Ask away - but no, I don't dig the crazy frog

I have no idea if this will actually generate anything, but figured it could be fun, as I've seen it on some other spaces and has wound up being really interesting.

I'm turning this over to you for the moment. You being anyone who comes across this space. Technically it's supposed to include three questions, but I'll bring it down to one - or how ever many you feel like asking. You can ask anything you want and I'll post my completely honest answers accordingly.

I've done this a couple of times in the past with little response, but damned if I'm not optimistic about round three. Consider this the one chance to make me answer what you want to know. Post questions in the comments section and we'll go from there.

In other news. Beth introduced me yesterday to the craze that is the "frog ringtone." "Axel F" by Crazy Frog is the ringtone-turned-dance-single that beat out Coldplay for the number one spot on the UK singles chart. We listened to the ringtone. And the song. And watched the video. And I must ask this:

What was the creator on when he thought of that?

Admittedly, we had it in our heads for much of the rest of the day. But I could just imagine being in London and suddenly hearing that "Brrrrrrrrrooooooom" cut through the air, with more than a hundred Londoners reaching into bags and pockets for their mobile to see if they're ringing.

I'll take my homemade "Stretch" ringtone, thanks.

And, finally, in still other news. W. Mark Felt has supposedly said that he is/was Deep Throat.

A novel notion

I threw the ten of clubs onto the pile and held up my two remaining cards. "Trivia." I pointed my hand at Mewes, the guy who reminded me so much of Kevin Smith's Jay that I couldn't help but refer to him accordingly.

"Give me two names this guy called Michelle tonight."

"Jen and Sarah," K said, just as Mewes exclaimed, "Matilda and Mary!" Fair enough, one card each and I was VP again.

We moved to the back porch after Mewes accepted that he was once again the asshole. It was late, despite our attempts at ignoring clocks with beers, cocktails and cards. Everyone else in the neighborhood seemed to have given up for the night.

I liked being here, surrounded by trees and the thrill of being in an unfamiliar space. I hadn't been to Maine since I was too young to remember. K said it wasn't really the Maine of stereotypes, prompting me to jokingly refer to this part of the state as "New Hampshire Lite." But whatever it was, I was enjoying it.

Mewes made an offhand, drunken remark that sent me to the porch step in laughter. As our giggles tapered off, he looked at me. "Where did you come from?"

"Our girl's a writer," Michelle said as we went through the chain of events and friendships that had led me to this house. There were years of backstory, so we gave the synopsis. I mentioned that I was, among other things, a writer who wanted to pen a novel as soon as I figured out what the story should be.

"Write about this, man," Mewes said with a grandiose sweep of hands. He took in the sight of black branches on royal blue sky, rustling leaves and a multitude of cars parked in the driveway. "Up late, lots of beers and everyone's getting ready for the day ahead."

Profound moment aside, he headed back in for his beer.

The weekend would make for an amusing read - for me, at least. An expanding cast of characters made their mark, worthy of a paragraph or several pages. It would include music and dancing before blue-light-swathed band members in a brick and hardwood space. A caboose and the bagels that came from it. Cape Codders and catchup conversation until sunrise followed by missed exits and the return home in time for bagpipes at a holiday barbecue.

It would be a good story. Maybe Mewes had a point.

Hot damn.

I haven't had my full first name sung out to me in years.

I needed tonight.

What it is.

He was drinking Red Stripe, and the bottle bounced up and down as he leaned to his right to engage in conversation.

He was standing next to me on my right. One would have thought I would fight to keep that space on the floor, after the multitude of "what if" scenarios I'd laughed over before.

Instead, I turned to my left and tapped M on her shoulder. "You want a drink?" She nodded and I made a brief trip to the bar. Corona for her, vodka cranberry for me. The bartender smiled as I left an extra tip. I wanted karma to keep looking out for me.

I returned to my spot, handed M her bottle. Sunk my lime wedge into the crimson drink and used the straw to trap the fruit beneath the ice. When I looked back to my right to see how the conversation had progressed, he turned and leaned toward me slightly.

Krackel-clunk. He toasted the glass bottle against my plastic cup. Quick smile.

It felt like an understanding. It was a pleasure to be in his company, and I was comfortable standing nearby. He seemed cool. Quiet. I liked that I wasn't overwhelmed by him; I loved that I wasn't unnervingly impressed.

But I hadn't gone there for him and I wasn't going to stand idily by. I had quietly, casually made it clear that I felt comfortable enough around him to walk away.

Cheers.

An Exercise - 2

TIRED TECHNOLOGY: Our second challenge was to raise the contestants' "geek cred." We wanted to hear about fond memories regarding obsolete technologies used and loved by our remaining 11 contestants without it turning into "who had the most obscure toy" but a competition to create the most compelling and entertaining post.

"Can we look at him?"

I smiled and nodded as I reached down to open my backpack. The thin, turquoise binder was kept in the same place each day, as I wound up pulling it out to show others each morning during homeroom. The only thing that changed was the thickening mass of photo album pages between the covers.

"Here he is."

Jennifer leaned over my shoulder as I turned to the front page, and we titled our heads upon taking in the wide eyes and dimpled chin. Sigh, sigh.

"He's so cute," Jennifer breathed.

Jonathan Gregory Brandis, born April 13, 1976 in Connecticut. Mother Mary, father Greg. Only child, got his start in commercials and moved out to California. "Neverending Story 2," "Ladybugs," "Sidekicks." And now, "seaQuest DSV."

The scrapbook documented several months of my collection cultivation. BOP magazine, BB (Big Bopper - better pinups) - I'd even forayed into "16" and "TeenBeat" territory. And I didn't like those magazines. But I wanted pictures and articles on Jon.

He was the eighth grade class crush - each of the girls sighed over him. We arrived at school each Monday morning ready to discuss the previous night's "seaQuest" episode and even went so far as to pass around the "sQ" novels that had been published. We had it hard.

I had every article or photograph of him I could find. Until Jenn reached into her backpack this morning. "Do you have this?"

She pulled out a folded piece of thick glossy print (creaselines across his face? Horror!). I judged from the texture that it must be a Bop or BB shot - no other magazine used such nice stock. She paused for a moment, then unfolded.

He lay on his stomach, his chin resting on folded hands. The blue of his shirt and the background brought out the color in his eyes, and his hair was the color of sand, cut into the long, bowl-cut style he used during "sQ"s first season. His smile was small and closed.

He looked absolutely gorgeous. I'd never seen such a great shot of him.

"Wow, he looks so cute," I said, leaning forward. "Where did you find it?"

"Just around," she replied offhandedly. Bitch wasn't going to tell me. I closed my scrapbook in annoyance.

"Well, can I scan it into my computer? I'd love to have a copy."

"Sure, she replied. "But I need it back tomorrow."

I tucked the photo into the binder, being sure to unfold and place it flat.

After class and practice, I pulled the photo out and set it on the desk next to my family's computer. The scanner lay next to the keyboard, off-white plastic the side of an ice scraper. I picked it up, turned it over and checked the button on the left side to make sure it would work. The red light on the scanner sparkled.

I turned on the Commodore computer, waited for it to load and finally opened the drawing program. Selected scan. I felt so technicolgically savvy. No one else I knew had a scanner.

I positioned the scanner on the top left corner of Jon's photo and clicked the button with my thumb. Slow, steady stroke downward. My hands slightly shook, but I made sure not to stop until I reached the bottom of the image. Thumb off the button, look at the screen.

Nice - this pass with the scanner caught Jon's eye. This was going to be easy.

Fourteen passes with the scanner later, I realized I wasn't going to be able to keep my own copy of Jonathan perfection. I couldn't line up the scans, so the left side of Jonathan's nose wasn't in the same place as the right side. The blotchy black and white scan made his skin look sallow, his hair too dark to discern.

It just wasn't working. I hadn't the technology to make the duplication happen. I'd just have to try to find the magazine.

The next day, I gave Jennifer the photo back.

"How'd it work?" she said with a forced casual smile.

I shrugged. "You know, I was going to do it, but then I really looked at the photo," I began, looking back through my collection of images. "And it's actually not that great a picture of him. He kind of looks weird, don't you think?"

She leaned back over the photograph. "He does?"

"Totally. His eyes are doing something strange. I decided I'll just keep the ones I have of him. I like those better."

The bell rang and I hoisted my bag onto my shoulder. As I prepared to enter the hallway, I turned back. Jennifer was frowning as she looked at the photo. I chuckled and headed to class.

An exercise - 1

Beth discovered the site for "The Ultimate Blogger" this evening and, naturally, made sure to make me aware of it. Basic premise for those less link-prone: A series of "assignments" judged in a series of eliminations. Think "Survivor: Blogdom."

While I can't be considered for the actual competition, I thought the premise was interesting and have decided to do one entry a day, following the assignments. Thought it would be interesting to see what I come up with. So, that said, here's the first assignment. And let me preface my post with the fact that this was damn difficult - but necessary - to write.

VAPID VITTLES: We started off the competition referencing some of the worst blog-posts out there; the ones about food.

Popping the pill had been no problem, the same process undertaken the previous four nights. No side effects had surfaced yet, although I was looking forward to the next night's venture into Adams Morgan. Caroline had told me I was completely safe drinking alcohol on this medication and, in fact, would gain an advantage: instant lightweight!

Nestled under the covers of my bed, I realized I wasn't tired. Read a book. Did some writing. Felt unusually warm, so got out of bed to turn on the fan. Thought about calling a friend until I realized it was after midnight. Finally, with a resigned sigh, I turned off the lights, rolled over and closed my eyes, hoping the rest of my body would take the hint.

Then I tried to swallow.

Two years later, and I've still little to compare the sensation to. It started as a tickle in my throat. Within what felt like seconds, it became a sore throat, a swelled throat and, as I tossed and turned, a boa constrictor wrapped around my neck. I turned the light back on and sat up in panic.

In a couple of minutes, I wasn't going to be able to breath. My cheeks were flushed, my forehead burned and my mouth was completely dry. I wasn't going to be able to breath.

(I should note that my one persistent fear has been strangulation. And here I was, about to inadvertently suffocate myself. Great.)

I picked up the phone and dialed. Two rings before a muffled voice picked up on the other end.

"Muhm? I cand swallowe. I thdind der's someding wrong wid me."

"What's wrong?" As if I could carry on an in-depth conversation at that point - and as if she would understand anything I was saying.

I muddled through a muffled synopsis. Something was wrong with my medicine. It hadn't done this before. My roommates were asleep, I was going to die on the phone with my mother and I was scared shitless.

"Have you tried drinking some water?"

Actually, no. Good idea.

I kept the phone cradled against my ear as I walked into the bathroom and turned on the light. My face was pale, save a red splotch on each cheek. My eyes looked unusually bright and wide as they stared back at me.

"Muhm, I'm really freaded oud."

"Drink some water."

I did. It went down, but accomplished nothing. It only made my throat burn worse.

"Did you take too much of your medication tonight?"

"Doed id madder righd now? I did whad she told me do do. I thind I need do go do da hodpidal."

I crawled back into bed, wishing my mother was in the room with me so she could hold my hand. I'd missed home before, of course, but tonight realized how distant her voice sounded on the other end of the conversation. She couldn't get to me now if she wanted to - and she wouldn't get to me now that I needed her to.

This is when the tears came.

"Shh, it's going to be fine," she said in her special mother voice. "Do you have any popsicles?"

"Dno. I thind maybe my roommades do." Why the hell would I have one of those? I didn't eat that kind of stuff anymore. Apples were dessert. Healthy, natural fruit. None of that artificial sugar shit.

"OK, listen to me." She spoke slowly and deliberately. I wanted to tell her that I was suffocating, not losing my hearing, but realized I'd have to repeat myself numerous times before she could decipher my words. Not worth the effort. "Go into the kitchen, get a popsicle and come back to bed. Eat it and you'll feel better. If you don't, call me back. Actually, if you do, try calling me back before you go to sleep. I'll wait up."

"Oday."

"I love you. You'll be alright. Be calm. Call me back."

I hung up and began crying harder. I couldn't have a popsicle. It was after 9 p.m.

Ah, there's the rub. In order to counteract this reaction to the medication, I needed to eat more food than I'd expected that day. But I was taking the medication because I was scared to death of eating more food.

I hadn't exercised extra that day. I wouldn't be able to exercise more the next day because I was going out that night. Unless I went out a little later. Or woke up extra early.

I decided to not eat the popsicle. I rolled over and forced my eyes closed.

Half a minute later, I was creeping through the dark hallway, across the living room - tripping over the damn armchair for the upteenth time - and into the kitchen. I sighed upon seeing the box of frozen fruit bars.

Hey, it was all natural. Frozen strawberries and juice. This wouldn't kill me.

I scurried back through the darkness and jumped into bed. Unwrapped the fruit bar and stared at it a moment before taking a bite. If I was doing this, I would get it over with as quickly as possible.

I felt the cold ice move down my throat, past the scratches and the dull ache. But it didn't do anything to make the pain go away. Another bite, followed by another, until I was left with only a wooden stick.

For five minutes, I cried the hardest yet. It hadn't helped and now I had all these unnecessary calories in my body.

Finally, the realization. My throat felt slightly better. I cleared my throat tentatively. My voice sounded husky, but improved.

I dialed the phone. "Mom, it's me. I'm OK. And sorry. Sleep well. I love you."

"Call me tomorrow. I love you. Bye."

"Bye."

I placed the phone carefully on the nightstand, turned out the light and rolled over.

I'd just do an extra 50 crunches the next morning.

Count to ten.

I made my parents take me to Dr. December*. I remember screaming and crying, the jagged sensation of pain in my right arm. I was hurt and I needed my doctor and my parents to take care of me.

I don't remember the actual checkup, but my father tells me that I was a shrewd one. When the doctor asked me to move my arm to see if it hurt, I lifted my left arm straight to the sky. When he stopped laughing and asked me to move my right arm, I refused, cried some more and asked my dad to hold my hand.

He wrapped my arm in an ACE bandage and sent me home, where I lay on the couch in glory. My right arm was propped on a pillow, trusty Baby-Baby (my favorite doll) nestled in the crook of my left arm. My mother and father were attending to me, and the little mass of human that had invaded my territory six months earlier finally wasn't the center of attention.

I was three years old and I'd just pulled my first large-scale jealous sibling diva fit. Petty? Of course. But I was so offended and incredulous about a perceived snub that I needed to do something to make my presence known.

Twenty-one years later, I watch as yellow parcels are handed out throughout the room. Their contents are trite, but they take on increased significance because I am one of the few to not receive one. Suddenly, the cheap mass of plastic and metal becomes more important than the sum of their parts.

I'm offended and incredulous about a perceived snub. And, much to my surprise, I feel a desire to throw a fit and make my presence known.

I decide to go for a walk instead. As I'm now responsible for covering the cost of delusional doctor's visits.

*His name was actually Dr. Ecember, but a three-year-old's logic naturally results in a new, calendar-friendly name.

The Engine Driver

And I am a writer, writer of fictions
I am the heart that you call home
And I've written pages upon pages
Trying to rid you from my bones
- The Decemberists

Unavoidable Entendre

Sometimes the situation arises in which one realizes any attempts at describing an event is going to involve phrases that could be misconstrued. When faced with this conundrum, one can either choose not to follow through with the description or one can embrace the snicker potential.

That said, I was one of hundreds of people who wound up on their knees for Colin Meloy last night.

I wasn't feeling well yesterday evening and had decided not to attend The Decemberists show at Higher Ground when the clock hit 9 and I was hit by an overwhelming need to not waste my already-purchased ticket. I walked out of my apartment with the announcement to my flatmates that I would be home by 10.

And returned at about 11:15, holding an Instant Live copy of the performance and raving about the set.

So much for extra sleep.

A jam during "The Chimbley Sweep" brought the drummer to the mic, Colin to the drums, the upright bass to the electric bass, the electric bass to the upright and the violinist to her knees in the middle of the stage to pick at the guitar with her teeth in true rock violinist form. After everyone reclaimed their places on the stage, they followed her suit and descended to their knees. And then the front row, the second row and the third row knelt. We all followed their lead - which is why I found myself in the unexpected (EVER) position of kneeling on the floor at a show. As the tempo picked back up, the crowd jumped back up, screamed and danced about.

Hope it was as good for them as it was for me. Mmmhmm.

Mind the beat and the book

White hat, white shirt, white jacket, white skirt, white shoes. The brightness contrasted the drab gray sidewalk and dark skies. Small and slightly stooped with age as she approached the club I was entering, I assumed she was walking to her home on one of the side streets nearby. I turned back to climb the first of several sets of stairs.

Leaning against a wall on the second floor, I bobbed my head in time to the familiar verses that I'd never before heard live. As I sang along, a mass of white caught my eye and I turned to see her cross in front of the stage. I noticed J also following her progress with his eyes - he seemed as surprised and pleased as I. I lost track of her for a few minutes until I saw her descend down the stairs.

After the set and a series of hellos, toasts and congratulations, I moved to the first floor, where I saw her sitting alone on a bench, directly below the space on which I'd been dancing moments before. She was reading the Bible and nodding her head in time to the beats pulsing from upstairs. I passed quietly.

During another pass, she continued to read, but also danced in a circle by the bench. Her shoulders were swaying back and forth, I imagined, at nearly the same rate her eyes moved across the page.

We'd waved to the taxi a few hours later when she walked up to us. "Did you girls have a good evening?"

We looked at each other in surprise. "Yes, ma'am, thank you." Recitations like well-trained schoolchildren.

Mrs. Jones said she was glad we'd enjoyed ourselves. She asked where we were from and said she hoped we would have a fine weekend. Our replies during this brief exchange were short and succinct, with "ma'am" tacked on to the end of every phrase. The courtesy came naturally in her presence.

She raised a hand only slightly weakened by age and walked away, rounding the corner as we began to smile in surprise.

Double Shots

And the Zig-Zag Tour comes to a close.

My mind is tempted for fuse the weekend's various components into the span of a single day. B explained how "It's hard to be a gangsta with a basket on your bike" shortly before The Brunettes delivered their last song with Olsen twin masks and then Blake threw grapes and apples into the crowd shouting, "THE PEOPLE NEED FRUIT!" And we capped the night off with the world's most comfortable armchairs in an impossible-to-find club.

Now that I'm sitting in one place, with nowhere I need to be for the rest of the day, I marvel at what one can fit into two and a half days when one throws common sense logic to the wind.

Two Bushwalla performances Friday, Rilo Kiley Saturday, Rilo Kiley Sunday. The entire weekend passed in bundles of two, and I found myself relying on adrenaline and double-shot lattes to get through it all.

I'll say that B is fabulous, I'm still singing a Christmas-y song, Rilo Kiley in my hometown brought me joy and the inclusion of "Pictures of Success" and "A Better Son/Daughter" brought a fitting end to the madness.

And that there are a few more shots on my Flickr - and I'm exhausted.

Zig Zag

It's when you find yourself with anecdotes galore that you realize you've neither the time nor desire to stop the swirl of sights and sounds long enough to get it all down.

Rilo Kiley's at Avalon tonight - coincidentally, I shall be there as well...

27

My parents are celebrating their 27th wedding anniversary today. On every May 20 since I was in high school, I've spent at least a snippet of the day trying to imagine how things were back in 1978 - how my mother felt as she looked into the mirror wearing her wedding gown, what my father was thinking as he saw her walking down the aisle.

I am, of course, never able to really succeed in this challenge. It all becomes a series of snapshots in my mind - those photographs I stared at over and over when I was little, looking through their brown leather wedding album. But I think about it nevertheless, smiling myself while thinking of their posed grins. Mom's smile beams in these photographs, while Dad's closed-mouth smile looks ready to burst.

They were both so happy that day - and my mother sounded happy (albeit a little incredulous) when I called to wish them a happy anniversary this morning.

"I can't believe it's been this long," she said.

Ah, love.

In other news. I find it amusing to think of where I was a year ago today - in Boston for Jason Mraz's "Tour of the Curbside Prophets." This year, I'm preparing to go to Massachusetts for another SD musician. Good times are almost guaranteed.

And how about that "CSI" finale? Sweet Jesus, that was incredible.

Happy Friday...

Yeah yeah yeah

We sat at a metal table in the sunshine, sipping our iced lattes and relaxing. We were recounting our professional hours when B put her latte down and looked at me with wide eyes.

"I sent you the BEST story today!" she exclaimed. "I can't wait for you to see it!"

"Ooooookaaaaay," I replied, having been out and about all morning. "Are you going to give me a hint?"

"It's about how you're a yuppie." Admittedly, she phrased this differently. But that was the basic message. Me. Yuppie.

I replied in the only way any proud individual could.

"I so am not!"

She smiled smugly. "If you blog."

"Shit."

"If you listen to The Postal Service and The Arcade Fire."

"Uh oh."

"If you saw 'Garden State' three times in the theater."

Three strikes. I was out.

And thus I slunk back to work, logged into email and read the offending (well, no, actually pretty damn funny) story.

For the record, however, I couldn't afford NYC rents, as the article states, and go to these rock shows.

I spend too much of my money on the rock shows to be able to afford that kind of rent.

Whoops.

My normal Massachusetts-related anecdotes are in short supply, as I've been Boston-trip-less for the longest span in months. I'll be back in the city during the first weekend in June (on my agenda: stopping by the Gaiety site, candlepin bowling - contact me for details, and a concert - whee!), but that will mark over a month, maybe even five or six weeks, since the last time I navigated my car onto 93.

Never fails.

Massachusetts Friday night, back to Vermont for Rilo Kiley on Saturday.

Ryan next weekend in Portsmouth.

Weekend plans are beyond intriguing. Now I just have to wait until the weekend actually arrives...

Pretty much.

I planned to take both of the posts I wrote earlier in the day and consolidate them into a single post, under the umbrella theme of my loss of English comprehension.

Then I accidentally deleted the first post before said consolidation could occur.

Fitting, no?

Things have been strange. Not bad, not sensationally grand, but strange. Communication with others has proven more difficult as of late than I might normally expect - I tend to be good at chatting with people. Not this tripping-over-words mass of person I've been since Sunday. It's a little unnerving, and I'm not sure of its cause. Grace has never been my particular strong suit, but I've always had at least enough to get by.

I realize, of course, that most of my latest musings have been music-related and, while that's a theme throughout most of the e-thinking I've done here in the past, it's really the main subject these days. I'm not sure of how I feel about it.

On one hand, I'm thrilled to have so many things to look forward to, so many experiences to capture. But I imagine one must wonder what the hell else is going on with me. Are shows really it?

My normal Massachusetts-related anecdotes are in short supply, as I've been Boston-trip-less for the longest span in months. I'll be back in the city during the first weekend in June (on my agenda: stopping by the Gaiety site, candlepin bowling - contact me for details, and a concert - whee!), but that will mark over a month, maybe even five or six weeks, since the last time I navigated my car onto 93. Normally I'd be going stircrazy by now, but it's felt pretty good to be busily moving through the weeks in my now hometown. It all falls under my efforts to make the most of where I am now - a place currently shrugging off the embrace of college students and colder weather. Like countless other twentysomethings, I am ready to reclaim the downtown with my post-collegiate contemporaries and have begun staging blissful reunions with the cocktails and locations I normally avoid during the academic year. This city town is a completely different entity when the three schools roll into lethargic summer sessions - and I enjoy it infinitely more.

Work is work, as it always is. And it shall remain a shadowy figure in my writings, as I'm wise enough to not mention it in the day-to-day stories. But I continue on as always - and I deem that sufficient enough for you to know.

I'm preparing to renew my lease on the multi-colored apartment I've made with my two flatmates, thus marking the first year since high school in which I will not be moving to a new space. I hadn't realized how accustomed I'd grown to the annual shift in scene until I realized it would not be occurring this year. It really does feel like home, and I'm determined to bring shelves, paint and other renovations to the place.

But these are all continuous things/issues/whatever in my life, the things I might make reference to on occasion, but rarely devote my full attention. Really, the music scene is the ever-shifting entity - and it continues to improve on a near-daily basis. I'm happily thinking of how it will be to see Coldplay in Montreal in August, with the opening act of Rilo Kiley (Rilo Kiley twice in months? Delightful!), and preparing to make my way to the HG box office to pick up another round of tickets (Decemberists, Ben Lee, perhaps Improv Asylum). I feel that roadtrips to new locations could be in my future in the coming months, particularly after the Philly close call that prompted my mother (who I foolishly thought of as a voice of reason) to say with surprise, "You're not going? Screw it, go and have a crazy weekend!"

The federal government won me over today with a check from Uncle Sam, and I'm putting it in the bank, earmarked for a otherwise unexpected roadtrip somewhere this summer. Music-related, but other than that, I've yet to determine precisely what the details will be. I'm open to suggestions.

And that's that, really. I'm doing well and I've been keeping myself moving. And it appears that, with this, I may have strung together my first coherent string of sentences in several days.

Go figure.

Raffle, anyone?

My father is putting the finishing touches on the 5th Annual RMH Golf Tournament, the proceeds of which will go to benefit the Ronald McDonald House of Burlington. The tournment will be held on May 23, at which point, winners will be drawn for the annual raffle.

Raffle, you say?

Yes, I reply.

Among the assortment of local business gift certificates and whatnot, lucky winners can be drawn for:

- Two tickets to Fenway Park, to see the Boston Red Sox take on Cincinatti on June 13
- An autographed Trot Nixon baseball
- Two tickets to the Pocono 500 NASCAR race

I'm launching a short (week-long) e-campaign for those interested in buying tickets or otherwise helping a good cause. Are you interested?

Tickets are $2 when purchased individually or 3 for $5.

A chance to see the Sox for $2 and helping out a good cause?

Hello.

Contact me if you're interested in helping out and we can work things out. Thanks to anyone who helps!

Notown Philly

Congratulations, kids - some of you have played a role in the most random start to a week in V history. The whole series of unexpected events began while I was unconscious at 4 a.m. this morning, as B discovered that one of the only things on television at that time is "The Fresh Prince of Bel Air."

Be prepared, Philadelphia becomes a theme here.

I became aware of the bizarre nature of the day upon logging onto my email and discovering a "friend request" from one of those online networking sites I know and love so dearly. I get a number of these on a regular basis, mainly from musicians hoping I check out their sound, but this one was from an actor - namely, the actor who provided the highlight of my 20th birthday with a surprise email (after my then-director informed him that he was my favorite member of the traveling troupe that had just returned to town for a couple of shows). This also makes him the actor with whom I played phone tag during both of my ACTF festivals before meeting up after a performance of "Romeo & Juliet."

Then I notice a particularly interesting vistior (or, rather, domain name) to this little space here. To that visitor, I say this: can I come work with you?

THEN I decide to see if I can rearrange things in June, as I decide it's time to make my first visit back to Maine since I was too young to really remember. Averi, Todd "Would you like me to spill your drink too?" Martin and Syd. I'm still playing around with this idea.

I decide to call my newest concertgoing partner in crime to see if she'd be game for a trip to Maine and whine about the lack of Bushwalla that will be in my life this week. Can I go to a show Friday? "Only if he's opening for the Ryan Montbleau Band at Higher Ground."

And then, I hear of a show that I would normally hop into the car and make a crazy roadtrip down for. A show in Philly. A show that would make for endless misadventures of the best variety.

That occurs on the same night my favorite national band will be playing in my hometown for the show I have been thrilled about for months and for which I have a gaggle of friends coming together.

Thus rendering the crazy road trip moot.

It's going to be an incredible weekend that I want to arrive as quickly as humanly possible. But the fates have to throw something my way, reminding me that no matter how much I plan, how much I am looking forward to something, there's always the chance of something else that I have to say no to.

Fucking fates.

But overall, I've felt a change in the air as of late. I feel as if there's something exciting around the corner, waiting to arrive. As if I should walk around saying "It's all HAPPENING," because the forces coming together for something grand.

I'm just not sure of what it is just yet. And I've never been good at being patient.

Be there in my stead.

Bushwalla

May 19
Western Front
343 Western Ave, Cambridge

At the Roots Rock Hip Hop show
Hosted by L.A./Boston band Libra Project
9:30 bushwalla
Cover: $5
Ages: 21
Doors: 9pm-1:30am

Just sayin'

Consider this a Casa de Racca pop quiz question.

Of the three members of Casa de Racca (B, C and V), which was the only flatmate to NOT do any of the following over the course of a Saturday:

A) Walk into a room and exclaim, "Damn Chad! I have him stuck in my head and I can't get him out!"
B) Decide to see what audio wonderment awaited when one plays both the audio player on Averi's website and myspace - at the same time.
C) Follow that up with one song - in a round.
D) Spend an avid amount of time reading the message board.
E) Break the contended silence of dinner preparation with "I fell asleep at the wheel the other night - DA DA DUNAH."
F) Sit down at the dinner table with "How 'bout those Averi fans, eh?"
G) Serve as DJ for a musical journey down memory lane by playing "Flutter," "Mouth Full of Sand," and the opening six seconds or so of "For Better Or Worse" - on repeat so one could hear the door slam numerous times.
H) Exlaim "IT SOUNDS LIKE HE'S WEARING TAP SHOES!" after repeats of previously mentioned intro.
I) Find it necessary to play "Bitches Ain't Shit" (both the original Dr. Dre version and Ben Folds' cover) to get song from aforementioned Boston band out of one's head.

If you answered "C," you would, surprisingly, be wrong. If you answered "B," you obviously either don't know my flatmates at all or are in need of more of an introduction.

If you answered "V," may I say, "Liar. There's no way you thought I wouldn't do any of these, because I've been pegged the silly band fan of this household." Then I'd pause for a moment and say, "Thank you, now do you see how I've gotten the bad rap as the silly band fan of this household?"

The only thing I would possibly admit to, in this case, is being guilty of association. As in associating with such knuckleheads, endearing as they may be.

Well, that and to the fact that I did wind up dancing across the kitchen as the karaeoke rendition of "MFS" was being performed.

In other news. After threatening us all weekend, the rain finally descended early this afternoon, with the sudden burst and perpendicular descent of movie set rain. I suddenly found myself scampering to my car, the dots of precipation on my trench coat becoming streaks and, ultimetly, splotches of darker-colored fabric. Had I not been carrying a bag of items I'd have preferred to keep dry, I probably would have slowed my pace and enjoyed the feeling of the water. Spring showers are not the kind that get me down.

It's subsided for the most part as I write this, but the sight of hazy gray skies and dripping ledges has convinced me to stay indoors until the festivities that drove me outside in the first place. I was reminded today of how difficult it is to select a card for someone you don't know particularly well - but want to impress with wit and candor so there remains a chance that you can get to know the person better. Hmm. Conundrum. I think I handled it appropriately.

Lewis Black performed at the Flynn last night - started off ranting about the state's questionalbe cell phone signal capabilities and went from there. Amusing to be sure, downright hysterical a couple of times and overall worth the price of admission. I don't understand the point of someone warming up the crowd and then breaking for intermission, but perhaps that's just me. I still found myself giggling and grinning throughout, so who am I to question?

For now, a rented movie ("Stage Beauty"), t-shirt making project (it had been too long and it seems an appropriate day for it - fun with iron-ons! I know, suchadork) and the preparation of my famous-to-a-select-few favorite summer dish.

Ah, Sunday.

(NOTE: I'm going to have details for three concerts in Boston this week posted as soon as I get the details. I know they're lined up for Wednesday, Thursday and Friday - and that they are concerts that San Diego music scene-loving fools will not want to miss. Bushwalla. Venue unknown to me at the moment.
The last-minute nature of these shows and the fact they fall in the middle of the week - with the exception of Friday, which is already known as "Ryan Revelry Day" in Vermont - means this SD music scene-loving lass will not be able to attend. Which is why I yelled in my car upon hearing the news yesterday and why I considered just how impossible it would be to leave work, drive to the show, sleep for maybe 3 or 4 hours and then drive back to Vermont for work the next day (with this coming weekend, I had to deduce that that might, in fact, kill me).
But if enough others go - and you'll want to - perhaps I'll feel like I'm there in spirit. Or I'll just spend portions of Wednesday and Thursday night playing "Sessions" and pretending I'm there. Whatever.)