no. Why? Was I looking for some shoes?"
Brush, brush.
"And I stuck out my foot, showed him my sock, and then he said 'Oh.' He'd ask around."
Brush, brush.
"And then I woke up."
Brush, brush.
"Oh, and we were somewhere in Quebec at the time. The subway signs and everything else was all in French."
I swished, spit, and washed off my toothbrush before looking up at the perfectly perplexed look on Beth's face.
She tried to come up with a thought. I spared her.
"Exactly."
12.13.2005
Some nights, when you get home late and your stomach is growling but you haven't the energy to make a really late-night dinner and you realize you've run around all day long for what feels at the end of the day as if it was to no avail, you need to just take a second.
Take a second, eat potato chips with ketchup, drink a Diet Orange Sunkist, watch "Gilmore Girls" despite the fact that it's a repeat because you know it'll make you laugh regardless...
And just breathe.
I commence breathing...now.
After I get a little extra ketchup.
Take a second, eat potato chips with ketchup, drink a Diet Orange Sunkist, watch "Gilmore Girls" despite the fact that it's a repeat because you know it'll make you laugh regardless...
And just breathe.
I commence breathing...now.
After I get a little extra ketchup.
12.11.2005
Classic lightbulb moment.
Despite the shopping and list-making that was a major component of the weekend, it hasn't felt like Christmas season. Acutely aware of the two-week window between Now and Then, I'd been so focused on getting ready for the holiday that I hadn't focused on enjoying the season.
I wound up discussing Christmas music this evening and, naturally, mentioned Bing Crosby.
BING. Lightbulb.
Bing Crosby. A key, unwavering component of Christmas. Each year growing up at my parents' home, when the time came to decorate the tree, my mother played two records. First, Alvin and the Chipmunks for my brother and I. And then "Bing Crosby Sings Christmas Songs" for her. I grew up listening to her listen to Bing's take on the standards - as she started out humming along and wound up harmonizing by the time "I'll Be Home For Christmas" (Track 7) kicked in.
I'd dance about, doing my best to steer clear of the boxes of ornaments, when "Christmas In Killarney" (which remains my favorite Christmas song) kicked in. She'd laugh and tell me I was forbidden to touch anything until the song ended. I couldn't care less - I was happy with the song, my laughing mother and the holiday to come.
B and I poured the glasses of wine left over from dinner and cued up the seasonal music. Beth looked to see my reaction upon playing "Christmas In Killarney" first.
I set down my glass on the coffee table and quickly set in. Heels kicking about, quick spins, a breathless laugh as I sang along.
How grand it feels to click your heels
And join in all of the jigs and reels
I'm handing you no blarney
The likes you've never known
Is Christmas in Killarney
With all of the folks at home
She soon joined me, jumping about the living room until I clicked my heel against the leg of the couch and fell onto the cushions - amazingly, just as the song came to a close.
And then it felt like Christmas.
Despite the shopping and list-making that was a major component of the weekend, it hasn't felt like Christmas season. Acutely aware of the two-week window between Now and Then, I'd been so focused on getting ready for the holiday that I hadn't focused on enjoying the season.
I wound up discussing Christmas music this evening and, naturally, mentioned Bing Crosby.
BING. Lightbulb.
Bing Crosby. A key, unwavering component of Christmas. Each year growing up at my parents' home, when the time came to decorate the tree, my mother played two records. First, Alvin and the Chipmunks for my brother and I. And then "Bing Crosby Sings Christmas Songs" for her. I grew up listening to her listen to Bing's take on the standards - as she started out humming along and wound up harmonizing by the time "I'll Be Home For Christmas" (Track 7) kicked in.
I'd dance about, doing my best to steer clear of the boxes of ornaments, when "Christmas In Killarney" (which remains my favorite Christmas song) kicked in. She'd laugh and tell me I was forbidden to touch anything until the song ended. I couldn't care less - I was happy with the song, my laughing mother and the holiday to come.
B and I poured the glasses of wine left over from dinner and cued up the seasonal music. Beth looked to see my reaction upon playing "Christmas In Killarney" first.
I set down my glass on the coffee table and quickly set in. Heels kicking about, quick spins, a breathless laugh as I sang along.
How grand it feels to click your heels
And join in all of the jigs and reels
I'm handing you no blarney
The likes you've never known
Is Christmas in Killarney
With all of the folks at home
She soon joined me, jumping about the living room until I clicked my heel against the leg of the couch and fell onto the cushions - amazingly, just as the song came to a close.
And then it felt like Christmas.
Sometimes it feels as if events transpiring around you are elements of necessary backstory that will come to play greater roles within the near future. They're hardly significant enough to bring to light, but you have a hunch that you might be making note of them a little later in the game.
Foreshadowing, if you will.
Foreshadowing, if you will.
12.08.2005
Every generation has its bad boy pinup. The poster child for affliction and misunderstood angst, the one that makes youngsters swoon and wait for the next bumbling attempt at character insight and depth.
Truth is, most of these characters (as they tend to be seen in television or film) are just pretty faced void of the depth. The titles of "a modern-day James Dean" are made and the little girls swoon and look for broken boys of their own to try unsuccessfully to fix. Only the real life broken boys lack the advantage of Hollywood writers scripting their lines.
It's happened time and time again, having reached the point of blatant cliche.
I could blame Jordan Catalano - er, Jared Leto - for so much. So, so much.
And lo and behold, he will be in my fair city of residence tonight. And I will be infinitely amused to be there as well.
Truth is, most of these characters (as they tend to be seen in television or film) are just pretty faced void of the depth. The titles of "a modern-day James Dean" are made and the little girls swoon and look for broken boys of their own to try unsuccessfully to fix. Only the real life broken boys lack the advantage of Hollywood writers scripting their lines.
It's happened time and time again, having reached the point of blatant cliche.
I could blame Jordan Catalano - er, Jared Leto - for so much. So, so much.
And lo and behold, he will be in my fair city of residence tonight. And I will be infinitely amused to be there as well.
12.06.2005
Pick a memory from my life. Odds are good that somehow, at least in a fringe sort of way, a U2 song could be connected to it. Perhaps more so than any other band, if not simply because of the fact that the Irishmen's music has been around the whole time.
So the experience of actually attending a U2 show for the first time was a bit on the surreal, walk-down-memory-lane kind of side. Which creates a multi-level sort of evening.
On one level, the lights, the sound, the sights of the band members actually there, performing for me - and, well, 20,000 other people, of course.
On the other, the realization of just how much a band I've always liked on a cursory level has been woven into things without my realization.
And to a seemingly random assortment of things. Prom ("With or Without You"), getting ready for a night out in D.C. ("Elevation"), various trips to various locations (most of "The Joshua Tree," "Yahweh," "Sometimes You Can't Make It On Your Own" and "City of Blinding Lights"), school ("Pride"), concerts by other artists who busted out the covers ("One," "Where the Streets Have No Name," "With or Without You"), just feeling on top of the world ("Mysterious Ways") or below it entirely ("Stuck In a Moment You Can't Get Out Of.")
Cheesy? You bet. But I'm a strong proponent for the belief that the bands that truly affect you often wind up having that effect from time to time.
So there I am, six rows from the top of the Corporate Mad Libs Center, watching the stage light up with more lights than I ever thought I'd see at a performance, observing musicians with iconic names performing the songs I've heard countless times through countless sets of speakers. I'm standing, dancing, singing along at the top of my lungs because I can ever-so-faintly hear Beth and the guy behind me doing the same thing, and I know that it's just what we've paid to be able to do.
To sing, to dance, to holler out our approval and to see what else they decide to surprise us with.
And I realize that this sensory overload is well worth the price of admission.
So the experience of actually attending a U2 show for the first time was a bit on the surreal, walk-down-memory-lane kind of side. Which creates a multi-level sort of evening.
On one level, the lights, the sound, the sights of the band members actually there, performing for me - and, well, 20,000 other people, of course.
On the other, the realization of just how much a band I've always liked on a cursory level has been woven into things without my realization.
And to a seemingly random assortment of things. Prom ("With or Without You"), getting ready for a night out in D.C. ("Elevation"), various trips to various locations (most of "The Joshua Tree," "Yahweh," "Sometimes You Can't Make It On Your Own" and "City of Blinding Lights"), school ("Pride"), concerts by other artists who busted out the covers ("One," "Where the Streets Have No Name," "With or Without You"), just feeling on top of the world ("Mysterious Ways") or below it entirely ("Stuck In a Moment You Can't Get Out Of.")
Cheesy? You bet. But I'm a strong proponent for the belief that the bands that truly affect you often wind up having that effect from time to time.
So there I am, six rows from the top of the Corporate Mad Libs Center, watching the stage light up with more lights than I ever thought I'd see at a performance, observing musicians with iconic names performing the songs I've heard countless times through countless sets of speakers. I'm standing, dancing, singing along at the top of my lungs because I can ever-so-faintly hear Beth and the guy behind me doing the same thing, and I know that it's just what we've paid to be able to do.
To sing, to dance, to holler out our approval and to see what else they decide to surprise us with.
And I realize that this sensory overload is well worth the price of admission.
12.02.2005
And then the other shoe drops.
It's difficult to hear someone say no. But not as difficult as hearing someone tell you that they would have said yes were it based on your merit alone. That something completely out of your control - or, rather, something that your drive set into motion, but was otherwise out of your control - determined your fate.
Most difficult, however, is trying to play it off as if you're not, at least for a moment, completely devastated by the news.
But, in fine tradition, I'll brush it off and bounce back. And the first bounce will include Boston, brunches and Bono.
Not too shabby.
It's difficult to hear someone say no. But not as difficult as hearing someone tell you that they would have said yes were it based on your merit alone. That something completely out of your control - or, rather, something that your drive set into motion, but was otherwise out of your control - determined your fate.
Most difficult, however, is trying to play it off as if you're not, at least for a moment, completely devastated by the news.
But, in fine tradition, I'll brush it off and bounce back. And the first bounce will include Boston, brunches and Bono.
Not too shabby.
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