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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dammit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm done.

A riddle, if you will

What do the following musicians have in common?

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

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

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

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

Happiness.

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

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

I am a contradiction in terms.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That is all.

Updates.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- I'm just trying to get to Friday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It's like riding a bike."

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

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

Oh my God.

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

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

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

But it felt marvelous, all at the same time.

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

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

"Excuse me, what's the score?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You too, dear."

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

God, I love baseball in September.

Stream of consciousness

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

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

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

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

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

In the cards

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

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

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

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

And darkness creeps
Borne on cold win
Blows my footprints away

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

B looked over at me as she read.

My eyebrows were raised.

"You don't think..."

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

It isn't, is it?

Can't be. Why would it be?

Nope.

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

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

Nah.

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

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

MDFest 2k5

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good times? Actually, yes.

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

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

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

Haha. Gotta love the fair.

And this is why friends rock

Myspace message. Ooh, goody.

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

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

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

I just totally blogged that shit, yo...

Friends are tops on my list.

But cryptic nicknames come in at a close second.

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

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

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

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

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

Seriously. I was ready to call.

But wait. Location. Church. Service in session.

Not so much.

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

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

And yet I still occasionally drool over the Lacoste display

When did my life become dominated by polo shirts?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aurgh.

Blondes do have more fun.

I would simply like to point out that it was my favorite Boston Red Sox player who hit not one, but two home runs to help the Sox defeat Tampa Bay tonight.

(I'll downplay the fact that I thought the game was cancelled due to rain and subsequently did not see any of it. Including the two home runs, one of which supposedly bounced off the Coke bottles ABOVE the Green Monster.)

My favorite player. Kevin Millar, ladies and gentlemen.

(Photo from ESPN.com)

It's hot and humid, with condensation sticking to the windows, lampposts and awnings. A visible haze hanging over everything.

Much like the thundercloud hanging over my head. I'm glowering. Grumpy. Ready to explode.

The reports that dominate screentime on the televisions here are alternately horrific and devastating. There are the reports of more than a thousand people killed while trying to flee a supposed suicide bomber. There's the water in the South, with looters preying upon the desertion of a city and increasing devastation.

You're acutely aware of what's going on, of course, but after being innundated with the images, it's a natural reflex to want to curl up and focus on what's happening close to home. There's too much happening outside, too much sadness and intensity.

So you do curl up, retreating into the imagined bubble that is supposed to protect you from harm. And you take a look at what's going on in your life, and you realize that maybe you should focus again on what's happening to others.

Things in your life are painful when they shoudn't be, dormant when they shouldn't be, obnoxious when they shouldn't be. You feel as if you're in a funk that shouldn't exist. But things have gotten to you. And that makes all the difference.

I cried myself to sleep last night for the first time in recent memory. Shortly after I turned off my lamp, a number of things finally managed to get through the thick skin I've been trying to develop. They struck me right at the nerves and I just broke down. I sobbed until my sides hurt and until I started to lose my breath. One side of my spare pillow was damp when I finally loosened my grip on it.

I forced my breathing to become steady again and then closed my eyes. I'd worn myself out from the crying and fell asleep easily.

But then I awoke and turned on the news. And realized that there would be little to force me out of the doldrums today. It looked like the cloud was going to remain over my head.

And then I stepped outside into the haze.

The First Day

I hate having shit to say and not knowing how the hell to get it out. I'm a so-called writer, for Christ's sake - I should know how to just get it down onto the page.

There's a button-down shirt hanging in the other room, a tie loosely knotted and dangling from the hanger. For some, tomorrow brings The First Day, a new return to familiar places. I imagine the experience to be much of the same, only different - covered with the glossy, somewhat jittery sheen of new backpacks, fresh notebooks and unchewed pen caps.

The thoughts of a first day have been on my mind with increasing frequency the last couple of weeks, as the calendar days have crept closer to August 30. I don't know why this time of year has affected me moreso this year than the previous two, if not only because there's supposedly a comforting cushion of time between today and back then.

Regardless, the arrival of August 30 brings with it some reflection and a surprising number of anxiety pangs. And the realization that I really shouldn't spill my guts about it all on here, but that I don't really know what I would write anyway, were I to put my pen to a lined piece of paper.

A lot has changed between now and then. Mostly for the better. But I can't pretend that I don't sometimes still think about it all.

I remember sitting in my mother's recliner, looking at the suitcases and wondering what the hell lay in store for me. I wish I could have known then what I know now, but had I, I wonder if I would have gotten on the plane.

Dear Me Then:

Everything turns out pretty OK in the end.

You'll meet some cool people. You'll meet some people who seem amazing at the time, but watch out for them. They'll make you want to cry every now and then.

You'll fall in love with neighborhoods, you'll love the new nightlife about to introduce itself to you. You're going to learn just how quickly politcal affiliation becomes a deal-breaker. It matters. You'll laugh over how much it does.

You'll have a horrible hangover the first morning you wake up in your new place.

You are going to see how things work from the other side, and you're going to have a chance to learn from the best. Some lessons you'll pick up right away, others seep into your being with much more subtlety.

You're going to discover this amazing place where they make the best Mexican ever. Go there often. You'll get the occasional meal on the house. Actually, know what? Eat at a lot of places. Just eat. Please. Thank you.

Keep on writing. You'll need to look back on this sometimes.

Limit your running to once every other day, please. You'll thank me for this later.

Flirt outrageously with HGC. You'll have fun. And when you meet the hot staffer and you introduce yourselves to each other, remember his name right away. Just trust me on this one. It will spare you embarrassment.

Go to concerts. Don't save all your money and miss out on some amazing experiences. You still sometimes feel as if you're playing catchup three years later.

Your good friends from home will remain good friends, although you might have some rough patches. Bring a rainjacket with you if you go anywhere on November 12. You'll need it.

Do not, and I repeat, DO NOT drunk dial anyone when you go to celebrate your birthday. And, related, he will not call you back. Ever. OK? Get over it.

Spend as much time in the National Gallery as you can. You'll love it there and miss it later.

Be scared. Seriously. There are some rough times ahead for you. But know what? You're strong. And you're capable. And through it all, even when you want to give up, you know that you can make it through. And you do. You wind up with some of the things you want in the end.

But of course, you're never satisfied with that. Because you're me. And that's what we do.

Have fun. Learn from this. And remember what I said about the running.

Love,
Me Now

A state, a date and some neon - oh my!

If I hear one more guy - actually, no, anyone - cover "I Can't Make You Love Me" before the end of this calendar year, I might go mad.

The best version was the first I heard this year, and the quality level has just been dropping rapidly since.

Clay Aiken's rendition signifies that the shark has been jumped. A long time ago.

No more, please.

Anyway.

A review of Clay Aiken's musical medley extravaganza last night will follow later today, when I have the opportunity to sit down and devote some wit - er, time - to it, but know that I survived and that Chloe had a very good time at her first concert.

A very good, very shriek-filled time. Which made for amusing times for myself and Saintly Flatmate Elizabeth. Truth be told, I had fun. And there are now many photographs. Many of which will be pulled off the shelves at family reunions for years to come.

But I will note that Aiken's drummer made many a Vermonter cringe when he made reference to the state as a city; I also believe that Aiken is into voyeurism, as he decided to change costume on stage on several occasions. Dude was just asking for a wardrobe malfunction so he could get caught onstage in a compromising situation. Would have been funny. Pity.

Oh, and did you know I supposedly went on a date with J?

I know. I didn't realize it either.

Apparently, to a 12-year-old, being one member of a group all drinking at the same time constitutes a date.

Who knew it was that easy?

God forbid I tell her I actually carried on, you know, a conversation with similar fellows. She'd have me married off, barefoot and pregnant in her mind.

And finally, click on the images to go to the rest of the set:

Guster is for lovers.

This post originally included little more than, "Holy shit. Guster. Two shows" and a whole lot of exclamation points.

Now that the initial excitement has become a warm, Guster-fuzzy feeling in my stomach, I can be a little more mature.

THUNDERGOD IS COMING BACK TO BURLINGTON! YIPPEEEEE!

Seriously, though. Guster is one of my favorite bands to see live. And yes, it's only been about a year since I saw them last - and yes, it was an outstanding set. But that was a set featuring two of my other favorites, and the co-headlining aspect of the tour meant shorter sets for all involved. And that was only one show.

We're getting two...

It's been about two years since the wig gig in Burlington, and more than four since that first show - I've been missing discussions of "Champy" and recollections of Club Toast.

It will be great to have Guster back in town.